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Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Lone Fox Dancing: Autobiography of Ruskin Bond


If there is one thing among a lot, I wish to do in my life before I die, is to go into the Cambridge Book store of Mussoorie on a cold Sunday Evening, and meet Ruskin Bond. I would probably be overwhelmed by seeing him personally, would fumble up words like I usually do most of the time and tell him “Thank you for all the memorable stories you have told over the years, you are my childhood Hero”.  


Lone Fox Dancing is an autobiography of one of the most celebrated, popular, influential and treasured writer in India, Owen Ruskin Bond. For the better part of more than six decades, Mr. Bond has earned his livelihood through writing. For years, he has played a significant role in many childhoods through his writing, be it telling a simple poem, making us laugh through funny anecdotes involving himself or people around him, occasionally spooking us through the horror stories he told, spelling magic around the minds of his readers through the visuals of Himalayas, coming out of his comfort zone and writing erotica in his own distinctive style and giving us an example of his versatility in terms of the subjects he wrote about, but most importantly, he has kept us engaged, engulfed and emotionally invested in the fascinating world of the stories he told, the characters extracted from his vast range of imagination and real life incidents, the painting of hills that he presented in front of our eyes, the visuals of gigantic Himalayan mountains that peeped through his words, the chaotic atmosphere of Indian Railways that formed the background of many of his stories, the colorful flowers that he classified so elegantly, the wide array of trees he differentiated with such ease, the love for food that he described with such passion. But, what’s the story behind the man who has told us so many stories. What prompted a young man to become fascinated with hills, what was the driving force behind the love for reading, what was the inspiration behind the first poem that he wrote, who was the first author that he read……

Lone Fox Dancing captures the ultra-extraordinary journey behind an extraordinary life. The extraordinary life of Ruskin Bond

The book chronicles four phases of his life: Childhood, School Years, Life in England, and finally returning to India and establishing himself as a writer.

We get used to happiness very quickly, more so when we are children

He opens up about his childhood, and yet again, with easily relatable moments (courtesy of all those stories he had told through the years) and simple writing tells us about the kind of immensely close relationship he shared with his father, Alexander Bond. Ruskin starts from the early days in Jamnagar where his Ayah would pamper him, and made him eat paan, which little Ruskin would love wholeheartedly. He also narrates us the inspiration behind his first poem. The childhood trauma to enemas, the isolated time in the boarding school, the fascination with food. The narrative is simple and elegant, and presented with a perfect balance of highs and lows of his childhood.  The earliest attempt on his part towards any form of literature was a direct result of his love towards his Ayah at Jamnagar, the second most important person in Ruskin's life, first obviously being his father. She becomes his inspiration of sorts of his guiltless first attempt at writing poems, he does well, and simply compares her to a papaya. The night held no terror for him, it gradually became his friend, and gave him the much-wanted space he needed but didn't get during the day time. Starlight, Moonlight, early dawn, all became precious moments of loveliness for him. The timelessness like atmosphere of the palace, the sensations of the big garden, the spiral shaped stairs all became a part of the Ruskin’s adventures in Jamnagar.

The most delightful relationship we read about in the book from Ruskin’s life is between him and his father, coincidentally he was named “Ruskin” after the Victorian essayist, John Ruskin, because apparently, Ruskin’s father appreciated aesthetic, imaginative and contemplative life. It appeared to be an omen, what the little Ruskin was going to do in his life. Mr. Bond’s not so stable relationship with his mother, the melancholic state of his mind after his father passed away, discovering friendships, and love. He clearly does not try to sugar coat the kind of cold relationship he shared with his mother and recalls the difficult lonely time he had to face in the absence of his father. What we read is not actually about Ruskin Bond, the author, but rather Ruskin Bond, a child who is lost in his own dreams.

Starts another phase in Ruskin’s life, when he goes to Bishop Cotton school in Shimla, he explores a different side of himself, not the kind of rebel which he tried to pull off in his last school, where he along with a friend tried to run away from the school, and not being able to cross the line of freedom and end up getting caught. As a writer, he would later on use this incident as a metaphor to symbolize seeking freedom and control over one’s own destiny by crossing the lines of oppression. He left a long-lasting impression on his school friends, acknowledging the coolness of the fact that his father worked in the Royal Air Force helped him gain more popularity in the school, a time where World War II was far away from ending, He made his own little world around the aura of the school with his friends. How Ruskin uttered the wonderful line “And when all wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful” lying in a tunnel with his friend Azhar.

The marital problems between his parents had gradually started affecting him in some way or another, his father’s loneliness brought a sudden change on the shy Ruskin. The time spent with his father, which he considers to be the happiest days of his childhood because he was not told to live his life in a certain way, he was free bird, he could read all day, listen to music, watch movies, play with his colony friends, get fascinated by his father’s stamp collection. At a certain point when Ruskin is having the best time of his life with his father at Delhi, he mentions that "New Delhi was a safer place in the 1940's than it is in the 21st Century". Few years later, Ruskin’s father passed way due to several attacks of malaria, the last letter which Ruskin's father wrote to him is sure to bring a tear rolling down the cheeks as we read it, primarily because we, as reader by the first part ends have realized the significance of Ruskin's father in his life, and when you read how heartbroken Ruskin is, post the sudden demise of his father, one cannot imagine how a ten-year kid be expected to remain calm. Flight Lieutenant Aubrey Alexander Bond had left an indelible vacuum in the life of Ruskin Bond. It was difficult for Ruskin to reconcile with the loss, and he wrote “There being no tangible evidence of my father’s death, it was, for me, not a death, but vanishing, and I subconsciously expected him to turn as he often did, when I most needed him and deliver me from an unpleasant situation” Years later, Ruskin would confront his feelings from that period in his short story “The Funeral” where he would write about the insensitive nature of adults of not allowing an orphan protagonist to attend his father’s funeral.

If one is present when a loved one dies, one is convinced of the finality of the thing and finds it easier to adapt to the changed circumstances. You never really get over the loss of a beloved. You learn to live despite it.”

He entered another interesting phase in his life soon afterwards, where he would now be a part of a family that appeared to be lost in their own lives, but Ruskin found something that would change his life forever; Books and How an odd friendship with Miss Kellner resulted in Ruskin's introduction to fascinating literature. Reading became his religion, and as he himself mentioned a couple of times that it was books helped him discover his soul. There are sweet little tales of Ruskin's first crush, first sip of rum which lead to his first kiss on the lips under an intoxicated state. The string of happiness which little Ruskin felt after the presence of snow in Dehradun. You could sense a flashback of all those novels which you have read, authored by him connecting all the dots about the beautiful scenery he would put forward about the hills.

Destiny had other plans for “Bond Sahid ka bachcha”, no one back then had any clue that their Baba would go on to become one of the most influential writers in the country.



Destiny took another major turn when Ruskin went to Jersey and then to London to try and achieve his ambition of being a writer, talks of unrequited love, repeatedly telling himself that the west part of the world would give him more opportunities, but as a reader one can feel the restlessness that was building up inside Ruskin, his love for the valleys, and mountains could not be suppressed for a longer time, “All I really wanted was my little room back again” he wrote.

He soon returned to India, and we meet more colorful characters that appeared at that point of time in his life, and most of them would go on to become actual characters in his stories, around the summer of 1963, Ruskin Bond finally settled down in the hills. The last part of the book felt like a revision of all the novels written by him that I have been reading so far, and gradually felt that this is the story behind this man.

The oeuvre of Ruskin Bond’s writing is such, that after reading his work, he makes you feel guilty of not living a life under the watchful eyes of mountains, not taking a moment of solace out of our hectic schedule and appreciating life with all its beauty and charms. There is so much to know about the legendary writer, but the autobiography focuses majorly on his childhood, and how the various incidents shaped the man we know today through his stories. While reading the book, there are overabundance of memories which strikes my mind about all those stories I have read while growing up, there is a sense of reality that Mr. Bond presents, and how he weaves his characters around the nature or how he shapes the nature to be the center of his stories. It is quite an amusing fascination that Mr. Bond, right from his childhood developed towards admiring the beauty of nature, and for me no one loves the nature the way he does through the structure of his words. Similar to numerous Ruskin Bond’s Novels, there are some common elements, mountains, trees, People of colorful nature, animals, foods, drinks, but what is most important is the sincerity and honesty with which Mr. Bond gives us a glimpse of his personal journey. The man who preferred Silence of the mountains against the chaos of metro cities continues to thrives his stories from the simplest of moments in life, perhaps the milieu of Himalayas gives him a sense of freedom to express himself more freely 

The kindest people are often those who have come through testing personal tragedies


Lone Fox Dancing is not a path-breaking autobiography by any means but it never even tries to go that way, it’s as simple as his other works, the subtle difference being the personal moments that are painful and yet delivered through words with honesty, because observing the simplistic of moments in life has always thrive him to form stories. There are moments of longing for love, be it from his father, mother, friends, family, and long after that longing is vanished, there isn’t a bundle of sorrow feelings, rather the joy recalling those moments spent in their presence, perhaps this quality is what makes him grow an unaltered fondness for the beauty of life. 

My rendezvous with Mr. Bond started when I first read “The Blue Umbrella”, once I completed that novella, the name Ruskin Bond stayed with me, as I started exploring his works, the iconic "Room on the Roof", the timeless classic “Time stops at Shamli and other stories”, the quest of freedom in the “Flight of Pigeons”, the wildness of “Sussana’s Seven Husbands”, the realization of a man’s sexual nature in an erotica "The Sensualist"  and many more of his stories, I was transported into the world that Mr. Bond wanted to us see, the silence of the nights, the internal peace felt in a moment, the beauty of rain drops, the aesthetics of trees, the charm of a song, the satisfaction of hearty laugh. The solace I found and still do in reading his works is cannot be judged or even defined precisely.

As a boy, loneliness, As a man, Solitude. The loneliness was not of my seeking. The solitude, I sought and found

I wish that Ruskin Bond had written more about his craft, but this feeling soon vanished after I realize that his most of his stories are directly a result of certain circumstances that he faced in his life, the longing of love, the need of comfort at times, of course there are many stories that completely are a product of his imagination, but the looking back at his journey, and his fondness for the valleys, there is a part of me that wants to believe that most of his stories does have a bit of personal attachment to it.

At around 75 years of age, Mr. Bond made his debut for the big screen in Vishal Bhardwaj’s “7 Khoon Maaf” and played a cameo in the film based on his novella, which he himself adapted into a short story, which was then transformed into a full-fledged screenplay. Just few seconds of seeing him on the big screen with the character that he created so beautifully was really a treat for his fans. 



Once I finished reading the book, I could not help myself but picture a scene in my imagination where Ruskin Bond is talking an evening walk around the trees, simply enjoying the calmness of the valley, and just next to him, we see the little Ruskin from his Jamnagar days emerge out of nowhere, he throws the most innocent of smiles at him and makes him hold his tiny fingers.

“Well, life worked out pretty well” He exclaims to Ruskin

The 83 years old Ruskin looks at him, nods in approval 

“Up for a dance, Lone Fox?” he asks.

"Always" he replies. 

I am like a shopkeeper hoarding bags full of grains, only I hoard words. There are still people who buy words, and I hope I can keep bringing a little sunshine and pleasure into their lives till the end of my days



Saturday, December 23, 2017

Thoughts on Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me by Bill Hayes


“O: ‘The most we can do is to write – intelligently, creatively, critically, evocatively- about what it is like living in the world at this time” 


How will you react if someone looks dead straight in your eyes, and tells you in a firm voice that “At this moment, you are the most important person in the world.”

A sense of formidable assurance will hit you at the sweet spot of your heart; the much-wanted comfort in that firm voice will give you a sense of relief that no matter what, you are special and your presence does make a significance impact on someone’s life. 


This is one of the underlying scenarios, which forms the crux of Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me written by Bill Hayes.

Set in the cosmopolitan jungle of New York, we do not read about the New York, which might be on the verge of an invasion from aliens. We do not read about the magnificence of Stark Tower complex located in midtown Manhattan. We do not read about the carnage that the several members of Avengers have brought in on the city. We do not see the New York, which Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver made us see through his eyes. Rather, we visualize a closer reflection of life in New York.

As the title suggest, the city never sleeps, there are always curious souls wandering aimlessly around subways, parks, on the streets and one such insomniac soul is Bill Hayes who, in his late forties makes a life changing decision and moves into the city of New York. Early in the book, he throws a familiar scientific term by the name of Agrypnia Excitata, a medical situation characterized by persistent Insomnia, over activity, mental confusion with dream enactment. He tells us that if we were to diagnose New York, it would surely be going through this medical condition, which he himself confirms to be going through mildly.  

Spring Shadows, Photo by Bill Hayes

The book starts with Bill narrating a devastating personal loss, the irony of which will make you wonder of how unkind being an insomniac can be. “Suffering a devastating loss is like suffering a brain injury, you walk around like a zombie, you can’t think straight, you feel drugged,” someone tells Bills, to which he thinks, “Sometimes you are drugged” it’s such a minor exchange of words filled with a sense of consolation which are so pure and genuine in their nature but at the same time, anecdotes like these is what made me think more about my own insomnia and the moments of personal loss. Bill meets many interesting people, who share some interesting aspects of their life, like using the term “disappear” in place of death, it made me wonder about the analogy of terms we use, to explain about the death of loved ones, surely it does represent a deeper connotation of our association with the person on a very personal level, they leave us physically but with a plethora of memories and moments to look after. Bill moves on in his life and discovers something on his own after his countless isolated nights “A thousand days is a thousand nights is a thousand chances to dream about him”  and recalls an out of the ordinary aspect from the Greeks; The god of sleep (Hypnos) has an identical twin, Thanatos, the god of death.     

Then what starts as a formal correspondence through letters between Bill Hayes and Dr. Oliver Sacks over the former’s book The Anatomist organically grows into something excessively special. It was the zest and the natural curiosity of discovering novelistic persona that shapes the bond of mutual admiration between the two. Dr. Oliver Sacks’ ability to look through Bill’s photographs from an altogether perspective, like comparing bare tree limbs to bundle of neurons in a closed system. Bill decides that he needs to get a fresh start, gets a one-way ticket, and like millions before and after him comes to New York, not specifically in pursuit of anything, but just to celebrate life the way he wants it to be.  Insomniac City is Bill Hayes love letter to two of the most important companions in his life, New York and Oliver Sacks. 

At Home, Photo by Bill Hayes

Bill Hayes explores New York and simultaneously his life. The unplanned encounter with strangers in the streets of New York yields him so many stories to remember. The weather of New York in which the multi color template of clouds play an important aspect throughout the book, the iconic Empire state building, the subways, dirty streets, cold nights, and taxicabs stuck in traffic, they all play a major role in Bill’s life, since he gradually transforms into a New Yorker, and accepts the city with all its detriments. Random stranger writing a love poem for Bill and coincidently meeting the same person two years later, this time the poem is about the sky under the stars. Preferring to stand rather than sit on a subway, never dozing off, never reading, as doing any of those things might make him miss a surprising site. There are many more such stories that Bill share with us. He deeply embraces New York and its people, and lives in optimism that city will repay him in some form or another, and eventually it does. He makes us see the city through his lenses (quite literally, since he captures many photographs). He captures moments of human love, people, strangers, lovers, acquaintances quite artistically without dramatizing the moment. Bill Hayes sees, values, experiences, untangles the simple yet the delicate complex nature of human emotions in New York.  It is the wonderfully expressed writing that one does not get a sense of time and space in accordance with the book, the random people coming into the life of Bill and leaving with an impact and a certain memoir of their own to share in future. The illustration of human emotions through photographs gives us a glimpse of how he intends to celebrate life in New York, both the photographs and the anecdotes of New York runs in a parallel narrative style of storytelling.  

Lovers on the Grass, Photo by Bill Hayes

"It requires a certain kind of unconditional love-to-love living here. But New York repays you in time in memorable encounters, at the very least. Just remember: ask first, don't grab, be fair, say please and thank you- even if you don't get something back right away. You will.” 

Dr. Oliver Sacks (O), the genius neurologist, writer, professor forms the significant draw in the book. The way Bill portrays him through his personal journal entries (idea of which was suggested to Bill by Dr Sacks himself that he must keep a journal) gives us a subtle hint of the kind of relation both of them shared. O didn’t know what or who the phenomenon known as Michael Jackson was, he had no attentiveness of the contemporary pop music, he didn’t owned any computer, didn’t use email or text, rather favored using his fountain pen. He spend almost three decades in celibacy, spending majority of his time in work, reading, writing, unlocking the mysterious mechanism around the captivating aspects of Neurobiology. He works on the principle of not fearing death as much as wasting life. For O, writing is more important than pain. He redefines intimacy in such an extraordinary manner that you cannot help but get amused by his notion of intimacy, love and romance. He wears swimming goggles while opening the bottle of champagne because, first he has never done that himself and second “just in case”.  

“I just want to enjoy your nextness and nearness,” says O.

He puts his ear to my chest, listens to my heart, and counts the beats.

“Sixty-two,” He says with a satisfied smile, and I can’t imagine anything more intimate.  

The conversations between O and Bill appear so simple, yet it is their normal routinely conversations that sparks the inquisitiveness to know more about them, their world, the way they visualize the importance of the clouds in the evenings, they way they tend to look from a scientific perspective to describe normal human activities.  The way O suddenly mumbles “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could dream together?”  The conversations at the opium den, where O gets stoned and exhibit his vast neuroscience knowledge and enjoys the coming out of the regular boredom, and discussing the thin difference between happiness and pleasure. The difference in both of their personalities can summed into a minor conversation where Bill point out that he has seen fireflies, to which O responds that swallowing more than three of those would result in death due to luciferase. Their relation is an ideal paradigm of the perfect balance between Science and Literature. Bill’s words and feelings are the poetry whereas O is the scientific instrumentalist of those words and feelings.

Throughout the deeply personal conversations, Bill Hayes gives us an unparalleled access to their love, to their world, and in a way tells us about the restrictions of human endeavors brought upon by time, space and medium needs to be respected. The acceptance of death at some point in life, holding onto grief, and then going on to celebrate death, and much more importantly celebrate “Life” is what makes this book extremely memorable and a delightful read. Perhaps I am not able to precisely explain what made reading this book a charming experience for me, but the writing is so personal and intimate, that you appreciate the beauty of it. If you want to celebrate life in ordinary moments or want to connect yourself again to the times we live, then Insomniac City awaits your attention. Bill Hayes awaits your attention.