Puffin Classics: Vagrants in the Valley , livre ebook

Penguin Books Ltd - Ruskin Bond

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74 pages

English

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An evergreen classic about friendship and growing up, by a master storyteller This book catches up with our favourite Rusty as he plunges not just into the cold pools of Dehra but into an exciting new life, dipping his toes into adulthood. Winding his way back to the city with Kishen, Rusty discovers that his beloved room is no longer his! Undaunted, however, and in his trademark style, he forges new homes and new friendships as he embarks on a journey of self-discovery that spans the beautiful hillsides of India. By turns thrilling and nostalgic, this heart-warming sequel is Rusty is at his best as he navigates the tightrope between dreams and reality, all the time maintaining a glorious sense of hope. Striking, evocative, witty and wise-this is an ode to youth and all its complexities, amidst the colours, sights and smells of Bond's India.

Informations

Publié par	Penguin Books Ltd
Date de parution	16 août 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9789351187462
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0480€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

RUSKIN BOND

Vagrants in the Valley
Introduction by Tom Alter
PUFFIN BOOKS

PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
Introduction by Tom Alter
The Homeless
The Forest Road
A Place to Sleep
The Old Church
New Encounters
Prospect of a Journey
The Lafunga
To the Hills
Rum and Curry
Lady with a Hookah
The Road to Rishikesh
End of a Journey
First and Last Impressions
Start of a Journey
From the Author
Classic Plus
Follow Penguin
Copyright
Introduction
It s almost as if you don t want to know what happened to Rusty and his friends after The Room on the Roof -let them linger forever near the Ganga, on the fringes of the Doon valley and of life. Let them always be young, and let them never find the final answers . . .
And then Vagrants in the Valley wanders into your life, and you know that Ruskin has done the near impossible. He has woven his magic again with new threads-even more innocent, and yet wiser-and colours, as Rusty and Kishen return to the valley. As they wander in wonderment from Hardwar to Dehra, you sense that time has both stood still and yet subtly moved forward-
The road stretched ahead, lonely and endless, towards the low ranges of the Siwalik hills.
Not the high Himalayas, but the foothills-the Siwaliks. The peaks of life lie far ahead, and the boys-almost men-still have to walk on level ground to even earn the right to climb uphill.
Dehra welcomes them back with new friends and strangers-Americans and lafungas , love and again the lure of lust, and an abandoned church as abode. Yet the pools and the bazaar and the yaari still the same.
The room on the roof now in other hands, a parable of passage told as simply as a prayer . . .
The journey into the hills beyond Lansdowne to meet the strange and beautiful aunt-so much like Kim and his hill-village woman-and the memories of Rusty s father, in the pages and covers of books, and in the words of a most wonderful Englishman.
Identity almost understood, and the book ending with a final yet first pilgrimage to England-the source but not the solution.
Pahlwans and lafungas and a buffalo-like young man-Ruskin paints such vivid characters, and loves them all-not to mention the two ladies of the night, who bewitch and yet do not betray.
*
Nowhere, but in Dehra, had Rusty seen so many kinds of trees. Trees that had no names. Tall, straight trees and broad, shady trees. Trees that slept or brooded in the afternoon stillness. And trees that shimmered and moved and whispered even when the winds were asleep.
When the winds are asleep, the lafunga roams. And Rusty-like the trees he so loves-shimmers and moves and whispers.
Vagrants in the Valley is both a beginning and an end-in every word, sentence, image.
Ruskin is still that vagrant, like all of us wish to be.
And the valley is still fresh, eternally, just beyond the foothills of his heart.
June 2016
Tom Alter
The Homeless
On the road to Dehra, a boy played a flute as he drove his flock of sheep down the road. He was barefooted and his clothes were old. A faded red shawl was thrown across his shoulders. It was December and the sun was up, pouring into the banyan tree at the side of the road, where two boys were sitting on the great tree s gnarled, protruding roots.
The flute player passed the banyan tree and glanced at the boys, but did not stop playing. Presently he was only a speck on the dusty road, and the flute music was thin and distant, subdued by the tinkle of sheep-bells.
The boys left the shelter of the banyan tree and began walking in the direction of the distant hills.
The road stretched ahead, lonely and endless, towards the low ranges of the Siwalik hills. The dust was in their clothes and in their eyes and in their mouths. The sun rose higher in the sky and, as they walked, the sweat trickled down their armpits, and down their legs.
The older boy, Rusty, was seventeen. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his thin cotton trousers, and he gazed at the ground. His fair hair was matted with dust, and his cheeks and arms were scorched red by the fierce sun. His eyes were blue and thoughtful.
We will be in Raiwala soon, he said. Would you like to rest, bhaiya?
Kishen shrugged his thin shoulders. We ll rest when we get to Raiwala. If I sit down now, I ll never be able to get up. I suppose we have walked about ten miles this morning.
He was a slim boy and almost as tall as Rusty, though he was two years younger. He had dark, rebellious eyes, bushy eyebrows and thick black hair. His dusty white pyjamas were rolled up above his ankles, and he wore loose Peshawari chappals. An unbuttoned khaki shirt hung outside his pyjamas.
Like Rusty, he was without a home. Rusty had run away from an indifferent guardian a little over a year ago. Kishen had run away from a drunken father. He possessed distant relatives, but he preferred the risks and pleasures of vagrancy to the security of living with people he did not know. He had been with Rusty for a year, and his home was by his friend s side. He was Punjabi; Rusty was Anglo-Indian.
From Raiwala we ll take the train, said Rusty. It will cost us about five rupees.
Never mind, said Kishen. We ve done enough walking. And we ve still got twelve rupees. Is there anything in our old rooms in Dehra that we can sell?
Let me see . . . the table, the bed and the chair are not mine. There s an old tiger-skin-a bit eaten by rats-which no one will buy. There are one or two shirts and trousers.
Which we will need. These are all torn.
And some of my books . . .
Which no one will buy.
I would not sell them. Well, those were the only things I got out of my guardian s house, before I ran away-
Somi! interrupted Kishen. Somi will be in Dehra-he ll help us! He got you a job once, he can do it again.
Rusty was silent, remembering his friend Somi, who had won him with a smile, and altered the course of his life. Somi, with his turban at an angle, a song on his lips . . .
Kishen had left Dehra in a hurry and had been taken to Hardwar, a town on the banks of the sacred Ganges, by his aunt, and Rusty had followed him and his aunt. Only priests, beggars and shopkeepers could make a living in Hardwar, and the boys were soon back on the road to Dehra.
Now a cool breeze came across the plain, blowing down from the hills. In the fields there was a gentle swaying movement as the wind stirred the wheat. Then the breeze hit the road, and the dust began to swirl and eddy about the footpath. The boys moved into the middle of the road, holding their hands to their eyes and stumbling forward. Out of the dust behind them, came the rumbling of bullock-cart wheels.
Ho there! Out of my way! shouted the driver of the cart. The bullocks snorted and came lumbering through the dust. The boys moved to the side of the road.
Are you going to Raiwala? called Rusty. Can you take us with you?
Climb up! said the man, and the boys ran through the dust and clambered on to the back of the moving cart.
The cart lurched and rattled and bumped along, and they had to cling to its sides to avoid falling off. It smelled of dry grass and cow-dung cakes. The driver had a red cloth tied around his head; he wore a tight vest, and a dhoti around his waist. His feet and legs were bare, scorched black by the burning sun over the plains. He was smoking a bidi and shouting at his bullocks, cursing them at times, but sometimes speaking to them in endearing terms. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of the boys at the back, had dismissed them from his mind the moment they had climbed up. Rusty and Kishen were too busy clinging to the lopsided cart to bother with making conversation with the driver.
I d rather walk! complained Kishen. Rusty, who suggested that we get into this silly old contraption? I am covered with bumps and bruises already.
Beggars can t be choosers, said Rusty.
Please, we are not beggars-not yet, anyway . . . and if we were, we d be much better off financially, I can assure you! As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you are still the son of an English sahib and I am still the distant relative of a distant maharaja.
A prince, said Rusty derisively, and riding in a bullock cart!
Well, not every prince can boast of the experience.
A little later the bullock cart rumbled across a canal and joined the traffic of Raiwala, a busy little market town. The boys jumped off and walked beside the cart.
Should we give him something? asked Rusty. We ought to offer him some money.
How can we? said Kishen. Why didn t you think of that before we jumped on?
All right, we ll just thank him. Thank you, bhaiji! he called, as the cart moved on.
Thank you, bhaiji! shouted Kishen.
But the driver might not have heard them because he did not bother to look around. He continued smoking his bidi and talking to his animals and, to all appearances, had not even noticed that the boys had got down. He drove his bullock cart away, leaving Rusty and Kishen standing on the road.
I m hungry, said Kishen. We haven t eaten since last night.
Then we must eat, said Rusty. Come on, bhaiya, we will eat.
They walked through the narrow Raiwala bazaar, looking at the tea and sweet shops, until they found a place that looked dirty enough to be cheap. A servant-boy brought them chapattis and dal. Kishen ordered an ounce of butter; this was melted and poured over the dal. The meal cost them a rupee and, for this amount, they could eat as much as they liked. The butter was extra, and cost six annas. They were left with a little over ten rupees.
When they came out, the sun was low in the sky and the day was cooler.
We can t walk tonight, said Rusty. We ll have to sleep at the railway station. Maybe we can get on the train without a ticket.
And if we are caught, we ll spend a month in jail. Free board and lodging.
And then the social workers will get you, or they ll put you in a remand home and teach you to make mattresses.
I think it