Not Bonding with Ruskin

Not Bonding with Ruskin She decided on a whim, as she got off the Shatabdi at Dehradun, that while in Mussoorie, she was not going to bond with Ruskin. With James maybe. But definitely not with Ruskin. The decision arrived suddenly, somewhere between the train slowing into the station and the porter asking whether she needed help with her luggage. It was, she admitted to herself, a ridiculous resolution. But then, many of her most important decisions had been ridiculous. Moving to Delhi after graduation. Marrying a man she had known for four months. Divorcing him seven years later. Taking a solo vacation to Mussoorie at forty-two. Life had rarely rewarded her sensible choices. Perhaps absurdity deserved a chance. So as she stepped onto the platform, dragging her suitcase behind her, she repeated the promise. No bonding with Ruskin. Absolutely none. ________________________________________ The problem was that Mussoorie seemed determined to sabotage her. The taxi driver who drove her up the winding road pointed toward a distant hillside. "Madam, that's where the famous writer lives." She immediately looked away. "I didn't ask." The driver appeared confused. "I was only telling you." "I know." The driver wisely concentrated on driving. ________________________________________ Her hotel wasn't helping either. The receptionist handed her a brochure. The front page featured cheerful illustrations of mist-covered hills, old cottages, mountain trails, and, inevitably, references to a certain beloved author associated with the town. She folded the brochure shut. "No." The receptionist blinked. "Madam?" "Nothing." ________________________________________ By evening she found herself walking along the Mall Road. The mountain air carried the scent of pine and damp earth. Clouds drifted lazily across the hills. Families strolled. Tourists clicked photographs. Vendors sold roasted corn. Everything felt charming. Dangerously charming. The sort of charm that encouraged literary sentiment. The sort that led unsuspecting visitors into emotional relationships with places, memories, and writers. She wasn't falling for it. ________________________________________ Her name was Kavya. An English professor. Which made her situation even worse. Most visitors came to Mussoorie hoping to experience mountain beauty. Kavya arrived burdened with decades of literature. Every second shop sold books. Every third tourist carried one. Every fourth conversation involved someone's favorite childhood reading memory. She felt surrounded. ________________________________________ The next morning she escaped to a small café. Or attempted to. The café walls were covered with framed quotations. Half of them belonged to mountain writers. One quotation in particular immediately annoyed her. Not because it was bad. Because it was annoyingly good. She found herself reading it three times. Then angrily ordered tea. ________________________________________ An elderly man occupied the neighboring table. He watched her with amusement. "Fighting with literature?" She nearly choked. "What?" "The quotation." He pointed toward the wall. "You've glared at it for ten minutes." "I wasn't glaring." "You absolutely were." Kavya narrowed her eyes. The old man grinned. He looked like the sort of person who enjoyed provoking strangers. ________________________________________ "Are you a tourist?" he asked. "Yes." "Looking for peace?" "No." "Adventure?" "No." "Inspiration?" "Definitely not." The old man laughed. "Then why are you here?" The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shrugged. "I don't know." ________________________________________ It was the most honest answer she had given in months. Perhaps years. The old man seemed satisfied. "Excellent." "What is?" "Not knowing." ________________________________________ They spoke for nearly an hour. About books. Travel. Aging. Mountain weather. The conversation flowed effortlessly. Before leaving, the old man introduced himself. "James D'Souza." Kavya froze. James. Interesting. Her ridiculous vow had specifically allowed bonding with James. Though admittedly not this James. Still. Technically acceptable. ________________________________________ Over the following days they met repeatedly. Entirely by accident. Or perhaps by Mussoorie's mysterious ability to ensure the same people continually cross paths. James had retired from teaching history. He lived in Dehradun. Spent several weeks each year in Mussoorie. Loved conversations. Disliked certainty. Possessed an irritating habit of asking uncomfortable questions. ________________________________________ "Why did you really come here?" he asked one afternoon. "I told you. Vacation." "That's the official version." "And the unofficial version?" "You tell me." Kavya sighed. She hated perceptive people. ________________________________________ The truth was embarrassingly simple. Six months earlier her mother had died. Not suddenly. Not unexpectedly. But permanently. And permanence altered everything. For forty-two years her mother had existed somewhere in the background of life. A constant presence. A reliable voice. A destination for phone calls. Then she wasn't. The absence unsettled her. More than she admitted to friends. More than she admitted to herself. ________________________________________ "I keep picking up my phone." she said quietly. "To call her." James nodded. "And then?" "I remember." The mountain breeze rustled nearby trees. Neither spoke for several moments. Grief rarely required clever responses. ________________________________________ That evening Kavya walked alone. Mist rolled across the hills. Streetlights glowed softly through the fog. The town felt suspended between reality and dream. For the first time she allowed herself to miss her mother properly. Not politely. Not efficiently. Properly. The experience left her exhausted. And strangely lighter. ________________________________________ The following morning disaster struck. Or what passed for disaster in a hill station. Heavy rain trapped everyone indoors. The hotel's internet failed. Electricity vanished intermittently. Tourists complained. Staff apologized. Nature ignored both groups. ________________________________________ Boredom drove Kavya into the hotel's small library. The room contained perhaps two hundred books. Half were travel guides. The remainder consisted largely of novels. And there, occupying an entire shelf, stood the enemy. Mountain literature. Specifically the works she had promised herself not to bond with. She stared at them suspiciously. The books stared back. Patiently. Confidently. Like predators aware their prey would eventually weaken. ________________________________________ She lasted thirty-seven minutes. Then picked one up. Purely for academic reasons. She told herself this repeatedly. Academic reasons. Research. Professional curiosity. Nothing emotional. Absolutely no bonding. ________________________________________ Three hours later she was still reading. Rain hammered the windows. The world disappeared behind clouds. And somewhere during chapter four, Kavya realized she had been betrayed. Not by the book. By herself. Because what she connected with wasn't nostalgia or mountain charm. It was loneliness. The quiet observations. The ordinary lives. The gentle attention paid to overlooked people. The things her mother used to notice. The things she herself had stopped noticing. ________________________________________ The realization annoyed her profoundly. ________________________________________ That evening she confessed everything to James. "I failed." "At what?" "My resolution." "What resolution?" Kavya explained. The absurd vow. The determination not to become another tourist emotionally attached to mountain literature. James listened carefully. Then laughed so hard he nearly spilled his tea. ________________________________________ "You're ridiculous." "I know." "Imagine traveling hundreds of kilometers to declare war on a writer." "It made sense at the time." "No." he said. "It really didn't." ________________________________________ The conversation drifted elsewhere. Yet the subject lingered. Why had she resisted so strongly? Why had a harmless literary connection felt threatening? The answer arrived unexpectedly. Because bonding required vulnerability. And vulnerability frightened her. Not writers. Not books. Not mountains. Vulnerability. ________________________________________ Since her divorce, Kavya had become increasingly skilled at emotional distance. She attended social gatherings. Maintained friendships. Performed happiness. Yet genuine connection felt dangerous. Loss had taught her caution. Her mother's death reinforced it. Caring deeply meant risking pain. So she gradually stopped. Not entirely. Just enough. ________________________________________ Mussoorie quietly challenged that strategy. Not through dramatic events. Through small ones. A conversation. A view. A memory. A book. A stranger becoming a friend. Tiny cracks appearing in carefully constructed walls. ________________________________________ A week into her stay, James invited her on a walk. Not the usual tourist route. A quieter trail. Less crowded. More beautiful. The path wound through forests of oak and deodar. Birdsong echoed between trees. Sunlight filtered through branches. The world seemed impossibly peaceful. ________________________________________ Halfway through the walk they encountered an abandoned cottage. Stone walls. Broken windows. Wildflowers reclaiming the garden. The structure looked forgotten. Yet somehow dignified. James stopped. "I love this place." "Why?" "It reminds me that everything passes." Kavya frowned. "That's depressing." "Not necessarily." He smiled. "It also means everything matters." ________________________________________ They sat nearby for nearly an hour. Talking. Or rather, allowing conversation to wander wherever it pleased. Eventually James mentioned his wife. Past tense. She had died nine years earlier. Cancer. Slow. Cruel. Final. ________________________________________ "You never remarried?" Kavya asked. "No." "Weren't you lonely?" James considered. "Often." "Then why not?" He shrugged. "Because loneliness and love aren't opposites." The answer puzzled her. Seeing her confusion, he continued. "I still loved her." Kavya looked toward the distant hills. The statement carried unexpected weight. Not tragic. Not romantic. Simply true. ________________________________________ That night she thought about her own marriage. The failure of it. The bitterness that followed. The years spent defining herself through disappointment. Perhaps she had become too attached to old narratives. Perhaps everyone did. ________________________________________ The final days of her trip arrived quickly. Mountain vacations possessed a strange relationship with time. Days felt long. Weeks disappeared. Suddenly departure loomed. ________________________________________ On her last evening, Kavya walked through town alone. The familiar streets felt different now. Not because Mussoorie had changed. Because she had. Slightly. Enough. ________________________________________ She passed bookstores. Cafés. Old houses. Mist drifting across rooftops. Ordinary scenes transformed by attention. For the first time she understood why people formed attachments to places. Not because places were magical. Because they provided opportunities to notice life. And noticing was increasingly rare. ________________________________________ Near sunset she found herself overlooking the valley. Clouds glowed orange and gold. The horizon stretched endlessly. For several minutes she simply watched. No photographs. No messages. No distractions. Just watching. ________________________________________ A voice interrupted her thoughts. "Bonded yet?" It was James. Naturally. He appeared carrying two cups of tea. She accepted one. "Possibly." "With whom?" Kavya smiled. The answer surprised even her. "Not with any writer." "No?" "No." She looked toward the mountains. "With the town, maybe." James nodded. "That's usually how it begins." ________________________________________ The next morning she boarded the train back to Delhi. As the landscape rolled past the window, she reflected on the strange success of her failure. She had arrived determined not to connect. Not to care. Not to become sentimental. Instead she had done exactly those things. Not dramatically. Quietly. The way most important changes occur. ________________________________________ Several months later, while organizing bookshelves at home, she discovered the novel she had purchased in Mussoorie. The one she had pretended not to like. A bookmark still rested between its pages. She opened it. A small note fell out. James's handwriting. Just one sentence. The hills don't change people. They merely introduce them to themselves. Kavya laughed. Then placed the note back inside the book. Carefully. Tenderly. The way one preserves something unexpectedly valuable. After all, she had gone to Mussoorie determined not to bond with Ruskin. With James maybe. But definitely not with Ruskin. In the end she discovered that the real connection wasn't with either. It was with grief. Memory. Solitude. Friendship. And the inconvenient truth that closing oneself off from disappointment also closes the door on wonder. The mountains had taught her that. Though she would never admit it quite so directly. Some resolutions, after all, deserve to be broken quietly.