As I write, a small white butterfly flutters in at the open window, reminding me of all that Nature offers to anyone who is receptive enough to appreciate its delights. One of my earliest stories, written over fifty years ago, was about a small yellow butterfly settling on my grandmother's knitting-needles and setting a train of reminiscence. Now i have done with reminiscing, and this particular butterfly is here to invite me outside, to walk in the sunshine and revel in the glories of a Himalyan spring.
The children are watching Jackie Chan on television. Their mother is cutting up beans prior to preparing lunch. Their grandmother is giving the dog a bath. These cheerful folk are a member of my extended family. It's normal day for them, and I hope it stays that way. I don't want too much excitement just now- not while I'm trying to finish a book.
The butterfly has gone, and the sunshine beckons. It's been a long hard winter in the hills. But the chestnut trees are coming into new leaf, and that's good enough for me. I have never been a fast walker, or a conqueror of mountain peaks, but I can plod along for miles. And that's what I've been doing all my life - plodding along, singing my song, telling my tales in my own unhurried way. I have lived life at my own gentle pace, and if as a result I have failed to get to the top of the mountain (or of anything else) it doesn't matter, the long walk has brought its own sweet rewards; buttercups and butterflies along the way.
Ruskin Bond
Landour, March 2005
Ruskin Bond, from the book 'Roads to Mussourie'
