Revisiting Mussoorie Hills


Revisiting Mussoorie* Hills
Mall road still has patches of light and dark grey,
the corner shop still sells sweet paans**,
young boys with unkempt hair still bake challis***,
the evergreen bookstores loaded with books of my taste
have added the condiment of Ruskin Bond’s**** visit on weekends.

Pacing on my favourite Mall road-
that has lived in the aromas of my handkerchiefs,
breeze tickles and blows the flick on my forehead.
The grey, misty mountains
look lazy yet elegant from the Camel’s Back***** road,
as a princess wearing a flared gown.

Clouds swinging to and fro
select the hills they wish to soak-
the George Everest peak, yes! and Kempty Falls, no!
Valley reverberates with school songs,
giggles of children add to the whistling breeze
memories of mouths full of stolen toffees flow
as the Tons river flows through the Robber's cave******.

The Victorian graveyard with graves of the British Imperial lords,
the Anglo-Indian officers and the local folks resting in tandem
smile at the sight of an old friend,
revisiting , fully grown now as a lover.

Visit to Mussoorie is like getting a facelift,
feels like a schoolgirl once again .

*Mussoorie is a hill station in north India **Betel leaf stuffed with areca nut and other things ***Corn stick **** Indian poet and story writer of British descent, resides in Mussoorie *****A road where the hill looks like a camel’s hoofed back ******A picnic spot

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