If I had Goopy-Bagha’s enchanted slippers as a child, I would have whisked myself away to the Alpine slopes where Heidi’s grandfather’s wooden cabin stood, slightly apart from the world with a sky so open that one breath could cure whatever ailed you.

Ever the practical child, though, I knew that this Elysium was firmly out of my reach. But, as an adult, the mystical, serene Landour of Ruskin Bond’s books seemed like the next best thing.

That journey, delayed for years by circumstance and a certain reluctance to test the imagination against reality, finally began this April.

In Heidi, ascent up the mountain is liberation. The higher she travels, the more the world seems to fall away, until she is left with air, light and the promise of uncomplicated happiness. The 30-minute drive — at least in theory — up to Landour from Mussoorie offers a different kind of revelation.

The road coils upward, certainly, but the experience is mediated by a long line of vehicles that do not “tinkle and murmur”, as Mr Bond had promised. Rather, as SUVs idle, inch forward, pause again, drivers lean on their horns with a nonchalance that suggests habit rather than urgency.

As the climb sharpens, the air cools, and the pine, oak and deodar trunks rise in dark, steady lines. But instead of the damp, resinous scent of pine and oak softened by mist, the air is thick with burnt diesel.

Progress is slow as the two opposing rows of cars on that thin mountain road engage in a hypnotic, slightly nauseating, salsa where two steps forward are immediately followed by two steps back to allow an approaching vehicle to pass.

There are moments when the road empties just enough to offer a view of the valley below without obstructions. This allows the old illusion to return, only to dissipate upon arriving at Char Dukan, a historic, century-old, four-shop complex.

Groups gather in tight clusters at the cafés with low roofs and weathered walls. But their charm is lost on those looking only for pretty backgrounds “for the gram”.

Hearteningly, the walk from Char Dukan towards Sisters Bazaar offers a brief escape to the fast-fading contours of my dreams. The road bends away, the trees close in, and for a few short stretches where the cackle of selfie-seekers fades away, the Landour of Mr Bond’s essays flickers into view — old houses set back from the road, their verandas shaded and gardens lined with flowers.

These moments are brief, fleeting memories of another time that I had read about and dreamt of.

At the end of this one-kilometre idyll is the Landour Bakehouse, its now-famous green doors partially obscured by a queue that spills out onto the road. Inside, the air is warm with the smell of fresh bread. Yet, every table is occupied by people rearranging their wares — cups are lifted and set down again, plates are nudged into better light for the perfect frame, even as warm tarts and hot chocolates cool in the mountain air.

Outside, troops of macaques patrol the road. The monkeys keep an eye out for an opportunity to snatch chicken patties from the hands of unsuspecting tourists too busy to protect the delicacies they procured after queuing up for close to an hour. At the edge of this churn, two wizened men, clearly locals, stand slightly apart, paper cups in hand. I, seemingly, am not alone in my disappointment with Mr Bond. “Everyone comes because of him,” the first mutters. He does not need to name Ruskin Bond. The reference hangs there, familiar and faintly accusatory. The other man lets out a small laugh, not quite amused.

By the time the descent begins, the light has started to fail. The road back to Mussoorie is no less crowded, the same choreography of hesitation and impatience playing out in reverse. It is only later, upon my return to an Airbnb away from the madding crowds of both Landour and Chowk Bazaar in Mussoorie, that the day begins to shift. The road here has none of Landour’s rehearsed charm. There are no painted doors, just a quiet row of houses, their windows aglow from within. Beyond them, the hills open out without interruption. They recede into a deepening blue, then into shadow, their outlines steady against a sky that is, at last, unobstructed. One star appears, tentative, then another, and then more, until the darkness gathers them into a loose, patient scatter.

Standing there, with the hills framed by twinkling lights and a sky full of stars stretched out overhead, it is easy, once again, to imagine Heidi settling into her hay bed with the faint smell of pinewood and night air drifting in through a half-open window.

Srimoyee Bagchi