White Clouds, Green Mountains by Ruskin Bond

Book Review of White Clouds, Green Mountains by Ruskin Bond

White Clouds, Green Mountains is one of the finest books written by Ruskin Bond. It is a memoir on his days in Doon valley. Readers who read books by Mr. Bond know that nature is an essential ingredient of his novel. But this particular book surpasses all that you've ever read on Dehra. White Clouds, Green Mountains by Ruskin Bond, is a compilation of some of his sweetest memories  of a heaven that was Dehra and also about the wonderful people he met there. The intimate emotional relationship between the nature and its children returns time and again in these pages.

No matter how hard they try, humans cannot actually get rid of the mountains. That's what I like about them; they are here to stay.

Living in harmony with nature teaches one life's greatest lessons. Most importantly it teaches one patience and a very pleasant sense of humour. 

I must confess, I did lose patience with  a bamboo beetle who blundered in the other night and fell into the water jug. I rescued him and pushed him out of the window. A few seconds later he came whirring in again, and with unerring accuracy landed with a plop in the same jug. I fished him out once more and offered him the freedom of the night. But attracted no doubt by the light and warmth of my small sitting-room, he came buzzing back, circling the room like a helicopter looking for a place to land. Quickly I covered the water jug. He landed in a bowl of wild dahlias, and I allowed him to remain there, comfortably curled up in the hollow of a flower.

While studying nature One often comes across sparks of wisdom. But one needs to be a keen observer to learn from its elements. 

The milkman's son does not pass his exams, but as long as he can climb trees, he'll be a success in life. All of us need just one good accomplishment in order to get by. Obviously he can't spend  the rest of his life climbing trees, but it's the agility and enterprise involved in the act that will make him a survivor.

Every tiny detail is important. Observe with humility and passion and one can always find poetry in it. That's nature.

You stride through the wasteland of my desk,
Pressing on over books and papers,
Down the wall and  across the floor -
Small red ant, now crossing a sea of raindrops
At my open door.
Your destiny, your task to carry home
That heavy sunflower seed,
Waving it like a banner
Of victory!
Nothing is insignificant; nothing is without consequence in the intricate web of life.

When the bank borrows his German typewriter by mistake, everything turns into a mess. The incident gets recorded in its pages. It's difficult to suppress a giggle reading the story.

On German typewriters the letter 'Z' occurs where there is normally a 'Y' on an English machine, and if you are not used to it, and are typing fast, you are apt to produce a certain amount of gibberish. If you want to say 'You might pick up yellow fever in Zanzibar', it could come out 'Zou might pick up yellow fever in Yanyibar'! The auditors and my friends at the bank got into many a tangle: zeros become yeros and even euros, Japanese yens became zens. Chinese yuans became zuans. The foreign exchange section was in a fine mess.
It was after this that the bank was hurriedly computerised.

The true meaning of human 'Progress' comes out in a private conversation with a shepherd girl.

'I have never filled a form. I have never seen one.'
'And I hope you never will. It is a piece of paper covered with useless information. It is all a part of human progress.'
'Progress?'
'Yes. Are you unhappy?'
'No.'
'Do you go hungry?'
'No.'
'Then you don't need progress. Wild billberries are better.'

Then two lovers are separated and the heart shattering lament echoes over moonlit night.

Binya ... I take your name again and again as though by taking it, I can make you hear me, come to me, walking over the moonlit mountain ...

What nature gives you, nature takes away. But its the same nature that consoles and heals.

But at the same time, the whistling thrush seemed to mock at me, calling tantalisingly from the shadows of the ravine; 'It isn't time that's passing by, it is you and I, it is you and I ..'

Reading this book feels like relaxing in a hammock in a forest on a mountain. The incessant music of a stream flowing nearby, whistling of wild birds looking for mates - one can actually hear them played as live music tracks. Such is the charm of Ruskin bond.

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