Kashmiri Storyteller

Ruskin Bond

Description

As darkness falls outside; and the chill sets in; Javed Khan pulls at his hookah and begins his stories When Kamal and his friends gather at Javed Khan s Kashmiri shop at Landour bazaar; he enthralls them with his stories of princes and kings; fairies and magical animals; supermen and cunning traders. Come; sit around the fire with Kamal; Shashi; Anil; Madhu and Vijay while they listen to Javed Khan s stories of the monkey bride; the man who got swallowed by a mosquito; the bent-up double beggar who angered a ghost; and many other tales from Kashmir and beyond. In this brilliantly illustrated collection; Ruskin Bond brings alive unforgettable folktales from the misty hills of Kashmir that will delight and enchant his followers both young and old

Sujets

• India

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 09 juillet 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184755718
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

RUSKIN BOND
The Kashmiri Storyteller
Illustrated by Prasun Mazumdar
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Introduction
A Cold Evening in the Bazaar
Javed Khan Warms Up
The Hill of the Forty Brothers
Seven Brides for Seven Princes
In the Land of the Peris
The Bent-Up-Double Beggar
A Very Tall Story
The Lost Ruby
The Friendship of Hira and Lal
Prince Shamsher Jung
The Mountain Lake
Copyright Page
PUFFIN BOOKS
THE KASHMIRI STORYTELLER
Born in Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh, in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar (Gujarat), Dehradun, New Delhi and Simla. His first novel The Room on the Roof , written when he was seventeen, received the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written over three hundred short stories, essays and novellas (including Vagrants in the Valley and A Flight of Pigeons ) and more than thirty books for children. He received the Sahitya Akademi Award for English writing in India in 1993, and the Padma Shri in 1999.
He lives in Landour, Mussoorie, with his extended family.
Also in Puffin by Ruskin Bond
Puffin Classics: The Room on the Roof
The Room of Many Colours: A Treasury of Stories for Children
Panther s Moon and Other Stories
The Hidden Pool
The Parrot Who Wouldn t Talk and Other Stories
Mr Oliver s Diary
Escape from Java and Other Tales of Danger
Crazy Times with Uncle Ken
Rusty the Boy from the Hills
Rusty Runs Away
Rusty and the Leopard
Rusty Goes to London
Rusty Comes Home
Introduction
Some forty years ago, when I penned these folk and fairy tales, I used the medium of an old Kashmiri storyteller who, on a winter s evening, would light his angithi and entertain the children who came to his shop in the Landour bazaar.
To my disappointment, the publishers to whom I submitted the tales were willing to publish them only if I eliminated the storyteller and his listeners, the unadorned stories providing the only narrative.
Unwilling to abandon my storyteller and his young listeners (who were all real children), I retrieved the manuscript and put it away in a tin trunk where it lay forgotten with other abandoned works and files of old newspaper cuttings.
Then, last winter, when Penguin India s Ravi Singh and I were chatting over an evening drink, I remembered that I had kept an old article on Palampur (his home town) in that same trunk, and in looking for it I came across the forgotten manuscript of folktales. I showed them to him, and mentioned my reason for having put them away unpublished. He thought the old storyteller and the children were the most appealing part of the book, and offered to publish it under both the Penguin and Puffin imprints.
So here they are. The Kashmir in these stories is long gone, but most of the children are still around, and I hear of them from time to time. Little Vijay is now in his fifties, while pigtailed Shashi is a grandmother. I wonder if they tell stories to their children and grandchildren, or do they just leave them to their laptops and TV sets? The oral tradition of storytelling has just about died out. But the written word is still around. It won t go away so easily. And through it we can review the past, delve into a world long gone, capture some of its ancient magic.
And so my Kashmiri storyteller lives again, telling his ageless stories.
Ruskin Bond Landour, Mussoorie
A Cold Evening in the Bazaar
One day, towards the end of December, the sky became overcast and a light drizzle set in. Young Kamal stood before the chemist s shop in Landour, watching the thermometer, which had fallen considerably since morning.
It might snow tonight, said the chemist, greeting him from the door.
Kamal agreed, for in spite of the drizzle and his warm coat and scarf, the cold was becoming more intense every minute.
Good night, he called to the chemist, and, taking the road down through the bazaar, sat off at a brisk pace. In the bazaar stood several Kashmiri and Tibetan shops, the Tibetans selling brassware and painted scrolls and semi-precious stones, and the Kashmiris selling carpets and curios.
Kamal was passing these shops, when Javed Khan hailed him.
It s bad weather to be out in, called the elderly Kashmiri shopkeeper. Perhaps the rain will stop in half an hour. Till then, come sit by the brazier and warm yourself.
Kamal looked in and saw that there were already several boys and girls sitting around the fire, among whom he recognized Shashi, a dark girl with pigtails who was his classmate, and little pot-bellied Vijay who was still too small to go to school but big enough to be at Javed Khan s shop.
I am telling these young friends some stories of my part of the country, said Javed Khan. Perhaps they will interest you also.
Kamal accepted the invitation, because he liked Javed Khan s stories, and also because the weather was uninviting and his house was at least a mile distant.
If your hands are cold, I have gloves for sale, said Javed Khan, always ready to do a little business with his guests. They are made in Kashmir where, as you know, the cold is even greater than it is here. He extracted a pair of gloves from a bundle and handed them to Kamal, saying, Payment may be made at your convenience, knowing that Kamal s father, who wrote books, could be relied upon to pay his bills even if he took some time to do so
Javed Khan was a great favourite with the young people of Landour, whether they were the children of the rich or poor, and on cold evenings they would gather round his glowing brazier to listen to his stories.
What price are the gloves, Javed Khan? asked Kamal, always ready to bargain.
The price can wait till payment, answered the shrewd old man.
Ten rupees and no more, said Kamal.
Javed Khan threw up his hands in mock despair, and Kamal knew that a bargain had been struck. He put the gloves in his pocket, and taking little Vijay on his knees, leaned over the fire, warming his hands.
Now Javed Khan, what about one of your stories, said Shashi, her large eyes shining in the firelight.
There is one on my lips at this moment, Shashi, and if little Vijay will sit still, I will begin.
Immediately everyone was quiet, while the children gathered round the fire in a circle. Javed Khan took a puff at his hookah and began his story.

A man whom nothing could please (said Javed Khan) arrived one day in our village during the summer season and sat down to rest under a walnut tree. The tree gave a lot of fruit every year and was very valuable to its owner. The ground around the tree was also valuable, and was planted with the seeds of the gourd plant. When the Man-Whom-Nothing Could-Please sat down, he noticed a ripening gourd growing close by him.
He looked at the walnut tree and then at the creeping gourd plant.
Oh, Allah! he said. How strange are Your ways. You have given such small nuts to such a large tree, while the creeping gourd plant bears a fruit out of all proportion to its strength. Wouldn t it have been more sensible to have made things the other way round?
Just then a walnut fell from its branch on to the grumbler s bare head, making him sit up with a start and rub the smarting spot.
Oh, Allah! he exclaimed. Now I see the wisdom of your ways. You are right, after all. If the gourd had grown on the walnut tree and had fallen on my head from that height, it might indeed have killed me! Now I see your wisdom, greatness and power!


Kamal chuckled to himself, and the others were smiling at the thought of the discomfiture of the Man-Whom-Nothing-Could-Please.
Javed Khan, said Kamal, who told you this tale? Has it been written and put in a book?
I do not know, huzoor , you had better ask your father. Now it is getting late. Come again, for I have many stories to tell you and my young friends. Now run home, before it begins to snow.
Good night, Javed Khan, said Kamal, putting on his new gloves and wrapping his scarf around little Vijay. I had better leave Vijay at his house.
He rose to go and so did the others. Shashi took the road to the left, and Kamal, carrying Vijay on his shoulder, hurried down the winding bazaar road.
Javed Khan Warms Up
In my part of the country were many wise men, said Javed Khan. Those who made the laws were known as Kazis, and we obeyed them because they were just. From our youth onwards we were taught obedience towards the orders issued by the wise Kazis.
And disobedience, Javed Khan? enquired Kamal.
It is a bad word and seldom needs to be used.
The weather had cleared, and on his way home from school Kamal had stopped at the Kashmiri shop. Snow was visible at heights above 8,000 feet; at lower altitudes, it was melting rapidly.
Are you telling any stories this evening, Javed Khan? asked Kamal.
I do not know, huzoor. It is possible that our young friends will not come this evening. They will be playing all day in this fine weather, and by evening may be too tired to walk to my shop. Will you be coming?
Perhaps you can tell us a story about the wisdom of your Kazis.
Well, if you will favour my shop with your presence after the sun has set
I will come, said Kamal. Five o clock will see me here.
I will await your presence, huzoor.
Punctually at five o clock Kamal arrived at Javed Khan s shop, to find that a number of young people had got there before him.
They are all here, said Javed Khan happily, in spite of their tired limbs.
Shashi and Vijay were there, and so were the mischievous boy Anil and little Madhu, his sister, whose long hair lay scattered about her shoulders. Kamal joined them on the floor, in front of Javed Khan, who puffed contentedly on his long hookah.
Are there hookahs of gold? asked Shashi.
Yes, there are hookahs of gold and silver, but I prefer ordinary hookahs like this one.
After all, you are an ordinary person, said Anil in a bantering voice.
Javed Khan grew angry. If that is what you think, you will hear no stories from me, he said.
Do not be