The Eyes Have It

Ruskin Bond (born 1934), recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award and the Padma Bhushan, is celebrated for his lucid, evocative prose style, deep affinity for the Himalayan foothills, and acute psychological insight into ordinary lives. First published under the title The Eyes Have It (and later anthologized as The Eyes Are Not Here and The Girl on the Train), this short story exemplifies Bond's hallmark economy of language: there are no wasted sentences, no melodramatic flourishes, and every sensory detail serves to heighten the final ironic revelation.

The narrative opens inside a steam-train carriage on the northern plains of India. The narrator has occupied the compartment entirely alone up to Rohana station, where a young girl boards the train. The setting is deliberately insular: a moving railway carriage functions as a liminal, neutral space where social hierarchies recede and strangers can forge ephemeral bonds unburdened by past histories or future obligations.

The couple who saw the girl off—almost certainly her parents—exhibit intense, meticulous anxiety regarding her safety. The narrator observes: "They were very anxious about her comfort and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers."

In retrospect, this hyper-vigilance operates as an early structural clue (foreshadowing): their extreme anxiety stems not merely from typical parental solicitude, but from the fact that their daughter is completely blind and travelling alone.

The narrator reveals that his optical organs are "sensitive only to light and darkness." Despite his total blindness at that juncture, he is acutely determined to prevent his female co-traveller from discovering his condition. He calculates: "Provided I keep to my seat, I thought, it shouldn't be too difficult." This determination is rooted not in malice, but in an understandable human desire to avoid pity, patronization, or awkwardness.

Sitting in a dark corner of the carriage, the narrator breaks the silence with a straightforward inquiry: "Are you going all the way to Dehra?" The girl gives a little exclamation of surprise, remarking that she did not realize anyone else was in the compartment. This reaction immediately sparks a philosophical musing from the narrator.

The narrator reflects on why people with normal vision frequently fail to notice immediate surroundings:

This philosophical passage contains deep structural irony: while the narrator smugly attributes the girl's failure to notice him to the sensory overload typical of sighted individuals, she was in fact completely blind herself!

The girl reveals that she is getting down at Saharanpur, where her aunt will meet her. Hearing this, the narrator playfully quips: "Aunts are usually formidable creatures." When she inquires about his journey, he replies that he is traveling to Dehra, and then up to Mussoorie. This triggers an outburst of genuine envy from the girl: "Oh, how lucky you are! I wish I were going to Mussoorie. I love the hills. Especially in October."

Calling upon his vivid memories from when he still possessed eyesight, the narrator paints an intoxicating verbal portrait of Mussoorie in autumn:

• Floral Splendor: The hills are covered with wild dahlias.
• Temperate Sun: The sun is delicious and comforting during the day.
• Nocturnal Cozy Warmth: At night, one can sit in front of a crackling log fire and drink a little brandy.
• Tranquil Solitude: Most tourists have departed, leaving the mountain roads quiet and almost deserted.

Because the narrator cannot see the girl, his auditory faculties compensate with intense lyricism. He notes that the sound of her voice is enchanting: "She had a lovely voice and the sparkle of a mountain stream." This brilliant auditory metaphor captures the crisp, melodious, and spontaneous clarity of the girl's speech, standing in sharp contrast to the monotonous roar of the train.

Fearing that his poetic silence might make him seem romantic or reveal his visual limitation, the narrator moves along the berth to the open window. He faces it, pretending to study the scenery outside. Though his physical eyes perceive nothing, his imagination and acoustic senses reconstruct the passing world: "I heard the panting of the engine, the rumble of the wheels, and, in my mind's eye, I could see telegraph posts flashing by."

The narrator asks: "Have you noticed that the trees seem to be moving while we seem to be standing still?" The girl dismisses this effortlessly: "That always happens." She then asks if he sees any animals outside, to which the narrator replies confidently in the negative, knowing well that the forests near Dehra hardly harbor any animals near the railway tracks.

Emboldened by his success, the narrator decides to take a calculated risk. He venture: "You have an interesting face." This remark is a stroke of psychological genius:

• It is flattering without being insolent or overtly intrusive.
• It suggests deep discernment rather than superficial visual assessment.
• The girl responds with a ringing, joyful laugh: "It's nice to be told I have an interesting face. I'm tired of people telling me I have a pretty face."
• The narrator smoothly adapts to this unexpected confirmation: "Well, an interesting face can also be pretty."

The girl notes with relief that her journey is short: "We'll soon be at your station," the narrator announces. She replies: "Thank goodness it's a short journey. I can't bear to sit in a train for more than two or three hours." The narrator, however, experiences the opposite sentiment: he is willing to sit there indefinitely just to listen to her speak.

The train slows into Saharanpur. The engine shrieks, the carriage wheels change sound and rhythm, and a high-pitched female voice calls out near the carriage door—the girl's aunt. As the girl rises to collect her belongings, she stands directly adjacent to the narrator.

In this breathless, intimate moment, the narrator's senses reach a fever pitch of sensory intensity:

The adjective 'tantalizing' perfectly captures the agonizing proximity of beauty that remains forever unattainable. The narrator is held back by societal propriety and his fear of exposing his blindness. She bids him goodbye, and with a rustle of garments, she disappears forever from his life.

As the girl exits, a man entering the compartment stammers an apology. The train pulls out of the station; the carriage groans and rattles. The narrator resumes his seat by the window, plunging once more into his reverie. The new male co-passenger, attempting to break the ice, remarks: "You must be disappointed. I'm not nearly as attractive a travelling companion as the one who just left."

The narrator, still intoxicated by the lingering perfume of her hair, inquires casually: "Did she keep her hair long or short?"

The new passenger's reply shatters the narrator's entire constructed universe with stunning brevity:

The ending operates on a sublime level of Double Situational Irony:

• The Narrator's Deception: Throughout the journey, the narrator prides himself on his cunning disguise, believing he has fooled a sighted person.
• The Girl's Symmetrical Deception: In reality, the girl was playing the exact same game—concealing her blindness behind a poised facade, pleasant laughter, and casual responses.
• The Paradox of Sight: The girl had 'beautiful eyes' that could not see; the narrator possessed keen mental sight while his physical eyes were dark. Neither recognized that their fellow traveler shared their exact handicap.