Diary: Landour, Mussoorie

By the time I reached Landour, my legs ached and my breath came in short bursts. It was a windy afternoon, and yet my shirt clung to my back. But none of that mattered. Because the moment I stepped into its chilly embrace, I knew - I had arrived some place special.

The hike started in Mussoorie - the small town bustling with tourists and honking scooters, but with every step upward, the noise faded. The roads narrowed, winding between tall, dense deodars. The air grew lighter, carrying the scent of distant rain. The climb was steep in places, the kind that made my lungs burn. The climb was also slow - deliberate.

At one bend, I spotted a group of monkeys perched on a stone wall, watching hikers with an unsettling curiosity. I had been warned to keep my phone in my bag, to not meet their gaze for too long. So, I did, careful not to attract unwanted attention.

For a place I had never been, Landour felt oddly familiar. I had read about it in Ruskin Bond’s stories - the misty lanes, the ivy-covered cottages, the charm of a place that had refused to race ahead with time.

The homes here were not loud in their beauty; they were modest. Some cottages had rusted tin roofs, others had wooden porches lined with flower pots. I imagined Bond himself, looking out of his window, watching the mist roll in with his pen rested over a notebook.

"The people who live on these mountain slopes in the mist-filled valleys have long since learned humility, patience, and quiet resignation," Bond had written in one of his books.

At Char Dukan, I dropped onto a park bench, my body still humming from the climb. Mountain dogs trotted along. Tourists sat nearby, dunking biscuits into their tea, clicking pictures, unbothered by time.

Life here wasn't about rushing; it was about pausing. About breathing. About listening to the hills speak in their own quiet way. I thought about the boy in Bond's "The Room on the Roof," about the lonely hearts that had found comfort in these hills, about the countless travelers before me who had stood where I stood, watching the world spread out below.

I exhaled, my breath visible in the crisp winter air. For a moment, I was a child again, delighted by the magic of a tiny white cloud escaping my mouth. It was proof that the air I carried inside me could be seen, if only for a second.

I - a lowlander - had walked up with aching legs and a restless mind. But standing at the top of that little world, I felt weightless.

I??had come to Landour expecting to see something beautiful. Which I did! But what I found was something rarer - a place that didn’t just exist in stories. And I knew then that I would spend the rest of my life trying to find my way back.