cricket – Borderless

The Writer on the Hill

One evening at a city mall, I met an elderly gentleman at a café stall. He seemed jovial and accessible. His demeanour was pleasing and lovable. I was killing time with nothing to do. Chatting with someone interesting – I always love to do. The gentleman’s persona was magnetic “You would love conversing with him,” said my gut feeling and my whim. Why not introduce myself? Thought I. After all there was no harm in saying Hi! My introduction was short and formal. The gentleman seemed impressed, and his reaction – cordial. “Why don’t you sit? Then we can have a chat. You seem interesting, and I, hopefully, will not be boring.” I loved the offer and heartily accepted. ‘A lovely conversation’ – was the least I expected. The gentleman introduced himself – “I am Mr Bond – no not James but Ruskin…Ruskin Bond. I am a writer from the hill. You know Pari Tibba? That’s where I often chill.” As we conversed more, I learnt more and more. About the hills, about Dehra, about Landour -- its flora and fauna. About Mr Bond’s books, the characters in them and their looks, some incredible encounters, some well learnt lessons, some indelible moments, some wise comments. An hour passed and then he got up. As his driver arrived for the pickup. We wished each other and bade goodbye. “Take care my friend” said he, “until we meet next time.” Humbled and quenched That’s how I summarise Meeting Mr Bond that evening was surely a pleasant surprise.

Hats, Cats, Foxes & Rhymes…

Poetry by Rhys Hughes

THE DOERS OF THAT


We very rarely do this
for we are the doers of that,
we are almost impossible to kiss
and we wear incredible hats.

Yes, we are the doers of that,
we tease whoever we please,
we hiss at bees high in the trees
and wheeze at inedible cats.

To be a good doer of that
it helps to swap fleas with things
or flit and flap like a cricket bat
that has suddenly sprouted wings.

Our bicycles are truly organic
with bold noses mostly titanic,
mighty big sneezes plus sea breezes
will trundle us along in a panic.

But rather diffuse are our ears,
they operate best in low gears,
when listening uphill they thrill
to the trill of squirrels drunk on beers.

Soft are the beds we lie on,
their shapes based on dandelions,
slick are the knees that we freeze
in cold teas and biscuity their caps.

For we are the doers of that
and inordinately proud of the fact.
Yes, we are the doers of that,
expressionless and very abstract.


 
TWO DETECTIVE INSPECTORS


The fox said to the owl
“When it came to
choosing a career
most of my options were defective.
I wanted something proactive
so I was very selective
and decided to become a detective
because murder most fowl
sounded very attractive.”

“I too joined the police
for gustatory reasons,” replied the bird,
“and now I do battle against
gangs who shoot, stab and smother.
To be perfectly candid
I am always enthralled
when we catch them red-handed
and the perpetrators rat on each other.”


 
THE RHYME AND THE MIME


The rhyme and the mime were friends
but drove each other
round the bend, taking it in turns.
They never learned!

And in the hay one day
one rolled around until he was far away
and the other was irate:
too late to berate the fate of his mate!

Which was the unfortunate explorer?
Was it the quiet mime
or was it the rhyme with perfect time
twanging in a corner?

Obviously it was the mime, otherwise
logic is endangered
and strangers who range on the plain
will dissolve in rain.

The rhyme and the mime are laughing
with their little faces,
eyes of the mime, sequins bright: those
of the rhyme, lower case.

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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