Title of the Book: Legends of the Hill
Author: Ruskin Bond
Genre: Stories
Publisher: Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
Everyday life and things are not as commonplace as they are made out to
be. There are quaint, interesting, intriguing stories lying hidden in them. You just need to have the eye and ear for them. Ruskin
Bond sees the extraordinary amidst the very ordinary. And he weaves amazing
stories around them.
In “Legends of the Hill”, Bond’s writing flows like a mountain
breeze. It carries the
fragrance of the forests and the echoes of the valley. Characters are incredibly
natural. Even the ghosts are like normal beings. There is no suspense built up
around them, for they are part of the environment, the people, the setting.
The author often writes about little things – deceptively unimportant
things – that make up charming stories – stories that recreate the life on the
hills.
“Had it all been a dream, that
strange episode on Pari Tibba? Had an overactive imagination conjured up those
aerial spirits, those siddhas of the upper air? Or were they underground people
living deep within the bowels of the hill? If I was going to keep my sanity I
knew I had better get on with the more mundane aspects of living – such as
going into town to buy my groceries, mending the leaking roof, paying the
electricity bill, …”
[p. 59]
It is interesting to note that while the author refers to the safety and
sanity of ordinary, “mundane” things, his stories on ordinary people and their
ordinary lives get the readers’ eyes glued to the pages. The reader is
captivated by the beauty in the mundaneness, so to say.
“The truth is, what we commonly call
life is not life at all. Its routine and settled ways are the curse of life,
and we will do almost anything to get away from the trivial, even if it is only
for a few hours of forgetfulness in alcohol, drugs, forbidden sex or golf. Some
of us would even go underground with the fairies, those little people who have
sought refuge in Mother Earth from mankind’s killing ways; for they are as
vulnerable as butterflies and flowers. All things beautiful are easily
destroyed.” [p. 59]
The author paints pretty pictures with his words. I wished I were an
artist when I read this book. Why, I could have created a whole gallery of
pictures inspired from his writings!
“The train would reach Deoli at
about five in the morning when the station would be dimly lit with electric
bulbs and oil lamps, and the jungle across the railway tracks would just be
visible in the faint light of dawn. Deoli had only one platform, and office for
the stationmaster and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit
vendor and a few stray dogs; not much else because the train stopped there for
only ten minutes before rushing on into the forests.” [p. 61]
The author continues to write about the railway station. If you are the
kind of person who have felt a strange connect with lonely places (I am), and
if you feel something stirring within you if you see a quiet, unpopulated place
like a railway station (I do), then you will instantly relate to the following
passages.
“Why it stopped at Deoli, I don’t
know. Nothing ever happened there. Nobody got off the train and nobody got on.
There were never any coolies on the platform.
…
I used to wonder what happened in Deoli behind the station walls. I always felt
sorry for that lonely little platform and for that place nobody wanted to
visit. I decided that one day I would get off the train at Deoli and spend the
day there just to please the town.” [p. 61]
As the author narrates a story, he leaves so many stories untold between the lines, urging the reader to take off on their own imagined tales.
Often, the author leaves his own story midway, happy to hang on in a state of expectation,
revelling in the joy of anticipation.
“In the last few years I have passed
through Deoli many times, and I always look out of the carriage window
half-expecting to see the same unchanged face smiling up at me. I wonder what
happens in Deoli, behind the station walls. But I will never break my journey
here. It may spoil my game.
…
I never break my journey at Deoli but I pass through as often as I can.” [p. 66]
Stories have a way of conveying the simplicity of the common folk. Especially when Ruskin Bond narrates them. It’s right there in
front of your eyes in all its innocence and charm. Exposed, naive, vulnerable.
Like a dainty, delicate bubble. Your thoughts hover on it and move on. You might as well not touch it, lest it burst. You leave it well alone.
‘Won’t you feel scared returning
alone?’ he asked. ‘There are ghosts on Haunted Hill!’
‘I’ll be back before dark. Ghosts don’t appear during the day.’
‘Are there lots of ghosts in the ruins?’ asked Binya.
…
‘Because, Grandfather says, during a terrible storm, one of the houses was hit
by lightning, and everyone in it was killed. Even the children.’
‘How many children?’
‘Two. A boy and his sister. Grandfather saw them playing there in the moonlight.’
‘Wasn’t he frightened?’
‘No. Old people don’t mind ghosts.’ [p. 68]
Have you ever looked at a beautiful picture, be it a painting, drawing
or a photograph, and felt like going to that place in the picture? I have,
always. And I am stirred by the same feeling when I read Bond’s stories. I want
to be in that place, among those people, walking down the roads there, feeling
the air, listening to the sounds of the people, the birds, the wind, the trees.
Drinking in all the sights. Capturing moments and storing them in my mind
forever.
