In a literary world of outsized egos, Bond&rsquos self-effacing ways have always been a breath of fresh air. His simplicity is perfect for his subject, and this allows him to arrive at original observations. He prides himself on being a sensualist, and in the opening piece he likens a familiar stray cat that comes every afternoon to sleep in the sun on his terrace to a monk. He then goes to define what his ideal monk is &ldquoA good monk would be a mild sort of fellow, a bit of a sensualist, capable of compassion for the world, but also for himself. He would know that it is all right not to climb every mountain.&rdquo This has been the tone of his life as a writer, and he returns to this trope of peace again and again, be it when he&rsquos reminiscing about a brief affair in 1950s London, or about his descriptions of changing seasons or that of his adopted Garhwali family with whom he shares his life. The way he immerses himself in every kind of experience, be it with nature or with people, makes Bond a true pagan&mdashone who accords equal respect to a drunk mailman or a whistling thrush.