The Rupa Book of Laughter Omnibus & Funny Side Up (2 in 1) by Ruskin Bond

Author:Ruskin Bond
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
Publisher: Rupa & Co
Published: 2009-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

Ping Pong & Ruskin Bond

BY VICTOR BANERJEE*

You walked up a rickety old staircase, turned a shiny brass knob and passed through a creaky door into the horrors of the dentist's chamber. He was an ancient, asthmatic Parsee, forced to flee from the balmy shores of Bandra in Bombay, to the more moderate Doon valley. He gazed deep into the gaping mouth of the cherubic young boy who was screaming his lungs out to drown the drone of the dreadful drill that stood grimly beside him. "Great voice, terrible teeth!" the doctor wheezed.

Ruskin Bond was at an impressionable age, and would never forget the old wheezer's diagnostic proclamation about his singing voice. The years passed, and the cherub grew into a portly bundle of fun a great writer of children's stories and quite understandably, a frustrated singer.

As a kindergartner in Bishop Cotton School, in Simla, he was the most angelic of all the choir boys. Dressed in frilly gowns and leading the Easter Parades, he never understood why the choir mistress, tapping his soft derriere with a Malacca cane, had whispered. "Open your mouth wide, but do not, not ever, utter a sound!" Those words had tormented him for many years, and even bothered him today.

Ruskin grew up on Gilbert and Sullivan, and the Grand Operas. He puffed his hair meticulously, like Nelson Eddy, and when alone in his room, used boot polish to look like Paul Robeson. He fumbled through adolescence doting palely on Eartha Kitt and Elizabeth Taylor, dueting dolefully with Jeanette MacDonald in his shower, and lamenting the locks that hid Veronica Lake from him.

Today, as he leans out of his window on a summer's eve and gazes into the shimmering lights of the Doon valley five thousand feet below, he benignly recollects the old dentist's chamber of horrors and wonders what went wrong. Parsees are a respected bunch, he ponders, they never lie. Almost two generations of Indians had grown up reading his books, and it made not the slightest difference to him. Woefully he looked up at a sky bathed in neons from the planes and with tremulous cheeks, and a lump in his throat, began to sing.

A mellifluous voice bemoaned its outcaste state and the sycamores sighed to the strains of "Oh Rose Marie, I love you". Windows slammed shut. Children dived under quilts. Grandmothers smiled.

For years, this disembodied voice, to natives on the hillside, had been associated with the spirit of Captain Young; the Irish cavalier who founded Mussoorie almost two hundred years ago. On certain nights of the year, the Captain's ghost haunted Landour, and you heard his horse gallop across the slopes of Mallangar. Not to be confused with any head-less horseman, Young sang. And that is how Ruskin has held onto his little secret, all these years. As a child in Kathiawar, he had hobnobbed with royalty, played Katisha in "The Mikado" and developed an intense passion for cricket, among other noble pursuits. Sometimes, squatting under the bellies of giant great

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