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Once You Have Lived with Mountain
The smell of pines, the sound of birds, the singing of hill people, the sound of a river flowing through a valley—these are some of the pleasant things that greet you once you are in the mountains.
136 pages, Kindle Edition
Published August 1, 2017
107 people are currently reading
110 people want to read
About the author
Ruskin Bond
673 books3,546 followersRuskin Bond is an Indian author of British descent. He is considered to be an icon among Indian writers and children's authors and a top novelist. He wrote his first novel, The Room on the Roof, when he was seventeen which won John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written several novellas, over 500 short stories, as well as various essays and poems, all of which have established him as one of the best-loved and most admired chroniclers of contemporary India. In 1992 he received the Sahitya Akademi award for English writing, for his short stories collection, "Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra", by the Sahitya Akademi, India's National Academy of Letters in India. He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1999 for contributions to children's literature. He now lives with his adopted family in Landour near Mussoorie.
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Displaying 1 - 27 of 27 reviews
April 27, 2021
People may come and go, the hills remain.
Once Again in the book ‘Once you have lived in the mountains’ – a collection of 17 short stories Ruskin Bond brings you his events of his life in hill stations.
Because he loved hills so much, wherever he used to go he used to describe that details so perfectly that we cannot but ourselves want to imagine that moment ourselves. He states that Dehra played an important role in transforming him as a writer. Some of his best stories have been written in Dehra.
A journey on the narrow and damp streets, smells of bazaar - sweetmeats frying, smoke from wood or charcoal fires, the sweat and urine of mules, petrol fumes, all these mingle with the smell of mist and old buildings and distant pines, walks on Mussoorie Tehri Road, tin roofs glistening in the moonlight, greenish phosphorous scented glowing Pari Tibba Hill has all come alive in this book.
In one of the stories, he writes about the trees at different height of hills as under which is just so soothing –
At elevations of 4,000 ft, the long-leaved pine appears. From 5,000 ft there are several kinds of evergreen oak, and above 6,000 ft you find rhododendron, deodar, maple, the hill cypress, and the beautiful horse-chestnut. Still higher up, the silver fir is common; but at 12,000 ft the firs become stunted and dwarfed, and the birch and juniper replace them. At this height raspberries grow wild, amongst yellow colt’s-foot dandelion, blue gentian, purple columbine, anemone and edelweiss.
Stories of his friendship with Sudheer, William, Colonel Wilkie, Suresh and Bibiji (Mrs. Singh – Dehra’s first lady shopkeeper) are included when he used to stay on Rajpur road, his encounters with a weird and mad Maharani up the spiral’s staircase of Jamnagar Palace, comic conversations with gardener Dukhi, long lost love with Sushila (whom he also meets in the story “Time stops at Shamli”), sacred shrines of Tungnath and Nandprayag are all meticulously described in the book.
The purple berries of the thorny kingora (barberry) ripening in May and June; wild strawberries like drops of blood on the dark green monsoon grass; sour cherries, wild pears and raspberries; brushing against the lime tree, bruising its leaves; and the good fresh fragrance comes to me on the night air, making the moment memorable for all time. Wild sorrel grew among the rocks, and there were many flowers—convolvulus, clover, wild begonia, dandelion—sprinkling the hillside. smell of pine needles, the silver of oak leaves and the red of maple, the call of the Himalayan cuckoo, and the mist, like a wet face-cloth, pressing against the hills. – That’s how he describes a village in Garhwal; observation turned into words.
He mentions some of his favourite places for his writings which were the parade-ground or Maidan, the Paltan Bazaar and its offshoots, the lichee gardens of Dalanwala, the tea-gardens, the quiet upper reaches of the Rajpur Road (non-transformed into shopping malls), the sal forests near Rajpur, the approach to Dehra by road or rail, and of course the railway station which is much the same as it used to be.
The important thing is to keep writing, observing, listening and paying attention to the beauty of words and their arrangement. And like artists and musicians, the more we work on our art, the better it will be.
Someday cycle yourself through the tea gardens and mustard fields, and down a forest road across a small, shallow river, sometimes walking barefoot across the grass on the little hillock overlooking the stream that tumbled down to Mossy Falls.
After reading his stories, I myself want to immerse myself in the isolation of hills as their life is simply a matter of yesterday, today and tomorrow. And not always tomorrow.
It is upon a person’s power of holding fast to such undimmed beauty that his or her inner hopefulness depends. As we journey through the world, we must inevitably encounter meanness and selfishness. As we fight for our survival, the higher visions and ideals often fade. It is then that we need ladybirds! Contemplating that tiny creature, or the flower on which it rests, gives one the hope—better, the certainty—that there is more to life than interest rates, dividends, market forces, and infinite technology.
Once Again in the book ‘Once you have lived in the mountains’ – a collection of 17 short stories Ruskin Bond brings you his events of his life in hill stations.
Because he loved hills so much, wherever he used to go he used to describe that details so perfectly that we cannot but ourselves want to imagine that moment ourselves. He states that Dehra played an important role in transforming him as a writer. Some of his best stories have been written in Dehra.
A journey on the narrow and damp streets, smells of bazaar - sweetmeats frying, smoke from wood or charcoal fires, the sweat and urine of mules, petrol fumes, all these mingle with the smell of mist and old buildings and distant pines, walks on Mussoorie Tehri Road, tin roofs glistening in the moonlight, greenish phosphorous scented glowing Pari Tibba Hill has all come alive in this book.
In one of the stories, he writes about the trees at different height of hills as under which is just so soothing –
At elevations of 4,000 ft, the long-leaved pine appears. From 5,000 ft there are several kinds of evergreen oak, and above 6,000 ft you find rhododendron, deodar, maple, the hill cypress, and the beautiful horse-chestnut. Still higher up, the silver fir is common; but at 12,000 ft the firs become stunted and dwarfed, and the birch and juniper replace them. At this height raspberries grow wild, amongst yellow colt’s-foot dandelion, blue gentian, purple columbine, anemone and edelweiss.
Stories of his friendship with Sudheer, William, Colonel Wilkie, Suresh and Bibiji (Mrs. Singh – Dehra’s first lady shopkeeper) are included when he used to stay on Rajpur road, his encounters with a weird and mad Maharani up the spiral’s staircase of Jamnagar Palace, comic conversations with gardener Dukhi, long lost love with Sushila (whom he also meets in the story “Time stops at Shamli”), sacred shrines of Tungnath and Nandprayag are all meticulously described in the book.
The purple berries of the thorny kingora (barberry) ripening in May and June; wild strawberries like drops of blood on the dark green monsoon grass; sour cherries, wild pears and raspberries; brushing against the lime tree, bruising its leaves; and the good fresh fragrance comes to me on the night air, making the moment memorable for all time. Wild sorrel grew among the rocks, and there were many flowers—convolvulus, clover, wild begonia, dandelion—sprinkling the hillside. smell of pine needles, the silver of oak leaves and the red of maple, the call of the Himalayan cuckoo, and the mist, like a wet face-cloth, pressing against the hills. – That’s how he describes a village in Garhwal; observation turned into words.
He mentions some of his favourite places for his writings which were the parade-ground or Maidan, the Paltan Bazaar and its offshoots, the lichee gardens of Dalanwala, the tea-gardens, the quiet upper reaches of the Rajpur Road (non-transformed into shopping malls), the sal forests near Rajpur, the approach to Dehra by road or rail, and of course the railway station which is much the same as it used to be.
The important thing is to keep writing, observing, listening and paying attention to the beauty of words and their arrangement. And like artists and musicians, the more we work on our art, the better it will be.
Someday cycle yourself through the tea gardens and mustard fields, and down a forest road across a small, shallow river, sometimes walking barefoot across the grass on the little hillock overlooking the stream that tumbled down to Mossy Falls.
After reading his stories, I myself want to immerse myself in the isolation of hills as their life is simply a matter of yesterday, today and tomorrow. And not always tomorrow.
It is upon a person’s power of holding fast to such undimmed beauty that his or her inner hopefulness depends. As we journey through the world, we must inevitably encounter meanness and selfishness. As we fight for our survival, the higher visions and ideals often fade. It is then that we need ladybirds! Contemplating that tiny creature, or the flower on which it rests, gives one the hope—better, the certainty—that there is more to life than interest rates, dividends, market forces, and infinite technology.
April 19, 2022
I am a big fan of Bond's writing because of his observation power, his style of representation and the simplicity in his writing. Ruskin Bond has spent most of the time of his life in mountain towns. He has beautifully documented his memories, likes dislikes, imaginations, obsessions in this book. This book is written in a way that it will help the reader to view the beauty of mountains, its people, its natural beauty through the eyes of the writer.
November 4, 2020
As pleasant as any book by Rusty :)
People who love simple things are very rare to find and I found one in Ruskin Bond.
When he describes the scenic beauty of the hills, I can't help but wonder how beautiful living in nature would be and how much I'm missing all that living in a city far away from anything of that sort of beauty.
People who love simple things are very rare to find and I found one in Ruskin Bond.
When he describes the scenic beauty of the hills, I can't help but wonder how beautiful living in nature would be and how much I'm missing all that living in a city far away from anything of that sort of beauty.
May 21, 2022
Poor writing....
August 19, 2022
Refreshing and delightful.
December 12, 2021
Beautifully captures the beauty of mountains🌱
January 17, 2022
Most of it is relaxing to read, pleasant and clear, much like the mountain landscapes he writes about.
Suddenly there's a disturbing sensation that remains after one is finished reading - it's that he says of his contemporaries naming two, that unlike them he doesn't write to please everyone. That leaves a sensation not unlike expecting to eat a nice milk pudding and having a stone crunch in your teeth.
What's much more questionable is the juxtaposition of Forsyth and Sheldon, the two he names. Its not so much that the two have little in common, it chiefly that Forsyth's work evidently needs and takes a lot more than trying to please anyone. And the other is not on the same planet, much less category.
So the pleasure that one anticipated, is spoiled due to this one sentence he could easily have deleted, or at least found other names that one could smile at and let go.
*****
Introduction
" ... In London, I once lived in a small attic, and a few similarly claustrophobic years in Delhi as well, for ‘Once You Have Lived with the Mountains’ it is not easy to live elsewhere. I longed to return to the hills and live in a place with windows facing beautiful views. ... "
"Landour Bazaar"
" ... From Mussoorie to Chamba, a distance of some 35 miles, the road seldom descends below 7,000 ft, and there is a continual vista of the snow ranges to the north, and valleys and rivers to the south. ... "
"Through a gap in the rows of buildings I can see Pari Tibba outlined in the moonlight. A greenish phosphore-scent glow appears to move here and there about the hillside. This is the ‘fairy light’ that gives the hill its name Pari Tibba, Fairy Hill. ... "
"Although the shopkeepers and tradesmen are fairly prosperous, the hill people—those who come from the surrounding Tehri and Jaunpur villages—are usually poor. Their small holdings and rocky fields do not provide them with much of a living, and men and boys have to often come into the hill station or go down to the cities in search of a livelihood. They pull rickshaws, or work in hotels and restaurants. Most of them have somewhere to stay."
"Tales of Old Mussoorie"
" ... One of the remarkable features of the Himalayas is the abruptness with which they rise from the plains, and this gives them a verdure that is totally different from that of the plains.
"None of the common trees of the plains are to be found in the hills. At elevations of 4,000 ft, the long-leaved pine appears. From 5,000 ft there are several kinds of evergreen oak, and above 6,000 ft you find rhododendron, deodar, maple, the hill crypress, and the beautiful horse-chestnut. Still higher up, the silver fir is common; but at 12,000 ft the firs become stunted and dwarfed, and the birch and juniper replace them. At this height raspberries grow wild, amongst yellow colt’s-foot dandelion, blue gentian, purple columbine, anemone and edelweiss.
"Not every hillside is covered with foliage. Many hills are bare and rugged, too precipitous for cultivation. Sometimes they are masses of quartz, limestone or granite."
"On Fairy Hill"
"Those little green lights that I used to see, twinkling away on Pari Tibba—there had to be a scientific explanation for them, I was sure. ... "
"After some time I stood up and surveyed the scene. To the north, Landour with its rusty red-roofed cottages; to the south, the wide valley and a silver stream flowing towards the Ganga. To the west, rolling hills, patches of forest, and a small village tucked into a fold of the mountain."
"I am sitting at my window in the gathering dark, penning these stray thoughts, when I see them coming—hand in hand, walking on a swirl of mist, radiant, suffused with all the colours of the rainbow. For a rainbow has formed a bridge from them, from Pari Tibba, to the edge of my window."
"And Now We Are Twelve"
"My first name was Owen, which in Welsh means ‘brave’. As I am not in the least brave, I have preferred not to use it. One given name and one surname should be enough.
"When my granny said, ‘But you should try to be brave, otherwise how will you survive in this cruel world?’ I replied: ‘Don’t worry, I can run very fast.’
"Not that I’ve ever had to do much running, except when I was pursued by a lissome Australian lady who thought I’d make a good, obedient husband. It wasn’t so much the lady I was running from, but the prospect of spending the rest of my life in some remote cattle station in the Australian outback. Anyone who has tried to drag me away from India has always met with stout resistance."
"Apart from these and a few other colourful characters, the area was inhabitated by some very respectable people, retired brigadiers, air marshals and rear admirals, almost all of whom were busy writing their memoirs. I had to read or listen to extracts from their literary efforts. This was slow torture. A few years before, I had done a stint of editing for a magazine called Imprint. It had involved going through hundreds of badly written manuscripts, and in some cases (friends of the owner!) rewriting some of them for publication. One of life’s joys had been to throw up that particular job, and now here I was, besieged by all the top brass of the Army, Navy and Air Force, each one determined that I should read, inwardly digest, improve, and if possible find a publisher for their outpourings. Thank goodness they were all retired. I could not be shot or court-martialled. But at least two of them set their wives upon me, and these intrepid ladies would turn up around noon with my ‘homework’—typescripts to read and edit! There was no escape. My own writing was of no consequence to them. I told them that I was taking sitar lessons, but they disapproved, saying I was more suited to the tabla."
"Friends of My Youth"
"Sudheer"
" ... Although I was three or four years older than Sudheer, he was much stronger, being about six foot tall and broad in the shoulders. His parents had come from Bhanu, a rough and ready district on the North-West Frontier, as a result of the partition of the country. His father ran a small press situated behind the Sabzi Mandi and brought out a weekly newspaper called The Frontier Times."
" ... I agreed to help with the newspaper for a couple of hours every morning. This involved proofreading and editing news agency reports. Uninspiring work, but useful."
"The Royal Cafe Set"
"Suresh spent whatever cash came his way, and borrowed more. He had an advantage over the rest of us—he owned an old bungalow, inherited from his father, up at Rajpur in the foothills, where he lived alone with an old manservant. And owning a property gave him some standing with his creditors. The grounds boasted of a mango and lichi orchard, and these he gave out on contract every year, so that his friends did not even get to enjoy some of his produce. The proceeds helped him to pay his office rent in town, with a little left over to give small amounts on account to the owner of the Royal Café."
" ... William Matheson had everything going for him from the start, when he came out to India as an assistant to Von Hesseltein, correspondent for some of the German papers. Von Hesseltein passed on some of the assignments to William, and for a time, all went well. William lived with Von Hesseltein and his family, and was also friendly with Suresh, often paying for the drinks at the Royal Café. Then William committed the folly (if not the sin) of having an affair with Von Hesseltein’s wife. Von Hesseltein was not the understanding sort. He threw William out of the house and stopped giving him work."
"And there was old Colonel Wilkie, living on a small pension in a corner room of the White House Hotel. His wife had left him some years before, presumably because of his drinking, but he claimed to have left her because of her obsession with moving the furniture—it seems she was always shifting things about, changing rooms, throwing out perfectly sound tables and chairs and replacing them with fancy stuff picked up here and there. If he took a liking to a particular easy chair and showed signs of setting down in it, it would disappear the next day to be replaced by something horribly ugly and uncomfortable."
"‘BIBIJI’"
"She was, in fact, my Punjabi stepfather’s first wife. ... "
"I had just started freelancing from Dehra and was not keen on joining my mother and stepfather in Delhi. When ‘Bibiji’—as I called her—offered me a portion of her flat on very reasonable terms, I accepted without hesitation and was to spend the next two years above her little shop on Rajpur Road. Almost fifty years later, the flat in still there, but it is now an ice cream parlour! Poetic justice, perhaps."
"Bibiji and Mrs Singh both made plans to get me married. When I protested, saying I was only twenty-three, they said I was old enough. Bibiji had an eye on an Anglo-Indian schoolteacher who sometimes came to the shop, but Mrs Singh turned her down, saying she had very spindly legs. Instead, she suggested the daughter of the local padre, a glamourous-looking, dusky beauty, but Bibiji vetoed the proposal, saying the young lady used too much make-up and already displayed too much fat around the waistline. Both agreed that I should marry a plain-looking girl who could cook, use a sewing machine, and speak a little English.
"‘And be strong in the legs,’ I added, much to Mrs Singh’s approval."
"A Good Place for Trees"
"As my father had told me, Dehra was a good place for trees, and Grandmother’s house was surrounded by several kinds—peepul, neem, mango, jackfruit, papaya and an ancient banyan tree. Some of the trees had been planted by my father and grandfather."
"The banyan tree grew behind the house. Its spreading aerial roots which descended into the ground formed a number of twisting passageways in which I liked to wander. The tree was older than the house, older than my grandparents, as old as Dehra. I could hide myself among the roots, behind thick green leaves, and spy on the world below.
"It was an enormous tree, about 60 feet high, and the first time I saw it I trembled with excitement because I had never seen such a marvellous tree before. I approached it slowly, even cautiously, as I wasn’t sure the tree wanted my friendship. It looked as though it had many secrets. There were sounds and movement in the branches, but I couldn’t see who or what made the sounds.
"The tree made the first move, the first sign of friendship. It allowed a leaf to fall.
"The leaf brushed against my face as it floated down but before it could reach the ground I caught and held it. I studied the leaf, running my fingers over its smooth, glossy surface. Then I put out my hand and touched the rough bark of the tree and this felt good to me. So I removed my shoes and socks, as people do when they enter a holy place, and finding first a foothold and then a handhold on that broad trunk I pulled myself up with the help of the tree’s aerial roots.
"As I climbed, it seemed as though someone was helping me, that invisible hands, the hands of the spirit in the tree, touched me and helped me climb.
"But although the tree wanted me, there were others who were disturbed and alarmed by my arrival. A pair of parrots suddenly shot out of a hole in the trunk and, with shrill cries, flew across the garden, flashes of green and red and gold. A squirrel looked out from behind a branch, saw me, and went scurrying away to inform his friends and relatives.
"I climbed higher, looked up, and saw a red beak poised above my head. I shrank away, but the hornbill made no attempt to attack me. He was relaxing in his home, which was a great hole in the tree trunk. Only the bird’s head and massive beak were showing. He looked at me in a rather bored way, sleepily opening and shutting his eyes."
" ... I moved away from the hornbill, crawled along a branch and so moved quite a distance from the main body of the tree. I left its cold, dark depths for an area penetrated by shafts of sunlight.
"No one could see me. I lay flat on the broad branch hidden by a screen of leaves. People passed by on the road below. ... "
"Up The Spiral Staircase"
"We lived in an old palace beside a lake. The palace looked a ruin from the outside, but the rooms were cool and comfortable. We lived in one wing, and my father organized a small school in another wing. His pupils were the children of the raja and the raja’s relatives. My father had started life in India as a tea planter; but he had been trained as a teacher and the idea of starting a school in a small state facing the Arabian Sea had appealed to him. The pay wasn’t much, but we had a palace to live in, the latest 1938 model Hillman to drive about in, and a number of servants. In those days, of course, everyone had servants (although the servants did not have any). Ayah was our own; but the cook, the bearer, the gardener and the bhisti were all provided by the state."
"Love and Cricket"
" ... "I relaxed in the easy chair of the hotel’s garden restaurant, here I was an occasional customer. Sweet-peas filled the air with their heady perfume. Snapdragons snapped in the mid-March sunshine. A carpet of soft pink phlox was soothing to the eyes. New Delhi in the spring is kind to flower gardens."
"Twenty years ago we had held hands and walked barefoot across the grass on the little hillock overlooking the stream that tumbled down to Mossy Falls. I still have photographs taken that day. Her cousin had gone paddling downstream, looking for coloured pebbles, and I had taken advantage of his absence by kissing her, first on the cheeks, and then, quite suddenly, on the lips."
"Kipling’s Simla"
"Every March, when the rhododendrons stain the slopes crimson with their blooms, a sturdy little steam engine goes huffing and puffing through the 103 tunnels between Kalka and Simla. This is probably the most picturesque and romantic way of approaching the hill station although the journey by road is much quicker.
"The train journeys taken to Simla stand out in my memory—the little restaurant at Barog, just before we get to Dharampur, where the roads for Sanawar and Kasauli branch off; and the gorge at Tara Devi, opening out to give the weary traveller the splendid and uplifting panorama of the city of Simla straddling the side of the mountain."
"Simla is worth a visit at any time of the year, even during the monsoon. The monsoon season is one of the most beautiful times of the year in the Himalayas, with the mist trailing up the valleys, and the hill slopes, a lush green, thick with ferns and wild flowers. The call of the kastura, or whistling thrush, can be heard in every glen, while the barbet cries insistently from the treetops."
"Simla has a special place in my heart. It was there that I went to school, and it was there that my father and I spent our happiest times together."
" ... He told me stories of phantom rickshaws and enchanted forests and planted in me the seeds of my writing career. I was only ten when he died. But he had already passed on to me his love for the hills. And even after I had finished school and grown to manhood, I was to return to the hills again and again—to Simla and Mussoorie, Himachal and Garhwal—because once the mountains are in your blood, there is no escape. Simla beckons. I must return. And, like Kim, I will take the last bend near Summer Hill and look up and exclaim: ‘Ah! What a city!’"
"Sacred Shrines Along the Way
"Nandprayag: Where Rivers Meet
"As for Nandprayag, perhaps I’d been there in some previous existence, I felt I was nearing home as soon as we drove into this cheerful roadside hamlet, some little way above the Nandakini’s confluence with the Alakananda river. A prayag is a meeting place of two rivers, and as there are many rivers in the Garhwal Himalayas, all linking up to join either the Ganga or the Jamuna, it follows that there are numerous prayags, in themselves places of pilgrimage as well as wayside halts enroute to the higher Hindu shrines at Kedarnath and Badrinath. Nowhere else in the Himalayas are there so many temples, sacred streams, holy places and holy men. Some little way above Nandprayag’s busy little bazaar is the tourist rest-house, perhaps the nicest of the tourist lodges in this region. It has a well-kept garden surrounded by fruit trees and is a little distance from the general hubbub of the main road."
"Along the pilgrim path are several handsome old houses, set among mango trees and the fronds of the papaya and banana. Higher up the hill the pine forests commence, but down here it is almost subtropical. Nandprayag is only about 3,000 feet above sea level—a height at which the vegetation is usually quite lush provided there is protection from the wind."
"Now, once again, while I sit on the lawn surrounded by zinnias in full bloom, I am teased by that feeling of having been here before, on this lush hillside, among the pomegranates and oleanders. Is it some childhood memory asserting itself? But as a child I never travelled in these parts.
"True, Nandprayag has some affinity with parts of the Doon valley before it was submerged by a tidal wave of humanity. But in the Doon there is no great river running past your garden. Here there are two, and they are also part of this feeling of belonging. Perhaps in some former life I did come this way, or maybe I dreamed about living here. Who knows? Anyway, mysteries are more interesting than certainties. ... "
"The Magic of Tungnath
"The temple of Tungnath, at a little over 12,000 feet, is the highest shrine on the inner Himalayan range. It lies just below the Chandrashila peak. Some way off the main pilgrim routes, it is less frequented than Kedarnath or Badrinath, although it forms a part of the Kedar temple establishment. The priest here is a local man, a Brahmin from the village of Maku; the other Kedar temples have South Indian priests, a tradition begun by Sankaracharya, the eighth century Hindu reformer and revivalist.
"Tungnath’s lonely eminence gives it a magic of its own. To get there (or beyond), one passes through some of the most delightful temperate forest in the Garhwal Himalaya. Pilgrim, or trekker, or just plain rambler such as myself, one comes away a better person, forest-refreshed, and more aware of what the world was really like before mankind began to strip it bare.
"Duiri Tal, a small lake, lies cradled on the hill above Okhimath, at a height of 8,000 feet. It was a favourite spot of one of Garhwal’s earliest British Commissioners, J.H. Batten, whose administration continued for twenty years (1836–56).
"He wrote
" ... The next morning when the sun appeared, the Chaukhamba and many other peaks extending as far as Kedarnath seemed covered with a new quilt ....
Suddenly there's a disturbing sensation that remains after one is finished reading - it's that he says of his contemporaries naming two, that unlike them he doesn't write to please everyone. That leaves a sensation not unlike expecting to eat a nice milk pudding and having a stone crunch in your teeth.
What's much more questionable is the juxtaposition of Forsyth and Sheldon, the two he names. Its not so much that the two have little in common, it chiefly that Forsyth's work evidently needs and takes a lot more than trying to please anyone. And the other is not on the same planet, much less category.
So the pleasure that one anticipated, is spoiled due to this one sentence he could easily have deleted, or at least found other names that one could smile at and let go.
*****
Introduction
" ... In London, I once lived in a small attic, and a few similarly claustrophobic years in Delhi as well, for ‘Once You Have Lived with the Mountains’ it is not easy to live elsewhere. I longed to return to the hills and live in a place with windows facing beautiful views. ... "
"Landour Bazaar"
" ... From Mussoorie to Chamba, a distance of some 35 miles, the road seldom descends below 7,000 ft, and there is a continual vista of the snow ranges to the north, and valleys and rivers to the south. ... "
"Through a gap in the rows of buildings I can see Pari Tibba outlined in the moonlight. A greenish phosphore-scent glow appears to move here and there about the hillside. This is the ‘fairy light’ that gives the hill its name Pari Tibba, Fairy Hill. ... "
"Although the shopkeepers and tradesmen are fairly prosperous, the hill people—those who come from the surrounding Tehri and Jaunpur villages—are usually poor. Their small holdings and rocky fields do not provide them with much of a living, and men and boys have to often come into the hill station or go down to the cities in search of a livelihood. They pull rickshaws, or work in hotels and restaurants. Most of them have somewhere to stay."
"Tales of Old Mussoorie"
" ... One of the remarkable features of the Himalayas is the abruptness with which they rise from the plains, and this gives them a verdure that is totally different from that of the plains.
"None of the common trees of the plains are to be found in the hills. At elevations of 4,000 ft, the long-leaved pine appears. From 5,000 ft there are several kinds of evergreen oak, and above 6,000 ft you find rhododendron, deodar, maple, the hill crypress, and the beautiful horse-chestnut. Still higher up, the silver fir is common; but at 12,000 ft the firs become stunted and dwarfed, and the birch and juniper replace them. At this height raspberries grow wild, amongst yellow colt’s-foot dandelion, blue gentian, purple columbine, anemone and edelweiss.
"Not every hillside is covered with foliage. Many hills are bare and rugged, too precipitous for cultivation. Sometimes they are masses of quartz, limestone or granite."
"On Fairy Hill"
"Those little green lights that I used to see, twinkling away on Pari Tibba—there had to be a scientific explanation for them, I was sure. ... "
"After some time I stood up and surveyed the scene. To the north, Landour with its rusty red-roofed cottages; to the south, the wide valley and a silver stream flowing towards the Ganga. To the west, rolling hills, patches of forest, and a small village tucked into a fold of the mountain."
"I am sitting at my window in the gathering dark, penning these stray thoughts, when I see them coming—hand in hand, walking on a swirl of mist, radiant, suffused with all the colours of the rainbow. For a rainbow has formed a bridge from them, from Pari Tibba, to the edge of my window."
"And Now We Are Twelve"
"My first name was Owen, which in Welsh means ‘brave’. As I am not in the least brave, I have preferred not to use it. One given name and one surname should be enough.
"When my granny said, ‘But you should try to be brave, otherwise how will you survive in this cruel world?’ I replied: ‘Don’t worry, I can run very fast.’
"Not that I’ve ever had to do much running, except when I was pursued by a lissome Australian lady who thought I’d make a good, obedient husband. It wasn’t so much the lady I was running from, but the prospect of spending the rest of my life in some remote cattle station in the Australian outback. Anyone who has tried to drag me away from India has always met with stout resistance."
"Apart from these and a few other colourful characters, the area was inhabitated by some very respectable people, retired brigadiers, air marshals and rear admirals, almost all of whom were busy writing their memoirs. I had to read or listen to extracts from their literary efforts. This was slow torture. A few years before, I had done a stint of editing for a magazine called Imprint. It had involved going through hundreds of badly written manuscripts, and in some cases (friends of the owner!) rewriting some of them for publication. One of life’s joys had been to throw up that particular job, and now here I was, besieged by all the top brass of the Army, Navy and Air Force, each one determined that I should read, inwardly digest, improve, and if possible find a publisher for their outpourings. Thank goodness they were all retired. I could not be shot or court-martialled. But at least two of them set their wives upon me, and these intrepid ladies would turn up around noon with my ‘homework’—typescripts to read and edit! There was no escape. My own writing was of no consequence to them. I told them that I was taking sitar lessons, but they disapproved, saying I was more suited to the tabla."
"Friends of My Youth"
"Sudheer"
" ... Although I was three or four years older than Sudheer, he was much stronger, being about six foot tall and broad in the shoulders. His parents had come from Bhanu, a rough and ready district on the North-West Frontier, as a result of the partition of the country. His father ran a small press situated behind the Sabzi Mandi and brought out a weekly newspaper called The Frontier Times."
" ... I agreed to help with the newspaper for a couple of hours every morning. This involved proofreading and editing news agency reports. Uninspiring work, but useful."
"The Royal Cafe Set"
"Suresh spent whatever cash came his way, and borrowed more. He had an advantage over the rest of us—he owned an old bungalow, inherited from his father, up at Rajpur in the foothills, where he lived alone with an old manservant. And owning a property gave him some standing with his creditors. The grounds boasted of a mango and lichi orchard, and these he gave out on contract every year, so that his friends did not even get to enjoy some of his produce. The proceeds helped him to pay his office rent in town, with a little left over to give small amounts on account to the owner of the Royal Café."
" ... William Matheson had everything going for him from the start, when he came out to India as an assistant to Von Hesseltein, correspondent for some of the German papers. Von Hesseltein passed on some of the assignments to William, and for a time, all went well. William lived with Von Hesseltein and his family, and was also friendly with Suresh, often paying for the drinks at the Royal Café. Then William committed the folly (if not the sin) of having an affair with Von Hesseltein’s wife. Von Hesseltein was not the understanding sort. He threw William out of the house and stopped giving him work."
"And there was old Colonel Wilkie, living on a small pension in a corner room of the White House Hotel. His wife had left him some years before, presumably because of his drinking, but he claimed to have left her because of her obsession with moving the furniture—it seems she was always shifting things about, changing rooms, throwing out perfectly sound tables and chairs and replacing them with fancy stuff picked up here and there. If he took a liking to a particular easy chair and showed signs of setting down in it, it would disappear the next day to be replaced by something horribly ugly and uncomfortable."
"‘BIBIJI’"
"She was, in fact, my Punjabi stepfather’s first wife. ... "
"I had just started freelancing from Dehra and was not keen on joining my mother and stepfather in Delhi. When ‘Bibiji’—as I called her—offered me a portion of her flat on very reasonable terms, I accepted without hesitation and was to spend the next two years above her little shop on Rajpur Road. Almost fifty years later, the flat in still there, but it is now an ice cream parlour! Poetic justice, perhaps."
"Bibiji and Mrs Singh both made plans to get me married. When I protested, saying I was only twenty-three, they said I was old enough. Bibiji had an eye on an Anglo-Indian schoolteacher who sometimes came to the shop, but Mrs Singh turned her down, saying she had very spindly legs. Instead, she suggested the daughter of the local padre, a glamourous-looking, dusky beauty, but Bibiji vetoed the proposal, saying the young lady used too much make-up and already displayed too much fat around the waistline. Both agreed that I should marry a plain-looking girl who could cook, use a sewing machine, and speak a little English.
"‘And be strong in the legs,’ I added, much to Mrs Singh’s approval."
"A Good Place for Trees"
"As my father had told me, Dehra was a good place for trees, and Grandmother’s house was surrounded by several kinds—peepul, neem, mango, jackfruit, papaya and an ancient banyan tree. Some of the trees had been planted by my father and grandfather."
"The banyan tree grew behind the house. Its spreading aerial roots which descended into the ground formed a number of twisting passageways in which I liked to wander. The tree was older than the house, older than my grandparents, as old as Dehra. I could hide myself among the roots, behind thick green leaves, and spy on the world below.
"It was an enormous tree, about 60 feet high, and the first time I saw it I trembled with excitement because I had never seen such a marvellous tree before. I approached it slowly, even cautiously, as I wasn’t sure the tree wanted my friendship. It looked as though it had many secrets. There were sounds and movement in the branches, but I couldn’t see who or what made the sounds.
"The tree made the first move, the first sign of friendship. It allowed a leaf to fall.
"The leaf brushed against my face as it floated down but before it could reach the ground I caught and held it. I studied the leaf, running my fingers over its smooth, glossy surface. Then I put out my hand and touched the rough bark of the tree and this felt good to me. So I removed my shoes and socks, as people do when they enter a holy place, and finding first a foothold and then a handhold on that broad trunk I pulled myself up with the help of the tree’s aerial roots.
"As I climbed, it seemed as though someone was helping me, that invisible hands, the hands of the spirit in the tree, touched me and helped me climb.
"But although the tree wanted me, there were others who were disturbed and alarmed by my arrival. A pair of parrots suddenly shot out of a hole in the trunk and, with shrill cries, flew across the garden, flashes of green and red and gold. A squirrel looked out from behind a branch, saw me, and went scurrying away to inform his friends and relatives.
"I climbed higher, looked up, and saw a red beak poised above my head. I shrank away, but the hornbill made no attempt to attack me. He was relaxing in his home, which was a great hole in the tree trunk. Only the bird’s head and massive beak were showing. He looked at me in a rather bored way, sleepily opening and shutting his eyes."
" ... I moved away from the hornbill, crawled along a branch and so moved quite a distance from the main body of the tree. I left its cold, dark depths for an area penetrated by shafts of sunlight.
"No one could see me. I lay flat on the broad branch hidden by a screen of leaves. People passed by on the road below. ... "
"Up The Spiral Staircase"
"We lived in an old palace beside a lake. The palace looked a ruin from the outside, but the rooms were cool and comfortable. We lived in one wing, and my father organized a small school in another wing. His pupils were the children of the raja and the raja’s relatives. My father had started life in India as a tea planter; but he had been trained as a teacher and the idea of starting a school in a small state facing the Arabian Sea had appealed to him. The pay wasn’t much, but we had a palace to live in, the latest 1938 model Hillman to drive about in, and a number of servants. In those days, of course, everyone had servants (although the servants did not have any). Ayah was our own; but the cook, the bearer, the gardener and the bhisti were all provided by the state."
"Love and Cricket"
" ... "I relaxed in the easy chair of the hotel’s garden restaurant, here I was an occasional customer. Sweet-peas filled the air with their heady perfume. Snapdragons snapped in the mid-March sunshine. A carpet of soft pink phlox was soothing to the eyes. New Delhi in the spring is kind to flower gardens."
"Twenty years ago we had held hands and walked barefoot across the grass on the little hillock overlooking the stream that tumbled down to Mossy Falls. I still have photographs taken that day. Her cousin had gone paddling downstream, looking for coloured pebbles, and I had taken advantage of his absence by kissing her, first on the cheeks, and then, quite suddenly, on the lips."
"Kipling’s Simla"
"Every March, when the rhododendrons stain the slopes crimson with their blooms, a sturdy little steam engine goes huffing and puffing through the 103 tunnels between Kalka and Simla. This is probably the most picturesque and romantic way of approaching the hill station although the journey by road is much quicker.
"The train journeys taken to Simla stand out in my memory—the little restaurant at Barog, just before we get to Dharampur, where the roads for Sanawar and Kasauli branch off; and the gorge at Tara Devi, opening out to give the weary traveller the splendid and uplifting panorama of the city of Simla straddling the side of the mountain."
"Simla is worth a visit at any time of the year, even during the monsoon. The monsoon season is one of the most beautiful times of the year in the Himalayas, with the mist trailing up the valleys, and the hill slopes, a lush green, thick with ferns and wild flowers. The call of the kastura, or whistling thrush, can be heard in every glen, while the barbet cries insistently from the treetops."
"Simla has a special place in my heart. It was there that I went to school, and it was there that my father and I spent our happiest times together."
" ... He told me stories of phantom rickshaws and enchanted forests and planted in me the seeds of my writing career. I was only ten when he died. But he had already passed on to me his love for the hills. And even after I had finished school and grown to manhood, I was to return to the hills again and again—to Simla and Mussoorie, Himachal and Garhwal—because once the mountains are in your blood, there is no escape. Simla beckons. I must return. And, like Kim, I will take the last bend near Summer Hill and look up and exclaim: ‘Ah! What a city!’"
"Sacred Shrines Along the Way
"Nandprayag: Where Rivers Meet
"As for Nandprayag, perhaps I’d been there in some previous existence, I felt I was nearing home as soon as we drove into this cheerful roadside hamlet, some little way above the Nandakini’s confluence with the Alakananda river. A prayag is a meeting place of two rivers, and as there are many rivers in the Garhwal Himalayas, all linking up to join either the Ganga or the Jamuna, it follows that there are numerous prayags, in themselves places of pilgrimage as well as wayside halts enroute to the higher Hindu shrines at Kedarnath and Badrinath. Nowhere else in the Himalayas are there so many temples, sacred streams, holy places and holy men. Some little way above Nandprayag’s busy little bazaar is the tourist rest-house, perhaps the nicest of the tourist lodges in this region. It has a well-kept garden surrounded by fruit trees and is a little distance from the general hubbub of the main road."
"Along the pilgrim path are several handsome old houses, set among mango trees and the fronds of the papaya and banana. Higher up the hill the pine forests commence, but down here it is almost subtropical. Nandprayag is only about 3,000 feet above sea level—a height at which the vegetation is usually quite lush provided there is protection from the wind."
"Now, once again, while I sit on the lawn surrounded by zinnias in full bloom, I am teased by that feeling of having been here before, on this lush hillside, among the pomegranates and oleanders. Is it some childhood memory asserting itself? But as a child I never travelled in these parts.
"True, Nandprayag has some affinity with parts of the Doon valley before it was submerged by a tidal wave of humanity. But in the Doon there is no great river running past your garden. Here there are two, and they are also part of this feeling of belonging. Perhaps in some former life I did come this way, or maybe I dreamed about living here. Who knows? Anyway, mysteries are more interesting than certainties. ... "
"The Magic of Tungnath
"The temple of Tungnath, at a little over 12,000 feet, is the highest shrine on the inner Himalayan range. It lies just below the Chandrashila peak. Some way off the main pilgrim routes, it is less frequented than Kedarnath or Badrinath, although it forms a part of the Kedar temple establishment. The priest here is a local man, a Brahmin from the village of Maku; the other Kedar temples have South Indian priests, a tradition begun by Sankaracharya, the eighth century Hindu reformer and revivalist.
"Tungnath’s lonely eminence gives it a magic of its own. To get there (or beyond), one passes through some of the most delightful temperate forest in the Garhwal Himalaya. Pilgrim, or trekker, or just plain rambler such as myself, one comes away a better person, forest-refreshed, and more aware of what the world was really like before mankind began to strip it bare.
"Duiri Tal, a small lake, lies cradled on the hill above Okhimath, at a height of 8,000 feet. It was a favourite spot of one of Garhwal’s earliest British Commissioners, J.H. Batten, whose administration continued for twenty years (1836–56).
"He wrote
" ... The next morning when the sun appeared, the Chaukhamba and many other peaks extending as far as Kedarnath seemed covered with a new quilt ....
January 18, 2018
I have heard of Ruskin more than what I have read. May be because his works have been reaching us since childhood as part of standard texts.
However, in this book, I somehow felt that Rusty was summing it up. His life. How he felt in general as he moved from phase 1 to phase 2 and so on. He is candid in telling us why he think that way as well. He has left some questions unanswered, but he has clearly indicated that those will remain that way forever. To sum it up, this book helped me to experience an era I did not live in (most of it) and also it helped me know a life better.
However, in this book, I somehow felt that Rusty was summing it up. His life. How he felt in general as he moved from phase 1 to phase 2 and so on. He is candid in telling us why he think that way as well. He has left some questions unanswered, but he has clearly indicated that those will remain that way forever. To sum it up, this book helped me to experience an era I did not live in (most of it) and also it helped me know a life better.
June 7, 2023
An entertaining walk down memory lane
Ruskin Bond is known for his simplistic style of narration, and this book is no different. Of course, what I especially liked about this book is the fact that it derives its stories and spirit from the valleys and rolling hills of Dehradun and Mussoorie. Both places close to my heart.
That said, this book is suitable reading material for just about anyone. A child of fifteen, or maybe a young adult. Possibly even, retired senior citizens looking to read more than just the drab in the daily newspapers, but rather stories of days long gone, tales of places in the romantic hills of Dehradun and Mussoorie and of secret love affairs, set in misty mountains and gurgling streams.
This book would be good for new and aspiring authors as well. Simply because Ruskin Bond does a fantastic job of conjuring up the imagination of the reader, so much so that if you read this book in all earnest, you might just get a whiff of fresh mountain air, almost out of nowhere.
The book is a set of short stories from Bonds own childhood, youth, and adulthood. Stories that made him what he is and how he observes the world around him. It's a chronicle of his love affair with the mountains and the lovely mountain people that is sure to captivate even the most die-hard critic.
Ruskin Bond is known for his simplistic style of narration, and this book is no different. Of course, what I especially liked about this book is the fact that it derives its stories and spirit from the valleys and rolling hills of Dehradun and Mussoorie. Both places close to my heart.
That said, this book is suitable reading material for just about anyone. A child of fifteen, or maybe a young adult. Possibly even, retired senior citizens looking to read more than just the drab in the daily newspapers, but rather stories of days long gone, tales of places in the romantic hills of Dehradun and Mussoorie and of secret love affairs, set in misty mountains and gurgling streams.
This book would be good for new and aspiring authors as well. Simply because Ruskin Bond does a fantastic job of conjuring up the imagination of the reader, so much so that if you read this book in all earnest, you might just get a whiff of fresh mountain air, almost out of nowhere.
The book is a set of short stories from Bonds own childhood, youth, and adulthood. Stories that made him what he is and how he observes the world around him. It's a chronicle of his love affair with the mountains and the lovely mountain people that is sure to captivate even the most die-hard critic.
May 8, 2021
Reading the tales and sagas in Ruskin Bond books is like taking a walk through a dream world. The words are visual and even the silence is heard through them. This feeling of wandering in a dream world enhanced while reading 'Once You Have Lived With Mountains'. A collection of some of his fictional (obviously autobiographical) and non-fictional narratives, the book takes you to the hills. The book is a reminiscence about life in the hills. Mr Bond's longing for hills, when he was away, is visible through every word written in the book. Most of the essays are about the long-gone days of Mussoorie, Landour and Dehra, and his life at various times in these places. There's music in the book that I was able to hear in the form of words. All the places are so beautifully described that it takes you on a virtual tour in the remote places of the mountains. There are some unusual friendships, some scenic treks to the old Garhwal Himalayas, meeting with long-lost lovers and check-in the reality with a grateful note about a loving family. The book is surely a gem of my little Ruskin Bond library.
#RuskinTheRadiantBond #RuskinBond #onceyouhavelivedwithmountains #thewritingnerd
#RuskinTheRadiantBond #RuskinBond #onceyouhavelivedwithmountains #thewritingnerd
September 5, 2022
Last month I visited the mountains. Mountains, I call them home, because the comfort and love I get in the mountains, I can never find them in big cities. Those days were the most peaceful days of my life but then again I came back to my city and again saw everyone running for money , no one cares here . The thought of living in my mountains strikes me and I know it's not easy to live in the mountains but it's worth . At least for someone like me who craves for peace , loves the bird's singing and can die to see the beautiful sky of mountains. Yes once you have lived with mountains you will crave for them. This book here talks about the beauty and love of mountains. I don't know how many of you love mountains but if you do it's worth a read for you.
January 5, 2024
I still remember that cozy summer evening when I read this book with just one go !! As a nature lover by myself I totally could relate with this book !! It was like I was a part of the story .. I think that is the most beautiful part of Ruskin Bond Sir's book !!
I think you should give it a try to feel yourself touched with nature once again !! One go will enough to complete this book and you know what ?? You will be happy and find a smile on you face after completed this book...that after that, just like me... You will keep reading Ruskin Bond again again 🤍
I think you should give it a try to feel yourself touched with nature once again !! One go will enough to complete this book and you know what ?? You will be happy and find a smile on you face after completed this book...that after that, just like me... You will keep reading Ruskin Bond again again 🤍
May 28, 2022
This is a good book for admirers of Ruskin Bond, who would take interst in his life experiences and share love for Himalayan towns. It is a window to a nostalgic era that ended with wide scale industrialization and commercialization. It's analogous to a nice sweet talk with an acquaintance, but only if you are in a mood for it. I found it devoid of strong imagery and emotion, partly due to writing style, topics and also due to different expectations.
October 28, 2019
A pleasant read. There are so many things in this book that I totally relate to , but the one which stands out is this - 'once you live with a mountain, no matter how short/ long, you belong there !' I lived each page of this book as I read it - I was there in Dehra , Tungnath, Missouri, night walks in moon-lit nights - everything. Such a happy, soul-filling book :)
December 24, 2021
Well If there was an option for negative rating then my rating would be that only.This book is worst book I have ever read there is no story at all the author is just talking about what is happening around him. When I bought it I thought that Ruskin bond's book are good so let's try this one but this book is worst.
January 3, 2020
Vivid imagery without action
I guess, this is Bond's style. He writes from his simple life experience and observation. Evemts are simple and not dramatic. But it feels real. Easy to relate.
I guess, this is Bond's style. He writes from his simple life experience and observation. Evemts are simple and not dramatic. But it feels real. Easy to relate.
June 12, 2022
Picked the book to live in the story of hills, find respite from the heat and get some rest. It's more than a bunch of stories. It's a collection of anecdotes from Ruskin's life on the mountains. And I'm left craving for the mountains now.
September 9, 2021
Check out detailed book review of this book on my blog... Link below
https://mycandidpost.blogspot.com/202...
https://mycandidpost.blogspot.com/202...
July 4, 2022
Nice and pleasant read. The book takes us through many lives and explain the beauty of mountain and places which motivates people to visit the places
November 18, 2022
As always, enchanted by Mr. Bond's narrative. This book is a collection of short stories. The nostalgia of Mr. Bond's experience of living on the hills.
March 29, 2024
once you have lived with the mountains for any amount of time, they become a part of u.
This book gave me Dehradun nostalgia, and memories of simpler times
This book gave me Dehradun nostalgia, and memories of simpler times
July 14, 2025
Started it off really well. But it kinda turned long and boring towards the end. The flow in depiction of nature and authors experiences are so good and took me to those places.
November 13, 2025
Taught me to do great.
June 9, 2022
The book describes the beauty and serenity of mountains and hills. It talks about dehra and mussoorie. About how the author enjoyed the rains , forests, hills, mountains. It is a compilation of short stories around mountains.
January 28, 2025
3.5 stars ⭐
August 1, 2022
The Himalayan Mountains and their influence on Ruskin Bond's young mind are mentioned in the book. The sights, sounds, tastes, and scents of the cities where he lived.
His descriptions of his life in the mountains provide us a peek into the characters of many people who entered his life when he was a young boy. Readers will find it to be much more unique because of Bond's writing style.
His descriptions of his life in the mountains provide us a peek into the characters of many people who entered his life when he was a young boy. Readers will find it to be much more unique because of Bond's writing style.
April 15, 2025
I have read quite a few of Ruskin Bond’s fiction as well as nonfiction books, and somehow I find Once You Have Lived With Mountains a seemingly good nonfiction. The book has many stories of the author’s life in the mountains, his childhood memories. I particularly loved the story On Fairy Hill; it has a fantasy element to it. The stories are not preachy, but I found one particularly repeating from another Ruskin Bond book, the story about his adopted family. A full-fledged story repeated from one book to another. Felt a bit cheated by the publishers. Apart from that, Once You Have Lived With Mountains makes a good one time read.
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