Sitting on a rustic armchair, my hands holding open pages of ‘Braiding Sweet Grass’, I dive deep inside the forest with tall pine trees and a wavy, untrodden path traversing between the understory.
My mind wonders faster than my imagination. Outside the window, I see the greenish-blue mountains of Mussoorie that are capacious and very far.
The undulate shoreline of the pale cyan-coloured lake where it meets the foothills is barely visible. A cosy wooden house with broad window panes is just in front, resting on the greyish-brown earth.
Blatant calls of great barbet echo far from mountains.
I can almost smell the nectar of purple and yellow wildflowers that have grown untamed.
I can almost smell the nectar of purple and yellow wildflowers that have grown untamed.
The bees and butterflies are carrying pollens on their wings.The pink-browed rose finch peeping out of bushes now and again, the Himalayan bulbuls bathing in the specially created lily pond. A red-billed blue magpie is seen hopping on the dilapidated fence.
In this diminutive garden, a wooden bench made of uneven planks awaits…Don’t know when Ruskin Bond took over Kimmerer.
