Some books feel like a warm hug—comforting, steady, and quietly restorative. Ruskin Bond’s latest, Life’s Magical Moments, is one such companion. Published as he turned 91 last May, the book gathers reflections, anecdotes and what he fondly calls his “ramblings” into a tender meditation on gratitude, nature, books and the art of living simply.
Drawing deeply from his personal life, Bond writes of the modest tools that sustained him for decades—a pen, reading glasses, a large notebook on a sunlit table. There were difficult phases when he took on other jobs to make ends meet, but writing was always the anchor he returned to once he felt financially secure. “What a delight it is to sit here in my little sunroom, surrounded by geraniums, pen in hand, pad before me…” he writes, capturing the quiet joy of routine. He observes that happiness is never constant; contentment lies in finding balance, in wanting neither too little nor too much.
Books, unsurprisingly, are his lifelong companions. As a child, he was shaped by classics such as Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. He speaks fondly of Richard Jefferies’s The Story of My Heart and JR Ackerley’s Hindoo Holiday, calling them “special friends.” And when spirits dip, he turns to PG Wodehouse’s immortal creations—Jeeves, Ukridge and Mr Mulliner—for cheer.
Nature, however, remains his deepest solace. From flowers on his windowsill to earthworms in the soil, from water as life’s elixir to the bounty of the hills, Bond writes with abiding wonder. He urges readers to give back—plant a tree, help someone in need, cultivate gratitude. His affection for cosmos flowers, once abundant in Mussoorie and Landour, is especially touching; he imagines fairies sleeping beneath their petals, rising at dawn to sip dew. Though he laments their disappearance, he insists he will keep looking for fairies—a gentle reminder that one is never too old to hope. “I will listen to the whistling thrush for as long as it chooses to sing… and look for fireflies on a rainy night,” he writes.
The book’s charm lies in its candour and understated humour. Tales of borrowed books never returned, a doctor aghast at his fondness for pickles, or his preference for parathas over meditation are narrated with wry amusement. Even reflections on loneliness, creative failure or fading eyesight are suffused with acceptance and lightness.
Life’s Magical Moments does not preach. It simply nudges the reader towards attentiveness—to small pleasures, to resilience, to the present. “From nine to ninety I rambled,” Bond writes. Though age may have slowed his steps, in his mind’s eye he still sees violets in rock crevices, dragonflies over mountain streams, and endless roads unfolding. And through these pages, he invites us to ramble along with him.