On a morning or an evening two hour hobble in LIC Colony, me am a Ruskin Bond minus the imagination and writing skills. The LIC Colony road is a wavy circular path; Karuna Road and Shree Ayappa Mandir Marg form blessed parts. Trees and trees; flowers and flowers; we know each other, not our histories nor our names. Me prefers it that way; think, they also like it that way; a hug sometimes in the mood, a kiss and me stumbles along. It did not happen the next day. Since 1995, me am an irregular regular and after 22 years, we miss each other if we do not hullo when we meet. Do not know who seeded the trees; some say it is a part of a development reduced forest; the walled LIC Management Development Centre has wide grounds and many trees but me am a security risk, denied insurance, entry not allowed; in rains, the Centre puts up a board: Beware of snakes. Koyals plenty but has not gone beyond clicking crows; they fly off. Aeons ago they were not scared, today not so. Yet, this area is the treest in Borivili (West). And me again becomes Bond chewing cud. Bond writes in Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra: 'So this is old Dehra of mangoes and lemons, Where I grew beside the jackfruit tree, Planted by my father on the sunny side, Of the house since sold to Major-General Mehra. The town's grown hard, none know me now or knew. My mother's laughter. Most men came home as strangers. And yet, the trees my father planted here, these, Trees - old family trees - are growing still in Dehra.' And me came up against a jackfruit tree bent over a housing society wall on LIC Road (let the name be) with jackfruits still in suspension. Yes, in Kottarakara where me was born, there was a jackfruit tree and grandmother made pushukku of the fruit. Is the jackfruit there? Took out me mobile for a click; these days am into clicking with a half-working mobile, talking to myself of back light, cut light and the many other lights friend Paul Noronha talks when on the camera. With all the green circulating in me, re-read Tales of Fosterganj and Maharani of Bond. Reading them is like resting on wooden benches in empty parks; LIC Road has no resting places. Wrap of compassion. Fosterganj is Bond Malgudi. Maharani is a part happening. In the woods of Himalayas. Bond has enjoyed living in Landour, Mussorrie, for 40 years and thankfully is still there. And with trees, birds and animals, there cannot be politics; nothing dense and intellectual. Bond is easy. A glass of matka water in May. An Amul ice-cream. His father planted trees in Dehra, son is sowing tales, sewing ordinary tales in ordinary souls. 'And when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful,' Bond writes. Now waiting for his autobiography: Lone Fox Dancing.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
A Bond walk
On a morning or an evening two hour hobble in LIC Colony, me am a Ruskin Bond minus the imagination and writing skills. The LIC Colony road is a wavy circular path; Karuna Road and Shree Ayappa Mandir Marg form blessed parts. Trees and trees; flowers and flowers; we know each other, not our histories nor our names. Me prefers it that way; think, they also like it that way; a hug sometimes in the mood, a kiss and me stumbles along. It did not happen the next day. Since 1995, me am an irregular regular and after 22 years, we miss each other if we do not hullo when we meet. Do not know who seeded the trees; some say it is a part of a development reduced forest; the walled LIC Management Development Centre has wide grounds and many trees but me am a security risk, denied insurance, entry not allowed; in rains, the Centre puts up a board: Beware of snakes. Koyals plenty but has not gone beyond clicking crows; they fly off. Aeons ago they were not scared, today not so. Yet, this area is the treest in Borivili (West). And me again becomes Bond chewing cud. Bond writes in Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra: 'So this is old Dehra of mangoes and lemons, Where I grew beside the jackfruit tree, Planted by my father on the sunny side, Of the house since sold to Major-General Mehra. The town's grown hard, none know me now or knew. My mother's laughter. Most men came home as strangers. And yet, the trees my father planted here, these, Trees - old family trees - are growing still in Dehra.' And me came up against a jackfruit tree bent over a housing society wall on LIC Road (let the name be) with jackfruits still in suspension. Yes, in Kottarakara where me was born, there was a jackfruit tree and grandmother made pushukku of the fruit. Is the jackfruit there? Took out me mobile for a click; these days am into clicking with a half-working mobile, talking to myself of back light, cut light and the many other lights friend Paul Noronha talks when on the camera. With all the green circulating in me, re-read Tales of Fosterganj and Maharani of Bond. Reading them is like resting on wooden benches in empty parks; LIC Road has no resting places. Wrap of compassion. Fosterganj is Bond Malgudi. Maharani is a part happening. In the woods of Himalayas. Bond has enjoyed living in Landour, Mussorrie, for 40 years and thankfully is still there. And with trees, birds and animals, there cannot be politics; nothing dense and intellectual. Bond is easy. A glass of matka water in May. An Amul ice-cream. His father planted trees in Dehra, son is sowing tales, sewing ordinary tales in ordinary souls. 'And when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful,' Bond writes. Now waiting for his autobiography: Lone Fox Dancing.
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