Dear Mr. Bond,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. Touching 90 is no mean feat. Most city folk like us would be delighted, and pleasantly surprised, if we survive middle age, given that we breathe polluted air, and pursue the rat race till our limbs give up. This is precisely why your recent book, How To Be Happy, caused much curiosity.

As I flipped through the book on my daily commute, it felt like a personal ode packed with episodic anecdotes, gift-wrapped all the way from your Himalayan abode. Having met you in your Landour home nearly a decade ago, I could easily visualise you putting it together from your desk backed by that unforgettably stunning view. Apart from inspiring most of your stories, and its memorable characters, you’ve always credited life in the hills as the reason for your positive state of mind and good health. Alas! By then, I had already hit the first pothole-filled stretch. Imagery of a cloud-kissed paradise had vanished into thin air in a flash. Vistas of monotonous glass façade high-rises, endless construction activity and garbage piles made it more challenging to do the landscape swap in my head.