The old flame burns bright

Among endless discussions on writing style and method, continual redefinitions of the Novel and frequent upheavals caused by the arrival of yet another supposed star in the literary firmament, how reassuring it is to still be able to read Ruskin Bond.

He has, seemingly, been around for ever "" always on the sidelines, happily doing his own thing, his own way. ("I had no ambition to be a great writer or a famous one," he says, "all I wanted to do was write.")

Through it all, he's remained arguably India's best-loved writer in English. But Ruskin's (forget the last-name proprieties, you can't refer to this man as Bond) body of work stands in quiet defiance of many conventional notions of quality writing.

In the eternal "" and eternally misdirected "" search for depth in art, critics have not always known how to deal with a man who's spent most of his years writing, in simple, untrammelled prose, about life amidst mountains and streams.

To be honest, this reviewer isn't exempt either from the inclination to patronise "" to, on some level, give Ruskin the mustn't-be-taken-too-seriously treatment.

In fact, I had misgivings about writing a longish review of what seems, on the surface, a slight, even inconsequential book. Does this 144-page novella deserve it, was my question.

The book itself provides the answer in the sheer joy it gives you for the brief time you are immersed in it. The India I Love is Ruskin's first piece of original writing to be published in over a decade, though he has edited numerous anthologies for Rupa in recent years. And like almost everything he's done before, it provides reading pleasure of the most immediate, unalloyed variety.

First things first: don't seek order or linearity here. This is a free-flowing collection of stories, poems and musings, with the only real connecting theme being not so much "The India I Love" as a general love for people and places, for making observations and setting them down.

The author casts a kindly, avuncular eye on almost everyone and everything he encounters; the Ruskin Bond version of censure is an observation, in the chapter on handwriting styles, that "Hitler's is ugly, as you might expect".

Ruskin begins with an account of his life in Mussoorie "" friends made, family adopted "" then finds space for excerpts from scattered diary entries of the past 20 years before backtracking to describe his early days in Dehradun after returning from England in the 1950s.

Anecdotes abound, like the one involving a beloved landlady (his stepfather's first wife, interestingly enough) who first attempted to get him "to settle down" when he was in his 20s "" and persisted in playing matchmaker until her death 40 years later!

One of the longest chapters in the book is a tribute to the many rivers in the author's life, from the little Suswa to giants like the Bhagirathi, and the Mandakini at Rudraprayag.

Another serves up memories of Ruskin's grandmother's house where he lived as a child "" here, he even throws in a couple of haikus for good measure!

There is also a sweet little elegy to small books "" "the kind meant for true book-lovers, you could slip them in your pocket without discomfort." (The author manages a gentle dig at the prevalent publishing culture that encourages large, bloated novels: "One day, like Alice after drinking from the wrong bottle, they will reach the ceiling and won't have anywhere else to go!")

And as one turns to the inevitable section on the art of writing, and reads Ruskin's thoughts on various artists and authors, one is reminded that simple writing isn't indicative of simple-mindedness.

This is borne out by an interaction with the author: speak to him and you'll find someone far more erudite than a superficial reading of his work might suggest.

In fact, when someone once remarked that he sounded quite complicated when he talked; Ruskin's reply was that he simplified his thoughts through his writing!

"Words should flow like a stream of clear water," he says towards the end of this book, "preferably a mountain stream!" This is vintage Ruskin Bond, as clear and refreshing as a mountain spring, and "" even at a price that's on the steep side "" a wonderful read.

THE INDIA I LOVE

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Ruskin Bond
Rupa & Co
Pages: 144
Price: Rs 295