Life Beyond the Generator

In the hills, silence is not just an absence of sounds. It is a presence. A presence of peace. It hums softly through pine needles, settles on stone walls, and drifts into our rooms at dusk. This is why the sudden growl of a diesel/petrol generator feels like an intrusion rather than a convenience, like a shout in a temple. Even the ones in silent canopies sound quite loud here.

For any true nature lover, generators are a big no. If there is a power cut for a few hours, why can we not manage without it? The hills have always taught us this gentle lesson of adjustment. Clouds roll in, roads wash away, electricity flickers and disappears. And yet life goes on, unhurried and intact. The problem is not the power cut. The problem is our growing inability to sit with a little darkness and discomfort.

Why then pollute the mountain air with fumes and burn even more fossil fuels when living so close to nature? Smoke does not vanish into anonymity. It hangs low, seeps into valleys, settles on leaves and lungs. The sharp smell of diesel lingers long after the generator has been switched off, long enough to remind us that every shortcut has a cost. This adds to the carbon footprint in a big way. To light a bulb by poisoning the very air that makes these places special seems like a particularly poor bargain.

“Electricity kills darkness, candlelight illuminates it.” – Thoreau

A candle, after all, creates a small island of warmth, a circle of stories and shadows. Electric light, on the other hand, simply does away with darkness, flattening the evening into a bright, characterless extension of the day. Under a candle’s glow, conversations slow down, moments become better, conversations improve, and one even becomes aware of one’s own breathing during the pauses of silence. This is not inconvenience. This is atmosphere. This is the hygge of the hills, and the quiet charm of managing with less and discovering that less is often more than enough.

The same holds true for heating. If the cold sets in and the power goes out, resist the urge to fall back on a generator. Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate, layer up in warm clothes, and take comfort in the thought that, in your own small way, you have chosen kindness towards our mother earth. After all, it doesn’t get as cold here as in some other parts of the world.

The truth is that generators are not a necessity but a habit. A habit carried up from the plains and the cities, where noise is normal and convenience is king. For many city folk, everything is reduced to a question of money. If one can afford it, why not? Carbon footprints, shared air, and the fragile rhythms of mountain life rarely enter the calculation. These wasteful habits arrive in the hills fully formed, like loud luggage, refusing to unpack themselves. Like I always say, these people carry their cities along with them. They live their lives in a cocoon and never actually get to know these places.

At times, I meet people, mostly city-folks, who boast of their homes having a 24×7 power supply, proudly backed by a massive generator. To them it is something to flaunt, an addition to the ego. To me it sounds hollow and deeply irritating. In their attempt to appear thoughtful and self sufficient, they reveal instead a troubling insensitivity to nature, to other people, to the environment, and even to their own families, who end up breathing the very fumes that keep those lights glowing, TV running, and temperatures controlled.

Hills demand a different contract. They ask for patience, restraint, some degree of minimalism, and a willingness to adapt. To live here is to accept that darkness will occasionally visit, and that it is not an enemy. It is during these darker hours that we hear the forest more clearly, notice the stars, and remember that comfort does not always come from machines.

Perhaps the real nuisance is not the generator itself, but what it represents. Our fear of silence. Our aversion to variation in ambient temperatures. Our impatience with stillness and with lack of wifi. Our refusal to be momentarily powerless. The hills, in their quiet way, offer an alternative. Switch off the generator. Light a candle. Let the night return to being a night. Talk to your family and friends.

If you are reading this and dreaming of settling down in the hills, do not even consider a generator. Learn instead to live with the land and its rhythms. And if you are a guest visiting for a short escape, choose places that consciously shun such practices, places that gently educate you about conserving power and about the quiet grace of doing with a little less. Do this, and you will be my friend !

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