Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Mussoorie Montage by Divyaroop Bhatnagar

There are books you read, and there are books that read you. I didn’t expect that a quiet-looking hardcover with a nostalgic photograph of Mussoorie nestled on the cover would do that to me—but the moment I cracked open Mussoorie Montage: Tales from the Hills by Divyaroop Bhatnagar, I felt something shift. It was like stepping into a fog-thick morning on Camel’s Back Road where everything feels familiar yet charged with the thrill of what might be waiting around the next bend. I could smell the pine. I could hear the rain ticking on tin roofs. I could almost see the lonely cottages standing like old soldiers guarding stories too heavy to speak.

Divyaroop Bhatnagar—affectionately Debu to those who know him—has crafted something extraordinary here. Part historian, part poet, part illusionist, he brings back the Mussoorie of the 1960s and ’70s with such tenderness that you feel time softening under your feet, bending just enough to let you walk backward into another era. He writes with the patience of an old friend pouring a second cup of tea, telling you a secret he has held for years.

The premise is deceptively simple: thirteen short stories, each named after a house, set in Mussoorie. But simplicity ends right there. Each story is a door—heavy wooden, brass-handled, slightly creaking—behind which lies a world thrumming with passion and perfidy, longing and betrayal, nostalgia and dread. These are not loud thrillers that bang pots and shout for your attention. These are quiet detonations. They explode inward.

Early on, I realized this wasn’t merely a book. It was a guided walk through an emotional museum where every object is stitched with memory. The writing is lush but never indulgent, elegant without being ornamental. The pacing is a slow burn, and thank heavens for that—because this is a book meant to be savoured, not swallowed. I could feel the stories unfolding like lotus petals—deliberate, graceful, impossible to rush.

Mussoorie itself becomes a living character, not merely backdrop. The mist feels sentient. The hills breathe. The silence between sentences hums with secrets. In one story, I paused and looked up because I genuinely thought I heard the shuffle of footsteps from a wooden staircase. In another, a single line pulled the rug from beneath me so suddenly that I flipped back pages, hunting for the detail I had missed. That’s the magic here: Bhatnagar never shows his hand until the very last second.

The characters—oh, the characters. Particularly the older women. There’s something unforgettable about them: stubborn, elegant, bruised but not broken. Their strength sneaks up on you slowly and then grips your heart without warning. They carry loneliness like an heirloom and dignity like a sword. More importantly, Bhatnagar writes them without judgement. He simply lets them exist—flawed, complex, achingly human.

There is love here. There is horror. There are reunions and farewells. There are ghosts—metaphorical and maybe not so metaphorical. There are endings that feel complete and endings that feel like open windows letting the wind in. Some readers might wish for firmer closure; some might predict twists from afar. But I found even the predictability—where it appeared—to be a deliberate echo of life. We often know what’s coming. That doesn’t make it hurt less.

Halfway through, I realized something unsettling: for the first time in months, I had slowed down. I wasn’t reading for speed, achievement, content. I was reading to feel. To be transported. To listen. In a world obsessed with notifications and noise, this book is a quiet rebellion. An invitation to pause.

By the time I turned the last page, I felt an ache I couldn’t explain—like closing the door of a house that had somehow become your own. I sat still for minutes, letting the mist settle.

If Ruskin Bond is the gentle breeze that makes pine trees sigh, Divyaroop Bhatnagar is the unexpected rain that taps on your window, whispering stories you didn’t know you needed. His Mussoorie isn’t just geography; it’s emotion. It isn’t just a location; it’s a holding space for memory.

This book is a companion for quiet afternoons, for rainy evenings with socks on and phone on silent mode. It deserves to be read slowly, lovingly—preferably with a cup of chai steaming nearby.

And if stories truly had a scent, this one would smell like old pinewood, monsoon-soaked earth, and ink drying on yellowed pages.

So here’s my soft nudge: find a corner, wrap a blanket around your shoulders, open this book. Let Mussoorie whisper to you. Let the hills tell their tales. You may not return the same.

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