<p>In the charming hill town of Mussoorie, in the midst of all its hustle and bustle, there is a delight—a tiny bookstore known as Cambridge Book Depot. It was here, a few summers ago, that I waited eagerly for the chance to meet Ruskin Bond. Bond’s columns in <em>DH</em> in the early 1980s drew me close to his solitude-dripping works like no others. His simple style, comforting themes, deep love for the hills, and the backdrop of nature in his writings have all endeared his world to me. That afternoon, I was hoping to meet him and maybe even exchange a few words with him.</p>.<p>The air buzzed with excitement and anticipation. It was closer to noon, and the queue by now had snaked down the busy Mall Road, teeming with eager souls clutching their treasured books, each carrying a story of their own. I had read that Bond would visit this store every week to meet his readers and oblige them with selfies and autographs. But living down south and with Mussoorie hardly ever on my travel itinerary, I had all but given up hope of meeting him. But then I started to trek in the Himalayas every summer, and Dehra Dun would now frequently figure in my plans. Now I knew I could meet my favourite writer, and the anticipation had been bubbling for months.</p>.<p>There seemed to be a shared sense of awe hanging over the store that afternoon. As the line inched forward, almost everyone seemed to have their own Bond favourite—conversations centred around Rusty, Landour, Dehra, and more. They were topping up each other’s reading lists. We all seemed to be bound by a common love for Bond's enchanting words, and we would have the privilege to meet the man behind those words.</p>.<p>As the car pulled up outside the store, the crowd’s buzz grew louder. The rear door opened, and a rotund figure in a red sweater stepped out and slowly ambled to the desk right at the store’s entrance. Ruskin Bond was ready to meet his excited readers. When my turn arrived, I forgot everything that I had rehearsed to ask him. But his warm and humble persona instantly put me at ease. As he signed my book, he asked in a comforting, grandfatherly voice, "Where are you from?"</p>.<p>When I said Bangalore, he quickly responded with a smile, "Ah, everyone is on their computer there, isn’t it?" He then paused and said, "But I don’t use one. Just pen and paper for me." He signed a copy of his recent memoir "Lone Fox Dancing,", posed for photographs with me, and even said a warm goodbye as I stepped out of the store.</p>.<p>I left Mussoorie brimming with the joy and satisfaction of having met my inspiration, my favourite writer. I was carrying home with me not just an autographed souvenir but also a lasting memory of having met one of India’s finest writers, Ruskin Bond.</p>
<p>In the charming hill town of Mussoorie, in the midst of all its hustle and bustle, there is a delight—a tiny bookstore known as Cambridge Book Depot. It was here, a few summers ago, that I waited eagerly for the chance to meet Ruskin Bond. Bond’s columns in <em>DH</em> in the early 1980s drew me close to his solitude-dripping works like no others. His simple style, comforting themes, deep love for the hills, and the backdrop of nature in his writings have all endeared his world to me. That afternoon, I was hoping to meet him and maybe even exchange a few words with him.</p>.<p>The air buzzed with excitement and anticipation. It was closer to noon, and the queue by now had snaked down the busy Mall Road, teeming with eager souls clutching their treasured books, each carrying a story of their own. I had read that Bond would visit this store every week to meet his readers and oblige them with selfies and autographs. But living down south and with Mussoorie hardly ever on my travel itinerary, I had all but given up hope of meeting him. But then I started to trek in the Himalayas every summer, and Dehra Dun would now frequently figure in my plans. Now I knew I could meet my favourite writer, and the anticipation had been bubbling for months.</p>.<p>There seemed to be a shared sense of awe hanging over the store that afternoon. As the line inched forward, almost everyone seemed to have their own Bond favourite—conversations centred around Rusty, Landour, Dehra, and more. They were topping up each other’s reading lists. We all seemed to be bound by a common love for Bond's enchanting words, and we would have the privilege to meet the man behind those words.</p>.<p>As the car pulled up outside the store, the crowd’s buzz grew louder. The rear door opened, and a rotund figure in a red sweater stepped out and slowly ambled to the desk right at the store’s entrance. Ruskin Bond was ready to meet his excited readers. When my turn arrived, I forgot everything that I had rehearsed to ask him. But his warm and humble persona instantly put me at ease. As he signed my book, he asked in a comforting, grandfatherly voice, "Where are you from?"</p>.<p>When I said Bangalore, he quickly responded with a smile, "Ah, everyone is on their computer there, isn’t it?" He then paused and said, "But I don’t use one. Just pen and paper for me." He signed a copy of his recent memoir "Lone Fox Dancing,", posed for photographs with me, and even said a warm goodbye as I stepped out of the store.</p>.<p>I left Mussoorie brimming with the joy and satisfaction of having met my inspiration, my favourite writer. I was carrying home with me not just an autographed souvenir but also a lasting memory of having met one of India’s finest writers, Ruskin Bond.</p>