Strength Beyond Comfort

For many years I lived in cities. The noise, the hurry, the endless demands seemed to pull me in every direction. I kept busy, chasing goals and meeting expectations, but somewhere along the way I drifted from myself. My body felt worn by restless schedules, and my mind clouded by distractions. Spiritually, I felt disconnected, as if the small, simple joys of life had faded from view.

City life, with its bright screens and hurried footsteps, kept me from pausing. I forgot how to breathe deeply. I forgot how to sit quietly and simply be. Watching sunlight fall on leaves or listening to the wind in the trees became distant memories. Comfort and convenience had crept into every corner of my life, and I had grown unused to life’s small uncertainties. I tried at times to fight back, by taking my camera out, and going for an occasional photowalk with friends but it was not enough.

After living in different cities for so long, one thing became clear. I had grown unable to face actual hardships. A small change in my comfort zone and I would twist and turn, restless and uncomfortable. As a child I slept many summer nights under open skies, staring at the stars. But with time I got used to closed rooms and predictable comforts. I could no longer imagine sleeping outdoors. The temperature had to be just right, not too cold, not too hot. The city had softened me. I was so used to material comforts that I had forgotten how to live without them.

Now, in the village, I am finding myself again. I know I can live without electricity and mobile networks. On hot summer afternoons, I enjoy cool lemon water and feel sweat evaporate with every breeze. Even when I visit hot cities like Delhi, I no longer feel the suffocating discomfort I once associated with high temperatures. Climate change has made extremes more common but even a couple of degrees difference from my younger days no longer unsettles me. Winter’s chill, once unbearable, is something I welcome with a smile. The only comfort I need on cold nights is a hot water bottle by my side. Day by day I feel myself growing stronger both in body and mind as I live this slower life.

The same goes for water. As a child, I drank straight from taps without a second thought. In recent years, that seemed almost impossible. Perhaps the quality of water had declined, or perhaps my stomach had grown too sensitive after years of relying on purified and bottled water. But now, I feel that strength returning. I can enjoy fresh spring water and even drink water from someone’s home without worry. What suits others suits me too. I might even enjoy street food, but concerns about adulteration make me cautious, so I choose to stay away. That said, I’m still a little unsure about drinking tap water in cities, though it no longer feels as intimidating as it once did.

I have found a healthy circle of family and friends around me. Some stay in this village, some in the nearby towns and cities. I enjoy my own company but once in a while we meet. Instead of loud parties I prefer quiet conversations, one on one time with people I care about. We cook and eat together. Sometimes we go out for a walk in the hills. We talk openly, share problems, and help one another find solutions. Not long ago the wood in a couple of my windows began to rot. I thought I would have to replace the entire frame. A friend suggested a simple fix and helped me repair it without spending much. In the city my friendships revolved around eating, drinking, and entertainment. Here they are about meaningful talks about literature, philosophy, spirituality, life, and community living in the form of helping each other. It feels as though with every conversation I gain new perspectives while becoming stronger.

The village has not made life easy. Hardships are still there. But it has given me something the city took away. It has given me the strength to endure, the courage to embrace discomfort, the joy of quiet companionship, and the freedom to reflect. I once lost my way amidst noise and haste. Today in the calm of rural life I am slowly finding myself again. I am becoming healthier – mentally, spiritually, and physically!

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The Many Moods of Tea

One of the more delightful things I have noticed among the people who visit me is how differently they like their tea. Just as in a forest each bird sings its own tune, here each person approaches their cup of tea with a manner that seems to reflect their way of being in the world.

Tea serves many purposes, as varied as the people who drink it. Some reach for it in the morning to shake off sleep, while others rely on it to ease their bowels; some drink it to aid digestion, others to slow it down and linger over a meal. For some it is an appetizer, for others a sweet ending. Office workers, out of habit, gather around and have tea while standing in a group on the lawn or the deck, similar to standing around vending machines, using tea as an excuse to kill time and reminisce. I, at times, drink it simply when there is nothing else to do. For some it is a reason to chat and reconnect, for others a quiet companion that fills the mouth of talkative spouse and offers a brief moment of calm. Even businessmen use it as a tool in negotiations, where a shared cup helps build trust or ease tension. More than a beverage, tea is a ritual, a comfort, a pause, and sometimes a way to slow down and simply be.

In the hills we prepare what I like to think of as the classic chai. The tea is simmered in milk with a generous hand, left to bubble eagerly for a few minutes, with frequent churning using the sieve itself, until every last drop of its goodness has been drawn into the liquid. The process itself is a kind of ritual, a slow and comforting beginning to the day.

Yet once the cups are served, the tea takes on a life of its own. Over time I have come to observe several distinct habits that visitors bring to the table.

The poor man’s tea is what the villagers jokingly call the brew favoured by city folk and even by people abroad. I remember one gentleman from Delhi sitting stiffly at breakfast. He stirred his tea with great care, as if afraid the milk might offend. When I asked how he liked it, he whispered, just a few drops of milk please, perhaps one more, barely clouding the tea at all. He seemed determined to uphold a certain discipline, sipping cautiously as though tea itself were a luxury not to be indulged in too freely. Another lady I met, who enjoys this kind of tea, calls it ‘dropper wali chai’.

The purists’ tea is a world apart. These are people who want tea in its barest form, without adornments or embellishments. A lady from Delhi once brought her own tin of leaves and asked me very politely to prepare it without spices. She drank it with quiet satisfaction as if reconnecting with herself. Later she told me the aroma reminded her of long, reflective afternoons spent with books and silence. I realised that for some, tea is not about flavour but about returning to simplicity and stillness.

The tea aficionados are contemplative souls. One gentleman from Lucknow brewed his tea himself, using a small pot that looked like from some ancient Japanese village scene (he had carried his own tea pot !). He watched the water slowly turn a soft amber and sipped it with eyes half closed, as if every flavour were a quiet message. He lingered between sips, letting the warmth settle and the moment stretch. His mindful approach made me realise that tea can be a meditation, a way to slow down and simply be present with the senses. It felt like the refined grace of old Lucknavi Tehzeeb blending effortlessly with the quiet ritual of a Japanese tea ceremony.

Then there are the drinkers who insist on piping hot tea and those who wait for it to cool. A friend from Haldwani would take a cautious sip, wince, and then drink another as if determined to endure the heat. I suspect the sharp temperature helps distract from the thin taste. On the other hand, an elderly schoolteacher from a village nearby would hold his cup in both hands and wait patiently as the steam drifted away. He would then sip gently, allowing the warmth to seep into him slowly. Watching him, I thought that tea can offer comfort not through intensity but through unhurried presence, especially in cold winters.

Even the way tea is brewed becomes a matter of preference. Some, like a retired army gentleman from Almora, demand that the tea be boiled vigorously until it almost protests, extracting every trace of flavour. Others, like a doctor from Haldwani, insist that the leaves be added only after the water has boiled, as though the tea must be handled with care and respect. Their methods reflect a desire to control the unpredictable, but also a kind of devotion to the craft.

Over the years, I have learned how to accommodate the various preferences. I often let guests prepare their own tea. After all, no one wants to admit that their cup did not turn out as expected. At other times I serve tea in a simple way that invites participation. I keep one flask with hot water infused with tea, another with hot milk, and bowls of sugar and sweeteners nearby. Each guest can then craft their own perfect cup at their own pace, savouring the ritual. This works for most, except for those who crave piping hot tea and prefer the effort of mixing it themselves to be left to someone else.

For my friends, however, I still prefer to prepare the tea in the traditional way. It is a slow, comforting ritual, rich with milk and fragrant with herbs and spices. I serve the sugar on the side so that each person can sweeten their tea just as they wish. Watching them sip and relax, I feel that tea is more than a drink. We chat, connect, and enjoy the hot drink. It is an invitation to pause, to savour the moment, and to reconnect with the rhythm of a slower, gentler way of living.

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Many Shades of Vegetarianism

I get a splendid variety of guests at our homestay – a veritable parade of humanity, each arriving with their own luggage, their own opinions, and, most curiously, their own diet regimes. The way people eat could fill volumes, and believe me, it has. It is not merely that some dislike coriander or detest mustard seeds; oh no, the world of food habits is a labyrinth worthy of an epic quest.

Take the vegetarians, for instance – and I have encountered more flavours of vegetarianism than there are varieties of dishes at a wedding buffet in cities.

The most common, and practically household-standard variety, is the vegetarian who eats eggs. These folks are of the opinion that an egg is as vegetarian as a green salad. Some of them abstain from eggs on certain days, Tuesday being a popular choice, only to wolf them down with gusto on the others. Some disdain eggs outright, but if eggs have sneaked into cakes or desserts, well, they’re willing to look the other way as long as it’s not too obvious.

Then you have the egg purists. These gentlemen and ladies will insist that poultry farm eggs are fine. After all, they are unfertilised and therefore vegetarian in the eyes of Providence, but free-range or farm-raised eggs are a scandalous no-no, being fertile and therefore morally ambiguous. They eat eggs provided it hasn’t been given an existential crisis by being given an opportunity of getting fertilised. Meanwhile, some adventurous souls are happy to consume gravies that once hosted eggs, such as in egg curry or shakshuka, while discreetly lifting only the sauce with their roti or bread. Some of these brave souls even sample gravies from meat-based dishes, reasoning that “the essence is vegetable enough.”

Next come the proper day-based vegetarians, whose commitment waxes and wanes with the day of the calendar. Today they’re vegetarian, tomorrow a carnivore, eating the choicest of meats. For them, midnight is the great divide, a fork in the road. At 11:59 PM they may be dining on paneer, but at 12:01 AM, behold! The steak appears. Discipline is impeccable, timing immaculate. They only need to remember which day of the week it is (similar to the ones eating or avoiding eggs based on weekdays)

There’s also the curious breed who consider fish, prawns, and other sea creatures as vegetables from an alternative dimension. “After all,” they say, “fish are practically plants that swim.” Interestingly, this is a concept that I have seen with many of our Eurpoean vegetarian guests.

A subgroup, purists with rigid principles, refuses onions and garlic, the culinary villains of certain traditions. Their kitchens are fragrant with herbs, but bereft of those aromatic delights that make life taste divine. A lot of staunch Hindus follow this.

Then we have those flirting with veganism – eschewing not only animal flesh but all by-products thereof. Milk, butter, curds, ghee – all banished. Some, in their zeal or religious beliefs, also shun onions and garlic. Others, a tad more liberal, allow these pungent alliums but keep away from dairy.

And here’s one that will make you raise an eyebrow: vegetarians who refuse anything grown under the soil. Potatoes, carrots, radish – out! “If it’s been buried, it’s best left unconsumed,” they say. I have seen a lot of Jains and people with similar religious inclinations do so. But, they don’t mind Ginger and Turmeric, which I am yet to understand.

Then there are the fungus-phobes – vegetarians who avoid mushrooms, yet cheerfully lap up yeast-based breads and bakery items.

When it comes to baked goods, I’ve met vegetarians who cheerfully tuck into breads and cakes but wrinkle their noses at croissants and patties. A relative once blamed it on the egg-based glaze, but the mystery deepens, many of them avoid the same items even when they’re not glazed, as if the mere possibility of eggs lurking inside is enough to send them running!

Some prefer to sidestep eggplant (brinjal), but have no qualms about other nightshade vegetables like tomatoes or peppers. The list is long of such variations and I am yet to understand the details.

And now, the newest species to grace this botanical menagerie: the gluten-free enthusiasts. A handful, of course, suffer genuine intolerance, but the rest are swept up in the winds of social media fads. If an influencer sneezes at a slice of bread, they too will banish gluten with the fervour of a zealot exorcising a ghost. These are gluten-free kind of vegetarians. (Though I have met some gluten-free non-vegetarians too, but usually the gluten free group are non meat eaters)

I have a neighbour who’s a vegetarian—he consumes milk but not eggs, yet he admits that if meat were the only option, he wouldn’t hesitate to eat it. Principles, it seems, have their practical limits!

Interestingly, some vegetarians consider alcohol and kanji as non-vegetarian because they are fermented, yet curd and exotic kimchi are perfectly acceptable. It’s a bit puzzling to me, but who am I to question someone else’s philosophy?

Let us not forget the raw foodists, the fruitarians, the dairy-only devotees, and the intermittent fasters whose philosophy revolves around the precise timing of digestion cycles and cosmic alignment. Every meal is a manifesto, every plate a declaration of belief.

The quirks around cooking methods are equally amusing. Some won’t eat from utensils that may once have cradled a non-vegetarian dish, while others won’t even sit at a table where someone might be quietly enjoying a boiled egg nearby – as if a stolen glance alone could spoil their meal!

Then there’s the whole idea of a ‘pure vegetarian’ meal, which always leaves me scratching my head. To me, a meal is either vegetarian or it isn’t, but apparently, it depends on which philosophy you follow. So what exactly makes an exclusively vegetarian meal ‘pure’? The definitions seem to multiply faster than weeds in the garden!

In the end, the food philosophies are as varied as the people who follow them. It’s a delight to watch this kaleidoscope of habits and quirks unfold at the table. I stand there, fork in hand, ready with a smile, for every diet is a story – and every guest, a chapter in the grand, endlessly amusing cookbook of life.

While I may not always share the same food choices, I wholeheartedly respect them and am always happy to serve whatever brings my guests comfort and joy.

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Disconnect from Nature’s Embrace

When people from the cities visit me, I notice it almost every time – a missing thread, a loosened connection with the outside world. It is as if they have wrapped themselves in layers of noise and distraction. They do not notice the trees, the birds, or the endless sky above. Nature’s simple beauty seems to pass them by, waiting patiently to be noticed.

They sit in the garden, sometimes under a walnut tree or by the stone pathway, while their eyes are glued to their phones. The green all around them seems irrelevant, like a painted backdrop in a theatre set. It does not matter that the air smells of wet earth or that the breeze carries the scent of wild herbs. The pull of the screen is stronger. Is it the dopamine kick with endless scrolling or a false sense of safety by staying connected? It takes effort, real effort, to step away, to notice the flowers, to listen to the rustle of leaves.

A few of our guests hardly leave the indoors. I do not have a television. I do not stream films or shows, yet they are hypnotised by their phones. They scroll and tap as if expecting something urgent to appear. Even something as simple as stepping outside for a glass of lemonade or a warm mug of chocolate seems like a task. I watch them hesitate, check their screens once more, then finally leave their room, as though pulled out of a trance. Even while sitting under a tree, surrounded by nature, they keep pulling out their phones every now and then, glancing at them briefly before quickly slipping them back.

Another sign of this disconnect is how their ears respond. City life has made them familiar with noise, the low hum of machines, constant chatter, alerts and notifications. The silence of the night, once full of whispers and calls, now feels alien. Some confess that the stillness unnerves them. They have never heard the sweet calls of owls or nightjars. To them, the dark is only a space where lights are switched on. More than once, city visitors have ‘suggested’ that I install brighter lights in the garden, or set up floodlights to illuminate the whole place. Horrors! What would that do to the delicate balance of this ecosystem? And how would my sanity survive it? It’s hard to keep a straight face and entertain such suggestions.

Light pollution has dimmed their memory of true night skies. They have forgotten that the night can be sacred, untouched by artificial brightness. A star-lit sky stretching across the vastness or a landscape bathed in silver moonlight is a beauty they cannot imagine, not because it is not there, but because it has been covered by urban glare. They miss the poetry of darkness.

For most, a vibrant night-life means bright lights, late nights in the city, parties, and loud music. For me, it’s quite the opposite. True vibrancy comes from the silence that settles over the village, the soft twinkle of distant house lights, the stars scattered across the sky, and the gentle glow of the moon. It’s the music of night birds calling out, crickets keeping rhythm, and the occasional flicker of fireflies dancing through the dark.

Those who come to stay with us often experience a culture shock, not from the lack of amenities, but from the abundance of silence, from the absence of constant stimulation. The outdoors feels unfamiliar, even intimidating. They are not wrong; their world has been built without it. Yet, I feel a sorrow for them. Nature is patient, generous and forgiving. It waits silently, without complaint, hoping someone will look up and breathe it in again.

Sometimes, at dusk, I sit alone by the garden path. The snow-peaks change colours with the setting sun. The sky deepens into blue, and the first star appears. I picture the city visitor inside a room, their screen still glowing in the dark. I wonder if, deep down, they feel a ache – an unnamed longing stirring somewhere within. Perhaps tomorrow they will step outside. Perhaps they will pause, if only for a moment, and listen to the wind moving softly through the trees.

Do I succeed in influencing them? More often than not, I do. It fills me with joy and a sense of purpose when, during their brief stay, I can help rekindle their love for the outdoors: a gentle reminder of the beauty they’ve forgotten and the connection they are ready to embrace once more.

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New Skills, New Perspectives

There is something deeply satisfying about learning or perfecting a craft. It is not the applause, recognition, or even the results that bring the most joy. It is the quiet, steady sense of growth and mastery that unfolds with time. It becomes a source of pride that does not demand validation from others but feels like a gift to yourself.

While managing our orchard, I have been learning new skills in farming and orchard care, things I never knew before. From nurturing young saplings to understanding soil health, these practices have become part of my daily routine. What began with simple methods like composting has expanded into discovering the intricate ways trees communicate with one another and how fungal networks enrich the soil. Every new piece of knowledge deepens my connection with the land and its natural cycles.

What excites me most is how these skills are helping me tune into the environment by reading signs from nature such as changes in the weather, how clouds form, or how insects and birds behave, which give hints about what is coming. Weather apps and government’s messages help, but in addition these subtle messages from nature also provide a lot of information. This knowledge brings a sense of preparedness and calm in the wild spaces around the homestay.

I have also grown more confident navigating through forests and fields by learning to identify landmarks and read the terrain. Observing how vegetation thrives depending on the direction of the rains and sun, how plants lean towards light, how moss and lichens cover tree trunks, and where birds choose to build their nests – all of these, and many more clues from nature, help me find my way. What once felt like an intimidating wilderness now feels familiar, inviting, and full of quiet guidance.

And then there is the incredible joy of discovering the world around me. I can identify birds by their calls and colours, recognise trees by their leaves, and distinguish wild berries, mushrooms, and herbs. Some are edible, some medicinal, and some simply fascinating to observe. Nature’s abundance feels like a treasure waiting to be explored. Sitting under a tree, sipping on some hot coffee, I frequently make an effort to listen to all the sounds around me, and feel happy when I can identify some of the bird calls. This has now become a kind of a daily routine for me.

At the same time, over the past few years, as I have been running a homestay, I have found myself learning and perfecting the way I cook by experimenting with fresh ingredients, local produce, and new recipes. Cooking for guests has become more than just preparing meals. It is about creating experiences, sharing comfort, and bringing people together through flavours and warmth.

The free time that comes between tasks or during quieter days has been just as rewarding. It has given me the opportunity to read, reflect, and improve my understanding of various things, from ecology and weather patterns to human behaviour and spirituality. This uninterrupted space to learn has enriched my perspective and made every experience more meaningful. Every time I learn something new, it feels like a veil lifting and revealing a clearer view of the world.

Learning a craft teaches you that mastery is not a destination but a relationship. It is about practising, observing, and listening deeply whether it is cooking a comforting meal, tending to the orchard, or learning from the land’s quiet signals. The small, consistent efforts build into something meaningful over time.

This journey has never been about perfection. It has been about showing up every day with curiosity, patience, and persistence. I have stumbled, made mistakes, and forgotten things along the way, but each experience has made me stronger and more aware. What is important is to be persistent and keep perfecting whatever I want to learn. If you are thinking of learning something new, be it cooking, gardening, or anything else, focus less on where you will end up and more on the process itself. The journey, the discovery, and the connection you build along the way are far more rewarding than the end result.

A few months ago, I was having a conversation with a gentleman, a professor researching theories and different aspects of happiness. While working in the orchard yesterday, I realised that the continuous learning of new skills and the sense of accomplishment that comes with it are also essential ingredients in experiencing true happiness.

For me, this has been a journey of discovery and wonder. The most meaningful accomplishments are often the quiet ones, nurtured by care, curiosity, and the simple joy of learning. These small achievements have filled my days with a sense of purpose and joy, bringing a deep, lasting happiness. They remind me that growth doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic; it’s in the steady steps, the newfound skills, and the moments of understanding that we find true fulfilment and a profound sense of accomplishment.

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Quest for the Perfect Sapling

One of the greatest challenges I have faced in developing my orchard has been sourcing high-quality plants. The local saplings often fall short – they are either unhealthy or simply not the cultivars I am looking for. For those unfamiliar with the term, a cultivar is a cultivated variety of a plant. Even private nurseries located farther away rarely carry collections suited to our specific climate and geography. Finding the right plants has always been a slow, uncertain, and sometimes frustrating process.

Being a warm country with tropical and sub-tropical climates, India makes it far easier to find good mango saplings than plum or cherry saplings. This meant that for many of the fruits I wanted, I had to look much harder, travel further, and experiment more.

My first purchases came from a small nursery in a nearby town. I bought a few apple cultivars grafted onto plants grown from seedlings. The bare-root saplings were small, with weak roots that struggled to take hold. I planted them with hope and care, but many were lost when goats from neighbouring houses found their way inside and nibbled on the tender shoots. I had a barbed wire fence, yet somehow they managed to sneak in, leaving me with the bitter lesson that even a small orchard can face unexpected challenges.I replaced the fence with a sturdy chain-link one.

Determined to do better, I next turned to a couple of private nurseries in Bhimtal. Their selection was limited, and the plants came in soil rather than as bare roots. The saplings were healthier and larger than those I had first purchased. In the same year, I took a leap and acquired some apple plants from a high-tech research centre. These had been propagated using tissue culture and grafted onto dwarfing rootstocks. They were expensive, and I had high hopes for them, but sadly, my orchard soil did not suit their growth. I realised then that a good sapling is fundamental for a thriving orchard, and many places simply do not meet that standard.

Learning from these experiences, I began sourcing trees from distant nurseries in other hill states and even imported some cultivars from Europe. These plants performed better than most, but the nurseries frequently ran out of the specific cultivars I sought, forcing me to adapt and wait. The government’s Horticulture Department also provides saplings from time to time, though they come without labels and with no information about the cultivar. It has been over two years since they promised to supply a greenhouse (polyhouse) I had already paid for, and I plan to follow up again today with yet another call.

Over time, I began to grow many of my own saplings, learning grafting techniques and, at times, using layering. Mastering these skills on my own has been challenging, yet immensely rewarding. Being able to nurture a healthy sapling from the very beginning, watching it grow and thrive, has brought a unique satisfaction. It has also allowed me to experiment with new cultivars and propagation methods, making the orchard more diverse and resilient.

So, to finally answer the question I should have addressed earlier – what is a perfect sapling? For me, it is a sapling of the cultivar I am searching for, with healthy, well-developed roots, standing about two feet tall, and featuring a perfectly healed graft union between the rootstock and scion. Ideally, deciduous fruit trees should be sold bare-root, while plants such as citrus are best purchased with a strong root ball in soil. The price should be reasonable, and it is preferable to source the sapling locally, so I can inspect it in person rather than relying on long-distance mail orders or online purchases. A sapling that is too small risks being lost in the natural ground cover that I maintain, while one that is too large takes longer to adapt, costs more, and often shows no real advantage in growth after a few years compared to a smaller sapling planted at the same time. Ultimately, it comes down to resilience and adaptability, qualities that allow the plant to thrive in its environment.

Looking around now, I marvel at how much the orchard has grown. Apples, pears, plums, and peaches, including nectarines, form the backbone of my fruit trees, accompanied by a few apricots, pomegranates, and an assortment of citrus fruits. Kiwi vines curl gracefully along the trellises, while brambles such as raspberries, blueberries, elderberries, and strawberries flourish underneath the trees. Among the nut trees, there are walnuts, pecans, almonds, hazelnuts, and macadamias, alongside numerous mulberries and even a couple of olive trees. Interspersed with these cultivated plants are forest trees – oaks, holly, conifers, acacia, and rhododendrons – that help blend the orchard seamlessly into its natural surroundings.

Even with such diversity, there is always room to grow. I hope to add good cultivars of gooseberries and currants, as well as additional fruit trees such as apricots, pomegranates, and other hardy varieties of fruits that are still not there in my orchard. Focusing on local species helps maintain a healthy ecosystem, while carefully chosen cultivars ensure a varied and high-quality harvest. I have left some spots vacant, patiently waiting for the right plants that will complement the orchard and provide the fresh, vibrant fruits I long to enjoy.

In many ways, the journey of building this orchard has been about learning, experimenting, and adapting. Each sapling planted, each cultivar sourced, and each new technique mastered has taught me something invaluable. What began as a simple dream of growing fruit has become a living, evolving story of resilience, curiosity, and the quiet joy of nurturing life from the soil up.

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Solitude’s Gift

When I first moved to the village and a community of ‘new settlers’ was beginning to form, I often found myself drawn, and at times nudged by peer pressure, to be social and attend various gatherings and parties that were being hosted. Occasionally, I even invited neighbours. However, I soon realised that all this was taking up a lot of my time, precious time that I would rather spend with myself, nurturing my hobbies, or with people I genuinely cared for, rather than with a crowd exchanging small talk about the weather or politics.

As time went on, I understood that most of my neighbours were here only for a few weeks each year, treating it more like a holiday destination. For me, though, this was home, a place where I live most of the time and where life is built day by day. I couldn’t justify spending so much time at regular parties when I wanted to live more intentionally. Slowly, I began to withdraw from such gatherings.

I still love meeting my neighbours, but I now prefer spending time with them during the day, having longer, more meaningful conversations. It feels far more rewarding than mingling in the evenings over drinks amidst a crowd. By choosing quieter, more intentional interactions, I’ve been able to better honour my time, my passions, and the relationships that truly matter. I am honing new skills while embracing a slower, more intentional way of life.

In a world that constantly urges us to be connected, through social gatherings like the parties I mentioned above, or even through messages and social media, the idea of being alone can often feel uncomfortable or even frightening. Yet solitude is very different from loneliness. Loneliness comes from a sense of emptiness or isolation, when we feel disconnected from others. Solitude, on the other hand, is a conscious and enriching experience. It is a deliberate choice to be with oneself, to step away from the noise and external demands, and to sit quietly with one’s own thoughts.

When we embrace solitude, we create space to befriend our inner world. Thoughts that once seemed chaotic begin to settle, allowing us to process emotions, reflect on experiences, and discover deeper layers of our own mind. Solitude invites us to explore our fears, hopes, and desires without judgment. It is a companion that helps us understand ourselves, rather than a void we feel compelled to escape. The more we spend time alone, the more comfortable we become with who we are. In the stillness, we gain clarity about our values and passions, and we learn to navigate stress and uncertainty with resilience.

Some time back, a few small misunderstandings, along with some not-so-subtle character assassination, led a handful of neighbours, people I once counted as friends, to suggest socially boycotting me. Ironically, when we meet, they still flash polite smiles and exchange greetings, while both of us pretend not to remember the whispers behind our backs. It’s almost comical how easily we play along, acting as if nothing ever happened. In hindsight, though, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Many of them were occasional visitors I’d mentioned before, here only for a brief getaway. Skipping their gatherings gave me the space to step back, breathe, and focus on what truly matters. As I’m writing this, that incident comes to mind, but the truth is, I’ve long since forgiven them and everyone else involved. In time, I realised how much lighter and more meaningful my life had become, as if I’d been gifted with the space, peace, and clarity to truly appreciate what matters most.

Coming back to solitude – My mind is no longer clouded by unnecessary distractions, allowing me to focus on what truly matters. I’m finally catching up on books I’ve long wanted to read, exploring the intricacies of organic farming and permaculture, and enjoying meaningful conversations with most of my neighbours. I’m also able to spend more quality time with my family, which brings a deeper sense of connection and balance to my life.

This time spent with oneself does not mean rejecting the world or cutting off from others. On the contrary, it helps us engage with others more meaningfully. Solitude teaches us to discern which relationships are nourishing and which are draining. It allows us to approach companionship not as a way to fill a gap but as an opportunity for genuine connection and intellectual stimulation. When we are at ease with our own company, we are better equipped to be present and patient with others, offering empathy and understanding rather than distraction or dependence.

Spending time in solitude is a gift we give ourselves. It is where creativity flourishes, where new perspectives emerge, and where self-compassion takes root. By allowing ourselves to sit quietly and simply be, we cultivate a sense of peace that carries into our relationships and daily life. Solitude becomes not a sign of withdrawal but a source of strength, a companion that nurtures both the mind and the soul.

From enjoying the dance of butterflies while resting under the wild apricot tree, to listening to the soft rustle of apple leaves as they prepare to fall and the trees settle into sleep, these moments of solitude add a deeper, more meaningful dimension to my life. With each experience, I hope to grow, learning to become a better person with time.

In these simple moments, you become more aware of yourself – your needs, your passions, and the simple joys that often go unnoticed. Solitude gives you the space to reconnect with what truly matters, allowing you to invest your time in meaningful conversations, heartfelt laughter, and shared experiences with family and friends. It’s in these moments of presence, away from the noise, that relationships deepen and self-awareness grows. By choosing to slow down and be with yourself, you create room for connection, compassion, and a richer, more fulfilling life.

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Keep Smiling

After days of unrelenting rain, the weather finally cleared up. Sunlight spilled across the orchard, and the air filled with the cheerful chorus of birds. On one of our old apple trees, a lively group of parrots gathered, their chatter as bright as their feathers, as they feasted on the ripening fruits. Were they smiling or I felt so?

Smile is one of the simplest and most pleasant things that a human can do and yet most forget to do it. We underestimate it. A smile. So effortless, yet so powerful. It’s the smallest gesture we can offer, and often the one that makes the greatest difference.

A smile is universal. It travels across cultures, languages, and even species. Babies respond to it instinctively, strangers feel safer when they see it, and friends find comfort in it. When we smile, we send out a signal: I acknowledge you. I accept you. I mean no harm.

I remember reading a poster from as a child when I was growing up. It hung in my bedroom in one corner and said – Smiling is happy and fun, and doesn’t cost anything. Someone once told me that a smile is the easiest improvement one can do to one’s personality and face. No amount of make-up comes close.

But smiling is not only about others, it is deeply healing for ourselves. Science tells us that smiling releases endorphins, serotonin, and dopamine, the “feel good” chemicals that naturally lift our mood. Even when forced, a smile tricks the brain into thinking we are happier than we are. In other words, the body listens to the face. Remember the ‘All Izz Well’ trick from the famous 3-idiots film? It actually works, and even more so for smiles.

Smiling is also contagious. Think of the last time someone smiled warmly at you. Chances are, you couldn’t help but return it. That small moment created a connection, however brief. Multiply that across daily encounters, and suddenly life feels a little lighter, a little kinder. A teacher entering a class with a smile immediately makes the pupils happy and more receptive. When I smile at my homestay’s team members, they smile back and it creates a bond that makes us all perform better.

Of course, a smile should not be confused with suppressing pain or faking happiness. The incessant rains had left our village road in ruins, slowing the transport of fruits and vegetables and causing inevitable financial losses for many farmers in the valley. Yet, on this clear day, most of them seemed in good spirits, perhaps from relief, perhaps from a sly touch of drink or two. Some, excessively tipsy, swayed along with the mood. Amid arguments and rising tempers, yet softened now and then by a few smiles, everyone came together to get the road repaired with the help of a JCB, making it temporarily motorable. Life has its storms, and every emotion deserves space. Yet, the act of smiling, genuine, heartfelt smiling – can become an anchor, a reminder that joy can still be found, even in small moments.

So why not practice it more often? Smile at yourself in the mirror. Smile at a passerby. Smile when you are grateful, when you are relieved, or when you feel love. Like I mentioned earlier – it costs nothing, but the returns are immeasurable. While reading the above lines, you, my reader, I hope that you smiled.

A smile cannot solve every problem. But it can change the energy of a room, soften a heart, and brighten a day. And sometimes, that is exactly enough.

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Rains and Reckoning

In almost every monsoon season, the local news carries familiar stories: roads swallowed by torrents or buried under sudden landslides, as the mountains yield reluctantly to the force of unending rain.

Over the years, my experiences have slowly shaped some firm and deeply considered views on this. Feel free to disagree with me.

Excessive rains are not new to these mountains; they have lashed the land for centuries, shaping valleys and rivers in their wake. What is changing, however, is their intensity. The climate crisis is amplifying these events: as temperatures rise, clouds hold more moisture, releasing it in sudden, violent downpours—the cloudbursts that now strike with greater frequency and force. The climate crisis has also affected the way monsoons and western disturbances act, integral to rains in our subcontinent. Now, there are times when these excessive rains go on incessantly for days at a stretch.

The real danger arises when nothing stands in the way of unchecked water. Rampant deforestation, which I see unfolding all around, is one of the chief culprits. A man I know felled nearly an acre of orchard to raise a sprawling mansion, later boasting of his love for nature by placing a few fern planters on his balcony, a hollow gesture, almost mocking the earth he stripped bare. Without trees to bind the soil, the ground loosens, and with the rains, it tumbles down in landslides that block our roads and smother our valleys. Trees do far more than hold the soil; their canopies soften the lash of torrential rains, while their roots keep the ground porous, allowing it to drink in water. Strip them away, and the land’s resilience crumbles with them.

Much of the deforestation in these mountains stems from two forces. First, the relentless push for ‘development’: the widening of roads, the raising of massive buildings, the carving of land in the name of progress. Second, the lure of profit through illegal logging, where timber finds eager buyers to feed the frenzy of construction spreading across the Himalayan states. Together, these forces gnaw away at the very forests that shield and sustain us.

Next comes the mindless blasting of rock and the gouging out of soil with heavy earth-moving machines. Such assaults inflict irreversible scars on the land, leaving the surrounding slopes fragile and hollow. Then, it takes only a few spells of heavy rain for the weakened ground to give way, and the damage unfolds swiftly and brutally.

Even the smaller village roads are too often littered with construction material, while their drains lie choked and neglected. With nowhere to go, the rainwater spills across the roads, eroding them, and then carves out new paths of its own sometimes cutting through orchards and fields, sometimes into homes, leaving damage in its path. While planting some bramble saplings at one end of our orchard, I noticed muddy water flowing from a higher point. On investigating, I discovered it was caused by a blocked drain beside the road on the top, another small reminder of how neglect can ripple through the land.

Another troubling pattern I have observed is the rush of construction right in the beds of streams and rivers. From buildings to roads, heavy structures rise in these fragile basins, with blind and ill-formed faith that retaining walls will hold back the waters. Perhaps they do for a year or two, but such arrogant presumption is a sure recipe for disaster. Increasingly, I see this everywhere. When the torrents come, swollen by deforested slopes and streams choked with debris, the floodwater shows no mercy. It tears through everything in its path, sweeping away the very buildings and roads that humans so confidently placed in its way.

Migration and development have always been part of human history, here as elsewhere. For centuries, people have moved and built anew. What must concern us now is the unchecked, mindless development that leaves behind only scars of destruction. True development is essential: good schools, reliable hospitals, livelihoods, and better connectivity are the needs of the people. But the path forward must be sustainable. Safe, clean, comfortable, and affordable public transport serves the hills far better than carving multi-lane highways for a car-centric economy. Small homes and vernacular architecture blend with the terrain in ways that massive concrete blocks never can. And above all, we must protect our forests, trees cannot be felled with such casual disregard. After all, this is the land that once gave birth to the Chipko Andolan; perhaps it is time we ask ourselves what became of that spirit.

Each time, the slopes crumble, fields are swept away, and roads vanish under mud and stone. Yet, amid the destruction, the people here rebuild with determination, and the forests and rivers slowly reclaim their balance. It reminds us that nature carries on, strong and patient, and if we pause, pay attention, and live with care, we can endure too. In this rhythm of loss and renewal, there is a gentle teaching: resilience is born not of force, but of humility, patience, and respect for the world we are part of. If we learn from it, we too can find our place within the enduring flow of life.

True progress is mindful development that honours and protects the natural world..

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Challenges and Contentment

Living in the hills, in a village far from any major town, is a constant reminder that life comes with its own limitations – yet within those constraints lies a simpler, more meaningful rhythm of living.

There is no e-commerce or doorstep delivery here. Shopping still happens the old-fashioned way, with a list in hand and a dedicated trip to the market. There are no last-minute orders promising delivery in minutes. Instead, life encourages forethought: from planning meals for my guests to deciding which seeds to buy for the vegetable garden, everything is thought through in advance and purchased with care.

We don’t have a multi-speciality hospital nearby, which makes it all the more important to look after our health and keep a stock of basic medicines. I try to go a step further with an annual health check-up and routine blood tests. Daily walks are part of my routine too, though on rainy days, discipline often gives way to the comfort of hot, fried pakoras. After all, who can resist them when the clouds are pouring? And if there is a piping hot tea along with it… that’s sheer bliss.

There are no good schools nearby, so my children attend one in another town. The nearest bookstore is nearly two hours away, which means I usually buy books in bulk. E-books on Kindle have been a blessing, especially now that we have reliable high-speed internet. Recently, a small shop opened just three kilometres from our home, offering some good stationery items. I hope they expand their range, it would make life a little easier.

We don’t have courier services here. EMS Speedpost still functions, but mostly for letters, not parcels. A few villagers still receive handwritten letters, a gentle reminder of a time when the postman brought news from distant family and friends, wrapped in paper and ink. Those closest to me have long since moved to instant messages and emails. Practical, yes, but it lacks the warmth of words arriving in an envelope.

For vegetables, we largely rely on what we grow ourselves or what our neighbours cultivate in the village. Occasionally, I do buy from the local shops, but by the time the produce reaches them, much of its freshness and flavour has already faded. Whenever possible, I prefer to buy directly from farmers who grow vegetables locally. There’s a simple joy in choosing produce still glistening with morning dew, knowing it has travelled only a short distance from the soil to my kitchen. It’s both a practical choice and a small way of staying connected to the rhythm of life here.

Being far from the town has its quirks. When our internet lines go down, we can be cut off for days at a stretch. In a way, it’s a blessing, forcing an unplanned digital detox and a pause from the constant buzz of online life.

Once in a while a fresh government circular appears or some local village discussions stir up a little dust. These things are part of life in any community, especially in the hills where everyone knows everyone. I notice them, the way one notices a change in the wind. Since I am simply another part of this landscape, I acknowledge what comes and then let it pass.

Transportation costs are high, so getting bulky items delivered requires careful planning. Often, neighbours pool their orders, or someone heading to town will pick up supplies for others along the way. While I enjoy my own company, I’m fortunate to have many friends nearby, friendly, reliable, and always willing to lend a hand.

A few days ago, I noticed some bottles of a light beer that a friend of mine particularly enjoys. I called him to let him know it was available. (I could have bought one for myself, but presently I have decided to stay away from beer. Not sure about how long it will last.) Another friend who visited a few days ago from Almora, brought along some packaged snacks, knowing they aren’t always easy to find here. When I travel to Bhimtal, another nearby town, I often end up carrying more groceries and supplies for my neighbours than for myself. It’s a small effort, but it brings me a sense of happiness.

Living far from towns brings its own rhythm and lessons. Daily life encourages self-reliance: emergencies, minor repairs, or sudden shortages require patience, planning, and sometimes a touch of creativity. Spirit of cooperation flows automatically among most of the people here. Social life here is intimate and meaningful: friends and neighbours support each other, and small gestures, like sharing vegetables or helping with chores, create a sense of belonging that city life rarely offers. Leisure is found in the simplest pleasures: a walk through the hills, tending the garden, reading a good book, or simply watching the seasons change. Seasonal challenges, from heavy rains to snowfall, test resilience and adaptability, reminding us to anticipate, adjust, and sometimes simply accept nature’s limits.

Life here may be slower and constrained, but within these limits lies a subtle richness: a chance to plan thoughtfully, value what we have, and savour the small, everyday victories that make living in a village uniquely rewarding. This is my slow and mindful life.

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From Noise to Nuances

When I moved into a slower rhythm of living, I didn’t expect my senses to change. But they did quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day I realized that the world around me felt sharper, fuller, more alive. It was kind of a refreshing feeling.

Without the constant distractions of television, films, traffic, and loud music, I have simply begun to notice more. Small sounds stand out now: the flutter of a bird’s wing just before it takes flight, the crisp rustle of dry leaves as a garden lizard darts across, even the faint hum of bees moving from flower to flower in the orchard. These sounds were always there, but I wasn’t listening. My ears had been too crowded to listen. The change has become obvious in unexpected ways. I used to mow my lawn with a powered mower without thinking twice; now I find the noise overwhelming unless I wear ear muffs. (As it turns out, they are recommended for most power tools anyway, a precaution I had been ignoring all along.) Even phone conversations feel different. Along with voices, I now notice the background details: birds chirping, the clatter of utensils in a kitchen, the rise and fall of someone’s breath. These little sounds add texture, making even a brief call more alive and fulfilling. Still, nothing compares to speaking with someone in person, where the unspoken often carries more than words.

The same has happened with people. Since I no longer spend time in large crowds, my attention naturally rests on the individual before me. And it’s surprising how much a person communicates without speaking. A hesitation before words form, the firmness or softness in their gaze, the way their shoulders relax or stiffen, I now notice these subtleties as clearly as I hear spoken language. Most conversations feel almost wordless these days, guided more by presence than by sentences. Earlier, I would pick up on simple cues like sensing a certain insecurity when someone kept their shades on while talking. But now I find myself catching even the expressions a person tries, often unsuccessfully, to conceal. In conversations too, it is not only what is said that matters, but what lingers between the lines.

This shift has also changed the way I connect with people who come to stay at our homestay. Our conversations feel richer, layered with more than just talk of travel, food, or weather. They often open into gentle truths, cherished memories, fleeting moments of joy, and the small treasures people quietly carry within them. It is these unspoken layers that seem to leave the deepest imprint often more lasting than the words themselves. At times, I sense their pain as well, but unless they choose to share it, I let it be, respecting the silences they wish to keep.

Coming to yet another sense – I have gradually stopped using strong perfumes, and even my toiletries are now almost free of overpowering artificial scents. Freed from those layers, my sense of smell feels more open, more curious. I always loved the fragrance of wet leaves in a forest, but now I can tell the difference — the damp, earthy aroma of an oak forest is not the same as the resinous freshness of a pine grove. Even within my own orchard, each corner speaks in its own scent. The sweetness of ripening fruit, the delicate fragrance of wildflowers, and then, carried on a sudden gust of wind, the heady freshness of acacia blossoms. Rain too has its own variations: the scent of winter showers is different from the rains of autumn. The moist winter air seems to hold its own quiet perfume. By going mindful and shedding distractions, I find myself living inside these fragrances rather than just passing through them. The world, it seems, always had these notes to offer. I just need to relearn how to breathe them in.

Has it affected my taste buds too? Absolutely. I’ve grown a quiet aversion to most prepackaged foods. They taste either too sweet or strangely artificial. Yet, I must admit, my weakness for salty snacks still lingers. Put a packet of Kurkure, Lays, or Pringles in front of me and I’ll keep munching away, even while knowing they’re far from healthy and nearly impossible to stop once begun. In my kitchen, though, things have changed. I use far less salt and fewer spices than I once did, letting the natural flavor of fresh ingredients speak for themselves. And when it comes to drinks, nothing compares to a glass of cool, fresh spring water, especially after some hard work in the orchard. I do still enjoy fresh fruit juices and the occasional beers. However, when it comes to beers, the company matters!

I find myself pausing to savor the smallest sensations: the delicate drizzle washing over my face, the gentle tickle of grass beneath my bare feet, the warmth of sunlight resting softly on my skin, especially in winter, when even the faintest rays feel magnetic, drawing me toward them as if I could soak up every ounce of light. These are such simple experiences, often overlooked in the rush of daily life, yet they hold a quiet joy when noticed fully. I am learning to linger in these moments, to let them speak to me. Even the ordinary touch of rain or earth feels like a gift.

I am no ascetic, and I do not live a life of strict discipline, yet I feel quietly grateful for what slow living and mindfulness have brought me. Some of my friends have offered valuable insights, and certain things I once took for granted like the flavour of fresh fruits or quietness of nights have gained new significance after being pointed out by my guests. It is as if all my senses had been patiently waiting for me to slow down, to finally give them space to breathe. The world itself hasn’t changed but I definitely have, or am trying to. And in this gentler rhythm, every sound, every glance, every gesture carries more weight, more subtle meaning, more life than I ever noticed before.

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The Inner Devta

Devta – a word often used in Hinduism to describe benevolent, god-like beings, finds its root in the verb dena, meaning “to give.” At its essence, a Devta is not merely one who wields power or receives worship, but one who gives: light, protection, blessings, and guidance. When we reflect on this meaning, it carries a simple yet profound lesson for us humans as well. To give is to live in harmony with the very fabric of existence. When we give back to society, when we share with those around us, when we restore to Mother Nature what we take, when we care for the earth that sustains us, we are, in our own small way, walking the path of the Devta.

Even the philosophy of sustainable living is rooted in the act of giving – giving back to the Earth, to Mother Nature, who nurtures us in countless ways. Whether it is composting to return nourishment to the soil, or harvesting rainwater to replenish the underground reserves, these are simple yet profound acts of giving. In giving back, we restore balance, honor the cycles of life, and ensure that what sustains us today will also sustain generations to come.

This giving need not always be grand or material. A kind word, a helping hand, a seed sown in the soil, a tree nurtured for future generations, these too are acts of giving. Such gestures refine us, polish our inner being, and make us better people. They align us with a deeper truth: that our lives are not meant to be lived in isolation or mere consumption, but in participation with the greater whole. In giving, we transcend selfishness. In giving, we dissolve a part of our ego. And in giving, we step closer to the divine qualities we admire in the Devtas. Perhaps the highest offering we can make is to live in a way that leaves behind more goodness than we received, to give back not only to people, but also to the soil, the rivers, the forests, and the unseen life that depends on our choices.

A few years ago, a young boy from our village fell gravely ill. His survival depended on a surgery followed by long and costly medical care. To support the family in their time of need, friends and villagers began a small crowdfunding initiative. One by one, people came forward, each giving what they could, some little, some more. To me, every single donor became a Devta in that moment.

There is a simple, deep satisfaction and blissful happiness in the simple act of giving. It also resonates with my inclination toward minimalism, where joy is not found in accumulating, but in sharing. Each time I give, no matter how small the gesture, I feel a gentle happiness arise within me.

Sometimes, it is as ordinary as pausing on a village road to offer a lift to a schoolchild walking by. I have the space in my car, and in that moment, giving it feels natural. At other times, it is in choosing the very best fruits from our orchard – the ripest, most beautiful ones – to gift to others, while keeping the smaller or blemished ones for myself. When it comes to clothing too, I would rather buy the finest for the people around me than for my own use. These are not sacrifices, nor acts of deprivation. They are moments of giving, and each one brings its own contentment. Even at the dinner table, when neighbours join me, I instinctively cut the larger slice of apple pie for them. The joy is not in what remains with me, but in what I can share.

I am also a receiver at times. Life has a way of reminding me of this through the generosity of those around me. A friend once gifted me an oven to bake breads, and fruit trees to plant in the orchard. Another, whenever he visits, brings food items with a smile. A kind couple offers not material things but their time and physical labour, helping me in the garden. Our neighbours support us with prayers and participation in religious activities. Even the shoes I wear at this very moment are a gift from yet another friend.

One aspect of “not giving” stems from the instinct for self-preservation. Questions naturally arise: What if an emergency strikes and I need money? What if I am unable to provide for my family in the ways I should? What if a sudden crisis leaves me without the means to respond? These concerns are valid. A small cushion of safety, for ourselves and our loved ones, is not only wise but essential. Yet, beyond this foundation, there should always remain space for giving. Even the smallest act, the tiniest contribution, carries meaning.

To give, then, is not a duty alone, it is a privilege, and a path to becoming truly human.

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Threads of Destiny

Everything happens for a reason – Bhagavad Gita

Today, while clearing some weeds beneath a peach tree, my hand brushed rather forcefully against a stinging nettle. Hidden in the shade of grasses and other plants, it revealed itself only through its sting. I tugged it out and then sat for nearly an hour with my hand burning and itching, little sores rising like reminders of its power. In Hindi, it is called bichhoo ghaas or bichhoo booti – the “scorpion grass.” And indeed, it stings with the suddenness of a scorpion’s strike.

Later in the day, when I returned to my study, I noticed a scorpion lying dead next to my chair, one I had overlooked in the early hours of the morning while writing some notes. A strange coincidence, or perhaps a whisper of destiny? It felt as though Providence had played a gentle trick: maybe I was fated for a scorpion’s venom, but instead I received only the passing lesson of a nettle’s bite.

Karma, too, has its own ways. Perhaps some unseen good deed lightened the burden, diverting me from greater harm to a lesser one. Nature, in her mysteries, teaches us again and again – pain is real, but so too is grace.

In moments of reflection, when I look back upon the many events of my life, I often feel a deep sense of predestination. The joys and sorrows, the blessings and the struggles – each seems to have unfolded for a reason. Though I may not consider myself overtly religious, I cannot escape the feeling that there is a greater wisdom at play, something I am still learning to understand.

Different traditions give it different names. In Hinduism, the Gita and other sacred texts speak of Karma. In Christianity, it is called Providence. In Islam, it is known as ‘Maqtoob’, that which has been written. Many names, many expressions, yet they all seem to point toward a single truth: life is guided by a force beyond our complete comprehension.

Believing in fate does not mean doing nothing. Fate may open doors, but it is our actions that decide whether we step through. To trust in providence is not to surrender effort, but to act with greater care – sowing seeds of kindness and goodness that will one day return to us.

What we do inevitably returns to us, yet not without the gentle hand of divine guidance. This realization humbles me, and reminds me that my purpose is not only to nurture my own growth, but also to work for the well-being of those around me.

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Dealing with Heavy Soil

The orchard I began looking after had been neglected for decades before it came into my care. Most of the old fruit trees had either died or were nearing the end of their lives. Over the last ten years, I have been replanting, slowly and patiently, introducing new varieties of fruit trees to bring the orchard back to life. Hybrid apples, pears, peaches, plums, apricots, various brambles, and many others.

One of the greatest challenges here has always been the soil. Much of it is heavy clay, unyielding when dry, turning into something close to stone, and sticky, waterlogged, and slushy when the rains arrive. Water tends to stagnate, making life hard both for the trees and for me.

When I first took over, I chose to step back and let the orchard breathe. For several years, I stopped tilling and completely gave up on chemicals. Weeds and wild bushes took over, but beneath the surface, their roots were doing the work. They loosened the soil, added organic matter, and slowly began turning that dense clay into something more loamy and forgiving. My no-spray policy further helped restore balance. Fungal networks began to thrive, earthworms returned in numbers, and with every season, the topsoil grew richer and more alive.

Nearly a decade later, the orchard feels like it has found its rhythm again. I keep the fruit trees clear of overpowering growth, trimming back the tallest weeds and bushes when needed, but I still don’t till and I still don’t spray. Nature does most of the work when we step aside and give her time.

Yet, planting a new tree here is still a lesson in patience. The soil remains heavy in many patches, and every pit I dig reminds me of its stubborn compactness. To help the young trees establish themselves, I amend the planting hole with a bit of gypsum to loosen the clay, and bonemeal to provide gentle, long-lasting nourishment. Over this, I add compost and generous layers of mulch. With time, gypsum improves soil texture, bonemeal supports strong roots, and mulch protects the soil life while feeding it steadily.

The more organic matter the soil holds, the healthier it becomes. Experts suggest that a good soil should contain at least 5% organic matter. My orchard soil hasn’t reached that richness yet, but with time and care, it is steadily improving. While most people pour their energy into building concrete walls, I find joy in building soil.

Soil doesn’t transform overnight. It takes years, sometimes many, but I’ve come to see that as a gift rather than a challenge. The slow pace at which clay softens, worms multiply, fungi spread, and humus builds is the same rhythm that reminds me what slow living truly is. In the orchard, there are no shortcuts, but there are rewards at every step. Mother nature may move slowly, but she always works wonders with time.

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Our Orchard Came Back to Life Naturally !

Ten years ago, we made a bold and necessary change—we stopped using all synthetic chemicals in our orchard. No pesticides, no artificial fertilizers, no fungicides. At the time, it felt risky. But looking back, it was one of the most rewarding decisions we’ve ever made.

The Notebook Habit

Lately, I’ve begun carrying a small notebook and a pencil with me. There’s something grounding about it, something a phone can never quite match. When I write on paper, I’m not pulled into the endless swirl of apps and alerts. The page asks nothing of me except presence. A notebook never runs out of battery, never demands an update. Its pages open to wherever my thoughts wish to wander – forward, backward, or somewhere in between.

Of course, after years of professional work and decades of typing on keyboards, my handwriting has become clumsy, almost unrecognizable. But even in its unevenness, I find a simple lesson. Writing by hand asks me to slow down, to let each word take shape patiently. In the act of making my handwriting legible, I notice myself living more gently, more attentively, one imperfect line at a time.

For notes I know I’ll discard in a few days, I simply use loose sheets of paper. When they’ve served their purpose, they find a second life kindling my winter fire. At times I’ve thought about buying a small notepad with tearable sheets, but then I pause, why add another purchase when my notebook is still here with me, its pages more than half empty, waiting to be filled?

Even the notes in my notebook lose their significance after a while. A to-do list that has already been completed, or a set of quick instructions I scribbled for myself while walking through the orchard – once their purpose is served, they no longer carry much meaning. For now, I simply strike them out. But I often wonder if, with time, my notebook will hold more crossed-out pages than notes I truly need to keep.

I use my notebook for many things: scribbling to-do lists, jotting down thoughts and plans for the orchard or homestay, or noting topics to discuss with family and friends. At times, it holds nothing more than a passing thought, a few lines of poetry, or fragments of ideas that might later grow into a blog post.

My simple advice to anyone wishing to live more mindfully: carry a small paper notebook and a pencil. I lean toward a pencil since it never leaks with the pressure changes as I move between the hills and the valleys. But a pen works just as well. Perhaps even a fancy fountain pen, one you come to treasure and turns writing into a small ritual.

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Meditation Between Breaths

Meditation comes in many shapes and shades. Each tradition, each school of thought, offers its own map. Some speak of a fixed number of practices, others of meditations that unfold in stages, like petals opening over time. The differences can be intriguing, yet also bewildering, as if one were standing before a vast forest of paths, each claiming to lead to the same clearing.

For me, the journey is simpler. I am a humble wanderer who finds joy in the small and ordinary: a bird’s call at dawn, the quiet steam of morning tea, the play of light through a window, water droplets on leaves after a drizzle. In these moments, I find my own form of meditation. And after much reading, and more importantly, much living, I have come to see it in just two gentle streams: Contemplation and Concentration.

When I ponder on a thought, think about it, dive into its depths, and try to understand its various aspects, I find myself in a zone that feels similar to meditation, though it is not exactly the kind of concentration people usually speak of. It is contemplation. Some authors have also included contemplation as a type of meditation, and in that sense, perhaps it overlaps.

This is what I do. When I go for a walk, when I sit under a tree gazing into the distance and thinking about something, when I read a book and pause to reflect on what I’ve read. These are all moments of contemplation for me. My partner often remarks how interesting it is that I read a book and then sit quietly for a while, as if slowly digesting what I’ve just read. That, for me, is contemplation.

In my daily life, I am usually occupied—reading books, learning new skills, or enjoying activities I love, such as photography, cooking, or listening to music. Sitting quietly to focus my mind is something I don’t often do anymore. There was a time when I did. I would close my eyes and simply listen to the sounds around me, becoming aware of every detail, every subtle movement in the air. Sometimes I would focus so intently that all thoughts would fade away. In those moments, I would lose track of time and even lose awareness of my surroundings. It’s a difficult experience to put into words, but when it happens, it feels almost surreal. These days, I usually find this kind of meditation when I visit a temple in the region and spend unhurried time sitting within its quiet premises.

For me, whether I am contemplating or concentrating, the sensations of my body and the influence of my surroundings whether it’s the warmth of the sun, the chill of mountain air, the patter of rain, or the stillness of a heatwave, gradually fade into the background. It is as if the mind steps forward and the body quietly takes a back seat. Perhaps that is why I have never fully understood the need for elaborate, climate-controlled halls for meditation. I see their value for those who seek comfort or structure, yet my own experience tells me that meditation itself can take care of the body. When the mind settles deeply, the weather becomes irrelevant; heat no longer oppresses, cold no longer bites. The external fades, and the internal becomes vast enough to hold everything without disturbance.

This, too, is a part of living a slow life, allowing space for stillness to arise on its own. Meditation comes to me naturally, woven seamlessly into the rhythm of my days. It may not resemble what most people picture when they speak of meditating, no rigid posture, no set time or ritual, but for me, this is exactly what meditation is. It happens in the quiet company of nature: while watching clouds drift lazily across the sky, listening to the low murmur of a stream, or feeling the gentle sway of trees in the wind. It’s in the warmth of sunlight on my face, the cool brush of evening air, the earthy scent that rises after rain, or the gentle drizzle cooling my bare head. In such moments, there is no need to “try” to meditate. The mind softens, the senses open, and awareness rests naturally in the present.

ADDENDUM (17 Aug 2025): Based on a short discussion with a friend of mine, who is an avid reader and a regular practitioner of meditation and mindful living –

One thing that needs to be clarified is that contemplation should not be mistaken for daydreaming. Daydreaming drifts aimlessly, often carrying the mind into fantasies and distractions, while contemplation is intentional. It is a mindful, steady dwelling on a thought, an idea, or an experience with the purpose of deepening understanding.

Regardless of religion or faith, meditation can be embraced as a gentle companion in daily life.

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Walking into Happiness

Most people see walking as a matter of numbers. Nine – Ten thousand steps a day. So many kilometres covered. So many calories burned. A sure way to control your weight, keep the doctor at bay, and if the insurance companies are to be believed even earn you a lower premium.

But I’ve learned that there’s another side to walking. A quieter, deeper side. One that rarely makes it into fitness trackers or health blogs. It is the side where the body falls into rhythm, and the mind begins to wander freely. Where each step takes you not only along a path, but inward, into yourself.

I am not a regular walker but I enjoy whatever short walks I can fit in here and there. When I walk the village trails, there’s the crunch of gravel underfoot, the faint rustle of leaves as the wind moves through the trees, the occasional call of a distant bird. Out by the edge of the woods, the air smells of pine, oaks, and damp earth. The sunlight falls in dapples, and shadows stretch lazily across the ground. Sometimes I carry my camera, hoping to capture a few good photographs. Other days, it’s just my phone in my pocket. And lately, there are days when I take no electronics at all.

It is here, in these moments of walking, that my thoughts slow down. Here, the noise of the world recedes, and I can hear the softer voices, the ones drowned out by daily life. I find myself contemplating things I didn’t even know I needed to think about. Sometimes I untangle a knot in my mind without even trying. Other times, I simply let my thoughts drift like leaves on a stream. From interesting concepts that I can use in my orchard and homestay, to ideas that I can discuss with my family and friends. Every walk gives me something to be happy about.

These walks are not just exercise. They are a kind of moving meditation. They are my sanctuary, my pause button, my way of returning to myself. Sometimes, when I can’t go out on the road and towards the nearby temple and village, I ope for walking around in the orchard. Since I know the nooks and corners of my orchard, I am able to relax my mind even better.

One tool that initially helped me focus was my step counter. In the beginning, I had a clear goal to hit and somehow, with every step I took, I subconsciously felt a little healthier. These days, I rarely glance at the counter. My step count has probably dropped, but my mindfulness while walking and the happiness I feel during those walks has grown. Once the rains pass, I hope my steps will rise again. But for now, I’m content knowing that each walk, no matter the distance, leaves me lighter in spirit.

Yes, walking will make you fitter, especially if you go for long fast walks. Yes, it will strengthen your heart and clear your lungs. But the greatest gift it offers is invisible a deep, unshakable peace that lingers long after you’ve returned home.

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Rainy Day – Contemplations

Today is a rainy day! It has been raining cats and dogs incessantly. Kids are at home. No one is going anywhere. No outdoor work being done. Even the birds are hiding away.

For people like us, every working day holds weight. When the skies keep us indoors, the pause comes with a price. I’m yet to build the kind of passive income or diverse revenue streams that would let me savour a rainy day without glancing at the accounts. The wisdom from financial gurus and management coaches that money isn’t the key to happiness, rings true, yet I’ve found that the lack of it can still cast a shadow. A cushion of savings is not just a safety net for emergencies; it’s also a promise that my children can pursue good education without hurdles.

Rainy days, though beautiful, bring a subtle ripple to our livelihood. News of landslides or floods in distant hill regions, though far from our orchard – often slows the flow of guests to our homestay. And while our corner of the world remains lush, safe, and welcoming, perception travels faster than facts. Out in the orchard, rain keeps me from tending the trees, and even the simple joy of turning fresh fruit into jams and preserves becomes a challenge.

Yet, in the gentle drumming on the roof and the veil of mist over the hills, I’m reminded that life’s rhythm is not solely about output, it’s also about stillness, reflection, and the work nature does beneath the surface to prepare for tomorrow’s abundance.

There’s beauty in the balance. The streams run fuller, the trees drink deeply, and our rainwater harvesting tanks brim to the edge, spilling over in generosity. Somewhere underground, the water table rises, storing life for the seasons ahead. Nature, it seems, is already sowing the promise of the next harvest.

When there are fewer guests at our homestay, it gives my team and me a chance to rest. We manage everything with just a small group of people, so these rainy days feel like a welcome break. I see one of them sitting in a corner, strumming a guitar, the soft music mixing with the sound of rain. Another, who usually works with me in the orchard, is in the greenhouse, holding a hot drink and watching the raindrops slide down the glass.

Once I finish this post, I plan to settle down with a book on security analysis for some deep reading. Later in the afternoon, I might switch to something about orchard care, and in the evening, lose myself in a classic Agatha Christie murder mystery. No TV, no mobile. They are the biggest time trap.

With the rains, scents seem to linger longer. The bookshelves carry that warm, welcoming musty smell of old pages. Outside, the ground feels fresh and clean, and walks around the orchard are wrapped in a moist, earthy fragrance – something you can breathe in and feel, but can never quite put into words. It’s not the sharp, raw scent of the first rain on dry soil, but more like a well-soaked potpourri of pine needles and oak leaves. From the kitchen drifts the tempting aroma of fried snacks. perhaps pakoras, or maybe it’s just my wishful thinking playing tricks on me.

Even though worries about financial stability linger in a corner of the mind, it becomes easier to simply enjoy the moment, to live it without overthinking. With just a little conscious effort, the rest is taken care of by the weather itself, and by the gentle mix of raindrops’ pitter-patter and a light sonata in C minor drifting through the air from the radio.

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Where the Dragonfly Paused

There’s something deeply grounding about working with soil barehanded – the rich texture, the earthy scent, the life it holds. Yesterday, I spent the whole day in my greenhouse, planting and repotting most of my plants. A few empty pots got a fresh mix of loamy soil enriched with a bit of vermicompost. Into these, I tucked woody cuttings of lavender and rosemary, just the right season for them to take root and begin their journey as new plants. The trick is to choose cuttings with a firm, woody base rather than tender green shoots, and to plant them deep enough so at least three nodes rest beneath the soil. I rarely use rooting hormones, though I wouldn’t mind if they were on hand. Living in a village without instant deliveries or online shops has a way of keeping my gardening simple, resourceful, and deeply satisfying.

Coming back to working with soil – it’s my shortcut to a calm, simple place inside. The simple act of digging, planting, and feeling the earth between my fingers draws me into a state of relaxation and leaves me with a sense of accomplishment. It makes me happy because it connects me to nature, awakens my senses, and gives me the purpose that comes from nurturing life.

Soil even has its own kind of medicine. Certain natural microorganisms in it can strengthen our immune system, reduce inflammation, and lift our mood by encouraging the brain to release serotonin. One of the most fascinating is Mycobacterium vaccae, a beneficial bacterium found in healthy soil that has been linked to reduced anxiety, improved mood, and better immune regulation.

Plants are also teachers. Their slow, steady growth is a gentle reminder that meaningful progress doesn’t happen overnight. It unfolds at its own pace, in its own time. They show me the value of patience, the beauty of consistency, and the strength in simply continuing, day after day. Every leaf that unfurls, every root that deepens, is proof that even the smallest daily efforts can create something lasting.

Every tiny bit of nature carries its own wisdom, but it only reveals itself when we slow down enough to notice. By observing and truly paying attention, we begin to understand not just the plants, but also ourselves – our rhythms, our needs, and our place in the greater cycle of life.

While tending to the plants, my thoughts drifted in and out- wandering from basic philosophies to the simple peace of the moment. A dark red dragonfly drifted in through the open door. It hovered for a breath, the soft patter of raindrops tapping on the glass roof above and the distant music of a blue whistling thrush filling the warm air. With the lightest touch, it settled on the rim of a freshly planted pot, as if inspecting the tender cuttings for signs of life. For a moment, time slowed – the rain’s rhythm, the bird’s chirping, the dragonfly’s stillness all folding into the hush of the greenhouse. Then, with a sudden flicker of its thin glass like wings, it lifted off and slipped back into the open garden. It felt as though it had come to inspect my work, to make sure all was well. And it was. So was I – happy, content, and proud as the day drew to a close.

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Digital Minimalism

One of the most surprising gifts of slowing down and living more mindfully is that digital minimalism begins to happen on its own. It’s not forced. It’s not a challenge. It just unfolds naturally.

Over time, I’ve found myself deleting most of my social media accounts. I’ve removed dozens of apps from my phone — ones that once seemed essential but were really just distractions in disguise. I still need my phone for work now and then, and that’s fine. It serves a purpose. But that’s all it is — a tool, nothing more.

Entertainment? That’s changed too. No games. No YouTube. No shopping apps. The only “extra” I’ve kept is a simple chess puzzle app that offers four challenges a day — a little mindful workout for the brain, and that’s it.

I still use Instagram (and some other similar apps) but only to share photos and updates about our homestay. It’s a way to stay connected with potential guests, not to scroll endlessly or get lost in someone else’s life. I have WhatsApp and email too, purely to respond to inquiries. No endless notifications. No groups. Twitter is something I check maybe once a week, and Facebook, once a month, mostly to stay lightly in touch.

There’s no TV in my life. No tablet. No smart devices. I don’t need Alexa to turn off a light — flicking a switch is faster and strangely satisfying. Vividh Bharti on AIR FM plays better music than most streaming services anyway, and it does so with a lower carbon footprint. I even rely on a good old-fashioned clock to tell the time. No need to pick up the phone and risk falling down a digital rabbit hole.

What I’ve realized is that we’re all paying a steep price for the digital frenzy — not in rupees or dollars, but in something far more valuable: our time. Every minute spent in mindless scrolling is a minute lost from living. The flood of digital content surrounding us comes with a hidden cost: our attention, our peace, our presence.

The solution isn’t to reject technology completely — it’s to be intentional. Every device, every app should have a clear purpose. It should enrich my life, or the lives of the people I care about. Nothing more. If it doesn’t serve that purpose, it doesn’t deserve a place in my day.

I use a Kindle to read books. A friend of mine prefers reading on an iPad, something I could never bring myself to do. An iPad, with all its apps and notifications, would constantly pull at my attention. He, however, is remarkably focused and doesn’t get distracted easily. People like him are rare, able to resist the digital noise even when it’s just a tap away.

It feels genuinely liberating to know that my attention is no longer being hijacked — that I decide where it goes. Each intentional choice adds a layer of clarity and calm to my day. In a world overwhelmed by digital noise and constant distractions, this mindful way of living isn’t just refreshing, it’s empowering. It feels like I’m quietly reclaiming parts of myself I hadn’t even noticed were lost.

This is the essence of digital minimalism. Not restriction, but thoughtful selection. Not avoidance, but alignment. Use only what matters. And leave the rest behind.

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Fostering Relationships

One of the most profound aspects of living in a remote village is the clarity it brings to the value of relationships. In a place where homes are scattered and people even fewer, every connection matters more. From family members to neighbours, there are just a handful of people I regularly interact with, but these interactions are rich, deep, informative, and meaningful.

This slower life gives me the time and space to truly understand and appreciate the relationships I have. Over time, I’ve come to accept that not everyone will share my worldview, pace, or values. And that’s okay. What matters is that I’ve found my circle – a small yet strong support system of friends and family who are there when I need them. Whether it’s lending a hand during difficult times or simply sharing a laugh on a quiet evening, this community grounds me. With them, I feel seen. I can be myself – open, relaxed, and almost unguarded. Together, we work, reflect, share, and sometimes just sit in comfortable silence.

I’ve also learned that helping others, without expecting anything in return, is one of the most fulfilling paths to happiness. In this slower rhythm of life, acts of kindness are expressions of humanity, woven into the everyday.

Of course, not all relationships endure. There have been moments of hurt – times when people I trusted misunderstood me or spoke behind my back. It stings, especially when it comes from those you once held close. But I’ve come to understand that my time on this earth is limited. Every minute, every interaction is precious. I’ve learned to forgive – for their sake and mine – but I’ve also stopped trying to mend what no longer feels genuine. Not out of bitterness, but acceptance. Life moves forward. Maybe I was at fault, maybe I wasn’t. In the end, what matters is not the past, but how I choose to live now.

For me, purpose often comes from being there for others – sometimes for people I know, sometimes for strangers. There’s a joy in helping, in supporting, in understanding, in simply showing up. I no longer chase meaning in grand gestures. Instead, I find it in the small moments: a shared meal, a conversation that lingers, a quiet walk with a friend, the sound of laughter echoing in the hills, the plans to visit a nearby town, or how to make our place more liveable.

Relishing these moments – truly being present is what slow living is all about. When I sit with my family or friends, there’s no rush. No deadlines. Just the joy of being together. We talk, we listen, we understand. These moments feel whole. They feel real. At first, I had to make a conscious effort to be mindful in these moments, but now, it happens naturally, almost as if mindfulness is now becoming second nature to me.

In this simplicity, I’ve found contentment. In community, I’ve found connection. And in mindfulness, I’ve discovered a deep, lasting happiness.

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Sleeping Early, Sleeping Well

One of the most transformative habits I’ve developed over the last few years is sleeping early and as a result, sleeping well.

During my city life, my sleep rhythm was erratic. I’d often return from work around dinner time. After a quick meal, there was usually a late-night movie, followed by an early morning scramble to start a new day and face the grind. Occasionally, when a concern for health surfaced, I’d push myself to wake up early for a cycling session. It felt like an accomplishment – brief, fleeting, but then I’d be swept back into the same relentless routine. Days turned into months, and months into years. Some nights, one movie turned into two, stretching sleep even further.

I convinced myself I had the energy to manage on just a few hours of rest. That, I now realize, was the biggest lie I believed. The movies gave me fleeting pleasure. But I was bartering sleep – real rest – for shallow entertainment.

Fast forward to the present.

Now, my evenings close in a much more mindful way. I have dinner early, truly early by city standards. Then I spend some quiet time reading a good book, or occasionally browsing something thoughtful on my computer or e-reader. Never movies. In fact, I haven’t watched TV channels in over a decade.

As night deepens, I change into my sleep clothes and settle into bed, book in hand. Depending on how engaging the book is and how much I’ve exerted myself during the day, I usually fall asleep within ten minutes to an hour. Even the Wi-Fi shuts off automatically at night. No screens, no distractions. My bedside clock is an old-fashioned analogue one.

At times, the lamp remains glowing long after I’ve drifted off, only for me to wake up later and switch it off. My spectacles might slide down my nose, or lie unused on the table if the font is large enough to read without them.

When it rains, the soft drumming on the roof becomes my lullaby. Sleep arrives even sooner.

Mornings begin with the chorus of early birds. According to ancient Hindu belief, this pre-dawn time, Brahma Muhurta is when good spirits roam the Earth. The air feels different then. Sacred.

Another thing that I have noticed is that when the mind is relaxed and happy, the amount of sleep needed to wake up refreshed automatically reduces. After all, sleep is nature’s way of relaxing our mind and rebuilding the body.

Now, after a good sleep at night and with the mind relaxed, I don’t feel tired in the day time. No need for naps in the afternoon. I feel full of energy from morning till late in the evening. No mandatory mugs of coffee or tea, though I don’t mind them.

“Early to bed and early to rise” – I don’t know if it has made me wealthy or wise. But I can say this with certainty: it has made me healthier, and undeniably happier.

BTW, did you know that genetics also have a role to play in the total hours of sleep one requires to feel refreshed?

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Connection with Nature

Why is it that we feel calmer, lighter, and even a bit happier after spending time in nature – even if just for a few minutes?

For me, one of the simplest way to feel happy, is to indulge in some horticulture related work in my orchard. Just admiring the buds breaking into leaves or flowers, fruits maturing, leaves changing colors, or in the winter chill the peaceful way the trees appear to be resting, makes me smile. A walk in the orchard is all I need to lift my spirits up, even on the dullest of the days.

This connection between nature and well-being is embedded in cultures that consistently rank among the happiest in the world. Both Norway and Finland, for example, attribute part of their national happiness to friluftsliv, a Nordic concept that roughly translates to “open-air living.” It’s not about luxury or grand escapes, but simply spending time outdoors – walking in the woods, sitting by a lake, or feeling the wind on your face. As the Finnish say, “There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.” This mindset encourages a daily, intentional relationship with the natural world, rain or shine.

What about absence of connection with nature then? There’s growing scientific and anecdotal evidence that the absence of nature can quietly erode our well-being. Richard Louv, in his book Last Child in the Woods, coined the term “Nature Deficit Disorder” to describe the psychological, physical, and cognitive costs of being disconnected from the natural world. He argues that a lack of exposure to nature – especially among children – contributes to a rise in anxiety, depression, and attention disorders.

Not just children, but even adults should come in contact with nature. Nature brings pleasure and happiness. Something as simple as observing a few flower pots can lift the spirits and create a sense of calm and connection.

Living the slow life here, I’ve experienced a quiet, almost surreal kind of happiness, a deep sense of contentment that settles into your bones. Much of it, I believe, stems from the closeness to nature – the rhythm of the seasons, the texture of soil in my hands, birdsong at dawn, and the absence of hurry. The closer I am to nature and more time I spend with nature, the stronger this connection with nature happens, and as a result happiness.

Our bond with nature is just as important for happiness and well-being as any other part of a meaningful life.

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Minimalism and Happiness

The world today often equates happiness with more – more gadgets, more upgrades, more possessions. The latest phone, the newest laptop, the more expensive and advanced, the better. But somewhere along the way, I’ve come to realize the opposite. The older my phone gets, the happier I seem to be, as long as it still does its job. In the sea of cutting-edge technology, there’s a quiet charm in holding a simple button phone. Even better is the old landline, where you actually sit down, pick up the receiver from its cradle, and dial a number. There’s a certain grounding in that simplicity. I must be one of the few who still uses a landline phone. My aim is to slowly move back to a simple button phone one day.

Minimalism has slowly crept into my home and my life. The clutter has reduced, not just from the shelves and cupboards, but from my mind too. When there is less stuff in home, somehow the mind feels freer too. My thoughts feel more organized, my plans clearer, my daily routine calmer. I feel lighter, happier, and far more at ease.

I don’t have OTT subscriptions. I don’t even own a TV anymore. No monthly bills, no worrying about repair services, no dusting screens. One less object, a hundred fewer worries. And that’s just one example. Minimalism has simplified my life in countless ways, less to maintain, less to organize, less to spend on, and no risk of things breaking down… because I simply don’t own them. And with all that gone, my mind feels lighter too.

This is peace.

I am trying to, and have also succeeded in various ways, on how to limit my needs, and understand the difference between these limited needs and ‘wants’.

By choosing simplicity over excess and slowing down, I’ve made room for what truly matters: meaningful connections, precious moments, and small everyday joys. It’s about living with intention, appreciating the present, and rediscovering the beauty in the ordinary.

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Sun, Rain, and the Magic in Between

This morning, the air was quite warm and the sun shone brightly, casting golden light across the orchard. The sky was a soft, endless blue, with not a cloud in sight. It felt like a small gift—this rare, clear summer morning. Up here, nestled in the hills, such days are few. Most of the year is spent wrapped in woolens, with the cold clinging to our windows and the mist curling into every corner. Even at the height of summer, warmth like this feels borrowed, fleeting. Though it was a little towards the hot side but still the day felt nice.

But as the hours slipped by, the mood of the day began to shift. Wisps of clouds crept in from the edge of the sky. A weather front was creeping in. The sunlight, so confident in the morning, began to retreat and return in quick flashes, as if it were playing a quiet game of hide and seek. And slowly, the warmth gave way to a gentle breeze, and the brightness softened into a cool, grey hush. After a warm—actually, slightly hot—morning, the shift in weather felt like a welcome relief. I had no complaints about the sunny start to the day, but this sudden change brought a certain comfort that felt even better.

Now, as I sit in the comfort of my little greenhouse, it has started to rain. Soft at first, like a whisper on the roof, then steady—each raindrop adding its note to a melody that only a quiet hillside can offer. The sound is soothing, like an old lullaby, and I find myself almost drifting off. But I try to stay awake. There’s something about this kind of rain that feels too precious to sleep through.

The smell of pakoras has just reached me—spicy, familiar, mouthwatering. There’s also the unmistakable aroma of milky chai rising from the kitchen, curling through the air and finding its way to me. What is it about rainy evenings that makes chai and pakoras feel like a celebration? Deep-fried to a golden brown, the pakoras are best enjoyed hot, dipped in a tangy sauce or chutney. And chai—sweet, creamy, and spiced just right—is the perfect companion. It’s as if the rain invites them, calls them to the table. And the chai has to be milky and sweet, no other variations work !

Yes, they’re indulgent. Not something for every day. But on a slow day like this, when the world outside is washed clean and the mountains are wrapped in mist, such small cheats feel earned. After all, when most days are filled with homegrown greens, grains, and mindful meals, a plate of pakoras and a steaming cup of chai is a kind of joyful rebellion.

So here I am, listening to the rhythm of the rain, looking at the misty valley in front, the first bite already melting in my mouth. It’s going to be a quiet, comforting evening—one of those that makes you pause and feel grateful. For the sun. For the rain. For the food. And for the slow, simple life that gives space to enjoy all.

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Sourcing Spices from Their True Origins

At our hillside homestay in Uttarakhand, every meal begins long before it reaches the plate. It starts in the spice plantations of Kerala and the coffee estates of Karnataka—regions renowned for producing some of the world’s finest ingredients. We take great pride in sourcing directly from these origins to bring authentic, rich flavors to our guests’ dining experience.

Flock of Birds or Windvane?

Late in the morning, after tending to some gardening tasks, I found myself resting under the shade of an old apricot tree. As usual, a flock of birds had gathered on the large holly tree in front of me. There were a few bulbuls, plenty of white-throated laughingthrushes, a couple of black-headed jays, and a solitary treepie.

But something felt different today.

This holly tree is a regular perch for many birds, and they usually face to my left—roughly southwest. Today, though, they were all turned in the opposite direction, their beaks pointed firmly toward the north-northeast. Every single one of them.

It took me a moment to realize why. The wind had shifted today. For days, it had been blowing steadily from the west. But now, brief gusts were sweeping in from the north. Not strong enough to signal a change in weather—just the kind of turbulence we often see here in Natadol.

Still, it was enough to change the birds’ orientation. It seems they instinctively face into the wind—perhaps a quirk of their natural flight readiness or a subtle piece of avian psychology. Whatever the reason, it’s fascinating to notice these quiet, rhythmic patterns in nature.

Come to think of it, the classic windvanes atop old buildings often feature a rooster. I wonder—was that a nod to how, on old farms, domesticated birds like chickens would sometimes perch on rooftops? Or was it simply inspired by the way birds naturally settle on tree branches, always aware of the wind’s direction?

Either way, it’s a charming blend of function and symbolism—using a bird to read the wind, just as nature intended. Living a slow life reconnects me to nature.

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Forest Fires and Natural Springs

Every summer, our forests are ravaged by widespread fires. With the exception of 2020—the year of lockdowns—these devastating incidents have cast their dark shadow over our region, year after year.

One major cause is the growing belief among villagers that burning forests, particularly pine forests, will create fertile ground for high-quality fodder grass. This notion seems to be a recent phenomenon. Just a few decades ago, when the Chipko Movement began in Uttarakhand, villagers—especially women—stood in fierce protection of trees. They embraced them, forming human shields to prevent logging. There are countless photographs of them encircling and hugging even the pines. Back then, they did not subscribe to the myth of burning forests, despite the fact that animal rearing was far more widespread than it is today.

A few days ago, I was speaking with a friend who spent most of his childhood in a village near Nainital and now lives in Haldwani. We discussed the worsening forest fire crisis and why villagers today seem indifferent to it.

One crucial factor is the shift in water dependency. A few decades ago, villagers relied on natural springs, which required a delicate ecological balance to sustain. The groundwater recharge system depended on capillaries and channels that allowed rainwater to percolate instead of running off. The dense roots of trees, particularly their fine root hairs, helped regulate this process, ensuring that water emerged from the hillside and trickled down as tiny brooks. This natural system provided clean, uninterrupted water.

However, with the proliferation of water tankers, submersible pumps, and government water supply schemes, easy access to water has led to a dangerous disregard for these ecological processes. Villagers no longer see the connection between forests and water security. Garbage is dumped along brooks. Pathways once maintained for flowing water are now neglected. Trees are indiscriminately felled. And when forest fires break out, few people care—unless the flames threaten their doorstep.

While a piped water supply is essential for every farm and household, the growing neglect of natural resources is alarming. We must reflect on our actions and foster a deeper respect for our environment. Schools could play a pivotal role in addressing this issue by educating children about forest fires—their causes, impact, and prevention. Raising awareness is one of the most powerful ways to support our forests, which suffer the brunt of these wildfires every summer.

As I sit beneath an apple tree just beginning to blossom, I find myself worrying about the absence of rain and snow in the region. The sky is clear—too clear—offering no promise of relief. In the distance, across the valley, a plume of smoke rises from yet another forest fire. The climate crisis is already taking its toll, and we humans seem determined to accelerate it. More forest fires mean less rainfall in the coming season, and less rain sets the stage for even more fires—a relentless, destructive cycle. The thought of it weighs heavily on me.

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Horticulture and Slow Living?

People often tell me that any kind of agricultural activity is hard work. Let me set the record straight – it doesn’t feel that way to me. Over time, I’ve discovered the beauty of living slowly, embracing nature, and enjoying the abundant gift of healthy, delicious fruits. The secret? Working in harmony with nature itself.

When planting fruit trees, I focus on building a strong foundation. From carefully preparing the soil to introducing beneficial mycorrhizal fungi, I ensure the roots have everything they need to thrive. Once the trees are in the ground, I keep the surrounding soil mulched, and then nature takes over. The untamed soil – alive with so-called weeds and intricate fungal networks – becomes a bustling hub of nutrients doing its magic.

The beauty of this slow, mindful approach is that it frees me to savor the moments in between. As the trees grow, I often find myself sitting with a warm cup of coffee, drifting between getting my thought together and daydreaming about the bounty of fruits that will one day grace my table. Of course, the trees need care now and then, but even those moments are special. Pruning, for instance, isn’t just a chore; it’s a meditative experience. Each cut feels intentional, filled with hope for what’s to come – the buds that will emerge next spring, transforming into vibrant branches, leaves, or blossoms. Adding compost is another deeply satisfying ritual. I can almost feel the soil beneath my hands becoming richer and more fertile with every passing season. It’s as if the earth itself is responding to my care, turning into a loamy, life-giving foundation for my trees.

This, to me, is happiness – joy found in working alongside nature, in watching life grow and flourish, one season at a time. This is how I enjoy my slow life.

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Newspapers for a Greener Garden

Newspapers, especially the inexpensive, non-glossy ones with a blotting paper-like texture, are an excellent resource for any garden. Their primary use in my garden is for mulching, particularly when planting new fruit trees or similar plants that need all the nutrients and moisture they can gather from the soil.

I typically mulch for the first couple of years after planting. Around newly planted trees, I cover the ground in a circle about 1 meter in diameter. For larger trees with extensive root systems, I extend the mulch area to 2 meters. A layer of 6 to 8 sheets of newspaper is usually sufficient for this purpose. If there is excessive dew, 10-12 layers are needed. Extra layer of mulch with wood shavings or dried leaves above the newspapers further helps.

The newspapers serve multiple roles:

Weed Suppression: By blocking sunlight, they prevent grasses and weeds from growing and competing with the young tree for nutrients and water.
Moisture Retention: The paper helps maintain soil moisture, which is critical during the initial weeks when bare-root plants are establishing themselves.

Additionally, I enhance this process by introducing beneficial fungal spores, such as Vesicular-Arbuscular Mycorrhizae (VAM), beneath the newspaper layer. These fungi form symbiotic relationships with plant roots, improving nutrient and water absorption. Newspapers provide an ideal substrate for the fungal mycelium to spread. Preventive fungi like Trichoderma species also thrive under this setup, offering added protection against soil-borne pathogens.

By combining newspaper mulch with these practices, I create a nurturing environment for young trees to thrive, promoting healthier and more sustainable growth.

No need to turn the soil or remove the weeds every now and then. No harmful chemicals to be sprayed. I just extend a little help initially and then the nature does the rest. Finally, the newspapers also decompose with time around these trees. There’s no effort required to even remove them.

This is another aspect of life in the slow lane, and also being mindful and living sustainably.

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Winter Heating: The Case for Wood Burning

With winter fast approaching, I recently had a conversation with some of our neighbours about a familiar dilemma: to burn wood or not. Many of us face this decision every winter. On one hand, there’s the obvious smoke rising from burning wood, and on the other, the hidden but significant carbon footprint of alternative heating methods.

Trees naturally absorb CO₂ as they grow, and when wood is burnt, the same amount of CO₂ is released that would have been emitted if the tree had decayed naturally. This process creates a carbon-neutral cycle, provided the wood is sourced sustainably. In such cases, heating with wood doesn’t contribute to an increase in atmospheric carbon. A point to ponder is that buring wood does speed up the release of that stored carbon compared to natural decay.

In contrast, heating with electricity generated from fossil fuels introduces carbon that would otherwise remain locked underground. The extraction, mining, and burning of these fuels release significant amounts of CO₂. Additionally, electricity losses during transmission from power stations to homes add to the overall carbon footprint. Even if the electric heater itself is efficient, the upstream emissions often result in a larger environmental impact than burning wood.

A common concern about wood burning is the visible smoke, especially in ecologically sensitive areas like the Himalayas. To mitigate this, it’s crucial to burn well-seasoned, dry wood, ensuring the fire’s energy isn’t wasted on drying the wood. Excessive smoke is often a sign of high moisture content. Using high-efficiency wood stoves or fireplaces also helps by directing more heat into the room rather than letting it escape with the smoke.

As for my personal preference, I take a different approach. Rather than relying on either wood-burning or electric heaters, I prefer dressing in warm layers and minimising the need for artificial heating altogether. It’s a simple, energy-efficient way to stay comfortable through winter.

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Wabi Sabi and my Home

I’ve come to admire the concept of Wabi-Sabi, the Japanese philosophy of finding beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and simplicity, as it resonates with the slower pace of my life.

The exterior walls of my house endure the harsh elements of nature, from scorching sunshine and dry summers to the moisture-laden months that follow, and eventually, the freezing temperatures with frost. Over time, these extremes have worn down the wall finish. I used to cover the walls with plaster of Paris and similar materials before painting over them. Now, I’ve come to appreciate the imperfections. The flaking plaster, merely painted over without further repairs, gives the walls character. They may not be perfect, but they make the house feel like a welcoming home.

When I find a book that that I like, I don’t mind the marks or dents on the cover. Yes, I do appreciate a brand new book, but a one that is slightly damaged also seems fine to me. In fact, it has more character.

The furniture that I enjoy the most shows signs of usage. It feels more inviting to me. I love to relax on a favorite couch of mine, the scratched armrest reminds me of how I had once accidently knocked over the sidelamp over it and felt happy when it still worked.

My old kettle, dented on one side, still hums along just fine. The dining table bears the marks of time, and I find comfort in that. There’s beauty in imperfection – it brings a quiet kind of peace, freeing my mind to savor life’s better moments. The gentle breeze, the birds’ soft chorus, the sun rising and setting, the earthy scent of the forest floor, bees buzzing from one flower to another. And in those simple pleasures, I find a happiness that blooms from within.

Wabi-Sabi now comes naturally to me, maybe as an extension of my slow life.

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Apples and Pears – Plucking Time

Plucking ripe apples in the rainy season is an incredible feeling! Our naturally grown, chemical-free apples and pears are a joy to harvest, especially with a light drizzle adding to the experience. Each bushnell fills up with the promise of homemade jams and chutneys. We’re also excited to share the fruits of our labor with friends and neighbors, gifting them these fresh, delicious treats.

Everyone in the family comes together, baskets in hand, ready for the day’s harvest. We wander among the trees, gathering what fruits we can, while leaving plenty for the birds, squirrels, and other wild visitors to enjoy. The children, with their tiny hands, gleefully pluck the low-hanging treasures. I reach for the ones midway up, sometimes stretching on tiptoe for that perfect ripe one, while my garden helper climbs the ladder to claim the highest prizes. Harvest time isn’t just about the fruit, it’s about laughter, togetherness, and the joy of sharing the moment.

Our approach to horticulture itself relies on nature’s own pest control. Ladybirds play a crucial role in keeping aphids in check, ensuring our plants remain healthy without the need for harmful chemicals. Birds, too, are our allies, helping to control various insects that could otherwise damage our crops. They help us and so we give them back by leaving behind some fruits on every tree for their consumption. By working with nature, we not only enjoy healthier produce but also contribute to a balanced ecosystem.

Even the jams we make are for our own consumption. Crafted using traditional techniques and free of any chemicals, these jams are a true labor of love. Our family enjoys them with the assurance that they are entirely natural and free from any harmful substances.

Bonding with family over life’s simple joys, while nurturing the earth through chemical-free horticulture, feels like the truest way to live.

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Strawberries and Mulberries

Certain fruits can be harvested when they’re still unripe from the tree or shrub, and they gradually ripen over the following days as they’re stored. To aid in this process, these fruits are sometimes wrapped in paper. Chiku and Papaya are prime examples of such fruits. On the other hand, fruits like Pears undergo ripening over time, but if picked prematurely, they tend to soften rather than retain their desired crunchiness. While some prefer this softer texture, others enjoy the crispness of freshly picked pears.

Berries such as strawberries and mulberries cease ripening once they’re plucked from their mother plant. It’s best to wait for them to fully mature before indulging in their flavor and sweetness.

When it comes to strawberries, I rely on their color to gauge their ripeness. A fully ripe strawberry should boast a uniform red hue, devoid of any white streaks or large green patches. To safeguard them from moisture, I take a simple precaution: laying down dry leaves as mulch beneath the plants, ensuring the fruits don’t spoil from prolonged contact with damp soil. Additionally, I discreetly tuck the strawberries beneath their own green foliage to keep them inconspicuous to birds. While our orchard offers an abundance of mulberries for our feathered friends to enjoy, I make an effort to shield the few strawberries that we have from their attention.

Speaking of mulberries, ours are the petite black variety, wild and unhybridized. Their shelf life is notably brief. The optimal time for harvesting is when they attain a deep black hue and detach easily with a gentle tug between thumb and finger—no snapping sound should accompany the pluck. However, handling ripe mulberries requires caution as they have a tendency to stain clothes and fingers alike. With birds also avid fans of these berries, I also them enjoy these, especially the one on the upper branches that are hard for me to reach.

Among the array of berries, none quite rival the allure of plump, ruby-red strawberries and succulent, sweet mulberries. There’s a special joy in leisurely strolling by the berry bushes, plucking a few ripe treasures, and savoring each juicy bite mindfully. It’s these simple pleasures that embody the essence of slow living, encouraging a deeper connection with nature and oneself.

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Leisurely Stroll Through the Herbs Garden

This morning, I rose with the sun, greeted by the cheerful melody of a blue whistling thrush welcoming the day. Inspired by its early serenade, I brewed a cup of coffee and ventured towards the garden.

As I strolled through the garden in the early morning, a delightful medley of fragrances enveloped me. Wild thyme peeked through the blades of grass, infusing the air with its sweet scent. Further along, the crisp aroma of mint blended harmoniously with the delicate perfume of acacia flowers at the end of their bloom, enticing me to pause and savor their fragrance.

Continuing my leisurely walk, I arrived at the small herb patch. Oregano, rosemary, basil, parsley, celery, and an array of local edible herbs flourished before me, each exuding freshness in the morning light. I plucked a few parsley leaves, relishing their vibrant flavor as I moved towards the tomato planter beds.

I got a bit worried after observing tiny aphid-like insects on the lower leaves, but I then noticed a ladybird nearby, a reassuring sign that nature’s balance would prevail. For me, gardening is synonymous with cultivating home-grown herbs and vegetables, free from chemicals, and bursting with health and flavor.

In one corner, lavender had begun to grow, its gentle grey hues catching the light. I drew in a deep breath from the air near it filled with its fresh, calming scent.

As I wandered among the aromatic herbs, gathering lettuce leaves, and harvesting fresh green peas and small but ripe tomatoes for breakfast, I was reminded that this was the essence of slow, mindful living – a simple yet profound connection to the natural rhythms of life.

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Bird-Watching : The Ethical Way!

Engaging in the art of observing and photographing birds while maintaining a profound respect for both the subjects and their natural habitats requires a responsible approach. Despite the apparent simplicity of bird-watching, birding, or bird photography, ethical considerations may arise. What guidelines should enthusiasts adhere to in order to ensure that this captivating hobby remains both respectful and environmentally conscious? This is just a basic article to make my readers aware of some issues that may not be very obvious.

Slow Life, Climate Crisis, and Climate Action

As I worked in the garden today, I couldn’t help but notice that the buds on our fruit trees are already starting to swell, a surprising sight for early January. The Climate Crisis is making its mark on our fruit orchard, evident in the unusual warmth during the day. This concerning observation holds significant implications for the upcoming fruit season. Most fruit trees rely on a minimum number of chilling hours during winter, which is the cumulative time spent in sub-zero temperatures. However, the higher-than-usual day temperatures disrupt this essential dormancy period. The warmth sends a signal to the trees, urging them to awaken prematurely, ultimately resulting in a diminished yield of fruits for the upcoming season. Moreover, the buds, now beginning to swell, face the added threat of frost during the chilly nights. The abrupt drop in temperature can lead to the unfortunate demise of these vulnerable buds, compounding the challenges for our orchard.

This isn’t just bad news for us; it’s a stark reminder that the climate crisis is no longer a distant concern but a present reality impacting our daily lives. Urgent action is needed. It’s time for all of us to come together and address the climate crisis before it further jeopardizes the delicate balance of nature.

The first crucial step toward a sustainable future is reducing our reliance on fossil fuels, a challenging yet achievable task. Opt for public transport whenever possible, and consider taking trains for short distances instead of flights. Embrace adaptability rather than depending solely on heating or air-conditioning to combat extreme weather conditions. It’s essential to recognize that seemingly ordinary items like clothes, footwear, and electronic devices contribute to the exploitation of our planet’s resources and fossil fuels.

This is where the concept of slow living comes into play. Living mindfully and adopting a minimalistic approach means consuming fewer goods, thereby reducing our impact on Mother Earth. Personally, I extend the lifespan of my belongings, wearing shoes until their last day of service and accepting minor imperfections in clothing. Why rush to replace a functional mobile phone, camera, or computer with the latest models?

The looming Climate Crisis demands immediate action, and it will undoubtedly influence everyone’s life in various ways. Let’s start a conversation about these issues when we meet next. Together, through small, mindful choices, we can pave the way for a more sustainable and resilient future.

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The Lifeless Oak, or Is It?

In a secluded corner of our garden stands a majestic yet lifeless oak tree, a silent sentinel of time. Though it succumbed to death years ago, its towering stature persists. I’ve intentionally refrained from removing it, and when a recent visitor questioned whether this deliberate inaction was an embodiment of my commitment to slow living, I clarified that it wasn’t. The reason for retaining the dead tree becomes evident upon closer inspection.

Nested within one of its weathered hollows resides a charming family of owlets. The rhythmic pecking of our resident woodpecker reverberates through the stillness, as it tirelessly forages for sustenance. Meanwhile, mushrooms begin their delicate ascent from the trunk, signaling the tree’s gradual return of nutrients to the soil. This lifeless oak has seamlessly woven itself into the intricate tapestry of our ecosystem, and so it stands, untouched by the hands of removal.

However, when I settle into an easy chair amidst the garden’s tranquility and gaze upon the stoic tree, a different kind of richness unfolds. The woodpecker’s industrious pursuit, the curious peeks from the owlets, the bulbuls perched atop its highest branches, and the fleeting passage of white-throated thrushes compose a symphony of life. It is in these moments that the essence of slow living truly envelops me.

Yet, beyond the tangible vitality, the dry oak tree assumes a more profound significance — a philosophical emblem of impermanence. As I reflect on my own transient existence, it becomes a poignant reminder that nothing, not even myself, is immune to the ebb and flow of time. Amidst this realization lies a compelling reason to cherish the life I presently inhabit, embracing the fleeting beauty of each passing moment.

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Lazy Time beneath the Winter Sun

Basking beneath the winter sun, with the boundless blue sky above, becomes a cherished ritual of mine. Through the tranquil morning, I lounge, immersing myself in the gentle warmth that envelopes my surroundings. While engrossed in a book, I occasionally succumb to a fleeting nap, only to be roused by the sweet melody of a bird—a green-backed tit, gracefully hopping amidst the now dormant apple tree.As the leaves have descended, and the fruit trees slumber, I, unlike them, find myself awakened by these chirping serenades. Blue-whistling Thrush, and a Bulbul also join in creating a lovely ensemble. The sun’s benevolent rays, though inviting, occasionally yield to the passing clouds, imparting a touch of chill to the air. Rotating my chair intermittently, I ensure each facet of my being partakes in the sun’s nurturing embrace. This is a habit I caught on from a friend of mine who visits me from time to time from Almora. It’s akin to turning over again and again while taking a sunbath, but with the clothes on.

In these sun-soaked moments, contemplations drift through the recesses of my mind. The grass, gradually donning a golden hue, reveals the onset of wintry cold. Mornings unveil a delicate frost, swiftly vanquished by the touch of sunlight. Observing a diminutive bumblebee amid the wildflowers, I note its rhythmic dance between sunlit and shaded realms, seeking nectar. A tiny mouse rushes by.

A lazy day is good that it gives me time to admire what nature has to offer. I can also meditate on such instances and feel energized.

Thus, the radiant warmth of the sun, cherished by all, unfolds a sensory tapestry—where nature’s subtleties and the symbiosis of warmth and cold converge in the tranquil theater of winter days. The satisfaction of living a slow life is further enhanced on days like these, thanks to a bright winter sun.

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Hot Chocolate on a Winter Evening

Hot chocolate, to me, is the epitome of pure enchantment. It’s astonishing how readily available cocoa is, yet the art of crafting a truly exceptional cup of hot chocolate seems to elude many. Picture this: a perfect winter evening unfolds with a steaming mug of hot chocolate cradled in my hands, an aged book—preferably a gripping murder mystery set in the bygone British era—and the comforting crackle of a warming fire.

To elevate the experience, the hot cocoa must transcend the mundane; it should be an alchemy of rich cocoa and milk, not merely a casual mixing. The cocoa should be brewed and not just mixed in hot milk. And let’s be clear – a sin it is to present hot chocolate without a generous infusion of sweetness. Extra sweetness, to be precise, transforming each sip into a heavenly indulgence, with the warmth penetrating to the very core.

For the ultimate feel, I insist on brewing my hot chocolate to piping hot perfection. While marshmallows and chocolate pieces aren’t obligatory, their presence in the velvety depths of the drink is nothing short of delightful. And the ritual wouldn’t be complete without a woolen blanket draped over my legs, cocooning me in warmth and comfort.

This moment of bliss demands simplicity. No accompaniments of cookies or cakes intrude upon the sanctity of the experience. Just an oversized mug cradling the essence of pure, unadulterated hot chocolate. The world outside fades away as I savor each sip, the magic of cocoa dancing on my taste buds, and in that serene simplicity, my evening is truly made.

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Green Guest Practices

Green travel is all about being kind to our planet and the people who live on it. It means finding ways to travel and enjoy a vacation that don’t hurt the Earth. This can be done by using less energy and creating less waste. You can stay in places that care about the environment (similar to our homestay), or buy things from local shops to help the people who live there.

In this short article, we’re going to discover lots of ways to travel in a green and Earth-friendly way. It’s easier than you might think, and together, we can make a big difference!

Growing Away from City Life

Embracing the tranquil pace of life in Natadol, I’ve undergone what I call a profound transformation in recent years. My days now revolve around reading more and more books and cultivating a mindful existence, savoring each fleeting moment. Television is no longer a part of my world (it never was but now even more so), and I’ve bid farewell to the clamor of loud music and disruptive noise.

It’s when I encounter people accustomed to the hustle and bustle of city living that the disparities become glaringly apparent. The raucous music, late-night revelry, and excessive drinking during their vacations stand in stark contrast to my serene way of life. As we gather, they often find themselves engrossed in their individual mobile phones, wistfully missing the presence of a TV. I can’t help but chuckle at the stark divergence between us.

The city folk speak loudly, usually to drown away other noises and maybe other people’s voices too. Here, even that seems to have changed. Whenever such guests leave, I sometimes feel that even after a few days of interaction my voice becomes louder and I have to make a conscious effort to get back to my old self.

I’ve grown fond of the soft, ambient lighting that gently illuminates my paths while preserving the sanctity of the night, allowing the stars to twinkle in the sky. Often, these gentle lights may seem too subdued to those accustomed to the glaring cityscape.

Embracing a life closer to nature, I’ve adopted a minimalist approach, gradually shedding many of my worldly possessions and learning to cherish the few that remain. I’m dedicated to reducing my carbon footprint and take every opportunity to contribute to this effort. This includes supporting local businesses, opting for public transport whenever feasible, and spending on experiences rather than material possessions.

Even my leisure activities have undergone a transformation. I now find joy in simple yet profound moments, often gathered with my family in our cozy living room. Here, we share laughter, stories, anecdotes, and riddles, taking turns to engage each other’s minds and hearts. Life’s true beauty unfolds at this unhurried pace, and it’s a path I cherish.

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Narrow Roads are Better !

There are very few people like me who love these narrow hill roads. I have my own reasons.

From a broader perspective – Keeping roads narrow in hilly terrain offers several benefits for both the environment and the overall tourist experience. Firstly, narrow roads are less intrusive on the natural landscape, minimizing the need for extensive land clearance and environmental disruption. This approach also ensures that mountains are not stressed by heavy traffic, reducing soil erosion and preserving the delicate ecosystems that often thrive in these areas. Moreover, the narrow roads discourage casual, short-term visitors, making it more likely that only tourists planning to spend more than a couple of days in the region will embark on the journey. This not only lessens the environmental impact but also attracts travelers who are more likely to appreciate and respect the natural beauty of the hills, contributing to sustainable tourism and the long-term preservation of these majestic landscapes.

As for the agricultural activities, sustainable developmental work, and for the essential services, narrow roads have never been a deterrent.

While it’s true that new roads may be necessary in remote areas, the concept of constructing multiple-lane highways should be strongly discouraged. Instead, our focus should be on preserving these delicate hills, safeguarding their ecological integrity, and enhancing the quality of existing road infrastructure. By doing so, we not only protect the natural beauty of these regions but also ensure a more sustainable and responsible approach to infrastructure development.

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Slip Slidin’ Away

The rainy season is a truly delightful time of year. Everything around is wrapped in lush greenery, while fluffy clouds drift gently across the sky. The steady patter of rain on our metal roof creates a soothing soundtrack, making it the perfect time to catch up on small repairs around the house or care for our flourishing orchard. This season, we took on a new project—building a quaint little greenhouse. As we worked the soil, I discovered the surprising and playful versatility of clay. Its stubborn yet yielding nature brought an unexpected sense of fun to the work.

Sticky clay mud during the rainy season is nature’s way of reminding us that even the most glamorous of red carpets can turn into a slippery runway of humility. It’s the great equalizer, transforming elegant stilettos into modern art installations and transforming our once-pristine sneakers into avant-garde sculptures of mud and misery. So why fight it? Embrace the stickiness, dance with the mud, and remember that in this soggy, squishy battleground, we’re all just trying to find our footing in the chaos of puddles and poetic imperfection.

Ah, yes, I must confess I’ve had a few impromptu mudslide dance-offs while tangoing with that supremely slippery wet clay. But you see, that’s all part and parcel of our nature-loving escapade! The true magic emerges when the sun sets, and I can finally take our nth number of shower, and then a soothing cup of lemon tea. Simon and Garfunkel’s Slip Slidin’ Away, plays in the background, in a low volume. That sense of accomplishment, coupled with the aroma of damp earth and the symphony of crickets, transcends language, reminding us why I willingly dive into these mucky adventures in the first place.

Now, I eagerly await the completion of our greenhouse project, secretly hoping that my family doesn’t catch wind of just how much I relish frolicking around in the embrace of that delightfully wet and slippery clay. It’s my muddy little secret, after all.

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Coffee or Tea

Always faced with this delightful dilemma – Tea or Coffee?

With the rain hammering a rhythm on the roof when the chill starts to set in and if accompanied by a slight pang of hunger, my inclination veers towards the comforting embrace of coffee. To me, the epitome of a perfect coffee lies in the art of brewing it in a Turkish kettle, producing an aromatic yet balanced flavour without excessive bitterness. A touch of frothy milk on top adds a creamy touch, though, on days when hunger eludes me, I gladly skip the milk altogether. My taste tests with various coffee roasts from different companies have revealed that sadly, I am not a connoisseur. I can discern subtle distinctions when sipping them side by side but that is about it. The brewing process, the amount of coffee used, and my mood at the time all seem to play a part in crafting that unique cup of coffee for the moment.

Tea, on the other hand, holds a special place in my heart as the ultimate comfort drink. A precise combination of tea leaves and water, brewed at the right temperature, creates a sublime experience that I thoroughly enjoy. I prefer my tea without any milk, relishing the pure essence of the tea leaves. However, if milk must be added, the village-style ‘chai’ steals my affection, generously infused with milk and accompanied by a piece of jaggery on the side. As for the British tradition of adding a few drops of milk to tea, we villagers humorously call it “poor men’s tea,” recognizing the contrast in flavours and traditions.

In the end, whether it’s the invigorating allure of coffee or the comforting ritual of tea, my choice depends on the weather, my mood, and the simple joys each beverage brings to my life. I am addicted to none but I do enjoy a good cup when I can.

Enjoying every sip, savouring the moment, living mindfully in the present. That is what I strive for.

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Save Energy, Save Earth

One of the primary contributors to the escalating carbon footprint is the ever-increasing energy consumption. It’s evident that people are becoming increasingly reliant on energy sources.

During the summer months, I find burning firewood to be a regrettable practice. Firewood is a valuable resource, not just in terms of cost but also due to its significant environmental impact. At our homestay, I actively discourage the unnecessary burning of firewood.

I reside in an area typically characterized by cold weather, with only a handful of warm days throughout the year. These precious days allow me to enjoy relaxing beneath the shade of trees, reading a good book, or sipping on a refreshing cold lemonade. However, these opportunities are limited to daytime hours. Summer evenings, while slightly cooler, still offer a refreshing breeze. It surprises me that even our homestay guests often request heaters during the summer season. This seems like a wasteful use of energy. Wouldn’t it be more practical to put on a light sweater if the weather feels chilly? Or, why visit a hillside destination if one dislikes cooler weather?

Conversely, in warmer regions, individuals who adore cooler temperatures frequently plan vacations to hot destinations. Paradoxically, they find themselves sweating and sweltering in the heat, resorting to running air conditioners at such low temperatures that they end up needing blankets.

Why?

If you have an affinity for cold weather, consider visiting the hills, but still be sure to come prepared. Leave behind the idea of strolling in shorts and a t-shirt. Instead, pack warm clothing to fully embrace the chill.

On the other hand, if you’re a fan of summery vibes, opt for warm destinations. However, I implore you not to rely heavily on air conditioning. Learn to appreciate the natural climate as it is – it’s not only enjoyable but also beneficial for our planet.

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A Book Under A Tree

A friend once asked why I hadn’t written in so long. I told him it’s slow living. I write when I feel like it or when something reminds me. At other times, I’m quite content just living quietly, without hurry.

Over the past few months, I’ve found a few quiet spots where I can sit, lean against a tree, and lose myself in a good book. Reading outdoors, with the sounds and scents of nature all around, feels very different from sitting inside. The world outside often vies for my attention. If it’s more interesting than the book, I drift away and forget to read. But when the book grips me, everything else fades. Sometimes a bird passes overhead or a soft breeze stirs the leaves, and I look up for a moment before returning to the story.

At first, I used to worry about insects crawling near me or a hare sneaking up from behind while I sat reading. I would keep glancing around, half-alert, unsure of what might happen next. But over time, I’ve come to appreciate their quiet, mindful way of life. The insects go about their work without the least concern for me, as if I’m not even there. The hares, curious but cautious, will peek from the undergrowth, size me up, and then return to their own world, usually raiding my vegetable patch in search of cabbages. I’ve stopped worrying. Let them have their feast; I’ll have mine in the form of peace and a good book.

That’s what this slow life is all about. Watching, listening, and simply being. No rush, no fuss. My friend, these are just a few of the reasons I’ve come to love this unhurried way of living. It’s not about escaping the world, it’s about learning to sit with it, quietly, and letting it unfold around you.

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Growing Peaches with Nature’s Guidance

This morning, with a cup of hot coffee, I sat down on the deck, admiring the beautiful Peach trees growing nearby. They remind me of a battle that I waged against nature and then when I almost lost it, mother nature herself guided me towards the right way to win.

A few years back, I planted some peach trees. From the day I planted them, whenever I saw them growing, I could almost taste the juicy peaches in my mouth. Maybe some nice pies and some delicious cocktails while relaxing in the summer breeze, on a hammock under the tall oaks.

Things started to change when the trees were about 2-3 years old. After the winter, when they started to wake up, the leaves started to curl. New leaves would all curl up and shrivel. With their leaves gone, the trees were having a hard time coping up. As a result when we were looking forward to the fruits, I had to thin them out. After removing most of the fruits, the tree started to concentrate on new leaves but still the leaf curl was there. I had to remove all the fruits. Someone also guided us to add lots of compost or manure and keep it well watered. I did that too. The summers passed with zero peaches for us and lots of work.

A horticulturist told us that it was a fungal disease that was quite common in peaches. He told us to spray a good amount of Copper based fungicide. Even though the organic farmers do it, we were not very happy with the idea. However, the greed for good peaches next year influenced us and I ended up spraying the trees with copper based fungicide after the leaves had fallen off in autumn. Later, I followed it up with another round of spray just before the spring time blossoms. To prevent the fungal spores from spreading again, we had to trim the old oak also nearby, so as to let in more air to blow through the peach tree. All this was in vain. The spring came and the results were the same. Leaf curl, followed by a disheartening task of removing the fruits and then waiting for next autumn to spray again. We were fighting a battle against nature and losing at it.

After two or maybe three years of such battles, we lost all hope and planned to buy peaches from the market rather than grow our own. The trees were left as it is and the horticulturists who visited us kept on pestering us to spray more fungicide. We just ignored them.

The very next year, when we gave up trimming the oak, some green backed tits made their nests in the oak. After a few months, when the spring came, these tits spent the whole of their day feeding on something on the diseased peach trees. This was interesting. Were they feeding on some kind of visible fungus? No, they were feeding on tiny tiny aphids. Bingo ! The horticulturists were wrong this time. These were the aphids that were causing the leaf curl. The birds kept feeding on the aphids and within a couple of weeks, the peach tree was full of fresh healthy leaves. The fruits were also dangling around. That was the first year when we enjoyed the peaches and that too without spraying any kind of fungicide. Mother nature had taught us. Leaf curl on peaches due to insects is much rarer than due to fungi, but it happens.

Today, as I sit here sipping my coffee, I see the green-backed tits again, working steadily on the peach tree. A few blue-coloured birds help them. I have not bothered to photograph or identify them. There is no need to trim the oak tree or spray chemicals. In fact, there is no need to do anything at all. I just sit back and relax. The relaxed feel and free time makes me ponder on more important and deeper thoughts related to life and happiness. When the time comes, the peaches will be ready and we will enjoy pies and cocktails.

Next year, maybe, I will spray some neem oil if the aphids are in excess but I doubt that. I have also planted garlic under the tree in the hope that maybe the antifungal effects of garlic may protect when fungal leaf curl happens. Come to think of it, was Count Dracula from popular literature in some way related to any fungus, that garlic helped protect from him?

Anyway, what I have realized is that nature balances out things. We are fools to believe that we can do better than nature.

That’s slow living for me.

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No Calendar, No Clocks …

The best thing about slow life is unlearning the use of calendars and clocks. It has its own challenges.

For decades, I was driven by the calendar. There were the notorious Monday blues. The weekdays always dragged on. The weekends were awaited and somehow they flew by even before I could feel them. The clocks ! They were yet another force guiding each and every day. When to reach the office, when to meet the people, reaching late was frowned upon and overtime was happily overlooked by the HR along with the board members.

The day, I started my journey of living a slow and peaceful life, the first thing that I stopped using was the clock. The resident blue-whistling thrush, that lives outside my window, wakes me up. There’s no need for an alarm clock. In fact, now the excitement of doing something fruitful makes me get up on my own, sometimes at almost the same time as the little birdy plans to sing. I have my lunch when I feel hungry and not when the clock tells me to. When the sun goes down, it’s time to relax by the old lamp, on my favorite chair, with a good book in hand. Winter evenings are marked by the smell of hot chocolate that I get to enjoy while I read my book. Summers, it’s a chilled beer or two, sometimes in the company of friends who are yet to stop using their clocks and watches. When I feel sleepy, I go to sleep. Someone asked me about the time I usually sleep. I am usually lost when someone asks this. It depends on the book that I might be reading before bedtime and also on the amount of physical work that I might have done in the day time.

The absence of clocks and watches also has its own advantages. Last week, I went to my car’s service station. They changed the oil, did some regular checkups, and also a minor paint job. I reached the place a little early to pick up my car. Actually, a lot earlier than expected. They were supposed to hand it over at around 3 in the afternoon. I reached there at around 1. I always carry some books and a notebook (the real paper kind, and not the laptop) with me. So, I just requested a place to sit and enjoyed a nice book. It seems that they handed the car at around 6 in the evening and were apologizing for the delay. I was surprised since I did not realise that so much time had passed. In fact, I thanked them for the comfortable corner they had provided me, with an endless supply of coffee and cookies. Every once in a while someone gave me an update about what was taking time, though I never asked. Without watches and clocks, I do not have to hurry anywhere or be late for anything. If I am traveling to the hills and it gets late, I can always stop wherever I feel like and check into a homestay, or call up a friend to spend the night. After all there is no Calendar to keep.

That brings me to the second thing that I quit using. The Calendar. Now every day is a Sunday and every day is also a Monday. It does not matter. Just two things to remember are the start of the new month, when I have to pay some salaries and rentals (usually someone or the other reminds me) and the days when some guests come to stay at our homestay. I don’t buy into the tradition of avoiding non-vegetarian food on some days and eating on others. For me, either a person is a Non-vegetarian, a Vegetarian, or a Vegan, or whatever else they believe in. I am not prejudiced and I cook for our guests based on their beliefs.

Living without a calendar also has its own set of minor problems too. Last Sunday, I called up a friend in the morning. He was still in bed. From his voice I realised that he was woken up by my phone call. For him, Sunday was the day when he could sleep late, while on the other days he had to get up early to go for his work.

There are lots of other things too that now I have a very limited use of. TV channels, News, Social networking.

I can hear someone calling my name outside. Maybe some friend has come to visit me. Is it already lunch time? Maybe, I will ask him to stay back for lunch or if it’s too early, we can enjoy some tea together. I will ask him, rather than deciding based on the time of the day. My friends are actual friends whom I can directly ask and get a real helpful reply.

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Planting Trees

Since the time I started my life in the slow lane, I have been planting trees. Sometimes fruit trees, sometimes forest trees, sometimes just bushes or shrubs. This has become an activity that I am thinking of most of the time or planning my day around it. Yes, it always gives a wonderful feeling. Planning all the fruits that I may enjoy in future, the shade from the trees under which I can sit and read a good book on a summer afternoon, a pair of thick trees that may support my hammock in future, or the tall chestnut and walnut trees that will provide nuts for the generations to come.

I frequently get totally engrossed in this simple task of planting trees. Maybe it is mindfulness, maybe it is meditation, or maybe it is my love for nature that I also find my Ikigai in this activity.

The fruit trees that I buy are usually sold as bare-root trees, in their state of hibernation. These are planted in winters. There is a method to planting these trees as well. I soak the roots in a bucket of water for around 4 hours in the morning. After that I take these out and plant them in planting holes that I would have prepared well in advance, filling the soil back while holding the tree upright in the center of the hole.

The height of the fruit tree in the planting hole is also a matter of discussion. Most of the fruit trees available nowadays are grafted ones. Some people recommend keeping the grafting joint above the soil. This prevents the diseases affecting the joint and also enables the scion (the grafted upper part) enjoy the properties of rootstock (the base on which the grafting is done). Some fruit trees even prefer the top most roots to be partially exposed to the air! The rootstocks are usually chosen for their disease-resistance though it is not uncommon choosing them for their effect on final tree size. On the other hand, there are some horticulturists who recommend planting the grafting joint just under the soil. Doing so helps establish roots from the scion part as well, which in turn enables a larger and more beautiful looking tree. I use both the methods, depending on what kind of tree I have at hand and the desired outcome.

For shrubs and bushes, I soak the roots for around an hour and then plant them. Recently, I planted some raspberries. They bear fruit within a year or two, and so I am already imagining the fresh juicy berries on my breakfast table. In my opinion, no fruit orchard is complete without some kind of berries.

Apart from the bare-root trees, some nurseries also sell trees growing in small pots or plastic bags. These are my second choice when it comes to buying trees. The advantage is that such trees can be planted all round the year. However, I don’t like them much. First of all, these are expensive. The plant nurseries charge exorbitantly. Maybe due to the fact that most of these nurseries are located in places of easy accessibility and rich people are their usual patrons. Another reason why I don’t prefer these is because the trees get used to the soil in the pot/bag. The soil carries its own signature (nutrients, consistency, microorganisms, fungi, and lots of other factors). Once transplanted, the roots of such trees seem reluctant to leave their comfort zone of old soil and so the tree grows slowly. Transplanting is also a shock for the young tree. Still, the fact that these trees can be planted at any time of the year or can be transported long distances and for a long period before transplanting, makes such plants quite attractive.

Regardless of the type of tree, planting is always a welcome activity for me. Today, I planted some fruit trees and a couple of oaks too. What a lovely feeling it is. We all are indebted to mother nature for providing us with everything, therefore it is also our moral duty to give back to the earth. Planting trees is one such activity that can repay a part of our debt. If you have a place where you can plant a tree, do it !

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Ideal Hole for Plants

This morning, I felt lazy and did not feel like making my breakfast. I went for a coffee with my neighbours. They are good people. More than the laziness, it is the longing for human interaction once in a while, that I visit my neighbours. As such, I am more of a loner and happy in my own company. Later in the day, I had planned on planting some fruit trees today. Our discussion went to this topic and then I realised that very few people actually give a serious thought about how a hole for planting a tree should be dug. So, these are my thoughts for my lovely neighbours to help them in future and for anyone starting to lead a slow life.

This is just about how the hole for planting a tree should be. First of all, it should be dug out of a slightly larger size than you feel is sufficient. There is a method for digging. I first mark the area to be dug, usually a square (and not a round hole). Next, when I start digging, the top soil is gathered on one side of the hole and then the soil from deep down on the other side. Usually, I prefer double the depth of holes than the longest roots visible. The width also is usually equal to the depth but then again it depends on trees being planted. For shallow root trees, the hole should be much broader than deep. It also depends on soil. In a ground full of clay or large rocks, I prefer to dig a large hole. The hole has to be cuboidal. This prevents the roots from going round and round as happens in a usual planter or pot. Also, a little taper of the hole outwards towards the top helps the superficial roots. If you still want to go for a round hole, scrape some of the sides vertically (almost as if Wolverine scratched the side from top to bottom).

Once the planting hole is dug, I do a quick test by filling it with water and seeing how fast or slow the water gets absorbed. Slow absorption means a compacted soil, maybe full of clay. Fast absorption happens in loose soil or sandy soil. Once the water disappears from the hole, I plant the tree.

While filling the planting hole back, the soil from deep down the hole goes in first. The top soil gets filled back on the top. This ensures that the soil structure remains almost as it was before and this also helps in faster establishment of fungal networks in the soil. Even the soil microorganisms and worms, get to stay in their original position. Also shake the plant a little while filling back if it is a bare root one. This will enable an ample amount of soil to get between the roots.

There is yet another thought that has the gardening society divided. Whether to mix compost / manure, in the soil that is being put back in the hole. The ‘for group’ says that it helps in the initial growth of the tree. The ‘against group’ says that it may harm the tender roots and in the long term restrict the root growth to within the hole. I belong to both the groups. I vary my opinion from hole to hole depending on the soil conditions inside and the kind of fruit tree being planted. As a rule, it is better to err on the lower side of addition of soil enrichments than going overboard with this. Also, depending on the texture of the soil, some gypsum, bone meal, or other soil amendments may be needed in different holes. One risk of adding compost inside the hole is that when it is still not completely mature, the composting process may carry on inside the planting hole, which releases methane and therefore has the ability to harm the soil life including the fungal networks.

And now the last part. For ground that is compacted or clay soil, the planting hole should be filled back completely and then a small conical mound created around the plant. The highest point being around the stem of the plant and then slanting out to almost the ground level near the edge of the original hole that was dug. This prevents rain water from seeping in excessively. It’s the opposite of what people usually do. The hole in such a soil that was dug, acts as a planter without any drainage. So, creating a depression around the tree actually ends up damaging the tree by leading to waterlogging in the hole. Most trees hate wet feet.

On the other hand, if the soil is loamy, soft, or sandy, the hole should be filled back to a slightly lower level than the surrounding ground. Even making a central depression and a small circular mound around the hole helps. This helps collect water from rain or irrigation.

I think this is all there is to digging a hole for planting and filling it back. Maybe, I might have missed something. I will read the steps after I finish planting some trees today and add if I missed anything.

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Pruning Time

It is said that, how good a garden or orchard is in summers, depends on the hard work done during winters. This may not be the right way of putting things in perspective but still some work needs to be done during winters too.

The sun is starting to shift north and the birds are starting to show signs that spring is not far away. Soon, the trees will start to wake up. This is the time when some pruning has to be done.

Pruning is a very simple thing to do. First, the dead and diseased branches are removed. Next the suckers and water-sprouts are removed. These two are very interestingly named. I can’t help but chuckle whenever I prune these away. After this comes the pruning that some horticulturists swear by. Cutting the branches to have fruits within easy reach, and to have more healthy growth. For apples, the fruiting happens on old wood, so pruning usually is done to remove this new wood and to promote more branching. Peaches on the other hand are pruned so as to remove old wood and promote the growth of new wood.

For apricots, I prefer not to prune at all. In fact, I don’t like pruning to begin with. If nature intended a plant or a tree to grow in a particular manner, who are we to interfere and change that. From what I have gathered, the trees, including the fruit trees should never be pruned. But, if they have been pruned once, then they have to be pruned always. And so, I am stuck with pruning some apple, plum, and peach trees, year after year.

Pruning also seems to give a boost to the ego of many horticulturists and farmers that I know. The knowledge that they can trim a branch just above a bud and then predict how the branch is going to sprout, makes them feel really special.

I, on the other hand, can never feel that ego boost. I always feel humbled by the fact that these trees and their leaves are the only beings in this world that can make their own food. Rest all the animal kingdom is dependent on these original makers of food or other animals for their diet. These trees have been here long before humans even existed. They have seen centuries pass by. The trees have provided fruits since ancient times and no one pruned them then. They have grown and sustained. Who are we to interfere and feel that we can do better than nature ? Problem is that they have not been left in the way they should have been. The soil has altered over the last few centuries, the ecology surrounding the trees has changed, so some efforts have to be put in to provide a setting as close as possible to the natural system and yet have delicious fruits in whatever constraints now exist.

A gray winged blackbird hops around on a tree nearby, breaking my flow of thoughts. Well, it’s time for me to pick up the secateurs and get down to pruning, something about whose, long term advantages are still not clear to me.

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Reducing Carbon Footprint

I had just now finished my lunch, sitting under the sun, while a group of tiny birds hopped on a nearby apple tree. Simply steamed porridge with a fresh salad made up of local vegetables, tossed in oil and lemon juice. Salads are delicious. They are also comfort food. Good to look at, delicious, healthy, and easy to prepare.

So far, we have had a dry spell in the winter. Not at all good. The climate crisis is taking its toll everywhere and people are turning a blind eye to it. Reminds me of the proverbial frog in boiling water. The trees may be asleep but their roots need water. Even some amount of chilling hours is needed by some trees to produce a good amount of fruits. The groundwater also needs to be replenished. Rain and snow are essential. And, on the other hand, nowadays in the rainy season, when it usually rains, it pours down cats and dogs. That also is not good.

I have been trying to reduce our carbon footprint as much as possible. This year, I challenged myself to layering up with clothes and not using the heaters or fire for warmth as long into the winter as I could manage. I am proud to say that even in sub-zero temperature, I have had nice restful sleeps, with a double layer of quilts over me, and a rubber bottle filled with hot water near my feet. Sometimes, in the middle of night, I have had to remove one of the quilts.

I am also against plastic. Yesterday, I went to a local market. They were selling chikki (some roasted peanuts and sesame seeds in jaggery). There was one from my favorite sweets-seller but was packaged in a plastic container. Another fellow was packaging in a simple brown paper envelope. I opted for the one who was not using plastic even though I know that his chikki is not as delicious as the one packed in plastic.

Each and every bit counts. From packets of chips to plastic bags, from leading a minimalistic life to reducing overall consumption of goods. Even food for that matter. Simple things like the lunch that I had, have a much smaller carbon footprint than maybe something like a piece of cake (baked for hours). And no, I am not going into the vegetarian or meat debate.

I’ve been encouraging our guests to take the train as far as possible and then hire a car for the last stretch, instead of driving all the way. I also discourage short-haul flights. Whenever I can, I ask them to carry their own toiletries and empty refillable water bottles. Every small effort helps.

(There are a lot more things to write on carbon-footprint. Maybe the same title will appear again in more of my journal entries in future.)

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No Weeding, No-Till

Why don’t I till the soil or turn it over? Why are there weeds growing around in my garden? These and many similar questions keep coming to me and it is hard to convince people with my answers.

Soil is a very complex structure. It’s full of life. Everything is important. Even the so called weeds. They hold the soil together. Their roots make an extensive network in the soil which also works to absorb rainwater. Some of these roots die and add organic matter to the soil. Even the leaves that fall from these so called leaves add to humus. White Dutch Clover is a star in my garden. It helps fix nitrogen, provides home to ladybirds, flowers attract pollinators, and helps in absorption of water. This is just one of the so-called weeds.

Try comparing a patch of land that has been cleaned, the weeds pulled out and the soil left exposed, to another patch of land with weeds all over. Winds will not blow the soil away from the uncleared soil. Water will not erode. In fact, more rain water will reach the depths where there are weeds. On the other hand, just walking around on a cleared up land will compact the soil and make it still poorer.

The fungus that is present in the soil makes a widespread web. The trees, the bushes, and even the low grass are connected to each other. They convey vital information and take care of their lot. A single stroke of spade into the soil breaks all the connections in its path. Imagine what running a tiller or a tractor does to the soil.

There is life in the soil. Apart from the fungal networks, various bacteria work hard to enrich the soil. Tiny creatures like earthworms churn the soil and help in decomposition. Various organisms work at different stages and different levels to bring about the soil that we see around us.

One more disadvantage of tilling is that it forces the soil to release the nutrients needed by plants all of a sudden and excessively. These are much more than the amount actually required and taken up by plants. The excess nutrients just get washed away or wasted. So, with every cycle of tilling or soil turning, the soil is rendered poorer and poorer nutritionally speaking. The burying down of grasses or plants while doing so also releases an excessive amount of carbon that causes a nutritional imbalance for the plants… also not good.

For me, soil is a sacred thing in my garden and orchard. The less I disturb it, the better it is. Chemicals like pesticides, weedicides, antibacterial sprays, etc. are poisons that have been slowly and slowly killing the soil. The nutritional value of produce from commercial farming is going down. Every year more and more chemical fertilizer is needed to get the same produce. This is disheartening. Maybe people will start waking up to this and start respecting soil.

I will start this new year by planting some acorns (that I found on a rock) near a pathway so that some centuries later, someone like me, may sit down under the oak and be impressed by the wonders of nature.

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A Lazy Day

Usually, I am an early riser. Today, just before the dawn, a drizzle started. The pitter-patter of the rain was so hypnotizing that even after waking up, I once again slept off for about an hour. Later our resident blue-whistling thrush, who has the nest just outside our window, started to sing. It was then when I got up. No fancy alarms can compare with the voice of this bird.

Everyone else is also asleep, so slowly I crept into the kitchen and put the kettle to boil. I am not a tea or coffee connoisseur but on rare occasions, I do enjoy an early morning cup of good tea. With the tea in my hand, I stepped out. The wind was chilling, and the rain that fell had already frozen to ice. Still, standing here, with tea in my hand, and a view to admire, makes it worth the effort.

Today, I have a list of chores to do. First and foremost, stack some wood in case the temperature falls further and I am unable to manage without heating. This is a challenge I give to myself. How far into the winter can I manage without lighting a fire ! It is good for the environment and good for my own resilience. Next chore is to spread some compost over the new planter beds. With drizzles like today and the upcoming snow season, the compost spread now gets time to work its magic in spring. Someone has rightly said, how beautiful a garden or orchard looks in the season, depends on how much hard work has gone into it during the winters.

Slow living also requires some work to be done. The best part comes after sweating out a little. That afternoon nap, that book in the evening, with the soft music in the background, or a chit-chat over some drink.

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Tree Plantation goes on …

Waking up to a white frosted landscape, and then observing how slowly and slowly the areas where the sun touches start to turn colorful again, is an experience in itself. Standing outside while the sun starts to kiss the parts of our garden is a lovely feeling. I adjust my location as the spots getting the sun change. Every few minutes, I am forced to move. Every morning, standing around in the sun, and just observing nature, is a blessing that slow living has taught me to admire.

Today, once the landscape was bright and a little warm, I planted some fruit trees. It seems like I am busy planting trees whenever I get a chance. Apples, pears, plums, apricots, and some persimmons. These will take a long time to grow and give fruits. I like the huge trees of heirloom varieties/cultivars. The saplings were bare-root, so these had to be planted while they were still asleep, and without exposing them to open for long. I got them yesterday, so today this had to be done. Even with slow living, at times, things have to be done as a priority.

Saplings or plants sold in pots, with soil around their roots, can be planted whenever one feels like. There is no urgency or a strict time window for them, but bare-root plants adapt better to the new place where they are planted.

I’ve planted various fruit trees today, including some nut-bearing ones. One of the nut species will take nearly a decade or two to yield well. But when it does, my children and future generations will be able to enjoy both their nourishing nuts and the cool shade they provide during warm summers.

The planting took some time and effort. I call it hard work, maybe just to justify to myself the lazying around for the rest of the day, and contemplating on some aspects of life and emotions. So, after planting, I again found a nice sunny spot, to warm myself up, and admire the clouds floating by. In the afternoon, the spots getting sun don’t change as frequently as in the morning. Good for me.

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Watering my Garden in Winter

The weather is quite dry nowadays. No clouds to be seen anywhere. There has been no rain all through the autumn and now we are into winter.

Today, I watered some of my young trees and the lawn. Extensive frost is yet to set in. The deciduous trees have already shed their leaves. A passerby asked me, why was I watering the young plants that had already shed leaves. He was not interested in listening to my reasons but just wanted to comment. I replied that maybe I had hit my head somewhere and lost my marbles. I want to water them and so I am doing that. He was almost convinced that I had really lost it, or maybe he didn’t hear what I said. Quietly, he went away.

The plants may be sleeping but their roots still need water. The same goes with grass too. Deep irrigation also prevents some frost damage. So, yes, everyone should water their garden even when the plants seem to be sleeping and winter is starting to knock on the door. Just ensure that you water in the first half of the day, when the temperature is a little above freezing point, and when there is little to no wind. Instead of sprinklers that wet the leaves, use a garden hose that waters the soil and roots.

Birds seem to understand my thoughts. A group of sparrows and tits settled down on an old apricot tree. They were cheerfully chirping and somehow seemed to say that I was doing the right thing for my garden.

Leaving the garden to grow as nature intended, without any intervention, is the best way. ‘Rewilding’ is the way to go, but till the time nature starts to work its own magic, some corrections by us humans, are needed to make up for the damages that we have done to the gardens and orchards over the last few centuries.

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My Journal

Today, I have started writing a small diary here. No photographs, no videos, but just simple thoughts that flow.

It seems like just yesterday that my friend and I were sitting in one corner of the deck, late in the evening, sipping our drinks and brooding over the simmering lights on the distant hill across the valley. A moment to savor. The cool breeze and a ‘who-who’ of an owl somewhere nearby. We talked about how villages do give peace of mind, but at a cost. The finances go for a toss. Job opportunities and businesses usually don’t do so well in such faraway places. But, at least, there is some amount of happiness. I can sit quietly and think over things, read a book, and chat with a friend without bothering with the internet or phone.

Such moments are priceless. Even though this was many months ago, I can still remember those lovely moments and live them again. The discussion seems lively and recent. The time was early autumn and the evening wind was starting to develop a pleasant winter nip. After a warm day, such an evening was well awaited.

This is what slow life is and this is what he told me to start journaling.

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10 Benefits of Staying in a Homestay

Indulge in the sensation of vacationing in a charming abode, complete with top-tier amenities that surpass those found in typical hotels or resorts. This is precisely what we offer in our homestay. While it is our personal residence, it is also a space we happily share with select guests seeking a unique and luxurious vacation experience.

Forest Bathing (Shinrin-Yoku)

We love forests, and we take our guests to experience forests in a mindful way. Forest bathing is the practice of immersing yourself in nature, using your senses to experience all that you can from the forest. From smells, sounds, views, touch, and even the feel. This has immense health benefits too.

Snow – The White Miracle

Winter brings the gift of snow, blessing the landscape with its presence. As the flakes gently fall, the world around us undergoes a remarkable transformation into a magical winter wonderland, adorned with glistening frost. The arrival of snow completes this wondrous change, as everything becomes adorned in a beautiful blanket of fresh, white snow, creating a picturesque scene that is truly delightful to behold.

Maini's Hill Cottages after Snowfall — *Maini’s Hill Cottages after Snowfall*

Magical Fungi / Mushrooms

Fungi, the often overlooked lifeforms, are rarely given the attention they deserve. Yet, these captivating organisms are intricately intertwined with our lives. We interact with these enchanting beings on a daily basis, benefiting from their magical properties. They not only aid us in gardening endeavors, but also contribute to our well-being by combating diseases, enhancing soil health, and performing countless other extraordinary feats.

*Mushrooms growing on a dead tree trunk.*

Picnic by a Mountain Stream

(This article, originally published on my photography site, is now archived here; while some details may have lost their original context over time, it still offers an intriguing read.)

A few days ago, I had the opportunity to visit a small mountain stream near my home. A group of friends and I planned a picnic there. I’ve always been drawn to mountain streams with their rugged rocks and cascading waterfalls, and this one didn’t disappoint. It promised a day filled with picnicking by the stream, refreshing dips in the chilly water, and capturing some captivating motion blurs. It was shaping up to be a fantastic day.

Mountain Stream near Trinetra Mahadeva

The Trinetra Mahadeva Temples are located on a side of a cascading mountain stream. It is a wonderful place to spend some time. It’s about 37 KM from our place.

Rains in the Hills

The monsoon season brings a captivating charm to the hills. It transforms the surroundings into a lush, vibrant green landscape. The water sources are replenished, and nature comes alive with new energy. The hills become enveloped in floating clouds, occasionally confining us indoors for days. During these moments, we find ourselves captivated, gazing at the mesmerizing display of clouds through the windows, appreciating the beauty they bring to our surroundings.

*Clouds floating around on a distant hill*

Himalayan Peaks in Monsoons

During the rainy season, when the skies are perpetually grey and clouds drift through the valley, there are moments when the cloud cover parts, revealing glimpses of the snow-covered Himalayan peaks.

Bounty of Fruits

From late spring to autumn, our region is blessed with a bounty of fruits. Wild Fruits can be found all around. From road-sides to deep inside forests. Apart from these delicious wild fruits, we maintain a fruit orchard too. Every day, we harvest these fruits. Fresh from the farm to the plate!

Apricots — *The way these apricots fill up the trees !*

ReWilding the Garden

Our unwavering belief in preserving nature in its true form is at the heart of our rewilding philosophy. By allowing nature to take the reins, we have successfully transformed a small patch of land into a thriving mini-forest. This sanctuary is now a haven for a diverse range of plants, insects, birds, and animals.

We take pride in our efforts to promote biodiversity and restore the natural ecosystem. Through rewilding, we have created an environment that supports and sustains various forms of life, while also providing a serene and beautiful space for us to enjoy.

Wild Flowers and Apple — *Wild Flowers and an Apple Tree*

Maintaining a Healthy Lawn

For our guests, I wanted to provide a place where the could relax. As I gazed upon the small piece of land in front, I divided between rewilding the place or making it into a lawn. The comfort of our guests won and it was then clear that transforming it into a lush, inviting lawn was the perfect choice. Vivid images swirled in my mind, depicting blissful moments spent reclining on the vibrant grass under a radiant sun. I could almost feel the cool touch of a bottle of beer in my hand, accompanied by soft, melodic tunes drifting through the air. The sky above me played host to graceful clouds, occasionally caressed by a refreshing mountain breeze.

Conifers: Love-Hate Relationship

Coniferous trees (Deodars, Pines, Spruce etc.) thrive abundantly in various locations throughout my region. Having spent extensive time among villagers and foresters, I have come to comprehend the complex sentiments surrounding these. Interestingly, these trees evoke a dual response of both adoration and disdain among the majority of individuals I have encountered.

Keeping Warm in Winters

Winters can be incredibly harsh in the hills, as temperatures that may be tolerable in the plains feel considerably colder in hilly regions. The wind factor and the reduced hours of sunlight play a significant role in intensifying the cold. However, with the passage of time, I have acquired the skills to keep myself warm. I have mastered numerous simple techniques and discovered effective strategies that have proven invaluable. Allow me to share this comprehensive list with you, in the hopes that it will assist others in embracing the winter season while staying warm. Whether you reside in a region where winter has already passed or is yet to arrive, I encourage you to bookmark this article and revisit it whenever you feel the chill creeping in.

Ramlila at Natadol

Ramlila is one of the biggest annual events in Natadol – a dramatic reenactment of the Ramayana staged over ten days. The festival offers a wonderful opportunity to experience the religious traditions, cultural heritage, and vibrant community spirit of the region.

(In the role of Hanuman!)

Sunsets at Natadol

Every place turns beautiful with colorful sunsets. However, when it comes to Natadol, the place simply turns magical.

Maini's Hill Cottages in the evening. — A colorful evening at Maini’s Hill Cottages.

Starry Skies

What is it that makes us want to sit out at night? What is so exciting standing out at night, with all the lights dimmed or switched off?

Cottage and Garden — Late-night sitting in the garden, under the star-studded sky.

An Evening With Clouds

This evening, as I wrapped up my work, the sky was blanketed with clouds, and a light fog had settled in. I had completed all my farming and gardening tasks for the day. The rain had come and gone in bursts throughout, leaving the atmosphere heavy and overcast.

Distant Trees — *Distant trees through a gap in floating clouds*

Terrace Farming

Terrace farming or step-farming is a way of life in the hills. In the region around our cottages, agriculture is the main occupation. Villagers toil hard to produce some of the tastiest fruits and vegetables in the region.

Step Farms — Terrace farms look very artistic in late afternoon light.

Dine With Us!

How do we ensure that our family, friends, and guests keep praising our food? What invites them back to us again and again, even in seasons when people don’t visit the hills?

Indo-Chinese — *We love to experiment, mix and match flavours.*

Another Day in Lock-Down

The lock-down has been going on. So, I have started off with various tasks to keep me busy. Most of them were the tasks that I had been postponing for a long time. Creating Back-Ups, cleaning up the storage, post-processing some old files again, polishing my photo-editing skills, and catching up on lots of reading. Still, there are times when I miss going out and photographing. Today, I took out my camera and started clicking whatever I could.

Forest Walks

Walking is man’s best medicine – Hippocrates.

Fancy your daily dose of 10,000 steps? How about that in the lap of nature? Read on and learn why we love our walks in the forests.

Nanda Devi — On clear days, hill-tops in Natadol also provide beautiful vistas to enjoy and photograph. Nanda-Devi peak in the late evening.

On trail of snow-capped peaks

Hills have always drawn me in, but there’s something especially captivating about the sight of distant snow-covered peaks. Every winter, these glimmering white summits become my favorite photography subjects. With each peak, varying weather conditions, and different times of day, the landscape is constantly changing. Every day offers a fresh perspective and a new subject to capture.

(Is that an early morning snow storm on the peak that I just captured?)

Birds of Natadol

Natadol is an unexplored region when it comes to birding. Dense forests, some amount of agricultural activities, fruit trees, and scattered natural water springs, makes this an ideal location for the birds to thrive.

Sparrow — *Small birds like sparrows, tits, canaries, finches and many others can be fun to spot. Watching their antics is a wonderful way to enjoy nature.*

Blossoming Fruit Trees

Have you seen how beautifully the fruit trees blossom in the spring season? This a sight to behold and treasure. No photographs can do justice to what can be seen in reality during the flowering time.

Colorful Autumn

With the onset of autumn or fall, as it is lovingly called, the trees all around us start to play with colors. The leaves turn yellow and go through various shades of reds and brown before falling on the ground.

Autumn in Kumaon – A wonderful time to go for long drives

Cascades & Waterfalls

As the monsoons blanket the Kumaon hills, nature’s enchantment unfolds, painting the landscape with a tapestry of small cascades and waterfalls. Amidst this symphony of rain, the gurgling, crystal-clear water gracefully meanders over the rugged rocks, creating a mesmerizing spectacle that truly captivates the senses.

White Clovers and Ladybirds

White Dutch Clover is a wonderful cover crop that we use in our orchard. Apart from making the ground look green and beautiful, it has its benefits. Ladybirds, which are also some of the most beautiful insects in nature also love to make these clover patches their homes. Various other insects also love these patches of white clover.

Summer festival in a Natadol

With the end of summer season round the corner, our laid-back village in Kumaon organized a summer festival. The people of Kumaon are very proud of their heritage and culture and this event was an ideal platform to showcase that. The three day festival had all the villagers coming together, participating and putting forth three days of simple yet engaging performances.

Wild Fruits

Once you have savored these fruits, an insatiable craving for them will take hold, compelling you to indulge in their delightful flavors year after year.

*Wild Mulberries from the hills are small but extremely juicy.*

Wild Flowers

Summers brings with itself all the colors of mother nature. Leaves cover the trees, fruits start to form. The flowers start to blossom everywhere. Every nook and corner has different types of flowers peeking out.

Driving on the Hills

Does the idea of driving on hill roads excite you? Are you still not confident in the driving skills required?

Frost

With the onset of winters, frost starts to set in. Every night, the temperature goes below zero and on the following mornings, nature shows itself in a wonderful way.

Glimpse of the Peaks

The Himalayas consist of various ranges. Students of geography divide them into three major ranges. The lowest range is the one that is present in the Kumaon region. For many others, Himalayas is synonymous with snow-covered peaks of the other two ranges in the north. On a clear day, these snow-covered peaks can be viewed from our cottages itself.

Himalayan Peaks — Uncropped view from a 135mm lens on a full frame camera. The far left is Trishul and the peak on the right side is Nanda-Devi

Lichens in our Orchard

Lichens, nature’s wonders, stand as a testament to the resilience of life. Among the oldest living organisms, they offer a unique perspective on the quality of the air enveloping our tranquil cottages. Amidst the serene hills, we contemplate whether the air is truly as pure as our hopeful hearts desire. And it is through the lichens that we gain insight into this vital question.

Lichens growing on apple trees near the cottages — *Stags Horn Lichens (Evernia prunastri) growing on apple trees near the cottages. These are quite common on oaks and are used in making perfumes.*