Inda Cottage is the sweetest little haven in the hills. Tucked away in an oak forest, it is well away from the madness of honeymooners and loud chaat eating tourists that assail the hills. My brother and I began to treat it like the refuge it was. There was nothing more therapeutic than to go up for a holiday and laze about in peace, watching the monkeys play in the sun and flip through the hordes of TIME magazines that our father had saved up for us. For our children, the cottage had a whole different significance. Khud climbing, plucking “ice aloos” off the wild bushes, scouring the hillsides for violets and wild strawberries, had kept them busy for years.

There was a magic about Inda Cottage. It looked like something out of a Grimms fairy tale. My father painted it a light green and it had a sort of delectable look about it. And then, of course, there was the old Begum who had buried her treasure somewhere under its wooden planks. I could swear I heard her go past my window one gloomy night!

Among the trees, waiting for the quiet stillness of a summer evening was the resident flying fox. It called in a strange horse cry before it flew from oak top to oak top. Then, there was the family of langurs. They would laze about sunning themselves on the trees, picking nits, eating young shoots and watching over their young. And there was Bil-lie the wild cat who visited every so often and let off the loudest purr I have ever heard as she wrapped herself around our legs.

In the valley below the cottage lies Dehradun. Its million lights sparkle all night. I remember pointing them out to my baby nieces and saying, “Look! … Fairyland!” and they stared with wonderment in their eyes! Many years later it had the same effect on my little son. During the day, part of the magic vanishes as it transforms itself into a geographers delight. The rivers Song and Tong glisten in the sunlight as they lazily wind their way under plateaus and hills and the valley seems to lie quietly ensconced. We have spent many a summer afternoon staring down at Dehradun in a mesmerized sort of way.

One of my greatest joys was to listen out for the rain. On the other side of the hill is a deodar forest and beyond, looming large and splendorous over it are the snow capped Himalayan ranges. From somewhere deep in the recesses of the forest, the winds of a rain storm arise and one can hear them race torrentially through the trees, up the hill and then, finally with a thunderous crash, down our slope. Following swiftly was the gentle patter of rain washing away the dust and soothing the ire of the storm.

My mother always said that winter was her favorite time at the cottage. I agreed with her. Despite the cold and the occasional snow, the sun is always cheeriest in the winter and the air is crisp. A little fire made the cottage cosy and warm. There was something about the atmosphere that made you want to hibernate with walnuts and a book.

This little cottage in the woods was home for thirty long years of happiness, of trial and of grief. It was always a place of comfort and healing. And now that we live elsewhere and life has taken other turns, I can only thank the Almighty for having allowed us a glimpse of heaven.