There are too many hooks. But there are too few that are worth reading.
Recently, the author Ruskin Bond voiced his dismay at the lack of Himalayan literature. After we discussed this void in Mussoorie, I walked home and moodily viewed my own collection of titles.
What is probably the very first book I bought — from a pavement book stall in Calcutta in I960 — has been the most cherished, Swami Pranavananda's gun-toting guide to the Mansarovar pilgrimage overcomes all the quaint desi usage to spellbind by its authentic capturing of the glory of the abode of Shiva. By contrast, Sven Hedin's more professional and ponderous findings lacks the vital dimension of winged inspiration.
It was only when I returned to Delhi, where my bookshelf is more expansive, and browsed through my titles of eminently worth-keeping books that I realised Ruskin's pronouncement required some modification. There are too few good books on the Himalaya. And there are all too many leaden-footed expedition leaders accounts that fulfil a sponsorship contract and fit in an appendix that lists the high street stores which provided long Johns and tinned tuna to the expedition.