The name's Bond

I’m a huge Ruskin Bond fan. Not the die-hard fan that remembers every little detail about his life, but of his work. So when we were in Mussoorie on May 19, his 89th birthday, it was a happy coincidence. Even otherwise, I happen to explore the ‘Queen of the Hills’ simply because I had roamed those hilly paths and soaked in the spirit through his books.

Mussoorie was a disappointment with honking cars, heaps of tourist plastic, and traffic jams. Where do I taste the stillness in the air? Eavesdrop on cricket songs or catch a glimpse of swifts mating mid-air? I peeked down and around from a hill view point ignoring the stench, but I saw nothing.

The next day we drove upwards to Landour and I was strolling back into the pages of the octogenarian’s books. I thought that a drive would kill this joy and decided to trek to Landour and about. Tall deodar trees, the silence of nature interrupted by the swag and sway of langurs, grinning dandelions--this was it.

I almost loved every tucked away home that flashed a ‘private property, do not trespass’ sign. I would do the same. The Mussoorie and Landour in books should thrive. A rusty chain and lock had shut the doors of the Landour cemetery. Undeterred, I walked by the gate and around it, remembering Gulabi and Captain Young. I didn’t feel a trickle of sweat though, instead the cool air, the silence of the cemetery and the lichen covered boundary walls brought a smile.

We made our way to the Sister’s Bazaar and went into every little souvenir shop, scouting for pretty postcards. The Landour Bakehouse is probably the most charming bakery in India. Red brick walls, antique furniture and a menu that includes a flamingo pink rose and almond cake, scones, buttery croissants and ‘Sticky Jaw’ - the old-fashioned Landour candy - make you fall in love. And a sign that reads, ‘We do not have Wi-Fi. Pretend it is 1895 and talk to each other’ seals
the deal!

Ruskin Bond often mentions Prakash and Sons, the 95-year old store in Sister’s Bazaar known for its jams and preserves. While they were out of stock of apricot preserve, Bond’s favourite, I grabbed the grape, gooseberry and strawberry preserves while they lasted.

The Kellogg Church was closed too! A tad disappointed we decided to drive to Doma’s café and see if, as a finale, we could catch a glimpse of the man himself. A riot of colour, we could see the café from up the street, but a nasty traffic jam had choked the entire stretch. The police whistled, drivers wrestled, and bikers wedged into any little place they possibly could. It was clear we couldn’t get off anywhere there. I asked the driver to slow down so I could spot anything that resembled the author. A volley of abuse, a splatter of spit and an empty water bottle almost hit my forehead. I ducked back in. We moved past the building.

Maybe, I should let the man be. And the charming, picturesque hill-scape of Mussoorie and Landour that is in my head.