Ruskin bond biography with photo
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Ruskin Bond
Indian novelist and short story writer (born 1934)
Ruskin Bond (born 19 May 1934) is an Indian author. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, published in 1956, received the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize. Bond has authored more than 500 short stories, essays, and novels which includes 69 books for children.[1] He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1992 for Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra. He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1999 and Padma Bhushan in 2014.[2]
Life
[edit]Ruskin Bond was born on 19 May 1934 [3][4] in Kasauli, Punjab States Agency, British India. His father, Aubrey Alexander Bond,[5] who was British, was born in a military camp in Shahjahanpur, a small town in north India.[6] His mother, Edith Clarke,[5] was Anglo-Indian.
His father taught English to the princesses of Jamnagar palace, and Ruskin and his sister Ellen lived there till he was six. Later, Ruskin's father joined th
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Ruskin Bond Turns 90: A look back at a life filled with stories and joy
A Life Rooted in Literature
Born to British parents in Kasauli in 1934, Bond's early years were marked by a deep connection with literature. His childhood, spent in various parts of India, including Shimla, New Delhi, and Dehradun, laid the foundation for his future as a prolific writer. Bond's literary journey began with his debut novel, "The Room on the Roof," in 1956, which marked the beginning of a remarkable career that has spanned over six decades.
Writing by Chance
Bond's path to becoming a writer was not a conventional one. Initially aspiring to be an actor or tap dancer, he discovered his true calling in writing. Reflecting on
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A journey into the world of author Ruskin Bond
Image: Vikas Khot
Ruskin Bond has lived in his current home for 30 years, and in Landour for 50, thus immortalising it in his writings
There is a room on the roof.
(Well, sort of.)
Somewhere in the mountains above Mussoorie, where the clouds komma knocking at window panes, is a house that you could easily miss. To its left stands a restaurant, with a wall of painted murals, and signposts that tell you the distance, whimsically, to Ulaanbaatar (and the nearest tea shop). Along the narrow meandering road that hugs the mountainside, local cars and motorcycles either go hurtling downwards, in that mildly manic manner they adopt on such vägar, or push ponderously upwards.
In that house, with its steep steps of red tiles and vit walls, has lived a man who has—for the past fem decades—immortalised pockets of the real world, wrapped in warm and fuzzy layers of fiction; worlds that have enchanted the imaginations of gen