From a Window to His World: The Day I Met My Storyteller

 "Ekta di, let’s take a picture in front of Mr Bond’s house,” Kirti said excitedly. I had met Kirti, a lawyer from Indore, just the day before, and we were now enjoying a beautiful morning in Landour. I was staying at Doma’s Inn, nestled within the Ivy Cottage building. This charming property shares a wall with Mr Bond’s home, and whenever I visit Landour, I choose to stay here - to feel close to the beloved storyteller.

Kirti and I stood near the entrance to Mr Bond’s house, and she quickly snapped a selfie of the two of us. I pointed toward a set of windows and said, “That’s Mr Bond’s room - the one he’s described so often in his writings.”

Kirti looked up, awestruck. “I wish I could go in there,” she whispered.

I smiled and replied gently, “No one can go there. It’s his personal space. We must respect that.”

I said it with heartfelt sincerity, unaware of what destiny had planned for me. Just ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in Mr Bond’s living room - right beside the very room I had pointed out to Kirti moments earlier.

Let’s rewind about an hour.

One of my students had painted a piece to gift Mr Bond for his birthday. I had asked Mr Sunil Arora the day before if he could deliver it since he was planning to visit Mr Bond that morning. I also wanted to write a letter of my own, and so, from seven in the morning, I sat on a bench outside Doma’s Inn, pen in hand, letting the quiet charm of Landour settle around me.

Mr Arora was expected around 8:30, and true to his word, he arrived at exactly 8:35. Kirti was with him, on her way to Laal Tibba. I handed the gift and my letter to Sunil Sir, and after a few quick photos with Kirti, I returned to the same bench, planning to sit for a few more minutes before heading back to my room.

It was 8:45. My phone rang.

It was Sunil Sir. He spoke in a hushed voice, almost a whisper:

“Ekta, Mr Bond has asked for you. Come quickly.”

I was dumbfounded. I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t asked for it either. I had always been mindful of Mr Bond’s privacy and never wanted to intrude on his personal space. Over the years, I have seen many people request, even plead with Sunil Sir to arrange a meeting with Mr Bond at his home. Despite being close to Sunil Sir and the entire Team Cambridge, I had never made such a request. Perhaps it was precisely this quiet respect that made Sunil Sir feel I truly deserved a moment like this.

It was he who had told Mr Bond about me - about the die-hard fan girl who never crossed a line, who admired him deeply from just across the wall. And maybe that’s why Mr Bond had asked him to bring me inside.

I couldn’t think. There was no time to think - not about what I was wearing, not about how I looked - the previous day had been a whirlwind. I had left home at the crack of dawn, driven sixty kilometres to catch a train, endured a seven-hour journey, and then taken a cab for another two hours to reach Cambridge Book Depot. By the time I checked into my room at Doma’s Inn, it was late at night. Exhausted beyond words, I went straight to bed - without freshening up, without even changing out of my travel-worn clothes. And so, the next morning, I was still in the same outfit - creased, dusty, and tired, just like me.

And yet, when I got that call, none of it mattered. In that very state, I almost ran - heart racing, limbs aching - up what felt like the hardest-to-climb stairs in all of Landour.

And there he was - sitting on a single sofa chair - looking exactly like the pictures on the back covers of his books. I was dumbfounded all over again. Such is his quiet charisma; it truly leaves you speechless.

I barely managed to say a soft “hello” and wish him a happy birthday. He replied with a simple “thank you,” accompanied by that ever-charming, unmistakable smile.

Sunil Sir gently nudged me forward, asking me to give the gift and letter to Mr Bond myself. I did as told, though I could hardly string together a full sentence. I only managed to say that I often share his stories with my students and that one of them had painted this piece for him.

He asked me to open the gift for him - and somehow, even that simple task felt like it took an eternity. My hands were trembling slightly, caught in the surrealness of the moment.

As he looked at the painting, a broad smile lit up his face. There was a cat in the picture - he loves cats. He was pleased. He said warmly that he would write a thank-you note for the young painter.

I had met him thrice before over the past few years, and each time, I was so awestruck that I forgot to ask him anything. This time was no different.

While reading his books, I often find myself having imaginary conversations with Ruskin Bond - asking questions, seeking meanings, and sometimes even arguing gently in my mind. I had even made notes at times, hoping to ask him a few of those questions if I ever got the chance.

But sitting in front of him, all of it vanished. Every carefully thought-out question dissolved into the air, replaced by silent admiration.

He and Sunil Sir began talking about the aftermath of the recent Indo-Pak war - an effortless shift into a calm, thoughtful conversation between two people well-versed in the rhythm of the world. I just sat there, listening, still trying to believe I was really in that room.

Then Rakesh entered, gently holding the family’s pet cat - Mimi. Rakesh had an ever-smiling face, the kind that radiates calm and kindness. Ever since he was a child, Mr Bond has written stories for and about him, and sitting there, he seemed like the grown-up version of that same innocent boy - quiet, gentle, and full of familiarity.

Mimi was a gentle fluffy cat, quietly nestled in Rakesh’s lap. The moment Mr Bond saw her, his face lit up. He paused his serious conversation with Sunil Sir and focused all his attention on the cat, clearly delighted by her presence.

Soon after, Beena Ji entered - Rakesh’s wife. I had heard things about her before, as many people seem to repeat stories, saying she’s rude or unwelcoming. But the warmth, kindness, and genuine care she showed me during the entire time I was there was the exact opposite of everything I had heard. Later, while speaking with Sunil Sir, I came to know more about Beena ji. He told me how she cares for Mr Bond in a way no one else possibly could - quietly, devotedly. She has raised her children with love and grace and has dedicated her life to her family.

It made me realise how little we often know about the lives behind the doors we wish to open - and how easy it is to judge without understanding.

To those who speak ill of her, I’d just say this: imagine what it must be like to constantly have strangers knocking at your door, stepping into your personal space, uninvited. Anyone would grow guarded. We all love Ruskin Bond. We cherish his words, his worlds. But we must also protect the space that allows him to write. Just because he is accessible, doesn’t mean we are entitled to him. Loving his work should include respecting his life, his time, and his peace.

Then arrived an old friend of Mr. Bond, all the way from Dehradun – Mishra Uncle. He was a familiar face at Ivy Cottage, visiting every year on Mr. Bond’s birthday. This time too, he made the journey the old-school way – taking a local bus and walking the rest of the way up to the cottage. As always, he brought thoughtful gifts: a large greeting card (oh, how I wish the era of greeting cards would return!), two notepads, and a few pens. Mr Bond was clearly delighted to see him. There’s something timeless about old friends – we all cherish them.

Soon, Sunil Sir brought out the birthday cake. Beena lit the candle, and Rakesh called Shrishti to join in. The moment Mr. Bond saw Shrishti, his face lit up. I’ve often seen her by his side at public events, and their bond was unmistakable – warm, genuine, and heartening.

Mr. Bond cut the cake, we all enjoyed our share, and after wishing him once again, we began to make our way back. As we were climbing down the stairs, Sunil Sir turned to me and said, "Well, that just made your day, didn't it?"

I smiled and replied, "No, you have made my life."

Those moments are ones I will cherish forever. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined something like this would happen. Every year, I was content just to see him at the Cambridge Book Depot, celebrating his birthday among hundreds of fans. But this time, I received far more than I ever expected - far more than I deserved.

I feel truly privileged.

Forever grateful, forever in awe.

-Ekta Kubba