Urban Nature Enthusiasts

Every few weeks, the hills are visited by a peculiar species: the Urban Nature Enthusiasts. You can spot them easily. They step out of their shiny SUVs wearing shoes that cost more than a local villager’s monthly salary, and announce with a dramatic sigh, “Ah, the pure air, the untouched beauty… so pristine!” At this point, the hills themselves tremble slightly, because they know what’s coming next.

The Enthusiast has not come merely to admire the landscape. Oh no. They have come with plans. The first plan usually involves buying a chunk of land “to preserve nature.” How? By chopping down half the trees for a three-storey glass villa that looks suspiciously like a shopping mall, complete maybe with heated infinity pool, indoor gym, and, why not, a helipad maybe?. After all, what’s the point of escaping city life if you can’t bring the city with you?

The second plan is even better. They want to “live like the locals.” Which translates to: importing a Delhi-style cafe, a Mumbai-style gym, Internet faster than CERN, and occasionally, a city-style neighbour who will help them complain about the “lack of parking space” in a mountain hamlet where goats outnumber people. These people adore the idea of unspoilt nature, but what they really mean is: unspoilt until I spoil it. They don’t want the real hills with their quiet rhythm, homely kitchens, extremes of temperatures, and unpredictable weather. They want a curated version: nature with 24-hour hot water, nature with home delivery, nature with temperature controlled villas, nature with a personal driver who can reverse their SUV on a goat track.

A lot of people who visit us also want to buy a second home here. For many, it feels like an easy money option: buy a place, turn it into a bed and breakfast, keep earning while they continue working in the city, and visit once in a while for the thrill. Over the years, I’ve watched this cycle repeat itself: first the excitement of buying, then the disappointment of “no guests,” then the revenue-sharing contracts with companies, then leasing it out, and eventually, the “For Sale” sign. Then another unsuspecting buyer comes from the city, and the cycle starts again.

The grass is greener on the other side—that’s exactly what happens when people with money decide to buy a house in the hills. They see the greenery, breathe the clean air, and enjoy a few peaceful days, then begin to imagine that owning a house here would be like living in a permanent vacation. The reality, of course, is very different. Maintenance challenges, unreliable water and power supply, limited healthcare, patchy connectivity, and the simple unavailability of many everyday goods soon begin to test their romantic notions. What once seemed like paradise starts to feel like hard work, and the dream of an easy life in the hills fades quietly into frustration.

If the buyers have deep pockets, the house just sits there, locked and forgotten, while the caretaker enjoys a better lifestyle than the owner ever will. A popular local joke sums it up neatly: “City people are so rich, they spend a fortune to build a house where their caretaker lives comfortably.”

Of course, there are the sensible second-home owners too. They keep their houses locked, visit only for holidays, and then leave quietly. For them, the house is a sanctuary from the daily grind of the city. They don’t arrive with grand schemes or restless ambitions; they come seeking silence, rest, and a few unhurried days. These people are a joy to host. They spend their time soaking in the calm, carry away memories instead of blueprints, and return to their city lives refreshed. Their thoughts drift not towards where the concrete mixers will work next, but towards which trees they might plant, an instinct that adds to the landscape rather than takes away from it.

Many of our guests even spend their entire trip looking at properties for sale, weighing the realities carefully, and then making the wisest choice of all: not buying anything. For them, returning here whenever they wish to unwind feels far more sensible than taking on the burden of ownership. Some prefer it this way because it leaves them free to enjoy holidays in different places, without being tied down to one house or one set of responsibilities.

Then there are the visitors who arrive bubbling with ideas about “improving the place.” They speak earnestly of educating children, providing livelihoods, and “developing” the region. The villagers, however, usually smile knowingly and laugh about it later in the evenings. Their logic is simple: if these city geniuses are so capable, why not begin by fixing their own neighbourhoods – by planting trees in their smog-choked lanes or helping children in their crowded slums? The laughter, of course, grows louder after a couple of drinks.

Some of these enthusiastic planners eventually come to grips with the ground realities and learn to enjoy the hills without trying to reshape them. A rare few do make a meaningful contribution: like a couple I know, with whom I will be enjoying dinner tonight, who quietly run a small centre to further support the education of local school-going children. But they are exceptions rather than the rule.

Quite a few can’t resist their urge to “upgrade” the mountains, mansions twice the size of what they need, trees axed for more and more buildings, floodlights that turn quiet night skies into stage shows, and heaps of waste hidden behind houses. One gentleman I know proudly burns his mountain of plastic waste as a “solution,” sending clouds of toxic smoke into the very air he came here to breathe.

And then there are the moments of pure irony. City folks gather around the fireplace and discuss, with great indignation, the “merciless way” village women lop trees for fuel and fodder. All this, mind you, while they themselves are enjoying a decorative bonfire that serves no purpose beyond ambience, having arrived in SUVs after travelling long distances and that drink fuel like parched camels. Talk about carbon footprints ! The villagers, with their branches and cattle, might just be the lightest steppers on this mountain path.

Thankfully, most of the people who come to stay at our place are somehow of the type that actually understand nature. I feel happy and proud when I see them carrying bits and pieces of their waste back with them when we go out for picnics. In the evenings we discuss the climate crisis and what we can do. The person who bought a land while staying at my place is planning to plant lots and lots of trees this winter.

In the end, the hills don’t really need saving by anyone who doesn’t understand, nor do they ask for grand visions or concrete promises. What they offer, quietly and without fuss, is a chance to slow down, to breathe, and to remember that life can be lived more simply. Those who come here and leave with lighter hearts rather than heavier footprints are the ones who truly understand. The mountains will outlast the fashions of second homes and the fever of quick returns; they have their own rhythm, patient and enduring, waiting only for us to listen.

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