I hadn’t planned on meeting Ruskin Bond. I was on a quiet pilgrimage through the Himalayas—drawn more to clouds, silence, and the smell of wet pine than to people or appointments. But Mussoorie, with its habit of tossing in the unexpected, had other plans.
Word came that Mr. Bond might be available—if I could come on short notice. I had no real set of questions, just a few jottings on a piece of paper—half-thoughts, really. Still, I went, more with curiosity than intent, eager for a peep into the world of someone who had shaped many young minds.
When I arrived, he wasn’t in the best of health. A lingering cold, a persistent cough, and the weight of years would have made it perfectly reasonable for him to decline. But he didn’t. He greeted me with warmth, and we sat together—two strangers with time in our hands, the hills leaning in through the window.
It wasn’t an interview in any formal sense. We drifted—from writing to memory to odd bits of life that seem small until you speak them aloud. And he, with his quiet humour and gentle clarity, made even the ordinary feel quietly significant.
What follows is not a structured dialogue, but a record of that shared hour—unplanned, unscripted, and deeply human.
— Swami Aryeshananda
Somewhere between the mist and the memory
Swami Aryeshananda: Your writing feels like taking a stroll down memory lane. Is there any particular memory that stands out and says, yes, I am a writer—and from now onwards, I will start writing?
Ruskin Bond: Well, at school I was already interested in writing little stories. But by the time I finished school, I had decided I was going to be a writer. It grew on me gradually, partly due to the influence of books and other writers. And also, my father had taught me to read and write even before I went to school, so there was his influence too.
When I started writing, I wasn’t able to make a living from it, so that took some resolution. I remember, while I was in Jersey, on my own and going through a difficult time, I was standing by the sea on a stormy evening. And I just felt inspired then—that whatever happens, I will write and stick to it.
SA: Was that The Room on the Roof?
RB: Yes, it was. The Room on the Roof was my first novel, based on a diary I’d kept the year before leaving India. On the advice of an editor there, I turned it into a novel and fictionalized it. And, well, it’s still around. In fact, next year will be its 70th anniversary. More people read it today than when it was first published.
SA: I’m particularly intrigued by the character Rusty. I read it when I was about seventeen, the same age you wrote it. It connected with me so well. How did you make those characters so lively that they transcend time?
RB: Because it grew out of that diary I kept. Rusty was me—my alter ego. I only had to step outside and describe him, having already written from the inside.
Also, what made The Room on the Roof different was that I was an adolescent writing about adolescence. It was emotional, full of feeling. Later, as I grew older, I became more detached. But at that moment, I was totally involved in the writing, and maybe that gives it a certain immediacy.
SA: All your characters are so humane, and often content. What does happiness mean to you?
RB: I suppose I’m generally a happy person, though I’ve had my moods and lows. But yes, even when I start to write a gloomy story, it ends up a happy one. It’s just part of my nature coming through.
Or maybe it’s Dickens or some other writer from the past holding my pen and making me write the way they want me to write! Even my ghost stories—children sometimes complain they’re not scary enough. A girl once told me, “I read your ghost stories, but they’re not frightening. Can’t you make them scarier?” You can’t frighten kids nowadays!
SA: Is that the effect of the Himalayas? In one of your books, you wrote that once you live in the mountains for a long time, you belong to them.
RB: Yes, living in the hills has definitely influenced me. Since I came here in the 1960s, and even earlier when I went to school in Shimla, I’ve been a hill person. The longer you live in the mountains, the more they start talking to you, telling you what to do. Of course, I talk to the mountains too—but I’m not sure they’re listening!
SA: Some of your books are beautifully illustrated. Are you fond of illustrations?
RB: Especially in books for children, illustrations are important. They make the book pleasant and appealing. The cover too—it’s the first thing a reader sees. I’ve been fortunate to have worked with very good illustrators over the years, many of them from Calcutta. I’d call them artists, not just illustrators.
SA: Do you still write with pen and paper?
RB: Yes, I do. This pen, or one like it, is what I use. I used to type, but now I find writing by hand more comfortable. Earlier, I’d write by hand and then type the fair copy. Now I just send my handwritten manuscripts to my publishers. They don’t mind—in fact, they even reproduce my handwriting in some books.
SA: What would you say to young writers today, in this very different era?
RB: There are so many now! When I began in the 1950s, very few young people wanted to be writers. Today, even older people want to write, and many self-publish. Writing is fashionable.
But don’t do it just because it’s in fashion. Do it because you want to, because you must. Writing means putting your thoughts and imagination into words, shaping something out of them. There are all kinds of writers—serious, commercial—but in the end, it’s about creating something genuine.
SA: Do you think people read less today?
RB: Yes. But even earlier, reading was always a minority pastime. There were no televisions then. In my school of thirty boys, only two or three of us really read the books we borrowed from the library. So readers have always been few.
We, the readers, are the lucky ones. Sometimes I think I’m a reader first and a writer second. If I don’t have anything to read, I get very grumpy!
SA: What kind of books do you enjoy now?
RB: Biographies, first-person accounts, short stories, detective fiction for entertainment, travel books. I enjoy history too, if it’s interestingly written. And every morning I read three or four newspapers. If they don’t arrive, I’m in a bad mood. It’s an addiction!
SA: Do you ever face writer’s block?
RB: Not really. I don’t sit down to write until I’ve already written it in my head. If it’s a story, I see it unfolding like a film, so then it’s just a matter of putting it into words—dialogue, characters, details.
If you rush too soon, you can get stuck midway. Sometimes I lose interest in a piece and tear it up. But usually, I’ve lived with it in my mind first, so I avoid writer’s block.
SA: One of our Vice Presidents, Swami Bhajananandaji Maharaj, is also very fond of your writing. He’s of your age—ninety.
RB: Oh, I see. I think I’ve seen a magazine from Shillong. Someone sent me a copy once.
SA:That’s right. Would you be willing to contribute a piece—maybe a poem or a scribbling?
RB: You may take anything from one of my books and reprint it, just mention the source and publisher. And send me your recent issue—maybe I can even write something specially for you.
SA: It’s a rare privilege to meet you, sir.
RB: I wish I was feeling better—but you made me talk. Thank you.
As we rose to leave, the hills outside were already wrapped in mist, the room filled with the quiet of an evening well-spent. What remained with me was not just the conversation, but the presence of a man who had turned diaries into novels, solitude into stories, and mountains into companions.
Ruskin Bond is one of India’s most beloved storytellers, author of over 500 short stories, essays, and novels. His first book, The Room on the Roof (1956), won the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize. He lives in Landour, Mussoorie.
Swami Aryeshananda is a monk of the Ramakrishna Order. He currently heads the Publication Department at Udbodhan, the publishing house founded by Swami Vivekananda in 1899. Earlier, while serving in Shillong, he edited Ka Jingshai – The Light.
A translated version of this interview has been published in the September issue of Udbodhan.
