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Petals on the Ganga
This collection by Ruskin Bond has stories that are mostly autobiographical, based on the theme of nature. In these heart-warming stories, Bond talks of the various elements of nature as if they are members of his family. He also endows the flora and fauna that he encounters with distinct personalities, and himself recedes into the background as a silent observer. From the mountains to the trees, from the birds that fly to his cottage, bringing a whiff of the faraway forests they come from, to the winding paths that lead to charming gardens, Petals on the Ganga will take you to nooks and corners, opening up scenes of myriad beauty.
- GenresShort StoriesNonfiction
112 pages, Paperback
Published March 20, 2019
69 people are currently reading
89 people want to read
About the author
Ruskin Bond
680 books3,557 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 - 21 of 21 reviews
April 9, 2020
" It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape."
Similarly once you are accustomed to ruskin there is indeed no escape. And frankly speaking I dont want that escape too. Give me a ruskin bond book and I can travel the world with him. His greatest asset is his simplicity with which he writes. When he talks about harold the hornbill I feel I am indeed there in front of a hornbill nest.
This book contains short stories around the nature theme. And not one of them disappoints.
Similarly once you are accustomed to ruskin there is indeed no escape. And frankly speaking I dont want that escape too. Give me a ruskin bond book and I can travel the world with him. His greatest asset is his simplicity with which he writes. When he talks about harold the hornbill I feel I am indeed there in front of a hornbill nest.
This book contains short stories around the nature theme. And not one of them disappoints.
October 15, 2021
"Be like water, taught Lao-tzu, philosopher and founder of Taoism. Soft and limpid, it finds its way through, over or under any obstacle. It does not quarrel; it simply moves on."
Ruskin Bond's beautiful short stories of life in the Garhwal Himalayas.
Ruskin Bond's beautiful short stories of life in the Garhwal Himalayas.
January 1, 2025
Interesting and short stories for calmer mind. One story at a time. You feel walking on the streets with the author observing and acknowledging the little details and beauty of nature.
October 7, 2020
Nice breezy read .. one is literally drifted to the mountains and there is a craving to explore this heaven while reading about rivers, rivulets, salubrious air and climate , mountains, flowers ,animals and so much more ..Ruskin rightly said " if you have lived with the mountains for any length of time , you belong to them . There is no escape ."
May 6, 2021
To make the land serve man, man must be content to serve the land.
The book, The Petals on the Ganga are a compilation of 23 stories written by Ruskin Bond, sweet and sour, like a lime juice served in hot evening. All these tales are included in other nature stories and many of his other hill’s compilation too but as I say every time you read his nature stories you will feel a different sensation. Every time you will come across a different flowery smell or some other taste or some other creature sounds that will fascinate you.
The stories start through the smell of pine needles, forests oak and rhododendron, the silver of oak leaves and the red of maple, the call of the Himalayan cuckoo, and the mist, like a wet face cloth and ends with drowning in the vast sun lushed mountains.
He describes the Ganga river illuminated by diyas on banks of Haridwar; Haridwar bazaars flooded with spiritual texts, ritual designs, festival images and sacred peepul trees with ghosts residing on them. Flowers floating down the river: yellow and scarlet canna lilies, roses, jasmine and hibiscus.
We all love our grandmother's curries and kebabs, fudges, jellies, apple pies. Savour yourself into a tasty tale of spicy pickles in the Gran's kitchen with uncle Ken all the Christmas turkey.
He has narrated how the various night insects come across him while he is writing, essays describing the hillsides covered with sprays of wild ginger, tangles of clematis, daturas, aroids, commelinas with their pristine blue colour.
One of the main themes of the stories included in this book are of water. Each drop represent creation and of life itself. How water gives life, quenches the thirst of scorched heated parched land, how flowers bloom, insects dance and the hills brighten up in rains.
Be like water. It simply moves on. No matter how tiny that little trickle is, it has to go somewhere. The narrator with the help of water has described how the habitat is affected by water. How water brings joy to earth, small children's dancing in the rain, buffaloes washing themselves in muddy water, tiny fishes lurking in the shallows
The sounds that he has observed, sounds of nature I like to hear is beyond my imagination. It will thrill you and make you fall in love more with the monsoons.
Like a crow shaking the raindrops from his feathers, bulbuls bustling in and out of bushes, whistling thrush, all these charm of small hill towns will leave you irresistible.
He remorse’s in his tales how the forests and hillsides are disappearing due to new industries on hills, and how he could not see the scarlet minivets, long tailed Magpies, barbets from windows, remembering and comparing California poppies bathed in the sun after the rain to Wordsworth daffodils.
After reading this book I am sure you will bathe in cool scarlet petals of roses, geraniums and feel their cool supple skin. Next time, Try to live in a small city and plant a jackfruit tree. Listen to sounds of a rain on a tin roof, sit under a shady tree for they symbolise the harmony between man and nature.
His Stories will always stand witness to the comings and goings of all manner of people with the sounds of Himalayas rushing back to you.
The book, The Petals on the Ganga are a compilation of 23 stories written by Ruskin Bond, sweet and sour, like a lime juice served in hot evening. All these tales are included in other nature stories and many of his other hill’s compilation too but as I say every time you read his nature stories you will feel a different sensation. Every time you will come across a different flowery smell or some other taste or some other creature sounds that will fascinate you.
The stories start through the smell of pine needles, forests oak and rhododendron, the silver of oak leaves and the red of maple, the call of the Himalayan cuckoo, and the mist, like a wet face cloth and ends with drowning in the vast sun lushed mountains.
He describes the Ganga river illuminated by diyas on banks of Haridwar; Haridwar bazaars flooded with spiritual texts, ritual designs, festival images and sacred peepul trees with ghosts residing on them. Flowers floating down the river: yellow and scarlet canna lilies, roses, jasmine and hibiscus.
We all love our grandmother's curries and kebabs, fudges, jellies, apple pies. Savour yourself into a tasty tale of spicy pickles in the Gran's kitchen with uncle Ken all the Christmas turkey.
He has narrated how the various night insects come across him while he is writing, essays describing the hillsides covered with sprays of wild ginger, tangles of clematis, daturas, aroids, commelinas with their pristine blue colour.
One of the main themes of the stories included in this book are of water. Each drop represent creation and of life itself. How water gives life, quenches the thirst of scorched heated parched land, how flowers bloom, insects dance and the hills brighten up in rains.
Be like water. It simply moves on. No matter how tiny that little trickle is, it has to go somewhere. The narrator with the help of water has described how the habitat is affected by water. How water brings joy to earth, small children's dancing in the rain, buffaloes washing themselves in muddy water, tiny fishes lurking in the shallows
The sounds that he has observed, sounds of nature I like to hear is beyond my imagination. It will thrill you and make you fall in love more with the monsoons.
Like a crow shaking the raindrops from his feathers, bulbuls bustling in and out of bushes, whistling thrush, all these charm of small hill towns will leave you irresistible.
He remorse’s in his tales how the forests and hillsides are disappearing due to new industries on hills, and how he could not see the scarlet minivets, long tailed Magpies, barbets from windows, remembering and comparing California poppies bathed in the sun after the rain to Wordsworth daffodils.
After reading this book I am sure you will bathe in cool scarlet petals of roses, geraniums and feel their cool supple skin. Next time, Try to live in a small city and plant a jackfruit tree. Listen to sounds of a rain on a tin roof, sit under a shady tree for they symbolise the harmony between man and nature.
His Stories will always stand witness to the comings and goings of all manner of people with the sounds of Himalayas rushing back to you.
Read
January 18, 2022Rumination on his beautiful surroundings by the author who grew up looking at Himaalayan ranges and chose to return to live surrounded by their beauty.
Last six pieces are a repeat.
"Introduction
"There’s a stream near my cottage. Cold mountain water flows down it all year round. Many a times I have sat on the rocks near it and written the odd poem, while basking in the sun.
"I never cease to wonder at the tenacity of water—its ability to make its way through various strata of rock, zigzagging, backtracking, finding space, cunningly discovering faults and fissures in the mountain, and sometimes travelling underground for great distances before emerging into the open. Of course, there’s no stopping water. For no matter how tiny that little trickle, it has to go somewhere!"
"It was while I was living in England in the jostle and drizzle of London, that I remembered the Himalayas at their most vivid. I had grown up amongst those great blue and brown mountains, they had nourished my blood, and though I was separated from them by thousands of miles of ocean, plain and desert, I could not forget them. It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape. ... "
"Mountains in my Blood
"It was while I was living in England in the jostle and drizzle of London, that I remembered the Himalayas at their most vivid. I had grown up amongst those great blue and brown mountains, they had nourished my blood, and though I was separated from them by thousands of miles of ocean, plain and desert, I could not forget them. It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them.
"And so, in London in March, the fog became a mountain mist, and the boom of traffic became the boom of the Ganges emerging from the foothills.
"I remembered a little mountain path which led my restless feet into a cool, sweet forest of oak and rhododendron, and then on to the windswept crest of a naked hilltop. The hill was called Clouds End. It commanded a view of the plains on one side, and of the snow peaks on the other. Little silver rivers twisted across the valley below, where the rice-fields formed a patchwork of emerald green. And on the hill itself, the wind made a hoo-hoo-hoo in the branches of the tall deodars where it found itself trapped. During the rains, cloud enveloped the valley but left the hill alone, an island in the sky."
" ... villagers used the path, grazing their sheep and cattle on the grassy slopes. Each cow or sheep had a bell suspended from its neck, to let the shepherd boy know of its whereabouts. The boy could then lie in the sun and eat wild strawberries without fear of losing his animals."
" ... smell of pine needles, the silver of oak leaves and the red of maple, the call of the Himalayan cuckoo, and the mist, ... Standing in the aisle of a crowded tube train on a Monday morning, my nose tucked into the back page of someone else’s newspaper, I suddenly had a vision of a bear making off with a ripe pumpkin.
"A bear and a pumpkin—and there, between Goodge Street and Tottenham Court Road stations, all the smells and sounds of the Himalayas came rushing back to me."
"The Last Walnut"
"It was nice to have a walnut tree just outside the window. It was a tree for all seasons. In winter, the branches were bare; but they were smooth, straight and round like the arms of an apsara. In spring, each branch produced a hard bright spear of new leaf. By midsummer the entire tree was in leaf, and towards the end of the monsoon the walnuts, encased in their green jackets, had reached their full maturity."
"Recently when I met the old woman on the road, I asked her, ‘Where do you get your walnuts now, Grandmother?’
"‘Nowhere,’ she answered stoically. ‘That was the last walnut tree on the hillside.’"
"The Vanishing Trees
"The peace and quiet of the Maplewood hillside disappeared forever one winter. The powers that be decided to build another new road into the mountains and the PWD saw fit to take it right past the cottage, about six feet from the window which overlooked the forest."
"Tenacity of Mountain Water
" ... the other day, taking a narrow path that left the dry Mussoorie ridge to link up with Pari Tibba (Fairy Hill), I ran across a patch of lush green grass, and I knew there had to be water there.
"The grass was soft and springy, spotted with the crimson of small, wild strawberries. Delicate maidenhair, my favorite fern, grew from a cluster of moist, glistening rocks. Moving the ferns a little, I discovered the spring, a freshet of clear sparkling water."
"Climbing up the sides of the ravine to the spur of Pari Tibba, I could see the distant silver of a meandering river, and I knew my little stream was destined to become part of it; and that the river would be joined by another that could be seen slipping over the far horizon, and that their combined waters would enter the great Ganga, or Ganges, further downstream."
"And the ocean, what was it but another droplet in the universe in the greater scheme of things? No greater than the glistening drop of water that helped start it all, where the grass grows greener around my little spring on the mountain."
"The Trees are My Brothers
"When I was a boy, we had an old jackfruit tree growing beside the side verandah. I spent a lot of time in the trees surrounding my grandmother’s bungalow, and this one was easy to climb. The others included several guava and lichi trees, lemons and grapefruits, and of course a couple of mango trees—but these last were difficult to climb."
" ... it is this love of the land and willingness to serve it that is at the heart of true patriotism. The patriotic songs and speeches that we hear from time to time are fine for stirring up the emotions, but it is really the connect between ourselves and the ‘do bigha zameen’ on which we grow our fruit and grain that emboldens us to protect it."
"Petals on the Ganga
" ... I see no one who is not delighted at entering the water. It is a big crowd, although this is just an ordinary day of the week and not an occasion of any religious significance. But for the Hindu every day is a good day for bathing in the Ganga. ... "
It's unclear if this chapter was written to prove his loyalty to creeds other than India, but he partakes in in vituperations that anti-Indians rain on India and Hinduism regularly.
"Wild Flowers Near A Mountain Stream
"Below my house is a forest of oak and maple and Himalayan rhododendron. A path twists its way down through the trees, over an open ridge where red sorrel grows wild, and then steeply down through a tangle of thorn bushes, vines and rangal bamboo. At the bottom of the hill the path leads on to a grassy verge, surrounded by wild rose. A stream runs close by the verge, tumbling over smooth pebbles, over rocks worn yellow with age, on its way to the plains and the little Song River and finally to the sacred Ganges.
"When I first discovered the stream it was April and the wild roses were flowering, small white blossoms lying in clusters. There were primroses on the hill slopes, and an occasional late-flowering rhododendron provided a splash of red against the dark green of the hill."
"Downstream I found a cave with water dripping from the roof, the water spangled gold and silver in the shafts of sunlight that pushed through the slits in the cave roof. Few people came there. Sometimes a milkman or a coal-burner would cross the stream on his way to a village; but the nearby hill station’s summer visitors had not discovered this haven of wild and green things. ... "
"Gran's Kitchen
" ... Gran had a large, rambling bungalow on the outskirts of town. On the grounds were many fruit trees—mangoes, lichees, guavas, bananas, papayas and lemons—there was room for all of them, including a giant jackfruit tree that threw its shadow on the walls of the house."
"Gran was famous all over Dehra for her pickles. Green mangoes, pickled in oil, were always popular. So was her hot lime pickle. And she was adept at pickling turnips, carrots, cauliflowers, and chillies. She could pickle almost any fruit or vegetable—everything from nasturtium seeds to jackfruit."
"The Joy of Water
"Each drop represents a little bit of creation—and of life itself. When the monsoon brings to northern India the first rains of summer, the parched earth opens its pores and quenches its thirst with a hiss of ecstasy. After baking in the sun for the last few months, the land looks cracked, dusty and tired. Now, almost overnight, new grass springs up, there is renewal everywhere, and the damp earth releases a fragrance sweeter than any devised by man."
"Sounds I Like to Hear
"Gentle rain on a tin roof is one of my favourite sounds. And early in the morning, when the rain has stopped, there are other sounds I like to hear— ... babblers and bulbuls bustling in and out of bushes and long grass in search of worms and insects; the sweet, ascending trill of the Himalayan whistling-thrush; ... "
"A cherry tree, bowed down by the heavy rain, suddenly rights itself, flinging pellets of water in my face."
"Some of the best sounds are made by water. The water of a mountain stream, always in a hurry, bubbling over rocks and chattering, ... tumbling over itself in its anxiety to reach the bottom of the hill, the sound of the sea, especially when it is far away—or when you hear it by putting a sea shell to your ear. The sound made by dry and thirsty earth, as it sucks at a sprinkling of water."
"Bells in the hills. A schoolbell ringing, and children’s voices drifting through an open window. A temple-bell, heard faintly from across the valley. Heavy silver ankle-bells on the feet of sturdy hill women. Sheep bells heard high up on the mountainside.
"Do falling petals make a sound? Just the tiniest and softest of sounds, like the drift of falling snow. Of course big flowers, like dahlias, drop their petals with a very definite flop. These are showoffs, like the hawk-moth who comes flapping into the rooms at night instead of emulating the butterfly dipping lazily on the afternoon breeze."
"I have sat out in the open at night, after a shower of rain when the whole air is murmuring and tinkling with the voices of crickets and grasshoppers and little frogs. There is one melodious sound, a sweet repeated trill, which I have never been able to trace to its source. ... "
"Guests Who Fly in from the Forest
"Sometimes, during the day, a bird visits me—a deep purple whistling-thrush, hopping about on long dainty legs, peering to right and left, too nervous to sing. She perches on the windowsill, looking out at the rain. She does not permit any familiarity. But if I sit quietly in my chair, she will sit quietly on her windowsill, glancing quickly at me now and then just to make sure that I’m keeping my distance. When the rain stops, she glides away, and it is only then, confident in her freedom, that she bursts into full-throated song, her broken but haunting melody echoing down the ravine."
"In Search of a Winter Garden
"Roses are warm and fragrant, and almost every flower I know, wild or cultivated, has its own unique quality, whether it be subtle fragrance or arresting colour or loveliness of design. ... "
" ... Down in the plains, winter is the best time for gardens, and I remembered my grandmother’s house in Dehra, with its long rows of hollyhocks, neatly staked sweet peas, and beds ablaze with red salvia and antirrhinum. Neither Grandmother nor the house are there anymore, but surely there are other beautiful gardens, I mused, and maybe I could visit ... "
"Gentle Shade By The Day
"Those who have spent time in non-air-conditioned parts of India will remember with gratitude those gracious trees that provide shade and shelter during the summer months—the banyan, peepul, mango, neem and others. ... "
" ... Few trees provide a cooler shade than it does. Even on the stillest of days, the peepul leaves are forever twirling and with thousands of leaves spinning like tops, there is quite a breeze for anyone sitting below."
"A mango grove is a wonderful place for an afternoon ... the shade under a mango grove is dark, deep and very soothing."
" ... There is always shade and space beneath a venerable old banyan. It is still a popular community centre in our Indian villages but is becoming a rarity in cities simply because it covers so large an area. And if you cut its aerial roots the tree topples over. Other handsome trees related to the banyan are the pilkhan and the chilkhan, large spreading evergreens, both quite noticeable on some of New Delhi’s wider avenues."
"The neem is a tall tree, but its numerous branches give it a shady head. One of my greatest pleasures is to walk beneath an avenue of neem trees after a shower of rain. ... "
" ... shade-giving trees symbolize the harmony between man and nature and that our ancestors in their devotion to trees and reverence for them, clearly showed that they knew what was good for them."
"White Clouds, Green Mountains
"Towards the end of September, those few monsoon clouds that still linger over the Himalayas are no longer burdened with rain and are able to assume unusual shapes and patterns, chasing each other across the sky and disappearing in spectacular sunset formations.
"I have always found this to be the best time of the year in the hills. The sun-drenched hillsides are still an emerald green; the air is crisp, but winter’s bite is still a month or two away; and for those who still like to take to the open road on foot, there are springs, streams and waterfalls tumbling over rocks that remain dry for most of the year."
" ... Bears have been known to get drunk on the juice of rhododendron flowers, while bumble bees can be out-and-out dipsomaniacs."
"The Kipling Road
"Remember the old road,
"The steep stony path
....
" ... then there were trees near Jharipani
"And we stopped at the Halfway House
"And swallowed Iungfuls of diamond-cut air."
....
"I made it to the top and stopped to rest
"And looked down to the valley and the silver stream
"Winding its way towards the plains.
"And the land stretched out before me, and the years fell away,
"And I was a boy again,
"And the friends of my youth were there beside me,
"And nothing had changed."
"Mussoorie does not really figure in Rudyard Kipling’s prose or poetry. The Simla Hills were his beat. As a journalist he was a regular visitor to Simla, then the summer seat of the British Raj."
"Honeysuckle climbed the wall outside my window, filling my bedroom with its heady scent. And wisteria grew over the main gate. There was perfume in the air."
"Anyway, we positioned ourselves on this ledge, and Gerry started producing panther noises with his box. His Master’s Voice would have been proud of it. Nothing happened for about twenty minutes, and I was beginning to lose patience when we were answered by the cough and grunt of what could only have been a panther. But we couldn’t see it! Gerry produced a pair of binoculars and trained them on some distant object below, which turned out to be a goat. The growling continued, and then it was just above us! The panther had made a detour and was now standing on a rock and staring down, no doubt wondering which of us was making such attractive mating calls."
"Harold The Hornbill
"He perfected this trick of catching things, and in time I taught him to catch a tennis ball thrown with some force from a distance of fifteen yards. He would have made a great baseball catcher or an excellent slip fielder. On one occasion he seized a rupee coin from me (a week’s pocket money in those days) and swallowed it neatly.
"Although Harold never seemed to drink any water, he loved the rain. We always knew when it was going to rain because Harold would start chuckling to himself about an hour before the first raindrops fell.
"This used to irritate Aunt Ruby. She was always being caught in the rain. Harold would be chuckling when she left the house. And when she returned, drenched to the skin, he would be in fits of laughter.
"As storm clouds would gather, and gusts of wind would shake the banana trees, Harold would get very excited, and his chuckle would change to an eerie whistle.
"‘Wheee…wheee,’ he would scream, and then, as the first drops of rain hit the verandah steps, and the scent of the fresh earth passed through the house, he would start roaring with pleasure."
"Road To Badrinath
"If you have travelled up the Mandakini valley, and then cross over into the valley of the Alaknanda, you are immediately struck by the contrast. The Mandakini is gentler, richer in vegetation, almost pastoral in places; the Alaknanda is awesome, precipitous, threatening, and seemingly inhospitable to those who must live and earn a livelihood in its confines.
"Even as we left Chamoli and began the steady, winding climb to Badrinath, the nature of the terrain underwent a dramatic change. No longer did green fields slope gently down to the riverbed. Here they clung precariously to rocky slopes and ledges that grew steeper and narrower, while the river below, impatient to reach its confluence with the Bhagirathi at Deoprayag, thundered along a narrow gorge.
" ... Joshimath, the winter resort of the Badrinath temple establishment, is about 6,000 ft above sea level and has an equable climate. It is now a fairly large town, and although the surrounding hills are rather bare, it does have one great tree that has survived the ravages of time. This is an ancient mulberry, known as the Kalpa-Vriksha (Immortal Wishing Tree), beneath which the great Sankaracharya meditated a few centuries ago. It is reputedly over two thousand years old, and is certainly larger than my modest four-roomed flat in Mussoorie. Sixty pilgrims holding hands might just about encircle its trunk."
"Nilkantha means blue-necked, an allusion to Lord Shiva’s swallowing of a poison meant to destroy the world. The poison remained in his throat, which was rendered blue thereafter. It is a majestic and awe-inspiring peak, soaring to a height of 21,640 ft. As its summit is only five miles from Badrinath, it is justly held in reverence. From its ice-clad pinnacle, three great ridges sweep down, of which the south terminates in the Alaknanda valley."
"Opening the window of my room and glancing out, I saw the rising sun touch the snow-clad summit of Nilkantha. At first the snows were pink; then they turned to orange and gold. All sleep vanished as I gazed up in wonder at that magnificent pinnacle in the sky. And had Lord Vishnu appeared just then on the summit, I would not have been in the least surprised."
Last six pieces are a repeat.
"Introduction
"There’s a stream near my cottage. Cold mountain water flows down it all year round. Many a times I have sat on the rocks near it and written the odd poem, while basking in the sun.
"I never cease to wonder at the tenacity of water—its ability to make its way through various strata of rock, zigzagging, backtracking, finding space, cunningly discovering faults and fissures in the mountain, and sometimes travelling underground for great distances before emerging into the open. Of course, there’s no stopping water. For no matter how tiny that little trickle, it has to go somewhere!"
"It was while I was living in England in the jostle and drizzle of London, that I remembered the Himalayas at their most vivid. I had grown up amongst those great blue and brown mountains, they had nourished my blood, and though I was separated from them by thousands of miles of ocean, plain and desert, I could not forget them. It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape. ... "
"Mountains in my Blood
"It was while I was living in England in the jostle and drizzle of London, that I remembered the Himalayas at their most vivid. I had grown up amongst those great blue and brown mountains, they had nourished my blood, and though I was separated from them by thousands of miles of ocean, plain and desert, I could not forget them. It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them.
"And so, in London in March, the fog became a mountain mist, and the boom of traffic became the boom of the Ganges emerging from the foothills.
"I remembered a little mountain path which led my restless feet into a cool, sweet forest of oak and rhododendron, and then on to the windswept crest of a naked hilltop. The hill was called Clouds End. It commanded a view of the plains on one side, and of the snow peaks on the other. Little silver rivers twisted across the valley below, where the rice-fields formed a patchwork of emerald green. And on the hill itself, the wind made a hoo-hoo-hoo in the branches of the tall deodars where it found itself trapped. During the rains, cloud enveloped the valley but left the hill alone, an island in the sky."
" ... villagers used the path, grazing their sheep and cattle on the grassy slopes. Each cow or sheep had a bell suspended from its neck, to let the shepherd boy know of its whereabouts. The boy could then lie in the sun and eat wild strawberries without fear of losing his animals."
" ... smell of pine needles, the silver of oak leaves and the red of maple, the call of the Himalayan cuckoo, and the mist, ... Standing in the aisle of a crowded tube train on a Monday morning, my nose tucked into the back page of someone else’s newspaper, I suddenly had a vision of a bear making off with a ripe pumpkin.
"A bear and a pumpkin—and there, between Goodge Street and Tottenham Court Road stations, all the smells and sounds of the Himalayas came rushing back to me."
"The Last Walnut"
"It was nice to have a walnut tree just outside the window. It was a tree for all seasons. In winter, the branches were bare; but they were smooth, straight and round like the arms of an apsara. In spring, each branch produced a hard bright spear of new leaf. By midsummer the entire tree was in leaf, and towards the end of the monsoon the walnuts, encased in their green jackets, had reached their full maturity."
"Recently when I met the old woman on the road, I asked her, ‘Where do you get your walnuts now, Grandmother?’
"‘Nowhere,’ she answered stoically. ‘That was the last walnut tree on the hillside.’"
"The Vanishing Trees
"The peace and quiet of the Maplewood hillside disappeared forever one winter. The powers that be decided to build another new road into the mountains and the PWD saw fit to take it right past the cottage, about six feet from the window which overlooked the forest."
"Tenacity of Mountain Water
" ... the other day, taking a narrow path that left the dry Mussoorie ridge to link up with Pari Tibba (Fairy Hill), I ran across a patch of lush green grass, and I knew there had to be water there.
"The grass was soft and springy, spotted with the crimson of small, wild strawberries. Delicate maidenhair, my favorite fern, grew from a cluster of moist, glistening rocks. Moving the ferns a little, I discovered the spring, a freshet of clear sparkling water."
"Climbing up the sides of the ravine to the spur of Pari Tibba, I could see the distant silver of a meandering river, and I knew my little stream was destined to become part of it; and that the river would be joined by another that could be seen slipping over the far horizon, and that their combined waters would enter the great Ganga, or Ganges, further downstream."
"And the ocean, what was it but another droplet in the universe in the greater scheme of things? No greater than the glistening drop of water that helped start it all, where the grass grows greener around my little spring on the mountain."
"The Trees are My Brothers
"When I was a boy, we had an old jackfruit tree growing beside the side verandah. I spent a lot of time in the trees surrounding my grandmother’s bungalow, and this one was easy to climb. The others included several guava and lichi trees, lemons and grapefruits, and of course a couple of mango trees—but these last were difficult to climb."
" ... it is this love of the land and willingness to serve it that is at the heart of true patriotism. The patriotic songs and speeches that we hear from time to time are fine for stirring up the emotions, but it is really the connect between ourselves and the ‘do bigha zameen’ on which we grow our fruit and grain that emboldens us to protect it."
"Petals on the Ganga
" ... I see no one who is not delighted at entering the water. It is a big crowd, although this is just an ordinary day of the week and not an occasion of any religious significance. But for the Hindu every day is a good day for bathing in the Ganga. ... "
It's unclear if this chapter was written to prove his loyalty to creeds other than India, but he partakes in in vituperations that anti-Indians rain on India and Hinduism regularly.
"Wild Flowers Near A Mountain Stream
"Below my house is a forest of oak and maple and Himalayan rhododendron. A path twists its way down through the trees, over an open ridge where red sorrel grows wild, and then steeply down through a tangle of thorn bushes, vines and rangal bamboo. At the bottom of the hill the path leads on to a grassy verge, surrounded by wild rose. A stream runs close by the verge, tumbling over smooth pebbles, over rocks worn yellow with age, on its way to the plains and the little Song River and finally to the sacred Ganges.
"When I first discovered the stream it was April and the wild roses were flowering, small white blossoms lying in clusters. There were primroses on the hill slopes, and an occasional late-flowering rhododendron provided a splash of red against the dark green of the hill."
"Downstream I found a cave with water dripping from the roof, the water spangled gold and silver in the shafts of sunlight that pushed through the slits in the cave roof. Few people came there. Sometimes a milkman or a coal-burner would cross the stream on his way to a village; but the nearby hill station’s summer visitors had not discovered this haven of wild and green things. ... "
"Gran's Kitchen
" ... Gran had a large, rambling bungalow on the outskirts of town. On the grounds were many fruit trees—mangoes, lichees, guavas, bananas, papayas and lemons—there was room for all of them, including a giant jackfruit tree that threw its shadow on the walls of the house."
"Gran was famous all over Dehra for her pickles. Green mangoes, pickled in oil, were always popular. So was her hot lime pickle. And she was adept at pickling turnips, carrots, cauliflowers, and chillies. She could pickle almost any fruit or vegetable—everything from nasturtium seeds to jackfruit."
"The Joy of Water
"Each drop represents a little bit of creation—and of life itself. When the monsoon brings to northern India the first rains of summer, the parched earth opens its pores and quenches its thirst with a hiss of ecstasy. After baking in the sun for the last few months, the land looks cracked, dusty and tired. Now, almost overnight, new grass springs up, there is renewal everywhere, and the damp earth releases a fragrance sweeter than any devised by man."
"Sounds I Like to Hear
"Gentle rain on a tin roof is one of my favourite sounds. And early in the morning, when the rain has stopped, there are other sounds I like to hear— ... babblers and bulbuls bustling in and out of bushes and long grass in search of worms and insects; the sweet, ascending trill of the Himalayan whistling-thrush; ... "
"A cherry tree, bowed down by the heavy rain, suddenly rights itself, flinging pellets of water in my face."
"Some of the best sounds are made by water. The water of a mountain stream, always in a hurry, bubbling over rocks and chattering, ... tumbling over itself in its anxiety to reach the bottom of the hill, the sound of the sea, especially when it is far away—or when you hear it by putting a sea shell to your ear. The sound made by dry and thirsty earth, as it sucks at a sprinkling of water."
"Bells in the hills. A schoolbell ringing, and children’s voices drifting through an open window. A temple-bell, heard faintly from across the valley. Heavy silver ankle-bells on the feet of sturdy hill women. Sheep bells heard high up on the mountainside.
"Do falling petals make a sound? Just the tiniest and softest of sounds, like the drift of falling snow. Of course big flowers, like dahlias, drop their petals with a very definite flop. These are showoffs, like the hawk-moth who comes flapping into the rooms at night instead of emulating the butterfly dipping lazily on the afternoon breeze."
"I have sat out in the open at night, after a shower of rain when the whole air is murmuring and tinkling with the voices of crickets and grasshoppers and little frogs. There is one melodious sound, a sweet repeated trill, which I have never been able to trace to its source. ... "
"Guests Who Fly in from the Forest
"Sometimes, during the day, a bird visits me—a deep purple whistling-thrush, hopping about on long dainty legs, peering to right and left, too nervous to sing. She perches on the windowsill, looking out at the rain. She does not permit any familiarity. But if I sit quietly in my chair, she will sit quietly on her windowsill, glancing quickly at me now and then just to make sure that I’m keeping my distance. When the rain stops, she glides away, and it is only then, confident in her freedom, that she bursts into full-throated song, her broken but haunting melody echoing down the ravine."
"In Search of a Winter Garden
"Roses are warm and fragrant, and almost every flower I know, wild or cultivated, has its own unique quality, whether it be subtle fragrance or arresting colour or loveliness of design. ... "
" ... Down in the plains, winter is the best time for gardens, and I remembered my grandmother’s house in Dehra, with its long rows of hollyhocks, neatly staked sweet peas, and beds ablaze with red salvia and antirrhinum. Neither Grandmother nor the house are there anymore, but surely there are other beautiful gardens, I mused, and maybe I could visit ... "
"Gentle Shade By The Day
"Those who have spent time in non-air-conditioned parts of India will remember with gratitude those gracious trees that provide shade and shelter during the summer months—the banyan, peepul, mango, neem and others. ... "
" ... Few trees provide a cooler shade than it does. Even on the stillest of days, the peepul leaves are forever twirling and with thousands of leaves spinning like tops, there is quite a breeze for anyone sitting below."
"A mango grove is a wonderful place for an afternoon ... the shade under a mango grove is dark, deep and very soothing."
" ... There is always shade and space beneath a venerable old banyan. It is still a popular community centre in our Indian villages but is becoming a rarity in cities simply because it covers so large an area. And if you cut its aerial roots the tree topples over. Other handsome trees related to the banyan are the pilkhan and the chilkhan, large spreading evergreens, both quite noticeable on some of New Delhi’s wider avenues."
"The neem is a tall tree, but its numerous branches give it a shady head. One of my greatest pleasures is to walk beneath an avenue of neem trees after a shower of rain. ... "
" ... shade-giving trees symbolize the harmony between man and nature and that our ancestors in their devotion to trees and reverence for them, clearly showed that they knew what was good for them."
"White Clouds, Green Mountains
"Towards the end of September, those few monsoon clouds that still linger over the Himalayas are no longer burdened with rain and are able to assume unusual shapes and patterns, chasing each other across the sky and disappearing in spectacular sunset formations.
"I have always found this to be the best time of the year in the hills. The sun-drenched hillsides are still an emerald green; the air is crisp, but winter’s bite is still a month or two away; and for those who still like to take to the open road on foot, there are springs, streams and waterfalls tumbling over rocks that remain dry for most of the year."
" ... Bears have been known to get drunk on the juice of rhododendron flowers, while bumble bees can be out-and-out dipsomaniacs."
"The Kipling Road
"Remember the old road,
"The steep stony path
....
" ... then there were trees near Jharipani
"And we stopped at the Halfway House
"And swallowed Iungfuls of diamond-cut air."
....
"I made it to the top and stopped to rest
"And looked down to the valley and the silver stream
"Winding its way towards the plains.
"And the land stretched out before me, and the years fell away,
"And I was a boy again,
"And the friends of my youth were there beside me,
"And nothing had changed."
"Mussoorie does not really figure in Rudyard Kipling’s prose or poetry. The Simla Hills were his beat. As a journalist he was a regular visitor to Simla, then the summer seat of the British Raj."
"Honeysuckle climbed the wall outside my window, filling my bedroom with its heady scent. And wisteria grew over the main gate. There was perfume in the air."
"Anyway, we positioned ourselves on this ledge, and Gerry started producing panther noises with his box. His Master’s Voice would have been proud of it. Nothing happened for about twenty minutes, and I was beginning to lose patience when we were answered by the cough and grunt of what could only have been a panther. But we couldn’t see it! Gerry produced a pair of binoculars and trained them on some distant object below, which turned out to be a goat. The growling continued, and then it was just above us! The panther had made a detour and was now standing on a rock and staring down, no doubt wondering which of us was making such attractive mating calls."
"Harold The Hornbill
"He perfected this trick of catching things, and in time I taught him to catch a tennis ball thrown with some force from a distance of fifteen yards. He would have made a great baseball catcher or an excellent slip fielder. On one occasion he seized a rupee coin from me (a week’s pocket money in those days) and swallowed it neatly.
"Although Harold never seemed to drink any water, he loved the rain. We always knew when it was going to rain because Harold would start chuckling to himself about an hour before the first raindrops fell.
"This used to irritate Aunt Ruby. She was always being caught in the rain. Harold would be chuckling when she left the house. And when she returned, drenched to the skin, he would be in fits of laughter.
"As storm clouds would gather, and gusts of wind would shake the banana trees, Harold would get very excited, and his chuckle would change to an eerie whistle.
"‘Wheee…wheee,’ he would scream, and then, as the first drops of rain hit the verandah steps, and the scent of the fresh earth passed through the house, he would start roaring with pleasure."
"Road To Badrinath
"If you have travelled up the Mandakini valley, and then cross over into the valley of the Alaknanda, you are immediately struck by the contrast. The Mandakini is gentler, richer in vegetation, almost pastoral in places; the Alaknanda is awesome, precipitous, threatening, and seemingly inhospitable to those who must live and earn a livelihood in its confines.
"Even as we left Chamoli and began the steady, winding climb to Badrinath, the nature of the terrain underwent a dramatic change. No longer did green fields slope gently down to the riverbed. Here they clung precariously to rocky slopes and ledges that grew steeper and narrower, while the river below, impatient to reach its confluence with the Bhagirathi at Deoprayag, thundered along a narrow gorge.
" ... Joshimath, the winter resort of the Badrinath temple establishment, is about 6,000 ft above sea level and has an equable climate. It is now a fairly large town, and although the surrounding hills are rather bare, it does have one great tree that has survived the ravages of time. This is an ancient mulberry, known as the Kalpa-Vriksha (Immortal Wishing Tree), beneath which the great Sankaracharya meditated a few centuries ago. It is reputedly over two thousand years old, and is certainly larger than my modest four-roomed flat in Mussoorie. Sixty pilgrims holding hands might just about encircle its trunk."
"Nilkantha means blue-necked, an allusion to Lord Shiva’s swallowing of a poison meant to destroy the world. The poison remained in his throat, which was rendered blue thereafter. It is a majestic and awe-inspiring peak, soaring to a height of 21,640 ft. As its summit is only five miles from Badrinath, it is justly held in reverence. From its ice-clad pinnacle, three great ridges sweep down, of which the south terminates in the Alaknanda valley."
"Opening the window of my room and glancing out, I saw the rising sun touch the snow-clad summit of Nilkantha. At first the snows were pink; then they turned to orange and gold. All sleep vanished as I gazed up in wonder at that magnificent pinnacle in the sky. And had Lord Vishnu appeared just then on the summit, I would not have been in the least surprised."
March 19, 2022
Well, My ruskin bond favorite is- 'Petals on the Ganga.' The title itself made me read this beautiful book. A collection of short stories; it takes you to the himlayan hills, dehra mountains, beautiful rivers, charm of jackfruit trees, and the warmth of the petals on the ganga. Although his other books are also great, but this book has the exact strings of the heart and plays the specific tune, which a mountain lover would like to hear. He portrays all the chapter in such short stories and successfully delivers the message of how precious mountains are, love for grandmas recipe, importance of tree plantation and more. With a simple writing style, easy to understand vocabulary, this book is a must read for all age groups.
Things I learnt:
“Be like water, taught Lao-tzu, philosopher and founder of Taoism. Soft and limpid, it finds its way through, over or under any obstacle. It does not quarrel; it simply moves on”
“St John’s Wort was flowering profusely on small shrubs.
Many legends have grown around this flower of pure dazzling sunshine which takes its family name—Hypericaceae—from the great Titan god Hyperion, who was the father of the Greek God of the sun, Apollo.”
“All men are my friends. I have only to meet them.’ In these hills, where life still moves at a leisurely and civilized pace, one is constantly meeting them.”
Excerpt From
Petals on the Ganga
Bond, Ruskin
This material may be protected by copyright.
Things I learnt:
“Be like water, taught Lao-tzu, philosopher and founder of Taoism. Soft and limpid, it finds its way through, over or under any obstacle. It does not quarrel; it simply moves on”
“St John’s Wort was flowering profusely on small shrubs.
Many legends have grown around this flower of pure dazzling sunshine which takes its family name—Hypericaceae—from the great Titan god Hyperion, who was the father of the Greek God of the sun, Apollo.”
“All men are my friends. I have only to meet them.’ In these hills, where life still moves at a leisurely and civilized pace, one is constantly meeting them.”
Excerpt From
Petals on the Ganga
Bond, Ruskin
This material may be protected by copyright.
August 31, 2021
A quaint read.. just like the times and places Mr. Bond describes
Petals on the Ganga is a collection of short memoirs. All of them are very sweet and sensitive. Snapshots of the author's life, of a place and time which are long lost by now. It brought me back in time, to the himalayan hamlets as well as cities like Dehradun and Mussoorie. It is as he mentioned more than once in the writings.. "Once you have lived with them (mountains) for any length of time, you belong to them." Truly there is no escape from the magic of his writing.
Petals on the Ganga is a collection of short memoirs. All of them are very sweet and sensitive. Snapshots of the author's life, of a place and time which are long lost by now. It brought me back in time, to the himalayan hamlets as well as cities like Dehradun and Mussoorie. It is as he mentioned more than once in the writings.. "Once you have lived with them (mountains) for any length of time, you belong to them." Truly there is no escape from the magic of his writing.
April 7, 2020
For all the nature lovers out there- THIS BOOK IS FOR YOU.
Mountains, rivers, streams, plants, bushes, trees, animals, birds, insects, these collection of short stories consist of all the things nature has to offer. I adore ruskin bonds writing and it is through his writing that i experienced Badrinath, Tungnath, Dehradun, Mussorie, etc.
A great, calming book for all nature enthusiasts like me☺️🙌🏻
Mountains, rivers, streams, plants, bushes, trees, animals, birds, insects, these collection of short stories consist of all the things nature has to offer. I adore ruskin bonds writing and it is through his writing that i experienced Badrinath, Tungnath, Dehradun, Mussorie, etc.
A great, calming book for all nature enthusiasts like me☺️🙌🏻
March 26, 2020
Ruskin bond books are all about the beauty of nature and mountains. Petals on the Ganga is the collection of 23 short stories that are inspired by the theme of mountains and nature. This book makes you feel calm and soothing. Check this article about 40 Best Ruskin Bond Books.
https://dailybugle.in/ruskin-bond-boo...
https://dailybugle.in/ruskin-bond-boo...
March 14, 2021
"Excellent & quite engaging read"
The book is amazing. If you are a nature lover or you have been to mountains or wish to pay a visit, one must read this excellent masterpiece. It maked you feel like that you have been to moutains before in your life even if you haven't or pushes you to go there. One time again, more, brilliantly written by Ruskin bond.
The book is amazing. If you are a nature lover or you have been to mountains or wish to pay a visit, one must read this excellent masterpiece. It maked you feel like that you have been to moutains before in your life even if you haven't or pushes you to go there. One time again, more, brilliantly written by Ruskin bond.
May 28, 2021
A Beautiful Collection of short stories by Bond. These are more memoirs than stories and they really take you to the mountains...
The way in which Ruskin Bond has written every story in this book is really beautiful.. Excellent writing and he just manages to capture the beauty of nature and the areas around Dehra.. and makes us feel transported to those magical places..
The way in which Ruskin Bond has written every story in this book is really beautiful.. Excellent writing and he just manages to capture the beauty of nature and the areas around Dehra.. and makes us feel transported to those magical places..
February 25, 2024
A lovely read for those of us who pine for the good old days when smartphones weren’t so prevalent and development wasn’t the word to describe wanton destruction of nature. Learnt about the history of Mussorie and how Rudyard Kipling had a trekking road named after him.
April 12, 2019
Very much related to nature, a little perhaps boring for action liners, but I like it just enough.
May 24, 2019
This collection of non-fiction consists of 23 writing on various aspects, some of these are earlier published elsewhere, still reading them gives a pleasure.
December 12, 2019
This book consisting of non fictions by Mr. BOND are soothing, charming, calming like always.
March 31, 2020
It takes you to the wonders of flora and fauna of India but in Ruskin Bond's style. Opt for it only when you want to read something 'Light and Easy'.
September 12, 2021
Nice book
March 22, 2025
Few stories/essays are repetitive, petals on Ganga, tenacity of water, trees, an essay on sweet peas/Californian tulips, the Dehra I know are good
December 19, 2025
Mr Bond delivers an amazing book once again. How he does it every single time I don’t know. The stories about Himalayas , Tungnath and so many more anecdotes in his life some fiction some made up but all so intricately woven into wonderful stories has my heart forever. It’s his books that have made me see the small things that are mundane yet so magical in their own ways. It’s comfort in routine and in following one’s heart and living in nature’s own Lapland is what i read in his every books. IT what I look forward to every single time. One thing that makes me who I am and appreciate the greenery , flowers , birdsong near me and make me witness nature’s magic and routine its very own timeline makes me feel okay to follow mine! In awe of his writing once again. A 5 starer from my side.
May 13, 2025
Amazing book for people who love to read books based on the indescribable beauty of nature, and the mountains. Liked how well descriptive it was.
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