October 16, 2025, marks six months since Bill Aitken passed on. I see the Nanda Devi peaks stark against the blue winter sky from my home these days, and I think of him. I have known Bill for twenty-odd years, but I can’t say I truly knew him completely, apart from the obvious. His impactful books, of course, with their whimsical wit and offbeat insights. His love for the mountains, railways, bikes, music, and the spiritual journeys that led him through ashrams across India. Of Scottish descent, Bill was a naturalised citizen of India, living in Mussoorie, where my husband and I spent 12 years. It was there that we got better acquainted.

Since his unexpected passing in April 2025, much has been written about his writing. But he once said to me during a podcast interview, “I’m a traveller who writes, not a writer who travels.” Those words stayed with me. It carried a kind of truth that was unmistakably Bill: wry and rich with layered meaning. I think of him as a maverick. Well-known. Generally loved. A man of mystery. Little understood but never to be forgotten. And yet, there was another side to him, quieter but just as defining. A deep and steady love for dogs ran through his life like a hidden thread.

His passing was unexpected. I never saw Bill as a 90-year-old. He did not look nor speak, or carry himself like one. He moved through the world with a lightness, a spring in his step, a glint in his eyes that time never seemed to dull. Even when recovering from a broken hip or being advised to slow down for his heart, he did not stop. Most of us saw him out on the road, not indoors. On a walk, pausing to chat, greeting a stray.

When my husband and I visited him in Mussoorie last year with mountaineer Harish Kapadia to celebrate, rather late, Bill’s 90th birthday, he insisted on walking to the restaurant. And he did so at a pace that put me to shame. He had lived independently for years, with some help at home and a small network of neighbours and friends who looked in on him. Ruskin Bond and Bill were especially close. I remember a time when they celebrated their birthdays together. I can only imagine the silence that now fills the spaces they once shared.

What I came to realise rather late, and wish I had known earlier, was just how much dogs shaped Bill’s world. When he heard I was writing a memoir on the strays of Landour, he handed me something extraordinary. It was a dog registry, kept by him and his companion of thirty-eight years, HH Maharani Prithwi Bir Kaur of Jind. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary notebook. Inside, it is anything but. There are names, birth dates, breeds, lineages, illnesses, and deaths. And in between the lines…deep, abiding love.

The descriptions are more than factual. They are intimate sketches of characters. Dolma, a Tibetan Spaniel, is defined as “crabbity, weak hindquarters, excellent mother, bites ankle from behind.” Her photograph, black and white and grainy, is still pasted on the first page. Chow Chow, her son, is labelled as a “great soul conscious of his masculinity,” a dog who hated being touched in certain places, excelled at chasing monkeys, and carried a “golden goodness”. He is referred to as Dieu Donné, or God-given.

The pages hold both detail and playful affection. A hungry, lonely dog found at the gate became Paras, named after the Crown Prince of Nepal. A red Pekingese pup was adopted after an audience with Sai Baba. She was renamed Gurumai, “because it sounded more euphonic,” Bill wrote.

The notebook moves between cities and decades. Delhi. Almora. Mussoorie. The dogs, like their humans, are always in motion. And yet each entry feels definite, rooted in care. You can tell they paid attention. You can feel the weight of loss in each passing. One dog “achieved nirvana.” Another simply “left a huge void.”

Last year, Bill lost Frederika (Freddy), a golden Labrador who had been his companion for ten years. “Her treatment was in vain,” he wrote to me, “and after eating only eggs and papaya, she passed away quietly just before Christmas.” Then came Maximus, a pup who arrived in March 2025. “He is white with a black patch over one eye like a miniature panda with the colour scheme reversed,” Bill wrote. “I’ll send a photo.” But he never did.

When Bill passed soon after, I was filled with remorse. I didn’t get a chance to send him a copy of my newly published book. But more than anything, I miss him. His company. His cheerful laugh. A visit with Bill always made me feel that all was well with the world. He had that effect. He was one of a kind. Gentle. Observant. Always ready with a witty joke. Sometimes, ending on a philosophical note. And in his lifelong love for dogs, there was something telling. His kindness and attention to the overlooked. The sense that even the smallest lives deserved to be seen, remembered, and cherished.

He wrote:

“What I love most about dogs is their instinctual nature and how they intelligently sum up any situation. When we drove to Delhi after six months in Mussoorie, on crossing the Yamuna, the hitherto listless dogs would jump up excitedly, having picked up the scent of the Friends Colony garden still several kilometres away. 

And when I trekked alone in the Himalaya, invariably a dog unasked would attach himself to the outing as if to say, ‘This dumb-ass looks like he could do with my guidance.’

Daily on my morning walk, whenever I pass a dog, he gives me a good sniffing over, then looks at me approvingly as if to say, ‘This guy is not as dumb as he looks. He only keeps lady dogs.”

And again, in Bill’s words:

“Dogs are not only our best friends but the best therapy.”

Lalitha Krishnan is the author of ‘The Stray Dogs of Landour Network. A True Story by a Failed Dog Trainer. Write to her: earthymatters013@gmail.com

Listen to her Bill Aitken podcast on Spotify