When 'trees' is being talked about, the person who comes to my mind is Ruskin Bond.
That person who described trees, hills, flowers, Dehradun, the Garhwals, rain in a lovely manner. So much so that it's hard not to fall in love with his works.
He is somebody who makes reading a beautiful habit. He takes us into his quaint little world of charm. A world which appears pleasant and lively when looked at from all angles. A world which portrays everything nice.....where friends are lost and new ones are found.
Be it, the tale of a zoo created from a collection of the neighbouring animals...... or a small boy who discovers a whole new world from a window.
Each story has made me laugh, feel sad.... With gracefullness inculcated in every sentence.....To classify one as best is very difficult. It's disheartening too. As i would have to disregard other novels in the process of choosing one.
Ruskin Bond is one of the best writers we have. Childhood is when splendid things happen. His works des accentuate that feeling to a very great extent.
A few poems by Ruskin Bond:
Don’t be afraid of the dark
Don’t be afraid of the dark, little one,
The earth must rest when the day is done.
The sun may be harsh, but moonlight – never!
And those stars will be shining forever and ever,
Be friends with the Night, there is nothing to fear,
Just let your thoughts travel to friends far and near.
By day, it does seem that our troubles won’t cease,
But at night, late at night, the world is at peace.
Love’s sad song
There’s a sweet little girl lives down the lane,
And she’s so pretty and I’m so plain,
She’s clever and smart and all things good,
And I’m the bad boy of the neighbourhood.
But I’d be her best friend forever and a day
If only she’d smile and look my way.
Slum children at play
Imps of mischief,
Barefoot in the dust,
Grinning, mocking, even as
They beg you for a crust.
No angels these,
Just hungry eyes
And eager hands
To help you sympathise…
They don’t want love,
They don’t seek pity,
They know there’s nothing
In this heartless city
But a kindred need
In those who strive
For power and pelf
Though only just alive!
They know your guilt,
They’ll take your money,
And if you give too much
They’ll find you funny.
Because that’s what you are –
You’re just a joke –
Your life is soft
And theirs all grime and smoke.
And yet they shout and sing
And do not thank your giving,
You’ll fuss and fret through life
While they do all the living.