Her Highness of the Hills

Publisher: Penguin

Pages: 180

Price: Rs 299

Ruskin Bond has always known how to tell a story,with precision and devoid of show. His stories read like birdsong,sweet,on key,predictable. You are happy to hear it even if you know it is unlikely to move you to tears or raptures. He describes his style best in his latest novella Maharani,“There’s just one way to write: put pen to paper and allow the words to come by themselves. As they will,if you don’t interrupt and don’t juggle them around too much.” His words flow straight from thoughts or experiences to page without consideration to technique or other contrivances.

In a writing career that spans half a century,he has become one of India’s most beloved authors because of this assured simplicity. Reading him is to sit on the porch with a genial old uncle,warmed by tea and anecdote on a winter’s afternoon. He has made the hill station story a trope in itself. The canvas remains limited,that of a small town,a few characters (the weirder the better),earthy pleasures,the lingering ghost,resonant experiences and nature’s splendour. Sometimes that is all you need. But at other times it’s just a blip of relief in an all-too messy reality. 

In Maharani,Bond once again spins a story of eccentric characters against dramatic sunsets. H.H. Maharani Sahiba of Mastipur (Neena to her close friends) is a dog-loving,Patialia-peg-drinking,love-making erstwhile queen now living in Hollow Oak in Mussorie. Married to a prince consumed by his pet rats,and mother of two effete sons,she busies herself with wild parties,new lovers and the choicest liquor. Bond and she share a fluid friendship,one that starts with a hasty adolescent kiss,and evolves into one of trust over the decades.

Friendship,its various permutations,form the crux of this novella. Like many friendships,the author and Neena slip in and out of each others lives,proximity bringing them closer and distance rendering them invisible to the other. The narrator is no fan of H.H. He chides her even while pandering to her demands,perhaps realising that her eccentricities are born from loneliness and a longing for love. In return,Neena takes solace in his company,identifying him as a “hippy disguised as a man of the world,” or more precisely,as “one of life’s failures”.

He sees her for what she is and makes no excuses for her behaviour,which he often finds selfish and hurtful. “Sometimes I couldn’t help feeling that Neena’s mission in life was to make life as unpleasant as possible for all those who had any claim on her purse or affections,” he writes.

Bond is skilled at creating exaggerated — even absurd — figures. And Neena provides much amusement to author and reader through the course of the book. She doesn’t “sit” on chairs,instead she “subsides” into sofas as she does into hydrangea bushes. Her drunken antics as she gatecrashes parties or cheats on lovers make for enchanting and humorous retelling.

The narrator enjoys a warmer friendship with a young boy Pablo,the son of Neena’s diplomat lover. Their shared love for movies brings adult and child unexpectedly together. Bond has always created genuine children,perhaps because he started writing about them from the age of 17 with Room on the Roof,which spelled out the teenage angst of Rusty,the protagonist. Here too,Pablo and his little sister Anna are the two most interesting characters with their uncanny powers to see beyond the obvious. Bond’s ability to identify Pablo’s insecurities,their trips to the cinema,their long walks make their short-lived interaction come alive.

Within the limited scope of Maharani,Bond proves once again that he can still delight and soothe even if he only seldom wows a reader.