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Roads to MussoorieRoads to Mussoorie is a memorable evocation of a writer’s surroundings and the role they have played in his work and life. Ruskin Bond describes his many journeys to, from and around Mussoorie, delving with gusto into the daily scandals of this not so sleepy hill town. The pieces in this collection are characterized by Bond’s incorrigible sense of humour and eye for detail, as well as his enduring affection and nostalgia for the home he has lived in for over forty years.Great Stories for ChildrenGreat Stories for Children is a collection of some of Ruskin Bond’s most delightful children’s stories. It stars Toto, the monkey, who takes a fancy to the narrator’s aunt, much to her dismay, a python besotted by his own appearance, a mischievous ghost who enjoys stirring up the house when things get dull, three young children stranded in a storm on the Haunted Hilland Ruskin Bond himself, who happens to make the acquaintance of a ghost at a resort late one night.
From the Publisher
Conversation with Ruskin Bond
ONE
Breakfast Time
I like a good sausage, I do; It’s a dish for the chosen and few.
Oh, for sausage and mash, And of mustard a dash
And an egg nicely fried—maybe two? At breakfast or lunch, or at dinner,
The sausage is always a winner;If you want a good spread
Go for sausage on bread, And forget all your vows to be slimmer.
‘In Praise of the Sausage’ (Written for Victor and Maya Banerjee, who excel at making sausage breakfasts) There is something to be said for breakfast.
If you take an early morning walk down Landour Bazaar, you might be fortunate enough to see a very large cow standing in the foyer of a hotel, munching on a succulent cabbage or cauliflower. The owner of the hotel has a soft spot for this particular cow, and invites it in for breakfast every morning. Having had its fill, the cow—very well-behaved—backs out of the shop and makes way for paying customers.
I am not one of them. I prefer to have my breakfast at home—a fried egg, two or three buttered toasts, a bit of bacon if I’m lucky, otherwise some fish pickle from the south, followed by a cup of strong coffee—and I’m a happy man and can take the rest of the day in my stride.
I don’t think I have ever written a good story without a good breakfast. There are of course, writers who do not eat before noon. Both they and their prose have a lean and hungry look. Dickens was good at describing breakfasts and dinners—especially Christmas repasts—and many of his most rounded characters were good-natured people who were fond of their food and drink—Mr Pickwick, the Cheeryble brothers, Mr Weller senior, Captain Cuttle—as opposed to the half-starved characters in the works of some other Victorian writers. And remember, Dickens had an impoverished childhood. So I took it as a compliment when a little girl came up to me the other day and said, ‘Sir, you’re Mr Pickwick!’
Conversation with Ruskin Bond
A Special Tree
One day, when Rakesh was six, he walked home from the Mussoorie bazaar eating cherries. They were a little sweet, a little sour; small, bright red cherries, which had come all the way from the Kashmir Valley.
Here in the Himalayan foothills where Rakesh lived, there were not many fruit trees. The soil was stony, and the dry cold winds stunted the growth of most plants. But on the more sheltered slopes there were forests of oak and deodar.
Rakesh lived with his grandfather on the outskirts of Mussoorie, just where the forest began. His father and mother lived in a small village fifty miles away, where they grew maize and rice and barley in narrow terraced fields on the lower slopes of the mountain. But there were no schools in the village, and Rakesh’s parents were keen that he should go to school. As soon as he was of school-going age, they sent him to stay with his grandfather in Mussoorie. He had a little cottage outside the town.
Rakesh was on his way home from school when he bought the cherries. He paid fifty paise for the bunch. It took him about half-an-hour to walk home, and by the time he reached the cottage there were only three cherries left.
‘Have a cherry, Grandfather,’ he said, as soon as he saw his grandfather in the garden. Grandfather took one cherry and Rakesh promptly ate the other two. He kept the last seed in his mouth for some time, rolling it round and round on his tongue until all the tang had gone. Then he placed the seed on the palm of his hand and studied it.
‘Are cherry seeds lucky?’ asked Rakesh.
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll keep it.’
ASIN : B08PD59JTS