Sixty-one years ago, almost to the month, I made the highland of Mussoorie in the Garhwal foothills my home. It was a sunny afternoon, and by my side was a gentle-faced elderly lady — a bit of a loner by circumstance, like me. I had mentioned in passing that I wanted to shift from Delhi, where I had been living somewhat unhappily for a couple of years, and she was showing me the vacant upper floor of her home — an old, isolated cottage at the edge of a forest of oak and maple, green, red and gold.You couldn’t see the Himalayas, or the Doon Valley below, for the cottage was tucked away in the shadow of a hill. But it was spring and when I opened the window of the small living room, the forest seemed to rush upon me, as if in welcome. And from the deep ravine rose the sweet, haunting call of the Himalayan whistling thrush. That decided it for me — the forest, which seemed full of possibilities, and the birdsong. I moved into the cottage — it was called Maplewood Lodge — and settled for good in these hills.I was still young, and in my romantic frame of mind, I was susceptible to magic casements opening wide. I decided I would make a window-seat and lie there on a summer’s day, writing lyric poetry… But long before that could happen I was opening tins of sardines and sharing them with Miss Bean, the elderly lady who continued to live in the rooms below me. It was a solidarity of the indigent! I went away from the hills at times, but returned as soon as possible, and when I had to leave Maplewood, I rented other homes, each one old and modest, but always with a view.Once you have lived with the mountains, you can never leave. You belong to them.Sometimes it is hard to believe that I have been up here all these years — sixty summers and monsoons and winters, and the short autumns and even shorter Himalayan springs (there is no real spring in the plains). When I look back, it seems like yesterday when I first came up with my meagre belongings and a head full of dreams. I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.I am too old now to walk among the noble oaks and deodars and the ancient pines, but I feel their presence at all times. The wind brings me their words of wisdom and encouragement when my spirits are low, and their benediction when I give of myself freely in love and friendship. They have seen these hills change and yet remain the same through countless seasons — renewing and healing themselves and all the life that lives upon and within them.— Excerpted from ‘Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond’ by Ruskin Bond. Published by Speaking Tiger Books