Part 1 (1/2)

The Writer on the Hill.

Ruskin Bond.

I hear the scent of her garland. But my nose being choked with darkness.

I do not see the sound of her ornaments.

Sudraka, king and poet, 200 BC.

Some things a man should tell his wife, some things to friends and some to sons; all these are trusted. He should not tell everything to everyone.

The Panchatantra.

Contents.

Selected Fiction.

1950s: Dehra The Thief's Story The Room on the Roof (An Excerpt) The Crooked Tree.

The Eyes Have It The Woman on Platform No. 8 The Fight The Photograph.

1960s and 1970s: Maplewood Lodge, Mussoorie A Case for Inspector Lal Masterji A Face in the Dark.

The Tunnel The Kitemaker Most Beautiful The Cherry Tree.

He Said It with a.r.s.enic The Last Time I Saw Delhi The Blue Umbrella.

1980s and Onwards: Ivy Cottage, Mussoorie A Long Walk for Bina From Small Beginnings The Funeral.

The Monkeys Wilson's Bridge The Playing Fields of Simla The Superior Man.

The Hare in the Moon Toria and the Daughter of the Sun Selected Non-Fiction 1960s and 1970s: Maplewood Lodge Colonel Gardner and the Princess of Cambay The Lady of Sardhana.

A Hill Station's Vintage Murders Grandfather's Earthquake A Village in Garhwal Once upon a Mountain Time.

Voting at Barlowganj Sounds I Like to Hear Bhabiji's House Break of the Monsoon To See a Tiger.

In Grandfather's Garden Man and Leopard 1980s and Onwards: Ivy Cottage Landour Bazaar Ganga Descends.

Great Trees of Garhwal Birdsong in the Hills Children of India.

Friends of My Youth Some Hill Station Ghosts Party Time in Mussoorie The Walkers' Club.

Love Thy Critic Those Simple Things A Good Philosophy.

Life at My Own Pace Upon an Old Wall Dreaming Nina The Road to Badrinath.

The Good Earth A Night Walk Home The Beetle Who Blundered In Some Plants Become Friends.

Rainy Day in June The Old Gramophone.

Who Kissed Me in the Dark?

Joyfully I Write.

Author's Note.

SELECTED FICTION.

1950s: DEHRA.

The Thief's Story.

I WAS STILL a thief when I met Romi. And though I was only fifteen years old, I was an experienced and fairly successful hand. Romi was watching a wrestling match when I approached him. He was about twenty-five and he looked easy-going, kind, and simple enough for my purpose. I was sure I would be able to win the young man's confidence.

'You look a bit of a wrestler yourself,' I said. There's nothing like flattery to break the ice!

'So do you,' he replied, which put me off for a moment because at that time I was rather thin and bony.

Well,' I said modestly, 'I do wrestle a bit.'

What's your name?'

'Hari Singh,' I lied. I took a new name every month, which kept me ahead of the police and former employers.

After these formalities Romi confined himself to commenting on the wrestlers, who were grunting, gasping, and heaving each other about. When he walked away, I followed him casually.

'h.e.l.lo again,' he said.

I gave him my most appealing smile. 'I want to work for you,' I said.

'But I can't pay you anything-not for some time, anyway.'

I thought that over for a minute. Perhaps I had misjudged my man. 'Can you feed me?' I asked.

'Can you cook?'

'I can cook,' I lied again.