Writers' World

A joyous journey - The Week

Book extract: Grab a seat beside Bond as he travels to and from Mussoorie
Roads to Mussoorie
By Ruskin Bond
Published by Rupa & Co.
Price Rs 95. Pages 127

"Occasionally I have shared a taxi with another passenger, but after one or two disconcerting experiences I have taken to travelling alone or with a friend. The last time I shared a taxi with someone, I was pleased to find that my fellow passenger, a large gentleman with a fierce moustache, had bought one of my books, which was lying on the seat between us.

I thought I’d be friendly and so, to break the ice, I remarked, "I see you have one of my books with you," glancing modestly at the paperback on the seat.

"What do you mean, your book?" he bridled, giving me a dirty look. "I just bought this book at the news agency!" "No, no," I stammered, "I don’t mean it’s mine, I mean it’s my book... er, that is, I happened to write it!"

"Oh, so now you are claiming to be the author!" He looked at me as though I was a fraud of the worst kind. "What is your real profession, may I ask?"

"I’m just a typist," I said, and made no further attempt to make friends.

Indeed, I am very careful about trumpeting my literary or other achievements, as I am frequently misunderstood.

Recently, at a book reading in New Delhi, a little girl asked me how many books I’d written. "Oh, about sixty or seventy," I said quite truthfully. At which another child piped up: "Why can’t you be a little modest about it?"

Sometimes you just can’t win.

My author’s ego received a salutary beating when on one of my earlier trips, I stopped at a small book stall and looked around, hoping (like any other author) to spot one of my books. Finally, I found one, under a pile of books by Deepak Chopra, Khushwant Singh, William Dalrymple and other luminaries. I slipped it out from the bottom of the pile and surreptitiously placed it on top.

Unfortunately, the bookseller had seen me do this. He picked up the offending volume and returned it to the bottom of the pile, saying "No demand for this book, sir". I wasn’t going to tell him I was the author. But just to prove him wrong, I bought the poor neglected thing.

"This is a collector’s item," I told him.

"Ah," he said, "At last I meet a collector."