The indefatigable Ruskin Bond is back with his latest offering, Life’s Magic Moments. The book is a collection of his musings. At the age of ninety-one, Bond the writer shows no signs of slowing down, a most heartening thought for his readers and also for other writers. After all, so many of us can cope with all sorts of losses so long as we do not lose our ability to spin the warp and weft of words. That seems to be Bond’s primary concern too, as he mentions his ageing body, slow gait, weakening eyesight and some trips to the hospital, inevitable with old age.
The legendary author reflects from his comfortable and beautiful home in charming Landour, just a bit above bustling Mussoorie. He looks at his favourite flower, the purplish cosmos, ubiquitous but slowly disappearing, like time itself. Much as the flower that needs to run wild to grow has been stopped in its tracks by construction activity across the high Himalayas, the kind of slow and comfortable time that the author passed his life in has also become a scare commodity. As he ponders and grows brightly coloured weeds, watches his three-legged cat live on her own terms, and imbibes life affirming sips of tea, his words implore us to slow down too. With his longing for a less hurried and harried life, he makes the readers long for magic and beauty only to be found in the recesses of a calm mind.
Through the self-professed ramblings of the author, he tells us not only how to stay untouched while daily life carries on with crashes and booms around him, but also unravels the secret to writing. His all-time favourite author, Emily Bronte, wrote in dreary solitude of a house called Wuthering Heights, the place that gave the legendary masterpiece its title. All of his favourites did two things—wrote in solitude and wrote for themselves. Writing is indeed somewhat like the daily tipple—mildly addictive and fuel for the fecund soul. Not all his favourites lived as long as he has, says the author with self awareness tinged with both sadness and gratitude—so many passed on early either due to disease or personal decline. Whether the heartbreak of a writer is romantic or not depends totally on how one views life—Bond is not inclined to see it with rose-tinted spectacles—but what is certain is the depth of feelings that arise in the heart when the world is both fascinating and disappointing, and these feelings must under all circumstances find the words and be released into the vast universe. And so, we find writing is an incurable ache.
Much as the author’s thoughts wind their way across clear streams and fragrant forests, as he thinks about the carnage wrought upon nature by power-hungry old men, he gives a hat tip to two of his most iconic and unforgettable characters—Biniya from The Blue Umbrella and of course Rusty, his own alter ego. Flipping through the pages of this tiny volume, it is impossible to not be drawn deep into a past when we could still own time and own our own lives. Hopefully, all readers of the great Mr. Bond will enjoy his magical moments and their own through this book.