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I had always loved to travel.travel to the places that are known but undiscovered. On my wishlist, from the year 2008 always lay one place, Mussorie. As a kid of 12, my father gifted me a book, "The Room On The Roof" and since then, I had always wanted to meet the writer, Ruskin Bond who gave me the addiction if not just books but also writing. All the years, I planned, and re-planned my attempts of meeting the writer, but all went in vain. I could not make to Mussorie, and neither to Ruskin Bond. Years later, in 2019, in the month of March, something hit my soul. My college days were on the brink of completion and there stood a world which would sip in all my dreams and time. I had to do something. I had to set myself free. And surprisingly I did. It was early that morning. The sun was still under his blankets. Even the birds were yet to get up and chirp. I carried on my bag over my broad shoulders and stepped out of my hostel room sneaking silently not to wake the warden. I jumped off the walls and ran into the fresh cold air of early spring days. I had a sense of relief budding in my heart. I knew this was what I always wanted. I wanted to be free and on my own. I took the first, and then the second. The path, the seats, the people and the valleys, everything was novel to my eyes but it all called for my breath, and for my soul. After two buses and a small walk, I was standing right in the centre of the Mall Road of the Queen of Hills, Mussorie. I remember, I took my bag and started walking in the opposite direction of where the masses were. I entered one street led into another and then another. It was geeting darker and darker in the sky when I found myself standing in front of the bookstore that belongs to the man who carved my childhood and then my dream, Ruskin Bond. I wondered if I could walk further and reach to his house which was not very far. But the hills were getting silent and humans started to escape in their brick rooms. The streets were more vacant. I walked in the opposite direction now, waiting for the morning to rise. I kept walking high by myself and sat on the edge of an untouched rock by the side of the hill. It was heaven. I could see the whole of lightened Dehradun seated in the laps of Mussorie while I was settled in pitch darkness. I don't remember how I slept but I woke up to the vision I could never forget. There in front of me stood an abundant building which was just remains of walls, paint and a structure that looked like a court. It seemed haunted, and may be it too was but it's beauty was undeniable. I walked into it to only feel the sun rising at the back of my head. I turned into the broken walls to see more and as the sun rose the light filled the place. I let my eyes rise to look around. Under me sits the choas of the busy Dehrudun city, while I stand at a haunted broken abundant place surrounding distinctly by the Himalayan ranges as if they are safeguarding some promised souls. I could not take my eyes off the three phases of beauty that stood breathing and breathless at the same time in front of me. It's probably why, the hills lay at the heart of the writers. My childhood dream to my life passion, it was all resolved; over one night, by a trillion of waves and hills.