My book-shelf is perpetually in a chaotic jumble.
Due to space crunch, I have often to move the books around. As a result, when I
need a particular book it eludes me.

The other day I was looking for a little niche for
my new acquisitions when a book titled The Rain in the Mountains tumbled out.
It’s slightly yellowed with age and the sight of it stirred memories of the day
when I had visited Ivy cottage at Landour, Mussoorie for the first time and
received the book as a gift from its renowned author Ruskin Bond.

When I first read the author I was literally blown
away. The irrepressible charm of Night Train at Deoli & Other Stories, Time
Stops at Shamli & Other Stories and of course The Room on the Roof wove a
magic spell over me. His second-self Rusty took me by the hand, got me
acquainted with the lure of the Himalayas, introduced me to the purity and innocence
of those who lived there and made me privy to the vicissitudes of life that the
character got to grips with and transmuted them into stepping stones. No wonder
I was raring to meet him.

The evening I reached Mussoorie, it was
bone-chilling cold. Next day I embarked on the uphill journey from Hotel
Padmini Niwas at Library Stand. I had no idea how far up his oft-visited
cottage was. People advised me to take a car. But I was determined to cover the
distance a pied.

From Library Stand to Picture Palace Stand (a
leisurely 30-40 minute walk) sprawls the famed Mussoorie Mall boasting two
quality bookshops, Cambridge Book Depot and Chander Book Depot, along with
boutiques, parlours, restaurants and cafes of all sorts. From the three-way
fork at Picture Palace Stand I took the path leading to the crown of Mussoorie.
At that hour (half past 2 in the afternoon) it was in a siesta mood. As I
slowly moved up, I noticed how narrow steps hewn out of solid rock-wall made
short-cuts to upper region of the mountains. Deodar, pine and cypress trees
grew at a slant on the hillside. When I made it to Clock Tower (it no longer
exists), the entry point to Landour Bazar, the shops were mostly shuttered.
Once in a while, just to be sure I was on the right track, I asked a native the
way to the cottage. A long time resident and the most famous Ruskin Bond was
known to all.

I was a bit early as I always am whenever on a
self-imposed beat. There was a boy named Jason leaning against the stone-wall
at the edge of the path from where the hill fell away into a valley before
rising again in the distance. He was probably in a mood to pick up some walnuts
and peaches from the trees around Bond’s cottage (the trees have since been
felled for widening the road). I asked him:

‘Where exactly is Ivy Cottage?’

‘Oh, right in front!’

‘Have you ever met Ruskin Bond?’

‘Many times. He often goes to the market down there
and State Bank of India up there.’

How fortunate they are, I thought, having Bond as
their neighbour.

The steep stone staircase to his upper floor cottage
fascinated me no end. At 4.30, I went up and found Ruskin keenly waiting for
me. He knew the long haul I had undertaken to meet him.

We conversed for exactly an hour, for the cassette
of 60-minutes ran out the moment Bond finished answering the last question.
Then he got up and went into the adjoining study-cum-bedroom, as I suddenly got
petrified with the thought of how I would cope if the conversation went
unrecorded. I quickly put the earplugs on, rewound the tape a bit and pressed
the play button. There was no sound except of the spool running. I was close to
collapse when Bond’s taped voice came on. Obviously I had hit the place where
there was a pause in the conversation!

When I got my act together, I found Bond standing in
front of his shelf-full of books. Which one of them you would like to have, he
asked. I actually wanted to take all of them. But I said: ‘any one!’ He then
took out his book of fiction and poetry, Rain In The Mountains: Notes from the
Himalayas and autographed the book with the words: “To your success and
happiness!”

When I met him last a year or two ago, I gently
reminded him of the day of our first meeting (22 February 1997). Ruskin, the
lavengro, looked abstractedly past me as if mentally having a backward glance
and said with a touch of melancholy in his baritone: “How time flies!”