Legends of the Hill

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.

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