Image courtesy:  The Hindu

Intro: An ode to Mr. Ruskin Bond, a favourite author who celebrated his 84th Birthday on 19 th May, 2018


Once there was a curious little lad,

Who was very fond of his Dad.

With him he spent all his vacations,

Keeping busy with his keen questions.

Dad bought him books and took him to the movies,

Listening to opera, philately were their hobbies.

Tender and caring, Dad made breakfast – tea and toast,

Lots of jam, freshly whipped butter, played the perfect host.

Long walks exploring Delhi,

He cherished such times, didn’t he?

Those two precious years with his loving Dad,

Was the love of a lifetime he had.

Learnt from his Dad about this planet and beyond,

By seven, to all quizzing, he would eagerly respond.

Amazed, his teacher opened the doors of the library,

Got to meet Stevenson, Bronte, Wodehouse and Priestly.

Left alone at home during the daytime,

Bonding with cook and gardener, made him feel fine.

Alongwith tasty dishes, his cook fed him stories,

Of tigers, Kipling, hunting, adding masala to the soirees.

But he relished his grandma’s delectable meat-ball curry,

To grow up anytime soon, he was in no hurry.

Wise for his age, gentle and full of care,

Wish life was not a miser, so little love to spare;

In his childhood when he needed the most,

Lest, his friends and family he lovingly chose.

He treats fellow beings with great care,

Stops to observe them, takes time to stand and stare.

Coming back to childhood, his memoirs in a marathon,

Yes, with pets as odd as a monkey and a python.

Birds and bees, butterflies and breeze.

A favourite pastime spent under the trees.

Once inside, he would write out of boredom,

Names of movies watched and books read in tandem.

(Sensible enough to stop, after) Done with his schooling,

To be with his aunt in London, set upon sailing.

There it was bleaky in his room in the attic,

At a grocers he did work, heart elsewhere, his thoughts were erratic

Seeds of his first book were sown already,

Jotting down his days in a personal diary.

It won him a prize and passage to homeland,

Some struggle later, settled with pen in hand.

Delhi to Doon to Landour in Mussoorie,

He lost his heart among the many a tall Deodar tree.

Walking in the mountains, valleys and pine forests,

A search for lost stories, for new found ones, took no rest.

School going children to friends and villagers,

Rajas and Ranis to marketplace and pedlars.

Wide range of characters in their day to day life,

Simple yet intriguing he also captured wildlife.

Leopards, tigers, bears and monkeys,

Crows found a special place in his type keys.

Continues to churn out “friendly” ghosts by dozen,

Not enough for readers, though left fear-stricken and frozen.

In a quaint little room looking over a mount and hill,

He gazes afar in solitude, as mind dictates his quill.

Dear Rusty oops… Dear Mr. Bond!

Of YOU we are very much fond.

May you stay blessed, continue to hold your sway,

Wish You A Very Happy Eighty Fourth Birthday, Today! 

© Gomathi Mohan Rao.

© Gomathi 2023
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 <span title="Experienced Commenter" style="font-size : small; color: orange;">**</span><p>

I thought this was going to be about James Bond.

In any case, I thought Indians were more fond of Mr Bean?

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