For the last couple of days, I have been down with a sore throat and cough. Despite wanting to work in the garden, I have had to restrain myself. Gardening always makes me feel happy, but when one is down with a light cold, it is probably better to let the body rest. Gardening involves much more physical work than one sometimes realises. Even if I don’t lift a spade, just walking around, bending over to clear plants, or removing dodder before it gets a hold is physical work.

So I made myself a light cup of tea and sat on the deck, looking out over the garden and making a mental list of things that needed to be done once I am better.

I started thinking about the pathways that I meander around every day. All of them need a little fixing. Maintenance is always there, waiting. The rains have loosened some of the stone slabs, especially around the steps. They are set directly into the soil rather than fixed with cement, so a little digging around with a hand trowel and some careful repositioning of the stone should do the job. There are some stone slabs on the straight pathways that have started to rock a little. They too need to be fixed.

One dilemma I seem to have constantly is how much of the garden to keep cleared and how much to allow to grow wild.

An overgrown garden has its own charm. It provides seclusion and a certain sense of romance, while the abundance of greenery gives one the same feeling of contentment that a walk through a forest can bring. Cleared areas, on the other hand, give a feeling of openness and calm. I think I will continue to keep the areas immediately next to the pathways relatively clear. These are the spaces my visitors see and walk through, and a little openness helps people feel at ease. Further away, however, I would like to let the plants fill every nook and corner. Such growth provides sanctuary to wildlife and is an important part of the little ecosystem I am trying to create.

Then there is the old gazebo which is falling apart. A new one will eventually have to be put up there. There are two possibilities. I could keep it simple, with just four pillars and a roof, or make a more elaborate structure with railings and some decorative motifs. Obviously, the second option will cost more.

And so the question, as it often does, comes down to finances and how to balance one thing against another. Looking at the year ahead, I already have some major expenses coming up. The batteries of the solar power system will need replacing. I need to make long-term arrangements for water, and also for irrigation at the far end of the orchard where I grow vegetables. This water thing will be a big expense. Even the tyres of the car are due for replacement. There are some minor roof repairs to attend to, along with a little painting here and there.

The gazebo can therefore wait until next year. Hopefully, by then I will have saved enough for it, and perhaps the price of iron will not have risen faster than what I can earn and put aside.

A magpie suddenly sweeps down and lands on the wild apricot tree in front of me. My thoughts move, almost without warning, from upcoming expenses back to the orchard.

The old apricot tree is beginning to show signs of age. I have already thought about its succession and planted other trees that will, in time, take its place. But with a tree like this, ‘in time’ can mean decades. There is no immediate need to worry. The old tree may continue to stand for many years before it finally gives way.

From the deck I can also see that the adjoining oak is beginning to crowd the view I used to have beneath its canopy. It will probably need some pruning, with a few thinning cuts lower down. I don’t want to remove too much. The oak is a great help in summer, when it blocks the strong winds.

Autumn is approaching fast.

The apple trees are almost ready to go to sleep, and even the pear trees are beginning to prepare for dormancy. The plums, however, are still green and putting out new leaves, making the most of the remaining weeks before the cold arrives. The mulberries are still green too. The chestnuts are beginning to mature, while their leaves remain green.

This year the oaks have produced a remarkable number of acorns. I can see them lying all around beneath the trees. There is something wonderful about a mast year. Somehow, across an entire population of trees, the oaks produce an unusually large crop of acorns at the same time. The exact mechanisms behind this synchronisation are still fascinating to me. The trees seem to be communicating with each other. Whatever the reason, the result is remarkable: thousands of acorns falling together, increasing the chances that at least some will escape being eaten, land in a suitable place and eventually grow into trees.

Nature has its own ways of ensuring that a forest continues.

I finish my tea and lean back in the chair. I had intended to spend the afternoon working in the garden. Instead, I spent it doing almost nothing. And maybe that was what I needed. A little while sitting outdoors, breathing fresh air, looking at the garden and listening to the birds was enough to make me feel better. Sometimes it is enough just to sit and watch.

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Some days in the hills are quiet and unhurried; others seem to arrive with a long list of things for me to do. Today was one of them.

After a few days of rain, the morning arrived bright and cheerful, as though the sun had decided that these few days of hiding away was long enough. We got down to clearing the pathways. The rain and a few days of staying indoors had allowed the vegetation to make considerable progress of its own. Paths that had been reasonably clear were now beginning to disappear beneath the greenery.

I took out the brush-cutter. Unfortunately, it had other plans. It refused to start. So we fell back on the old-fashioned method – hedge scissors and a fair amount of patience. I have been trying to find a large scythe for clearing the brush by hand, but apparently they are not much in use in India and the ones available online cost a lot. Perhaps the scythe, like the typewriter and the landline phone, is slowly becoming a creature of the past.

Later, I turned my attention to the lawn. During the rainy months, grass grows with astonishing enthusiasm. I prefer a lawn that is allowed to remain a little wild but our guests tend to have different ideas about it, and the children, as well as a few adults who are children at heart, enjoy rolling about on the grass. So, every now and then, the mower has to come out.

These days I use ear muffs while mowing. Today, the moment I put them on, I was struck by how dramatically the world changed. Everything became extremely quiet. It made me realise how accustomed I have become to the sounds of construction taking place all around me. One gets used to almost anything, even noise. I hope that when the building work finally comes to an end, the old silence will return. Perhaps I shall hear the birds again before I hear the machines.

By the time the lawn was done, some people from the horticulture department arrived to put up our new greenhouse. It will be covered with plastic sheet so it is being set up in a area well shielded from heavy winds. I already know what I want to grow there, although experience tells me that plants, like people, have a habit of ignoring our plans. Still I am already dreaming of a bounty of vegetables.

In the midst of all this activity, I spotted a tiny baby mouse near the greenhouse. It was impossibly small and quite charming. There is something about young creatures that makes even the most troublesome species appear innocent. A baby mouse is a little ball of sweetness; an adult mouse can become a menace. The same applies to monkeys. Their babies are delightful, with their bright eyes and tiny hands, but the grown-ups can be very destructive when they discover the fruit orchard. Nature has a way of making all its babies look innocent.

This reminded me to collect some pears before the monkeys got to them. So, we then went about picking some ripe pears. I always leave a few on the trees for the birds and other visitors to the orchard. After all, we humans have an unfortunate tendency to think that everything belongs to us. We fence the land, plant the trees, pick the fruit and then complain when a bird helps itself. In my orchard, there is always something left for the wildlife. Though, monkeys can be extreme, destroying almost all of the fruits if they get a chance.

After lunch, I returned to the brush cutter and tried once again to bring it back to life. I tried various things, none of which produced the desired result. Eventually, I surrendered. I will probably have to make a journey to the service centre the nearby town, where someone with greater patience and knowledge will have a look at it.

A clear day in the middle of the rains also brings its own share of housework. The sunshine is an invitation to wash clothes, air the rugs and carpets, and generally bring out everything that has spent too long indoors. After just a couple of days of rain, even the house seems grateful for a little sunlight.

By evening, the day had disappeared almost as quickly as it had begun. There had been paths to clear, grass to mow, pears to pick, machines to repair, carpets to air, and a tiny mouse to admire. It was, by any standards, a busy day.

And yet, as I sat down at the end of it, listening to the sounds around the house, I felt that there was something satisfying about being busy in the company of trees, birds, rain, and the occasional troublesome creatures. Our resident blue-whistling thrush also landed on the roof, planning to call it a day.

For me, the best kind of busy day is the kind that leaves me tired, but still glad from what I accomplished and the impact it will have in the long run.

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Today I was discussing with some friends about seabuckthorn berry. Every now and then one or the other berry or food item takes up the center-stage and everyone starts talking about it. Sometime back it was blueberries, before that keeda-jadi and some other mushrooms. We speak so confidently about discovering new superfoods. Every few years there is a new miracle plant from some remote forest in Himalayas, a berry from South America, or a seed from Africa that promises better health and a longer life. As time passes, people forget about it and move on to some new fad. So, I cannot help but think that our ancestors may have known plants far more remarkable than anything we celebrate today.

The most famous of these is Sanjeevani. According to the Ramayana, Hanuman flew across the Himalayas to fetch this extraordinary herb capable of reviving Lakshmana from the brink of death. Whether we read this as history, metaphor, or poetry is beside the point. What fascinates me is that an entire civilisation considered such a plant worthy of preserving in its greatest epic. Today, botanists have proposed dozens of candidates – from a spike moss (incidently found in Aravalis, and not Himalayas) to various alpine medicinal plants including various berries, but no one knows for certain what Sanjeevani really was.

And Sanjeevani is not alone. Ancient Ayurvedic texts such as the Charaka Samhita and the Sushruta Samhita describe hundreds of medicinal plants. Many can still be identified with reasonable degree of confidence. Others cannot. The names survive, but the plants behind those names have become mysteries. Some scholars estimate that a significant number of herbs mentioned in these texts have uncertain or disputed identities today. Some businesses are minting money selling these names to the masses, but are they really what the texts mentioned?

Then there is Soma, perhaps the most enigmatic plant in Indian history. The Vedas praise Soma as both a sacred plant and a divine drink. It was described as invigorating, life-giving, and spiritually elevating. Yet despite centuries of research, nobody can say with certainty what Soma actually was. Suggestions range from mountain shrubs to various mushrooms. The debate itself reminds us that knowledge, however important, can disappear if it is not carefully preserved. The confusion surrounding this extraordinary plant has grown so great that Somaras, the sacred extract of Soma revered in the Vedas, has today become almost synonymous with alcohol.

Haoma, which is said to share common Indo-Iranian roots with the Vedic Soma, is another sacred, divine plant in Zoroastrianism and ancient Iranian texts, widely identified by scholars as a species of Ephedra but no one is sure.

Our ancient texts also speak of plants like Jivaka and Rishabhaka revered in Ayurveda as nourishing herbs that promoted strength, vitality, and longevity. Today, several of these names remain controversial because experts cannot agree on which modern species they represent. In many cases, substitutes are used simply because the originals are uncertain or unavailable. Now a days, experts call some rare orchids by these names.

Kakoli also find mention in some texts. Villagers here call a wild variety of ginger by this name and say that the roots are useful supplement for general health. I have not tried it but have written down this information in my notes.

What can I say about identifying plants mentioned in ancient texts when we struggle to identify them correctly even today? Take the humble mulberry, for instance. Across India, shahtoot is routinely sold to unsuspecting buyers as blackberry. People lovingly plant it, nurture it for years, and proudly tell their friends that they have blackberries growing in their garden. The confusion doesn’t end there. The familiar cape gooseberry is widely known in Hindi as rasbhari (“filled with juice”), yet it is often marketed as raspberry. Then there is phalsa, which is sometimes passed off as blueberry. If the names of such common fruits can become confused within a single generation, what hope is there of accurately identifying every plant described in texts written two or three thousand years ago? Languages evolve, regional names change, traditions fade, and knowledge is slowly forgotten. It should not surprise us that many of the remarkable herbs mentioned in ancient Indian literature remain mysteries today.

Maybe these plants mentioned in ancient texts still exist in some forgotten valley. Perhaps they survive under local names known only to a handful of village healers. Or perhaps they vanished centuries ago as forests were cleared and ecosystems changed. This is not as unlikely as it sounds. Plants disappear. They go extinct.

Sometimes I imagine what the Himalayas looked like few thousand years ago. Vast forests stretched over mountains with almost no roads, no tourism, and very little disturbance. The biodiversity must have been astonishing. There may well have been medicinal species that are now critically endangered, or perhaps gone forever.

Modern science has given us antibiotics, vaccines, and extraordinary medicines that save millions of lives. Many of today’s medicines owe their origins to careful investigations of traditional remedies or naturally occurring substances. Aspirin, quinine, artemisinin, and countless other drugs remind us that nature remains one of humanity’s greatest pharmacies. Even antibiotics came into being because someone observed a fungus. For the sake of clarity, I am not writing this to promote any traditional system of medicine over modern scientific medicine. Rather, I find it deeply saddening that so much botanical knowledge has been lost over the centuries. Whether every ancient claim was true or not is beside the point. Once knowledge disappears, we lose not only the chance to verify it, but also the opportunity to learn from it.

I am sure that there are still extraordinary plants waiting to be rediscovered. Or perhaps the greater lesson is not about finding a miracle herb at all. It is about preserving the knowledge that still survives.

Across India, elderly villagers, tribal communities, and traditional healers continue to recognise plants that most of us walk past without noticing. Their knowledge has been refined over generations of observation. Whether every claim stands up to scientific testing is another question, but the knowledge itself deserves to be recorded before it disappears. I am trying to learn whatever I can from the villagers here. Now I have a collection of photographs and notes. I feel that now I should start organizing them just in case someone like me finds the information interesting. I find something deeply moving about that thought.

Languages evolve. Local traditions fade. A healer passes away without sharing what he knows, and within a single generation, an entire body of knowledge can disappear. Scientific names cannot recover wisdom that was never written down. The greatest treasure hidden in our forests is not a herb with miraculous powers, but the knowledge of the people who have lived alongside those forests for generations. They know which plants flower first, which roots are edible, which leaves heal, and which trees shelter birds and bees. That wisdom has been earned through centuries of observation. Sadly, it is this knowledge that is disappearing the fastest. Even in the remotest villages, many young people spend more time chasing screens, reels, and likes rather than listening to the stories and experiences of their elders. If we fail to preserve that wisdom today, we may spend the next hundred years trying to rediscover what we once knew.

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For me, books are companions. They probably come close behind the trees and the wildlife in my orchard. My idea of a perfect day is, in fact, a rather lazy one: sitting under a tree while birds chirp here and there, the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds, and a cool breeze brushes against my face. And to keep me company on such a lazy day, I need a good book. And a cup of coffee by the side.

Reading outdoors has its own rhythm. One reads a little, looks up for a while, watches a bird disappear into a tree, and then returns to the page. Sometimes the breeze tries to turn a page before I am ready. There is no hurry to finish a chapter. The world around me somehow becomes part of the reading experience, and perhaps that is why I enjoy reading outside so much. As for the mosquitoes, they can be rather annoying these days, but thankfully, I have a spray that keeps most of them at a respectable distance.

The book I am reading now talks about a fig tree and life around Cyprus. The story keeps moving back and forth in time. A couple of days ago, I finished another book, one that I had read before, which placed a group of children on an island. They formed their own rules and regulations and gradually a social system, good or bad, came into being. Before that, I had been reading some old classics by famous authors, and next on my reading list are, once again some old short stories. Somehow, I just cannot have enough of books. At times, life seems far too short to read everything I want to read.

And then there is the eternal question: ebooks or physical books? Leaving aside all arguments about carbon footprints and the environment, my deciding factor is usually much simpler. How much does the book cost, and can I afford it while trying to live within my limited financial means? Expensive books are usually much more affordable in digital form. However, any book that I think I will read again and again usually finds its way onto my list of books worth owning in physical form. I prefer hardbounds over paperbacks, but my pocket prefers it the other way round.

Of course, my ebook reader is remarkably convenient. A friend recently pointed out that it has so much storage that it could itself be treated as a library. I do things a little differently though. I keep most of my digital books on my computer or on the cloud, and download them to the e-reader only when I am actually reading them. A few reference books stay on it forever. These are an exception to my rule about owning frequently used books in physical form. I refer to them again and again, but their printed editions are simply too large to carry around, so in such cases an ebook makes far more sense to me.

Yesterday, someone asked me an interesting question. Suppose I were given a gift card that could only be used to buy books, and suppose I could buy exactly the same titles and the same number of books in either format. Which would I choose? The answer is quite clear: physical books. I am running out of space to keep them, but they remain a pleasure to hold and read. Somehow, a physical book connects me more closely to the thoughts of the author than an ebook does. Perhaps it is the weight of the book in my hands, the turning of pages, smell of the book, or maybe just knowing where a particular thought lives within those pages.

Which brings me to another question. Does it make more sense to invest in another bookshelf, or spend the same amount of money on more books? I am leaning towards the books. After all, those are what matter more to me. For the sake of peace at home and for some feel of being organised – I may, however, have to choose the bookshelf. Let’s see what happens on this front.

This morning, I came across an interesting comment: “There are data centres in this world that don’t use a lot of power and water. They are called libraries.” It made me smile. Soon afterwards, I found myself reading a short study about the deterioration of attention spans and reasoning abilities, with many factors being discussed. Somewhere among them was the declining habit of reading. Something to think about there! Hopefully, parents will influence their kids to pick up more and more books. Partners will start gifting books again on wedding anniversaries. And an autographed book will be valued more than a selfie with the author.

Time to continue with my book now. It’s a lazy day with nothing much to do. I have already completed my long-pending social commitments in the morning.

The weather is clear today. The rains have taken a short break. Maybe I will head out of the room, find a quiet place somewhere outside, feel the cool breeze on my face, and read in silence or whatever is left of the silence in this region now. The bookshelf and the books can wait. I will decide after I finish this lovely book I am reading.

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I read a lot. Whether that is a vice or a hobby depends on whom you ask.

For me, the perfect place to read is the small couch in my living room, beside an old floor standing lamp. A little side table holds a cup of hot tea whenever I feel like sipping it and lingering over a good book. My phone rests there too, close enough to answer a call if needed, but far enough away that it does not constantly demand my attention. Sometimes, I even keep a paper notebook (the irony that I had to mention paper before the word notebook, and the fact that I am typing it out on a computer that many people call notebook) and a pen, just to pen down my thoughts is something interesting comes to my mind while reading.

Recently, as I sat there reading, I found myself looking at the light around me. The book didn’t hold my interest much and so various thoughts started floating in my mind. It occurred to me that almost every bulb in my home is now an LED. They do produce a pleasant warm glow (since I opted for that), but they do something an old incandescent bulb never did. They flicker.

The flicker is so rapid that our eyes perceive it as a steady light. Many high quality LEDs have reduced this effect significantly, yet the principle remains the same. They work by switching on and off at remarkable speed. An incandescent bulb from years gone by works differently. The ‘bulb’ as it is still called here, simply heats a filament until it glows producing light. It works rather inefficiently and a fair amount of heat is also generated along with it.

So I replaced the LED bulb in my reading lamp with an old fashioned incandescent bulb. The true ‘bulb’ from my way of thinking.

I cannot honestly say that the LED ever caused me discomfort. Nor can I claim that I consciously noticed its flicker. The change is almost entirely psychological. Yet there is something quietly reassuring about knowing that the light illuminating the pages of my book is continuous rather than pulsed. It feels simpler and realistic. Reading beneath an LED, if one thinks about it, is a little like watching a film. The page is illuminated in rapid pulses, so quickly that the brain blends them into what appears to be constant light. An incandescent bulb feels different. It is closer to standing outdoors beneath the sun on a clear day. The intensity is far lower, of course, but the character of the light feels more analogue. More grounded. More natural.

There is, naturally, a price to pay for this preference. The LED bulb consumed around four watts of electricity. The incandescent bulb draws about sixty. By modern standards it is spectacularly inefficient. Most of that extra energy does not become light. It becomes heat. But then I live in the mountains, where much of the year is cold, and heat is usually welcome. In that setting, the so called wasted energy is not entirely wasted. It contributes, however modestly, to warming the room. Yes, you may laugh at the thought but it’s quite true. If my little reading corner ends up even the tiniest fraction of a degree warmer, I consider that a small bonus rather than a loss.

Perhaps none of this makes much practical sense. Modern LEDs are a better tech, by almost every measurable standard. They are efficient, long lasting, easy on pocket in the long run, and remarkably capable. Yet, sometimes, it’s better to fall back on old ways and feel the warmth.

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There is one thing I have been trying to nurture in my orchard, apart from fruit trees and flowers, and that is life itself. Life that arrives on wings, paws, and soft footsteps on the grass.

This morning, when I stepped out of the cottage, the mulberry trees were already alive with mynas. They fluttered noisily from branch to branch, carrying on their endless arguments in voices loud enough to wake the entire valley. Somewhere among them, a few bulbuls interrupted now and then with their cheerful little ‘tea-for-two’ calls. Tiny birds flashed about in little bursts of colour before disappearing into the leaves. I could identify a green-backed tit and a few black-throated tits, but that was about it. They were too quick and very far away.

I walked down towards the lawn, almost a floor below the house. Next to the steps, the chinese privet shrub was in full bloom, humming with bees. One butterfly also drifted lazily from flower to flower, as though it had nowhere important to be, almost like me today. I too seem to be just strolling from one place to another with no real purpose and just absorbing every moment of my existence here.

The grass was still wet with dew, and between the blades the white dutch clover shone. Bees busied themselves among the clover flowers as well, while two black-headed jays hopped about the lawn, pecking seriously at the ground in search of breakfast. At moments like these, I feel an odd sort of satisfaction. I don’t use harmful chemicals here, and perhaps because of that life still flourishes in this place. The orchard seems to breathe on its own.

Outside my cottage, there are lots of splashes of mud and patches of moss near the walls. The blue-whistling thrushes are building their nest under the roof again. They are untidy builders and leave the place looking as though cleanliness has been neglected for ages, but I cannot complain. Their music greets me every morning long before the sun reaches the place, and that is payment enough for the mess they create.

The dustbin outside, however, tells another story. It lies overturned more often than I would like. The civet has been visiting again. Though the orchard is full of fruit and insects and all manner of wild delicacies, it still seems to believe that the kitchen bin offers finer dining. I have learnt to empty it every evening, though once in a while when I forget, the civet reminds me by scattering everything. I am still unsure whether it is always the same fellow or several different visitors.

Then there are the cats. A few tomcats and smaller strays wander through the orchard as if they own it. They quarrel noisily at times, especially during the night, though I suspect the large black tom is the true ruler of the estate. The others seem to keep a respectful distance from him. Thankfully they keep mice and even some reptiles in control.

A jackal, too, has made this orchard part of its wandering territory. I am not fully sure if it is the one I had rescued few years back as a baby or a different one. I see it only once every few months, usually at dusk, slipping noiselessly between the trees. But I often hear its calls during the night, and over the years the sound has begun to feel strangely comforting, almost as though someone were announcing their return home.

Near the solar panels lives a porcupine. A shy and secretive tenant. I have seen it only twice in all these years, though I know it is there because of the burrow nearby and the quills that children occasionally discover on the ground.

Hares sometimes appear during summer evenings, darting through the orchard before vanishing into the undergrowth. I am never quite certain whether they live here permanently, especially with civets, martens, and cats about. I usually see them near the large pear tree under which I had recenly added a bench. Nature often finds ways of balancing itself so even with the other animals these hares too somehow manage to survive. Once, I even spotted a pika nibbling peacefully at dandelions, entirely unconcerned by the world around it.

And then there are the martens (not to be confused with Martians whom I have not yet spotted). They are perhaps the most mischievous residents of all. A pair lives just beyond the greenhouse. They move swiftly and almost always as a couple. Some months back, I discovered they had stolen a few of my golf balls and carried them away for reasons known only to these martens. At times they scramble onto the roof, only to be furiously chased off by the blue-whistling thrushes and the mynas, who take their duties as guardians of the house-roof very seriously. During spring they feast on mulberries and afterwards leave behind purple-stained droppings as evidence of their gratitude. Another gesture I could happily do without.

So the life in the orchard goes on, from dawn till midnight. Owls land on the roof at night at times with a loud thud. Thrushes wake me at daybreak with their music. Martens and civets keep me busy cleaning up after them. Cats keep the rodents under control. Bees reassure me that the land is still healthy and flowering. It is not a perfect place, nor a tidy one. But I love it. For this little orchard has become a small forest, shared between many creatures, where I too have been allowed to live.

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There is a certain satisfaction in watching something return to usefulness, which may have been classified as waste. Not long ago, the roof of my cousin’s home was taken apart. Time and weather had done their work. The wood had begun to give way, softened by years of rain and temperature variations, and that house needed something sturdier, something that could stand a little longer against the seasons. The metal sheets came off first and were neatly stacked aside. Then the wooden planks followed, one by one, revealing their age in nail holes, borer marks, and patches where rot had settled in. A lot of them were covered in fungus too due to the dampness that would have persisted in some areas of the house.

Most people would have seen a pile of waste. I saw a possibility. The planks were thin and uneven, and no carpenter would call them ideal. When I spoke to one about making cupboards out of them, he hesitated. It would take time, patience, and more effort than working with fresh timber. There were rough edges to smooth, weak sections to avoid, rotten wood to cut away, usable planks to be joined together, and countless small imperfections to work around. But to me, the choice was simple. Either the wood would find another life, or it would end up in a fire, its years of service reduced to a brief moment of warmth and a lot of smoke. It seemed only fair to give it another chance.

I told the carpenter I would compensate him for the extra work. It felt more meaningful to put that money into skilled hands than to spend it on new wood, freshly cut from a tree that had not yet had the chance to grow old. Even the smaller details followed the same thought. Old handles, hinges, and hasp-latches, each with their own history, were gathered and fitted in. The cupboards, when they were done, did not appear to be anything grand. They were not the perfected hardwood pieces that one might pass down through generations. But they were now looked clean and suited my purpose.

I placed them just outside my main door, under the shelter of a roof. They will face the sun more than the rain, and from time to time I will need to polish them. That seems only right. Things that are given a second life deserve a little extra care in return.

This morning, as I began placing my gardening tools inside, I noticed a pair of swallows that made multiple trip to the cupboard. They inspected the top of the cupboard, and lingered there a while as if considering the top for their next nest. I could not have asked for a better sign. Whether they make it their nest of not is not important but that they found it worth a consideration is all the endorsement that I could ask for.

In the end, it is not about cupboards or planks of wood. It is about looking at what we already have and seeing not what it has become, but what it can still be. In small ways, we can choose not to discard so quickly. And in doing so, we keep a little more of the world intact, just as it is. Being mindful is good.

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There are words and expressions in the villages that one rarely encounters in city life. They carry within them a depth and understanding, revealing how people here have settled into a slower rhythm of living, and how their vocabulary has shaped itself around that ease.

One such expression that has always intrigued me is the way people refer to the past, especially the idea of ‘परसों (the day before yesterday).’ In most languages, it points rather precisely to a fixed day. Beyond that, we rely on dates, weeks, months, and years carefully measured and neatly arranged. But in the local dialects here, the word stretches far beyond its literal meaning. When a villager says he met someone ‘परसों,’ it may well have been two days ago, or perhaps a fortnight, or even a few months in the past. The expression is less about marking time and more about placing something gently behind the present moment. It simply belongs to the past, and that seems to be enough. There is something rather comforting in this looseness of time. Life here does not move by calendars pinned to walls, but by seasons, by harvests, by festivals, by important happenings by the coming and going of familiar faces. What matters is not when something happened, but that it did. The memory remains, untroubled by the need to be exact.

Another difference lies in how moments are remembered and spoken of. In the cities, a child is born on a precise date, neatly placed within a calendar year. But here, life is tied less to numbers and more to happenings. A child is born in the days after a heavy snowfall, when the roads lay closed for a week. Or just before Holi, when people were out in the courtyards, moving in slow circles, singing old folk songs. Or perhaps during those rain-soaked days when the early apples were being gathered, hands working quietly despite the drizzle. Time, in these hills, is not counted so much as it is felt. It is woven into seasons, festivals, and shared moments. And in remembering it this way it seems to me that each event carries with it not just a date, but a story, a feeling, and a place within the rhythm of life.

Another expression one hears often is the way the elderly are addressed as ‘सयाने लोग (wise people).’ It is a simple phrase, and yet it carries a dignity. Age is a gathering of understanding. The villagers do not separate growing old from growing wise; the two seem to walk hand in hand. And so, the elderly are not just respected out of habit, but regarded with an unspoken trust in the wisdom their years have gently bestowed. They are the wise old folk. Sadly, in the present generations this feeling is diminishing.

There is also a certain assurance in the way tasks are spoken of. In the cities, one often hears ‘ठीक है (it’s fine or it’s okay),’ as though to brush things aside. But here, the words carry a different weight. When something is done, or needs to be done, the expression gently suggests that it has been taken care of, or that it will be, in its own time. They say – ‘ठीक हो गया (theek ho gaya)’ It feels like ticking something off a list, a reassurance that it was always something to be completed. It carries a sense of completion, or maybe an unspoken promise of it. There is trust in the doing, and patience in the waiting. The task has been done or will be done.

An extension of this is – ‘आराम से हो जाएगा (it will be easily done)’, the villagers say, with a reassuring smile. It is not laziness, but a faith that things will find their moment. The hills have taught them this, that rushing a sunrise or a ripening fruit serves no purpose. This is slow living.

Another common greeting one hears in these parts is, ‘आप कब आए ? (When did you come?)’ I must admit, it used to unsettle me at first. It felt as though I was being gently reminded that I did not quite belong, that I was someone who had arrived from elsewhere, perhaps only temporarily. But over time, as the hills began to feel like home, my response softened. I no longer searched for meaning in the question, nor did I resist it. I just answered, and in doing so, allowed the exchange to remain what it was meant to be, a small moment of connection. I feel that the question itself comes from an older rhythm of life. For years, many from these hills would leave for the cities in search of work, returning only once in a while. Their arrivals were events of significance, and so the question became a natural way of marking their return. It stayed, even as times changed, and is now offered to almost anyone who comes to settle here. If one looks beyond the literal meaning, there is often a note of concern hidden within it. It is less about marking one as an outsider, and more about acknowledging one’s presence, about taking notice. Of course, in some moments, it may still carry a faint reminder of distance, a subtle distinction between those who belong and those who visit briefly, like migratory birds who come and go with the seasons. But more often than not, it is simply the village way of saying, “I see you have come,” and in its own unspoken manner, “I am glad you are here.”

Another interesting question one often hears is, ‘आप कहाँ के ठहरे ? (Where are you from?’, or more accurately where did you stop?”. It carries a shift in perspective. One is not defined by origins, but by where one has chosen to pause, to stay, to belong. Perhaps it, too, comes from the old patterns of migration, when people moved in search of work and a place became home not by birth, but by settling into it. To have ‘ठहरे (stopped)’ somewhere was to have accepted it, and in time, to have been accepted in return. I have come to like this way of asking. It now feels less like an inquiry into the past and more like a recognition of the present. And having found my own quiet corner in these hills, I sometimes think that, in years to come, I too might answer with a certain contentment, that I stopped here. I have often felt that the villagers here belong to the region. I have noticed in young generation that goes out to the cities to work and often say ‘पहाड़ अपना सा लगता है (the hills feel like our own)’. It carries a deep affection, as though the mountain is a companion, an old friend who has watched over generations.

Even the end of life is spoken of in a manner that feels quite different. When someone passes away, people here often say that the person has ‘निकल गए (exited).’ The first time I heard it, it felt unsettling. I was not used to death being described in such a way, and the word carried a certain abruptness. But with time, it began to reveal a different meaning. In their own unassuming way, the villagers hold an understanding that is both simple and profound. To exit is to step away from this world. It may be an exit from the material world, or from the body itself as spoken of in the Vedas and echoed in the Gita. Or perhaps it is simply a departure from the daily rhythms of life, a release from its burdens, and a journey onwards, wherever that may lead. An exit from the Matrix if you want to term it in that way. In this single word, there is an interesting balance. It does not dwell in death.

Perhaps that is why such expressions feel so rich. They are not imprecise, as one might first think, but quietly philosophical. They remind us that time, after all, is not always meant to be counted. It is simply meant to be lived, and remembered. To be thankful for the past, and to be grounded in the present. I am learning to become more mindful here, even guided by the language spoken around me, to some extent.

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With the arrival of spring the orchard is starting to wake up. New leaves appear like shy smiles. In the plum, peach, and apricot trees, the first to make a show are the blossoms. For a few days, all the branches are bouquets of flowers and the whole place seems to be wearing its best clothes. Perfectly in tune with Holi, the festival of colours. Elsewhere the buds are only beginning to swell. Even those small changes are miracles.

There is a particular pleasure in watching the trees that I planted during their dormancy stir and begin to live. The young ones that stood brown and leafless through winter now unfurl with a certain eagerness. The older trees show the season in a quieter way. If I press my ear gently to an apple trunk on a calm morning I half believe I can hear the sap moving. Perhaps it is only fancy but this notion pleases me. It is easier to believe in small miracles when one spends days close to nature.

I sat for a long time under an apple tree that has not yet come fully awake. The sunlight on my face felt warm and welcome. A soft breeze passed through the branches and sent a shiver despite sitting in the sun. The winter is not yet over. In an age that rushes on and on it is a blessing to sit and do nothing much at all. To be content with one’s own company and the slow progress of the day. I had a fall few days back, so the warmth of sun eases my pain too.

Not far from me, a group of white throated thrushes landed under the large apricot tree. They were busy with the fruit that had lain there through the winter. Birds make use of what the seasons leave behind. These apricots were now little brown shells on the ground with no flesh left on them and their seeds(tiny almonds) had become a resource. One bold thrush pecked and prised at a shell with its beak until at last it opened. It was a small, fierce business. The bird did not even bother to look at me, sitting just a metre away from it. It moved as if I were a part of the orchard the way a stone or a root belongs there. When wild creatures treat us like that we feel that for those few moments we are not separate from the nature.

The bees have begun to notice the blossoms. They come in small, busy troupes buzzing around, and they know where to find sweetness. Each flower that the bees visit is a promise of fruit. The sound of their wings is a kind of music that I associate with the start of spring.

I looked at the citrus trees that I planted a few seasons ago. They do not shed their leaves in winter but they slow down. New shoots are appearing now but the growth is slow. Maybe the soil is not quite to their liking. Perhaps the long cold nights here ask more stressful than citrus normally enjoys. Every plant has its own pace. A sapling that looks sad in one year may find a spurt of life the next. Gardening teaches patience more surely than any other lesson I know.

Plants have also taught me that nature has no interest in conformity. Every plant and every tree is different. And they are happy and useful contributing to nature in their own ways. Quite unlike humans ! Some of them sprout out a lot of leaves and race to reach the skies, others happily laze around till late spring and then give out just a few leaves needed by them.

On the plum tree behind me a small bird hopped from twig to twig. Its movements were a blur but its call was a bright quick note. I can’t name all the birds that I spot. How does it matter? The birds are happy and content. The orchard is working, in its practical way, at sustaining life. I am happy, The nature is smiling.

Time for a short power nap, while listening to the music of nature all around me !

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I woke up to a beautiful cloudy morning. The sky seemed wrapped in a soft grey shawl A fine drizzle fell all around. It has been long since we have had a proper rain. Even after the last snowfall, the soil remained strangely thirsty. Since the monsoon withdrew, the land has waited in patience. So today, even though it is just a fine drizzle, every drop feels like a small blessing.

There is a particular gratitude that rises from the ground when rain returns. I felt it as I stepped outside. At last, a little water for the saplings and the newly planted trees that have stood bravely through the cold and the dry winds. Even the newly planted fruit trees were thirsty. It is only a drizzle, but in the mountains even a drizzle can be a quiet act of mercy, especially during this dry spell.

Across the hillside, farmers have sown potatoes, peas, beans and a host of other vegetables. For them too, every drop that falls from the sky is nothing less than a blessing. It settles gently into the earth, easing the labour of many hands, and promising food, sustenance, money, and hope in the months to come.

The birds seemed to know it too. The resident blue whistling thrush, who lives just outside my window, announced the morning with a clear, ringing call, full of a cheerfulness that had been absent these past weeks. The plants swayed in the light breeze as though relieved. They do not have faces, yet anyone who has lived closely with trees and shrubs learns to read their moods. A certain brightness in the leaves, and a way of responding to the wind. Some may call it my imagination gone wild. I prefer to think of it as companionship.

Such weather tempts one towards laziness. A hot cup of coffee, a loving book, and the comfort of a couch seem far more appealing than any duty. But I am not blessed with endless amount of money. So I carried my coffee to the desk and tried to be industrious, even as my thoughts drifted towards the mist moving lazily among the trees. There is a quiet joy in watching clouds travel across the hillside, as though the sky itself has descended to pay a visit.

The firewood I had laid out in the sun now lies damp again. Yet this is hardly a misfortune. The sun will return soon and dry it. The rain was needed more than dry logs. Though, we shall need many more such showers if the orchard is to flourish in spring, and in the summer to provide us with a good harvest of fruits.

A few days ago, a neighbour and I were speaking of weather. He wondered why rain and snow are so often called bad weather. Perhaps sailors, fearing storms at sea, gave it that name. But here in the hills, rain is the most generous of the guests. Each drop falls like nectar, reviving tired roots, replenishing underground streams, and filling reservoirs hidden beneath rock and soil. The rivulets that begin as shy trickles on these slopes will swell into streams and end up as rivers that nourish distant plains and countless lives. If one looks at the larger picture, the well-being of whole communities far below depends upon these modest showers in the mountains. How then can we call it bad weather?

No, this is good weather! This is life arriving quietly, without fanfare, in silver threads from the sky. Hoping and praying for more such mornings, I sit here mesmerized by the feel of this morning drizzle.

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Yesterday, I visited a nearby city after a long time. The first thing I felt was how much everything had changed. New buildings stood where old houses once were. There were new cafés and restaurants, lots of new branded stores, bright signboards and glass-fronted shops. Though sadly, many old architectural gems were gone. Those old buildings had been pulled down to make way for shopping complexes and malls. I didn’t know whether to be happy about the progress or feel sad about the loss of the soul of the city.

My first stop was a place where people once sold second-hand books. I had gone hoping to find old children’s magazines in Hindi that I grew up with – Lotpot, Chandamama, Madhu Muskaan, and some old English books by the likes of Agatha Christie, Alistair Maclean, and maybe some superhero comicbooks of the era that seems now gone by. But when I reached there, not a single bookstall remained. I asked around. One man told me he himself used to sell old books, but now he sold mobile phone accessories and bluetooth speakers. Another former bookseller in the next stall now dealt in second-hand mobile phones and tablets. What a strange change it was. They were amused that someone still wants to browse through old books. I stood there for a while, feeling both shocked and very sad.

Then I went to an old bookshop I had known for years. It once carried a fine collection of classics, from Franz Kafka to Ernest Hemingway. I found the shop, but it was a shadow of what it used to be. The shelves were thinly filled. The shopkeeper himself looked older than the years that had passed. It was clear that business was not too good, and that people hardly came in to buy books anymore. I could still spot a few old books that I liked on those shelves. He too affectionately found the books that were of my taste and fished out some old comics too from behind the counter.

I did see some new bookshops though and felt happy, though the happiness lasted for only a short while. These new bookshops that seemed busy were those selling school textbook guides and solved sample papers for entrance examinations. It felt like people now read only to pass exams. Even these books were not for reading, really, but just for practising how questions are usually asked. Knowledge has taken a back seat in comparison to performance in these exams.

Reading itself has become a task for many, and not a pleasure. Most people no longer seem to know the difference between Charles Dickens and Jules Verne, and have no intention of knowing either. For some, the captain of the Nautilus could easily become Oliver Twist, and no one would blink an eye.

This loss of second-hand bookstalls, and the fading life of old bookshops with change in culture from books to electronic screens in a city once flooded with culture and literature, shook me more than I expected. We now live in a world that wants everything to be instant and short-lived. A person might watch a film based on a book if it is already streaming somewhere, but picking up the book itself feels like an old-fashioned habit.

Still, I hope that one day the love for books will quietly return. I hope that people like me will once again wander through dusty bookstalls, hunting for forgotten treasures, or walk into small bookshops where the owner has actually read the books he sells, and knows his readers by the look in their eyes. And as a request to all book-lovers, please do not let this lovely part of you fade away. Keep reading !

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

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

Someone complains that the deep freezer will defrost during a power cut. I usually respond by saying eat fresh whenever possible. And if the freezer is so heavily stocked that food risks spoiling after a few days without electricity, then perhaps it is overstocked to begin with. Or better still, call a few friends over and share what might otherwise go to waste. Need to run the water pump? Carry water in buckets. Need hot water? Use fire or a solar heater. There are always alternatives if one is willing to adapt. As for me, I prefer to go with the flow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Every dry season in my state, the hills begin to hold their breath. The air turns brittle, leaves turn crisp underfoot, and somewhere in the distance a thick cloud of smoke rises against the sky. Forest fires have become a seasonal tragedy here. What were once rare and accidental blazes are now, far too often, the result of deliberate arson. Earlier it was a matchstick tossed, a fire lit and abandoned, a belief that the forest is endless and will somehow forgive us. However, now it is different.

Dry winter this year has left our forests dangerously exposed. With little moisture in the soil and vegetation, even a small flame can race across slopes faster than human regret. Pines crackle, oak leaves smoulder, and entire hillsides turn black within hours. Wildlife flees or perishes. Soil life is destroyed. Springs weaken and dry earlier in the summer. The damage does not end when the flames die. It lingers for years, and even before the forest can rise out of it, once again another arson happens.

While I type this out, I can see the forest on the hill in front of my window, burning. And yet, despite witnessing this cycle again and again, I refuse to give in to despair. I choose to remain hopeful, not out of naivety, but out of resolve. Hope, for me, is an action. It is the decision to keep doing what feels right even when it seems insignificant. I believe people can learn. Slowly perhaps, painfully at times, but they can. Awareness grows one conversation at a time, and responsibility spreads when someone is willing to speak up.

Whenever I get a chance, I plant trees. Not as compensation for loss and not as a grand gesture, but as an act of faith. I try to involve villagers whenever I can and discuss about various forest trees. I try to be equally careful about the smaller things, the ones most people dismiss. I discourage bonfires lit merely for ambience. A crackling fire may feel romantic on a cold evening, but smoke is still smoke. It adds to an already stressed atmosphere and normalises burning as leisure. I often hear that one small fire makes no difference, that it is just a drop in the ocean. But oceans are made of drops, and cultures are shaped by habits no one questions.

The real challenge lies deeper. Short term profits hide long term damage in the eyes of those who indulge in these acts of arson. A patch of land cleared quickly. Fresh grass falsely promised. A temporary financial gain. What is forgotten is the cost paid by everyone else. Water scarcity. Poorer soils. Hotter summers. These fragile hills are suffering !

There was a time when restraint came naturally. Kul devtas – the family deities, and gram devatas – the village deities, were not merely symbols of faith. They were moral boundaries. Sacred groves, forests, and springs were under their protection. Fear and reverence worked together to prevent harm. Today, that fear has faded. The deities remain in stories and rituals, but their presence in daily action has weakened. The forest no longer feels sacred to those who burn it.

Since that invisible boundary has eroded, we must now build a conscious and visible one. Strong advocacy is no longer optional. It is the only way forward. Awareness must move beyond posters and one time meetings. It needs to enter everyday conversations, village gatherings, schools, and local decision making spaces. People must see the direct connection between fire and hardship. When springs dry, crops suffer, landslides increase, and summers grow harsher, the link becomes undeniable.

Just a couple of days back, I was discussing this with a close friend of mine. There seems to be just one way forward.

Empowered villagers are the true frontline. No forest department can watch every ridge and valley. But a village that feels ownership of its forest can. Community led fire watch groups, early reporting systems, and local accountability create protection where distant laws cannot. When forests belong to everyone, burning them becomes a social offence, not just a legal one.

Advocacy must also restore pride. Protecting forests should be seen as strength, not inconvenience. Reviving local stories, memories, and traditions that connect people to their landscape can rebuild emotional ties. When identity is rooted in the land, setting it on fire becomes an act of betrayal, not convenience.

Short term profit thrives in silence. It weakens under collective awareness. When harmful acts are questioned openly and consistently, they lose their power.

The forests are resilient. They have survived storms, ice ages, and millions of years of change. From the time these mountains emerged from the sea, the forests have always stood and reigned. What they struggle to survive now is human indifference and greed. Replacing that indifference and greed with knowledge, courage, and collective responsibility is our task.

As long as there are hands willing to plant, voices willing to speak, and communities willing to protect, I will continue to remain hopeful.

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Today I was invited to lunch at a friend’s place. I initially refused, partly because of the unending work here, and maybe partly because crowds make me a little uneasy. Yet good company has its own way of calling you back, and so I went a little late. The lunch was long over, but I arrived in time for a warm cup of tea and the comfort of friendly faces.

Their house sits in a lovely sunny spot. In the hills that is nothing short of a blessing, especially in winter. Sunshine brings everything to life. Flowers look cheerful, trees grow happier, and fruits ripen a little earlier in summers with more sweetness and flavour.

In one corner of their place stands a wild persimmon tree. A common tree, yet quite generous in its season. Today, the great barbets were feasting on its fruit. This is one bird that is often heard but rarely seen. Its call echoes through the woods, loud and unmissable, yet its green and black colours blend so well with the foliage that is hard to spot. Today though, with the leaves gone for winter and bright orange persimmons still clinging on, they were clearly visible, hopping about with great joy.

Somewhere in the distance, white-throated thrushes were calling. They travel in groups and once you know their sound, you recognise it instantly. The hills are full of familiar voices if one only learns to love silence and is ready to listen.

There has been news of leopards wandering through the area, so I have been keeping away from long walks in the forest for now. It is only fair to give their true residents a little space. This winter has been strange too. Because of the climate crisis, the bears have not yet settled into hibernation. The nights are not cold enough, and so they continue to roam about, sleepy yet restless, and one would rather not surprise them on a lonely path. Still, when I hear the birds calling or catch sight of them flitting through the branches, I feel the old longing to walk among the trees again. Perhaps I shall return to those quiet woodland trails once the leopard has chosen another hillside to explore, and once the bears finally find winter deep enough to lull them to sleep. Until then, the forest can wait, and I shall admire it from a respectful distance.

In my friends’ garden I noticed a swing. The same kind I have often thought of buying. I had always hesitated, unsure of how it would fare in the open, unsure if I truly needed it. But today as I sat on it, feeling the winter sun on my face, gently swaying with the wind while birds sang around me, the doubt faded. Perhaps one day, when there is some spare money, I will bring one home. I can already imagine placing it in a sunny corner of the orchard, drifting into a short afternoon nap, rocking slowly like a leaf in the breeze, to the sound of birds and rustling leaves.

Over tea, our conversation drifted across many small but meaningful things – the quiet beauty of nature, the hydrangeas that never arrived, rainwater harvesting and the ways of conserving water, and the everyday challenges of logistics and transporting goods in the hills. We spoke of village-style chulhas and the delicious lunch I had sadly missed, and before long we were exchanging book recommendations, as if good stories too were a kind of nourishment.

Life need not be complicated. A little sunshine, some kind company, a cup of tea, and gratitude for simple blessings. That is quite enough.

The tea was excellent and with it came slices of Christmas cake. The perfect companion for an unhurried and mindful afternoon. Everyone seemed content, talking softly, laughing gently, and basking in the comforting warmth of the winter sun.

It was a quiet afternoon, nothing grand, nothing extraordinary. Yet it felt complete.

An afternoon well spent.

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Which life form is truly the most advanced on our planet? We often point to ourselves. Humans have built civilisations, created art, sent machines to other planets, and reshaped landscapes in ways no other species can. By many measures we are a species far ahead of others.

Yet, whenever I ask myself which life form is the most advanced, my answer turns elsewhere. I look at the trees, the plants, and the entire botanical world. For one simple and astonishing reason. They can manufacture their own food using nothing more than minerals and sunlight. No other large and complex life form on this planet has mastered this quiet and elegant miracle. A few cyanobacteria and other tiny beings may share this gift, but they are ancient intermediaries between the floral and the faunal. Plants hold this power with grace.

Every other life form must take from another to survive. Predators hunt. Herbivores graze. Even the smallest insect must nibble on something that lives or lived. Life feeds on life. Except for the plants. They are the only ones who can stand still, breathe in the light, draw upon the soil, and create energy out of the raw and the simple.

On a philosophical note, all other life seems to exist in service of the plants. Most animals return their bodies to the soil as nutrients. Earthworms break down what falls. Microbes decompose what dies. Every breath we exhale carries carbon that the plants weave into new leaves. Even our presence on this planet seems to support the quiet work of the roots and the canopy.

Plants are the true royalties here. They build the first foundations of every ecosystem. They hold the soil. They create shade. They offer food and shelter. They outlive empires. Yet we walk through forests as if we own them. We clear hillsides without a thought. We behave like rulers (and rioters) in a kingdom that was never ours.

The planet is in the midst of a climate crisis. Many species will vanish and humans too will suffer along the way. But the plants will endure. Their patience is measured in centuries. Their resilience is measured in evolution. They have survived extinctions before and they will survive them again. In many ways the planet belongs to them far more than to us.

That is the quiet beauty of plants. They do not conquer. They do not consume. They simply create. And through that creation they remind us that true advancement is not always loud or clever. Sometimes it is the simple and ancient ability to stand in the sun and turn light into life. They truly are the most advanced lifeforms on our earth.

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Recently, I found myself booked into a city hotel for some work. From the outside, it looked impressive enough to make even a modest traveller feel slightly underdressed. The internet was overflowing with glowing reviews, and friends in the city spoke of it with great confidence, assuring me that this was “the place” to stay if I wanted comfort, convenience, and a smooth trip. With such a build-up, even I began to expect a near-heavenly experience.

I finally reached my room and closed the door behind me, after handsomely tipping the bellboy who had most graciously carried my schoolbag-sized backpack. Ironically, I had lugged it quite happily from home to the hotel entrance on my own shoulder, but the moment I arrived, the hotel staff became determined that this heroic responsibility must belong only to their bellboy. It was apparently a matter of honour, tradition, or perhaps simply hotel protocol that no guest should be seen carrying such a humble burden.

In the room, an army of confusing light switches held unquestioned authority, much like a small-town electricity or water department where everyone waits nervously to see what will work and what will not. The switch near the entrance controlled the light above the writing desk, while the one by the bedside cheerfully operated the corridor light. As for the television, there was no visible switch for it at all. Every time the power tripped and returned, the TV leapt back to life like an overly enthusiastic companion determined not to be ignored. I had to keep the remote handy to switch it off every time that happened.

There were lights cleverly hidden in the ceiling that flashed straight into my eyes the moment I lay down, as if the room wished to interrogate me for some unsolved crime. Yet there was not a single basic reading light anywhere near the bed. The book simply rested there on the side-table, ignored and helpless, while I continued my battle with modern hotel technology.

The bathroom, I must say, looked superb at first sight. It had everything one could possibly need, except perhaps a simple explanation of how anything actually functioned. The exhaust did not work. Or perhaps it did, but I could not find the right switch in that democratic parliament of switches on the wall. Either the exhaust had retired from active service, or it was just there as a decor piece of the architecture, existing more in spirit than in performance.

There was also a telephone next to the toilet seat, a curious piece of hospitality engineering. While sitting there, I thought of calling an old acquaintance of mine, who has still not returned a set of tools he borrowed under the noble promise of “two days only”. As I sat on the seat, I realised how appropriate the setting was. Some people in life are such a pain in the backside that thinking of them while sitting there feels strangely fitting. Calling him from that precise position would have been poetic justice of the most natural kind.

And then there was the transparent glass between the bathroom and the bedroom. I still wonder what purpose it serves. Perhaps some clever designer in a distant city thought it stylish. Perhaps it is meant to add excitement to the lives of newlyweds. But for those who have been married for years and years, it only offers unnecessary visual knowledge of daily routines that both parties already understand far too well. There was a blind provided that could be lowered if required, but still my only question for this glass partition is – Why ?

I did enjoy a nice warm shower. It is always fascinating how places with an abundance of water confidently install high-pressure showers and elaborate bathing systems. To my simple hill-dwelling soul, it felt a little indulgent, almost wasteful. A quiet sense of guilt crept in as I realised how much water was rushing past me, and how many thirsty plants back in my orchard could have gratefully soaked up every drop.

Once I finally dressed up and regained my calm, I thought of stepping into a balcony or terrace for a breath of open air. There was none.

Later, I discovered a lift that demanded my key card with the seriousness of a bank vault, offering a grand sense of security. Unfortunately, that confidence did not last long. The fire escape, on the other hand, was surprisingly friendlier and most welcoming. In fact, it was wonderfully easy to step in from the outside and stroll back to my floor. The hotel clearly believed in security as an idea, but preferred to practise trust, openness, and a generous dash of confusion. Me, being a person who prefers simple things in life, used the fire-escape stairs for most of my stay.

Speaking of fire, there was a neat little escape map fixed on the wall. I studied it carefully and stepped out to familiarise myself with the route. Within seconds I lost all sense of direction. If a real fire ever breaks out, most guests will not be defeated by the flames but by the layout. Finding a forgotten shop in bustling Almora is far easier than finding your way to safety here.

Experiences like these remind me why I prefer simple government rest houses and small homestays like mine. Places where switches behave sensibly, open-areas that welcome you with sky and silence, bathrooms do their job without unnecessary drama, and layouts that do not feel like puzzles designed by excited architects. Simplicity carries its own quiet charm. And very often, that is exactly what the heart longs for.

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Humans are a disease.

A slow one at first. Then hungry and progressing. Then proud of our hunger, and proud of the way we finish up the environment and everything else around us.

The word consumption once meant illness. A sickness that eats the body from the inside. People wasted away and finally disappeared. People were consumed by Tuberculosis, Leprosy, or even by Alcohol. Today the word has changed its meaning, but not its nature. Now we call ourselves consumers. We wear the word like a badge of honour. In truth, we are doing the same thing. We are consuming the planet. And like any disease, we are doing it without care for the host.

Some months back, I was reading a book on nature and a thought stayed with me. What if there was one council for all living beings. Not countries and borders, but species. A United Organisation of Organisms (UOO). In their first general body meeting, a simple vote is called. One species must be removes from the planet so the rest can survive. There is no debate. No anger. Just facts. Forests speak through what is left of them. Rivers show their poisoned waters. Birds arrive in fewer numbers. Insects barely show up at all. Still a vote is cast and the vote is crystal clear. Unanimous! Do I have to spell it out ? Yes, we are that bad a disease.

Look around for the signs. Air in Delhi NCR burns the lungs. Many Indian cities live under a grey sky. Children grow up knowing smog more than blue. Guests come to my homestay from pollution-choked cities, looking for a breath of fresh air, and then want to sit around a bonfire in summer clothes just for the sake of ambience. Does the smoke in the hills magically disappear?

Rivers carry foam and waste, instead of life. We burn coal and oil that took millions of years to form and finish it in decades. The climate shifts, seasons lose their rhythm, and we act surprised. We wonder that we are quite environment-conscious and have even a balcony full of plants growing in planters, how can we be the cause?

Oceans are filled with plastic. Fish eat it. Birds choke on it. Whales die with stomachs full of our rubbish. Forests are cut to build houses no one needs. Mountains are broken for minerals we throw away after a few years. We replace phones, clothes, cars, and other consumer electronics, while the land that feeds us grows tired and empty.

We are afraid of darkness, so we flood the night with light. Birds lose their way. Insects vanish. Silence disappears. We kill predators and then complain about imbalance. We poison soil and then ask why crops lack strength. We take and take, and when something breaks, we ask for more.

Maybe we are waiting for a big ending. A large meteor from the sky? Something that forces a pause. Something strong enough to stop us or wipe us out. The earth does not need saving. It will heal in time. The real question is simpler and harder. Can we stop behaving like a disease? Or will we keep consuming until there is nothing left but ourselves?

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The night is a sacred interval in the daily rhythm of the earth. It’s the time when soil cools, leaves rest, insects shift their quiet labours, humans sleep (or should sleep), and nocturnal creatures emerge to do the work that daylight does not allow. The onus is upon us humans to protect this darkness. As it so happens, we are the only species who are destroying it.

Light pollution is not merely a matter of wasted electricity or harsh city glare. It is a steady, invisible disturbance of ancient biological and ecological cycles. Wildlife suffers first. Birds migrate by the stars and become disoriented by bright skies. Nocturnal predators lose their advantage, while prey species live in a state of constant, unnatural alertness. Even insects, the smallest engineers of our ecosystems, spiral endlessly around bulbs rather than carrying out their quiet work of pollination and soil renewal. These are just a few examples out of thousands and thousands that are affected.

Human beings are also not spared from this disruption. Our bodies are attuned to darkness. Artificial light at night interferes with melatonin, the hormone that governs sleep and repair. When this rhythm is broken, the consequences accumulate slowly but surely. Sleep becomes shallow, mental health suffers, and long term risks rise, including metabolic disorders, depression, obesity and certain cancers. What seems like harmless brightness is, in truth, a subtle form of biological stress.

From a farmer’s point of view, even the land feels the weight of this constant illumination. Plants rely on night length to regulate flowering, dormancy, and seed setting. Soils cool and breathe under darkness. When artificial light blurs the boundary between day and night, even these silent processes begin to shift, and over time, the resilience of the land weakens. The harvest suffers.

In organic farming, we try to work with natural systems rather than overpower them. Protecting the sanctity of night is a continuation of the same philosophy. Light should be low and purposeful. It should fall only where it is needed and nowhere else. Fields, hedges, orchards and forest edges should be allowed their rightful darkness. The night is not a void to be conquered, but a living space that deserves respect. In my place, the lights are intentionally of low intensity that the nearby surface is visible, almost like under a full moon, but nothing more. No extra lights and nothing to light up the whole of the premises. That’s a waste.

There is also a quieter loss from light pollution, one that is harder to measure. When the stars disappear behind a veil of artificial glow, our view of the universe is obscured. For most of human history, the night sky was a shared inheritance. Constellations were calendars, stories and maps. Today, light pollution severs that connection, not only robbing ordinary people of wonder, but actively hindering astronomy and our ability to study the wider cosmos. We lose both knowledge and humility when we can no longer see beyond our own rooftops.

Then there is the simple matter of waste. Light pollution is energy thrown away, increasing the overall carbon footprint. It is money spent to illuminate empty roads and empty sites, vacant fields, and sleeping buildings. It is needless carbon in the air and needless strain on already stretched resources. In a world where so many still live with limited access to power, this excess is not just careless, it is unjust.

Now, people from cities who have bought pieces of land in this village are beginning to build their houses and projects here. Along with them, they have brought the city habit of flooding the night with unnecessary light, born more from discomfort with darkness than from any real need. Just today, I messaged three of them requesting that they switch off their bright outdoor lights. The most telling part was that one of those homes was empty, and another construction site had no work going on and not even a soul in sight. No one was there, yet the lights burned on through the night, illuminating nothing, protecting no one, and quietly erasing the natural darkness that this place has long lived by. The third person was actually present and seemed quite unaware of the harm such lighting causes. Thankfully, he switched off his outdoor lights after reading my message. I may come across as stern or even ill-mannered when I send these reminders, but it feels necessary. Someone has to speak for the night before its quiet beauty is lost.

When I stand in my orchard after sunset, with only a few small shaded low-intensity lamps at a distance, I can hear the land breathe. Crickets rise in their steady chorus. An owl passes in silence and lands on my roof. Nightjars care be heard. The trees feel taller, older, as though they remember a time when the world understood how to sleep. The sanctity of night is not a romantic idea. It is a practical truth. Darkness is as essential as sunlight. Without it, wildlife falters, human health weakens, energy is squandered and our gaze is trapped on the ground instead of lifted to the stars. To protect the night is not to move backwards. It is to live wisely, in rhythm with a world that still knows the value of rest, mystery and deep, healing dark.

I hope people reading this will start turning off the lights and maintain the sanctity of nights.

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While walking around and tending to the orchard here, I feel the presence of nature in every breath I take. At this altitude the air carries the scent of pines and herbs, The place sings with the sound of dry leaves in the wind mixed with the bird songs. When I walk through the orchard in the early morning the frost still clings to the leaves during winter months and the sun rises slowly over the ridges. In those moments something within me becomes still. The nature speaks in its own gentle way and I feel held by the ground I walk on.

Living in sync with the orchard has become a source of deep spiritual nourishment for me. The rhythm of the seasons here is slow and yet persistently ongoing. Trees take their time to bloom. Soil responds with patience. Migratory birds return each year with familiar songs, while many of them stay back here all the time. When I tend to the new plants or mulch the beds or observe the way water moves across the slope I am reminded that nature has its own wisdom, and we are far from understanding it. Everyday is a new learning. This way of living has shaped my own inner life. I have become more grateful and more aware of the quiet lessons that the earth shares. The more time I spend in my orchard the more I respect the living world around me for it reveals the beauty and intelligence of creation and guides me towards a deeper spiritual understanding.

I often see people flocking to the hills in search of peace, spirituality, and natural beauty only to destroy the very essence of what they claim to seek. They build large concrete structures and clear every tree from a slope and somehow believe that this will bring them closer to nature. How does this work for them I fail to understand. A place without trees without soil that breathes and without birdsong cannot offer true calm. It becomes a hollow shell of the hills with a replica of cities they are trying to escape, rather than the living landscape they came to experience.

Over time I have come to believe that people who destroy nature cannot truly be spiritual. Anyone who is spiritually awake understands that every living thing has its own place. And this applies to most religions that I know of and even those people who call themselves atheists. They recognise that the land is not something to exploit for quick gain. It is a home that shelters us and feeds us and teaches us. When someone removes trees without thought or damages natural streams or exhausts soil it reveals a disconnection from life itself. True spirituality cannot grow where there is disrespect for the earth.

For me, every part of the orchard offers companionship. The apple trees and pear trees, the herbs that grow in sheltered spots, and the wildflowers that appear during spring or after the rains – all feel like members of a living community. When I work with them rather than against them I feel a sense of belonging. My spiritual energy feels lighter. It becomes easy to let go of unnecessary concerns and return to a simpler and more grounded way of being.

My orchard continues to guide me. The more time I spend among the trees and the soil the more I grow as a person. The more closely I observe the natural rhythms here the more balanced and peaceful I feel. Nature is not separate from my spiritual path. It is the heart of it and this orchard is my teacher or my guru every single day.

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There is something very soothing about the sound of windchimes in the wind. When everything around is quiet and when the only other sound is the rustling of leaves on the trees, the chimes become gentle companions. With every soft gust, the last remaining leaves fall from the deciduous trees. A lone blue whistling thrush hops about in a small patch where the morning sun has already begun to warm the earth before the frost returns in the evening. In this simple scene the wind moves through the chimes and creates a tender music that feels like a whispered teaching and a message of happiness.

Yesterday I visited Nainital and from a busy tourist market I brought home a new set of windchimes and some Buddhist prayer flags. Buying from such places is often more expensive yet these families must also survive and flourish. I also did not mind spending time with the shopkeeper. His parents had migrated from Tibet in their youth. He showed me many beautiful things from colourful porcelain to small metal charms most of which were far beyond what my pocket could allow. I chose only a set of chimes and a string of flags. Over a cup of tea he spoke to me about their meaning and the conversation settled into my mind like a gentle blessing and also as food for further thought.

This morning, once the blue whistling thrush had warmed itself in the sun and flown away, I went to the clearing where my old chime was hanging. It is smaller than the new one and has weathered many years of harsh seasons. I removed it gently and placed the new larger chime in its place. The new chime has a deeper voice yet chimes less often because of its weight. The older chime has been like an old friend and it felt right to hang it on a peach tree further down in the orchard. Now when I’ll sit in the winter sun I will hear the deep meditative sound from the new chimes and while working near the peach I will be able to enjoy the playful notes from the old ones.

I then took out the prayer flags. They are small pieces of cloth on a string with prayers printed on each one. They have five colours that represent the five elements. The belief is simple. When the wind flows through the flags the prayers travel outward and spread harmony. A blessing is not meant to be held. It is meant to flow. Against the dark green oaks and the bare branches of apples and pears these colourful flags stand out and add a quiet touch of brightness and happiness.

Among the flags was another version similar to the prayer flags with the famous mantra Om Ma Ni Pad Me Hum. I hung it under the pergola I had built for grape vines. The soil may not favour grapes but the space is lovely in the second half of the day. The mantra has many interpretations. According to the Dalai Lama it means that through intention and wisdom we can move along the path of life and gradually cultivate a pure body speech and mind. Some explain each syllable as a reminder of generosity, ethics, patience, diligence, renunciation, and wisdom. All these meanings are beautiful. Sitting under the mantra I often feel a sense of awe at the clarity of the beings who shaped these teachings. In my own life I hope I can touch a small part of their peace.

There is no work to be done in the orchard today, so the day will be spent meeting a friend and mostly by catching up on some reading. I have been reading a thoughtful account on Tibet which ties in beautifully with my conversation with the shopkeeper yesterday.

Walking back to the sunny spot with the new chimes I notice that the thrush has not returned so I settle down without disturbing anyone. The breeze moves through the flags, spreading the prayers around, then reaches the chimes which respond with a thoughtful quiet sound. In that moment I feel the gentle rhythm of my life here. A slow life. A mindful life.

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There are people who read and people who watch. I have always belonged to the first group. Reading is how my mind blooms. Words arranged on a page help me understand life with a clarity that videos rarely offer. I do watch a quick tutorial now and then for a DIY task to see how a tool moves or how a brush cutter can be serviced at home. Beyond that brief moment of usefulness, videos do little for me. When I learn through text, something settles more deeply. I can return to a paragraph, breathe with it and allow its meaning to grow at my pace, not at the hurried rhythm of a video creator.

These days, when I look something up online, I am naturally drawn to text-rich websites. Pages filled with steady words, detailed explanations and thoughtful essays feel like a quiet room where my mind can sit down. Even simple blogs offer such charm. Many of them are written with a sincerity and lightness that make them both entertaining and informative. A good blog post can make me smile, teach me something new and ground me all in one gentle stretch of reading.

In comparison, much of YouTube feels like a marketplace where noise wins over meaning. Low-content videos dominate the space. The format encourages speed, constant posting and a strange pressure to stay visible. In that race for attention, depth is often the first casualty. I too have a mini channel for marketing cottages but that is there just for the sake of being present on the platform. One of my friends who started a YouTube channel is doing well and I genuinely wish him success. Yet even then I cannot watch more than a few minutes of his channel too. It is not him. It is the medium. Many so-called creators speak fast, start with the irritating ‘hello friends’, poor pronunciation and language, add dramatic thumbnails and offer very little substance. They may be financially successful, far richer than many authors, yet for me the true respect lies with those who write. A writer spends years shaping one idea into a steady form. That effort carries a weight and an integrity that quick videos rarely match. And this is not just youtube, the low quality content has infected almost all social media. Instagram which once featured beautiful photographs is now run with low class reels. Happening on Facebook and Twitter (X) too.

On the rare days when I watch something, I choose an ad free OTT platform. I avoid the low quality and often crass content on those platforms where many creators do not even know the difference between the sound of sh and the sound of s.

Mubi appeals to me because it feels curated, like walking through a well-kept library, though I find it expensive considering how rarely I watch films. Netflix works too because its navigation is simple and clean. Anything cluttered, noisy or filled with interruptions loses me within minutes. I do not even own a television any more and I do not miss it. It has been over 15 years now.

The written word has always been more rewarding for me. Even when a beloved book becomes a film or a series, I find the original text far more entertaining. The imagination stays alive longer that way. The joy lingers. There is a certain grounding that only the quiet companionship of words can provide. Though to be clear, these films are far ahead of the low class content I mentioned earlier. I have no intention of comparing there to them. These films are definitely a different class, even if I find books usually better.

Among my guests and friends, I am grateful that many prefer thoughtful reading over the endless scroll of low-grade videos. We often exchange book recommendations and good long-form articles. I once dreamt of a small neighbourhood book club but it faded before it began. Perhaps one day it will find its season.

So if ever you want to share something enriching with me, send me a link to a well-written blog, a text-heavy article or simply the title of a book. Do not send videos from Facebook, Instagram or YouTube. I have stepped out of that world and I am happier for it. Reading keeps my mind steady. It keeps me mindful in a world that constantly pushes distraction. And most of all, it gives me space to breathe.

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Every week brings a small sense of purpose to my days in the orchard and at home. I have begun a little practice of taking up one project at a time, working on it with care, learning while working, finishing it, and then moving on to the next. It has become a rhythm that feels both grounding and joyful. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing an old object or an ignored corner come back to life through my own hands. There is a proud feeling whenever a project gets completed.

Last week was devoted to a simple project. I gathered a few old metal utensils that had been stored away for years and some that I had procured from a second hand shop. These were dull and stained. A bit of scrubbing and polishing, followed by a gentle cleaning, brought back their shine. It felt almost as if I had rediscovered forgotten companions. Now they are part of our dining experience. Traditional food items seem complete when served in something that carries history and warmth.

This week my attention has shifted outdoors. I am shaping a pathway through the orchard. It is nothing grand, just a clear and comfortable route that winds between the trees, allowing one to walk without disturbing the soil too much. I like the idea of creating a gentle flow that guides visitors and keeps the ground protected. Working out in the crisp mountain air with birds calling nearby makes even the smallest task feel meaningful. I often pause to watch a woodpecker pecking on an old pine or to admire how the slanting sunlight filters through the few remaining leaves in winters. The days are quite short now a days, but still I manage to make some progress every day with whatever few outdoor hours I get.

Before the utensils and the pathway, I had spent time on a bird bath. It now sits under an apple tree, catching morning light and offering visiting birds a safe place to drink and splash. Watching them enjoy it has been a reward far greater than the effort that went into building it. The first time when a pair of black-headed jays arrived and began dipping their beaks into the water, I felt that I had completed a much required addition to my garden.

When the children are free to join me, mostly during their winter vacations, I focus on more creative and larger projects. Their energy and enthusiasm turn work into adventure. Together we have polished the old mantlepiece in the sitting area and gave it a fresh look. The laughter that echoed through the room while we worked is now part of its grain. Another time we built a small pollinators hotel using bits of branches, bamboo and old plants. It stands in the center of the orchard and has already welcomed bees and other tiny visitors. The children proudly keep an eye on it, as if they are hosts running a little inn. We have also painted around the house, created miniature gardens, and even cared for fruit trees taking up pruning also as a project.

These projects have taught me the value of slow progress and patient effort. In a world that often rushes, it feels refreshing to take life one task at a time, to complete it well, and then let it rest. Each finished piece adds beauty and function to our space, but more importantly, it adds a quiet sense of achievement and joy.

I look forward to the coming weeks and to whatever small idea takes root next. I am planning on a succulents’ corner, a swing somewhere in the orchard, a small pond that has been on my mind for last many years. I have to create a tool shed, and also a small shelf to keep outdoor cushions protected from rain and snow when not in use. And as always, my increasing number of books always need yet another bookshelf. Then there is always something to mend, build or improve. Nature never stops creating, and perhaps I should follow her example. And the happiness that comes with it is of a different level that only the other DIY folks can understand.

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Though I have been steadily reducing my material possessions and trying to live more simply, there is one thing I still keep adding to my life. Books. They remain one of my quiet indulgences.

Whenever I am in Almora or Haldwani, the two towns closest to me, I spend a long time wandering through the few surviving brick and mortar bookshops whenever I can. Yes, we still have a handful of them here. There is an old fashioned joy in browsing. The smell of books sometimes faintly musty sometimes sharp and new is a pleasure only fellow readers know. Even if the books are sometimes priced higher that online stores, I still buy. That’s instant gratification and the fact that I would also paying for the facility of being able to hold the book, get a feel of it, see if the fonts are readable by me. With advancing age and presbyopia setting it, I sometimes struggle with very small fonts.

In fact books have become important enough for me to realise that my favourite holiday is no longer a hill station or a beach visiting monuments or tourist attractions but a visit to the Delhi Book Fair. For me the best part of any holiday is to find a comfortable corner and read for as long as I like. It can be in a faraway beachside destination or a quiet corner at the nearby railway station. If someone brings me simple good food now and then and perhaps a coffee or a juice depending on the weather I feel perfectly content. These are my modest needs.

Books are woven so deeply into my life that whenever I give gifts they are almost always books. I choose them with care thinking of the person who will receive them. At times I suspect I spend far more effort than the occasion demands and far more time than the other person might even notice. But I enjoy the process and that is reason good enough for me. And while purchasing for them, I also sneak in a couple of books for myself.

My wife sometimes scolds me when I leave my books by the bedside. The fortunate thing is that when we go to the book fair she is as excited about buying new books as I am. I do use an e-reader but the printed page still feels more comforting. Someone needs to tell me which one has a greater carbon footprint. Do paper books burden the planet more or does an e-reader use up more energy and resources in its making. A friend once said the e reader is worse. Perhaps it is. In truth I use both. The kindle travels with me because it is light and can hold many books. Some titles are not available in print and the kindle is then the only choice.

All this means that books occupy every space they can find. In bookshelves and almirahs in old cartons by the side of the bed and even under it. Some lie on tables and a couple have even found their way into the greenhouse. Neighbours borrow them and I do not mind as long as they return them and keep them free of food stains. Yet there are gaps on my shelves where borrowed books never came back. Already been over three years now. It is a small thing for them to forget but it stings a little each time I notice the empty space. I often think of buying those copies again but then I wonder if it is needed. I have already read them. Still the thought of not having them a part of my life troubles me a little. They were old companions with whom I had spent some good time and I had hoped to revisit them some day. Should I buy them again?

Two questions that fellow readers often ask me are what genres I read and what I am reading at the moment. The truth is that I read across a wide range. Philosophy and religion. Fiction and murder mysteries. Self help and general non fiction. Even comics and graphic novels. I follow my curiosity and that list is long. As for what I am reading right now, I usually avoid answering. People can be rather quick to judge and I have no wish to explain or defend my choices. When I am travelling I often cover a book with brown paper (like school kids do) so that the details are not visible. It keeps the book clean and it keeps curious eyes away. Or I simply read on the kindle which is even easier.

Recently I had guests who asked how I spend my free time. My first response was – What free time? Later I realised what they meant. They were asking what I do without television films malls or evenings spent out. I told them that I have books. People have written so much of value that one lifetime feels too short to read even a small part of it. I am not sure if my next life will give me this same love for the written word or a chance to read as much as I want to.

My answer surprised them. One of them could not imagine anyone reading books in an age where the mobile phone rules and videos keep everyone busy. Her surprise amused me for the love of books has stayed with me for as long as I remember. It is an old friend and it will remain so for many years to come.

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There are free days and then there are freeeee days. Today was one of those long, gentle days that seem to stretch on quietly. The kind of an autumn day when the late morning sun still feels hot, yet the hills look friendly, and there is no hurry to do anything at all. The wind was cold but welcome under the bright sun.

A few days ago, a friend had shared a clever idea about how to make butter soft during these cold mountain days. He had seen it on social media. You heat a glass with boiling water, empty it, and then place it upside down over a small dish of butter. The warmth trapped inside the glass is supposed to soften the butter nicely.

Today, the idea came back to me just as some people staying with me mentioned toast with salted Amul butter and jam. Jam is never a problem here. Every summer we make jars of it using fruits from our orchard. The old way of cooking slowly, without any chemicals, keeps the taste of real fruit alive. However, butter, on cold winter days is not so friendly.

So I decided to test the butter trick. I poured some hot water into a glass and some into the French press for my coffee. After a minute, I emptied the glass and placed it over the butter. Then I waited. And waited a little more. Nothing happened. The butter sat there, cold and firm, refusing to change. Maybe the air was already too chilly for such an easy trick to work in our hills.

Not ready to give up, I tried two other methods. One bowl of butter went to rest in the sunny part of the greenhouse. Another went into a smaller bowl floating on hot water, as suggested by one another person here. The greenhouse butter after some minutes softened just enough to spread on hot toast. The one sitting over the hot water melted completely and turned into something that might one day call itself ghee. May be it could be dripped directly over the toast in the way people use honey, but this version of butter was also not for me. So I decided the greenhouse method was the best, at least for my use during this autumn weather.

Someone once told me that instead of spreading butter on toast, one should keep it on the plate and dip the toast into it, like cultured souls picking some chutney with samosas. A rather refined way of eating, I was told. I tried it, but my toast broke in the middle, and the butter won that round. I have never tried it since then. Even dipping a Parle-G in Chai to wet it perfectly is much easier than this method.

These days I try not to eat too much butter. For health reasons, I sometimes use olive oil instead. It took a little time to get used to, but now I quite like the taste. Still, nothing can quite replace the comfort of butter on a good piece of toast.

My favourite way to enjoy butter is with a fried egg. I toast a slice of bread till it turns deep brown, just a little short of burnt. Then I place a half-fried egg on it, and put a couple of small cubes of butter on top of the egg. The butter slowly melts and coats the egg, sometimes soaking parts of toast too, creating a simple yet rich flavour. When the yolk or butter drips on the plate, the corner of the toast is there of course, to scoop up every drop, in the polite manner of civilised people who are secretly trying to lick their plates clean.

Today was indeed a quiet, slow day. I sat back and enjoyed each bite of toast with butter and apple jam. No eggs though. The coffee was warm, the hills were calm, and the world felt at peace. It was a simple moment, yet full of contentment.

It reminded me that joy does not always come from grand moments. Sometimes it comes from something as small as soft delicious butter on crispy brown toast.

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Cleanliness, they say, is next to godliness. But judging by the litter on the roads, fields, and that one mysterious spot behind the maggi point, I think we may be closer to chaos than to God.

One of the largest challenges I see around me is the menace of garbage. The most basic need for cleanliness is simply not taken care of. After years of observing, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern, almost like a cultural ritual we all silently participate in.

While driving on roads, I frequently see people in other vehicles open their window and toss out an empty plastic water bottle or a packet of chips. Out of sight and out of mind, I suppose. The intent to keep their vehicle clean is clearly there, but the intent goes out of the window along with that bit of garbage. I still fail to understand why people do this. It’s disgusting, and quite hard to explain to my family and myself. Maybe there’s a belief that the road has a magical self-cleaning mechanism we just haven’t scientifically documented yet.

Pedestrians aren’t far behind. Schoolchildren munching on chips throw their empty packets wherever gravity takes them. Juice boxes, candy wrappers – all go flying into the great outdoors. Don’t the schools still teach “cleanliness is next to godliness” or has it been replaced with “cleanliness is the someone else’s problem”?

The attitude continues well into adulthood. The juice gets replaced by liquor, chips by chakhana or snacks to accompany alcohol, and candy wrappers by tobacco pouches, but the littering remains perfectly consistent. If there’s one thing our nation is united in, it’s the art of flinging waste.

Once, I visited a home that had a huge pile of garbage hidden neatly behind it, out of sight of course. Their solution was simple and proudly shared with me: they burned it every once in a while. I suppose that’s one way to make problems disappear literally into smoke. Not something I am going to follow though.

Some years back, waste collection bins were placed at various spots around the village. Hope glimmered for a brief moment. People began using them, and I thought, “Finally, some progress.” But the bins were never emptied. The height of the dumps kept increasing until one day I noticed that they too were burning merrily away. The universal solution had been implemented again.

Burning seems to be the easiest way out. To my utter disappointment, I even see villagers collecting weeds and burning them to clear their land. I won’t even start on the perils of exposing the soil completely, but to burn organic matter that could have been composted to enrich the very same soil? That, to me, feels like a tragic waste of good resource.

I don’t see an easy way out. Maybe some large-scale change and strong policies will be required to make cleanliness a real priority. People need to understand one very basic truth – a place is not clean because it is regularly cleaned, it is clean because it is not dirtied in the first place.

Over the years, I’ve tried to lead by example. I pick up litter when I see it, carry reusable bags, and have slowly managed to convince friends and family to stop treating dustbins like decorative pieces. I wouldn’t be surprised if the homestay team has invented a nickname for me that includes the word cleanliness and possibly madness.

This change management is still a work in progress, but small victories matter. Some of the local shopkeepers now keep baskets for waste, and couple of children proudly show that they don’t litter. Some time back, a few local villagers, some schoolchildren, and I decided to clean up the area around the local temple and the pathways leading to it. It was a satisfying effort, and lasted for about twenty-four hours. By the next morning, someone had thoughtfully opened the garbage bags before they could be taken to the waste collection point and helpfully spread everything around again. Later I learnt that this noble act of sabotage was the result of a political disagreement between the people who had helped with the clean-up and others who were offended at not being included.

On a personal level, I’ve also adopted three basic habits. All biodegradable waste is composted. In my efforts to live more minimally my buying has reduced, which means less packaging and less waste. Most of the food I eat also doesn’t come in packets from supermarket shelves. That also reduces waste. And whatever plastic or non-biodegradable waste I do generate, I compress it and take it to the dump site. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than burning it or letting it litter the hillsides.

Sometimes, when I see someone tossing a wrapper, I don’t shout. I simply hand it back with a smile and say, “You dropped something.” Once, I even cleaned an entire roadside patch myself in an attempt to clean the area. People started littering there on the very next morning. If litter has been found on the remotest places humans have been to, this was expected.

Right now, there are a few of us who still care enough to pick up litter whenever we see it. Maybe someday, for every hand that drops waste, another will reach out to pick it up, and eventually the hands that litter will stop altogether. That day will truly be worth celebrating.

Change begins in small pockets, and I’m trying to make sure my little corner of Uttarakhand stays clean enough for the next generation to enjoy without needing a hazmat suit. If I can convince even five people a month to think before they toss, that’s progress. And maybe one day we’ll reach the mythical land where using the dustbin isn’t just a concept but a routine, and minimalism is a way of life. Until then, I’ll keep my gloves and garbage bag ready, and my sarcasm sharp.

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Today was a lazy day, the kind when everything seems to move slowly, like a leaf caught in a slow breeze. I spent the first half of it wandering through the orchard, not to work or plan but simply to see how everything was shaping up. I made a conscious decision to leave my secateurs behind, so that I would not be tempted to prune when the trees are preparing for their winter rest. This was to be a leisurely, watchful stroll, a gentle conversation with the land.

As I moved between rows of trees, I could almost sense their faint awareness. The apples, the pears, the plums, all felt like murmuring a gentle greeting, with their leaves still carrying traces of autumn’s warmth. The sunlight, filtering through the canopy, fell in soft golden patches on the ground. I found a quiet spot where the sun touched my back and stood there for a while, soaking in its mellow warmth. The air had a nip to it now, the season was tilting towards winter, and the sun felt like a familiar friend returning for a short visit.

Soon, my solitude was shared by the birds. The black throated tits were the liveliest, darting, chattering, and jumping from one branch to another with an energy that made the whole orchard feel awake. A nuthatch, unconcerned by the commotion, was busy checking out the bark of an oak, hopping upside down with perfect balance. Its persistence was a delight to watch. Then came the greater yellownape, announcing its arrival with a sharp call before settling on a young pine. It began to tap and probe the bark as if conducting a careful inspection. What a striking yellow nape it has !

For a while, I stood still, listening. The orchard had turned into a natural aviary. The soundscape was rich with calls, chirps, rustles, and the occasional breeze moving through the pine needles. It was easy to lose track of time in that world. When I finally decided to go back, more than two hours had passed.

On the narrow pathway, a wildcat was stretched out lazily, relaxing in a patch of sun. It looked up briefly when I approached, blinked once in mild irritation, and shifted a little, just enough to make space but not enough to suggest it cared much about my presence. There was something amusing about its confidence and laziness. It too was having a slow, easy day, much like the rest of us.

Back near the cottage, I picked up a book and settled under a tree. The hours that followed passed gently, with the rustle of leaves and the occasional song of a bird breaking the silence. The windchimes swayed in the breeze, adding their delicate notes to the afternoon. The book I was reading did not say anything particularly new, yet it carried familiar wisdom, things I already knew but still needed to hear in another’s words. Sometimes, that is the kind of reading one needs, not for discovery but for affirmation.

Later, I found a forgotten packet of biscuits in the cottage and made myself a cup of hot milk tea. The combination was simple, but deeply satisfying. I was not hungry enough for lunch, the tea and biscuits were more than enough.

As I sat outside, sipping slowly, two voices drifted in from a distance. One man was speaking about the many sacrifices he had made to get something done. The other gently reminded him that his wife too was making sacrifices in her own way, steadfastly, holding the family together. Their exchange lingered with me. It made me think how often life works like that, everyone doing their part, often unseen, yet essential to the whole.

By evening, the air turned colder, and I moved back indoors. The wind had picked up, carrying a chill that hinted at the nights to come. I sat for a while by the window, watching the last light fade behind the hills and the distant snow-peaks change colour, from pastel pinks to deep orange.

It had been a slow day, yes, but full of silent companionship. The orchard, the birds, the cat, the sun, and the soft murmurs of human life, all had played their part. I smiled to myself. Not every day needs to be full of doing. Some are meant for simply being, listening, watching, and remembering that everything around us, in its own way, is alive and trying its best to thrive.

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The hills were never meant to fall silent. They once sang with the soft beat of wings and the morning chatter of birds. The wind carried the scent of deodars and forest floor, and the sound of the leaves. Now those sounds are fading, replaced by the growl of engines and the echo of restless work. The mountains are weary. Their slopes are being cut open in the name of development, and the calm that once lived here is slipping away.

In the middle of this change, I have been trying to keep a small part of the old world filled with nature, alive. When I began, it was only a patch of land. Over the years I have planted a mix of trees close together so their branches could meet and form a green ceiling. I let herbs, grasses and flowers grow freely below, while doing away with tilling. I wanted the land to decide its own shape. Slowly the orchard began to turn into a living refuge. Some of the planted trees are now tall enough to provide me shade whereas the new ones still need some nurturing now and then.

Now the space feels alive in every nook and corner. Butterflies flutter around in the morning light. Ladybirds hide under tender leaves. Magpies screech from the tall branches. Owls come at night and watch quietly from the trees and at times jump around on the roof of my house. Blue Whistling Thrush wakes me up with its early morning melody. Small tits and finches arrive each day and fill the air with their soft songs. Many of them have nowhere else to go. They have been pushed away by deforestation, dust and noise. Here they find a sanctuary, a little peace, a place to belong and flourish again.

Each season paints its own picture. Spring hums with colour and motion, with flowers and blossoms all around. Summer deepens the shade and slows the air, the fruits add colour. Autumn lets the leaves fall gently to feed the soil. Even winter, cold and silent, carries a calm breath beneath the frost.

Yet beyond this small sanctuary, I see how much has changed. There is a growing disregard for the world around us. People seem careless even with their own surroundings. Piles of construction material lie scattered on the roads, blocking drains and turning the surface into broken tracks once the rains arrive. Vehicles are parked without thought, narrowing the way for everyone else. At night, blinding headlights shine into the eyes of oncoming travellers, as if no one remembers that the beam can be lowered to let the other pass safely.

The noise too has become constant. Construction carries on at hours when silence should belong to all. Heavy vehicles move around at late hours. Loud music and shouting spill into the open air. Garbage is thrown without care. Even words have grown rough. Many people come here from crowded cities to escape the dust and pollution, yet they end up creating small versions of the very places they wished to leave behind. The gentleness that once defined these hills is slowly slipping away.

While the hills deteriorate, I am trying to create a space that stays green and kind. Here the nights are dim so that the owls and insects can see. The trees grow thick to shelter birds and butterflies. Flowers bloom to feed the bees. I keep the air quiet and the rhythm slow so that life can breathe freely again.

Sometimes it feels like a losing battle. The noise and neglect beyond the orchard never cease. Yet every time I see a butterfly rise from a leaf or hear a bird sing before dawn, I am reminded that nature still endures. Each tree I plant is a small act of faith. Each flower that blooms is a quiet promise that not everything is lost. I sometimes think of this orchard as a small prayer for balance. Every tree planted is a note in that prayer. Every bird that returns is an answer. Even in moments of doubt, I believe that these acts of care matter.

I may not be able to change what happens outside my orchard, but I can keep this one corner alive. Hopefully one day, when all this restless construction comes to an end, the peace that once filled these hills so completely will return. It may come slowly, like the first light of morning, but I believe it will come. The hills will find their calm again, and life will sing here as it once did.

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Every meal has a story. But few of us pause to wonder how far that story has travelled before reaching our plates. The tomatoes in a salad, the rice on a steaming platter, the coffee in a morning cup, each may have journeyed thousands of kilometres across states or even continents. That journey, while invisible to the eye, leaves behind a trail of carbon, a footprint that tells the tale of how our choices connect with the climate.

When food travels long distances, often called food miles, the transportation process burns fossil fuels. Planes, ships, lorries, and trains together form a vast global web of movement that makes modern diets possible. While it feels convenient to have kiwis in summer or apples in monsoon, the energy cost of refrigeration, packaging, and shipping is immense. A single air-freighted mango from another hemisphere can carry more carbon weight than the fruit itself. And, I am not talking about agricultural practices here that further use up fossil fuels.

It is said that on an average for every single calorie of food energy that appears on our plate, about ten calories of fossil fuel energy are spent to grow, process, package, and transport it. This imbalance is striking. The energy we consume in a meal is only a fraction of what has already been burned to make that meal possible. And that figure is a global average. If we add the fashionable foods that travel great distances, the situation becomes far worse..

The irony is that much of what we import can often be grown closer to home. Local produce, especially when cultivated through sustainable or organic means, arrives fresher and carries a far lighter environmental burden. Supporting local farmers not only preserves traditional crops and livelihoods but also reduces greenhouse gas emissions that result from long-distance logistics. The local vegetables and fruits may not look very beautiful always (since it is not grown to be exported) but usually it is much more nutritious. For my family and friends, I prefer to grow or buy from local markets whatever is available in our region. Locally grown fruits such as apples, pears, peaches, guavas, and papayas make far more sense than avocados, bananas, imported apples, or pineapples. Nuts like walnuts and chestnuts from nearby farms are much more sustainable than cashews or Californian pecans. The same applies to vegetables, lentils, grains, and meats. Freshwater fish from local rivers and lakes are better choices than seafood that has travelled thousands of kilometres.

When guests at my place ask for South Indian dishes or seafood, I smile and gently explain that we are located in the northern part of India, far from the sea. In fact, as the crow flies, China is closer to us than the nearest Indian shoreline.

It is easy to underestimate how far the web stretches. A restaurant salad might contain lettuce from the hills, olives from Spain, and cheese from Italy. Each ingredient carries its own hidden emissions from the fields where it was grown to the factories where it was processed and the warehouses where it was stored. By the time it reaches your fork, it may have emitted more carbon than an entire day’s electricity use at home.

Choosing local food is not about isolation; it is about balance. It is about rethinking what “fresh” means, not something wrapped tightly in plastic and flown overnight, but something that has grown in the same air you breathe. When we align our diets with the rhythm of our land and its seasons, we not only lower our carbon footprint but also rediscover the rich diversity of our own region. Few years back, I used to enjoy mangoes and watermelons in the peak of summers, now even in winters I see watermelons that have flown all the way from equator. Bananas, green or ripe, are now available round the year, but at what cost to the environment?

The same holds true for water. Drinking from local mountain streams carries no carbon guilt, while bottled water has its own carbon miles attached to it. To make matters worse, microplastics in bottled water and the disposal of empty bottles add further environmental cost.

Our food here may taste different, but it is delicious, nutritious, and perfectly suited to this region. Lentils like Bhatt and Gehat, combined with locally grown rice and millets, and cooked in traditional ways are flavourful. Local meats make wholesome and mouth-watering dishes. One simply needs to be open to experiencing the cuisine that belongs to this land.

Next time you sit down to eat, ask quietly, how far has my food travelled? The answer might surprise you. In that awareness lies the first step toward a more sustainable and more rooted way of eating, one where nourishment extends beyond the body to include the earth itself.

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There are days when I find myself yearning for the basics, for a simplicity that seems almost forgotten in our world of constant hurry. Complicated things rarely bring me peace. What I long for are objects and experiences that carry honesty, that speak clearly of their purpose. Nothing more, nothing less !

Take the telephone for example. I would rather have a simple line phone with a rotary dialer, where each turn of the dial made a small clicking sound, than the sleek glass screen of today’s smartphones. There was something steady about waiting for the dial to spin back, as if time itself moved a little slower and more patiently. Each call was for a purpose. Today, messages race past, impersonal and fleeting, lost in a flood of forwards and nonsense. I use a smartphone out of necessity, for work and connection, but I must be one of those rare breeds that keep my landline too, for the small and steady joy it brings.

I would pick a traditional radio over a bluetooth speaker any day. A radio isn’t perfect, it crackles, it drifts, sometimes I have to adjust the antenna, but that is exactly the charm. It connects me not just to music but to voices, to the warmth of someone speaking across invisible waves. As I write this, I am enjoying some nice old Kumaoni music on 100.8 Mhz.

The same goes for books. A paperback has weight, smell, and the joy of turning a page. A Kindle may hold a thousand titles and even a dictionary, but it can never replace the comfort of holding a single book. Some say that a Kindle suits someone like me since it saves paper, yet that deserves a deeper thought when one considers the carbon footprint of the device and the ebooks themselves. I seem to be digressing here (a word my friend favours and one I have grown fond of myself). There is something grounding about holding a simple paper book, feeling its weight, turning its pages, and breathing in that earthy, relaxed comfort.

I prefer an alarm clock that is simply a clock, with hands that glow faintly in the dark. It wakes me when needed without dragging me into a maze of notifications. No apps, no settings, just a simple instrument doing what it has always done. Sometimes the gentle ticking lulls me to sleep, and at other times it distracts me. On those rare nights, I simply hide it under a thick pillow.

Today I went to the nearby market in search of a torchlight. I wanted the kind I have always used, a steel body, battery-powered, reliable. The shop offered flashlights with Bluetooth speakers, solar chargers, radios, and even one with a remote control. After much searching, I found a simple battery-powered torch, though in plastic. It may not shine like the new gadgets, but it does exactly what it should.

And lights. How much more human it feels to walk up and flick a switch, to feel the click under my finger, than to ask Alexa to brighten or dim the world for me. The act itself is grounding, immediate, personal.

No Internet of Things for me for everyday stuff. No voice assistants or apps trying to govern every small detail of life. Give me the basics, tools that do their work and then step aside. A fridge or microwave with a Wi-Fi connection is beyond my understanding. Why does my weighing machine need to remind me to drink water? IoT may make sense for applications in security services or healthcare, but not in everything at home. I do not need a kettle that sends me a notification when the water boils.

I like canvas bags with a couple of pockets that last a lifetime, sturdy and dependable, instead of polyester bags with countless zips and compartments, and even absurd little slots to attach USB devices. Give me a plain, honest bag that wears with age and gathers stories, rather than a flashy one that falls apart in a season. And then there are the inventions that try too hard. Smart toilet seat covers? Are you joking? Definitely not for me. A chair should be a chair, not a massage parlour with a control panel. Even spectacles come now with Bluetooth and cameras. I would rather keep my reading glasses simple, the way they are meant to be.

Somehow, I never could come to like a mini Swiss knife. I never found it useful. I would rather have a proper set of knives in the kitchen and a proper set of screwdrivers in the toolbox. And when it comes to opening a bottle, nothing beats the solid iron openers that vendors once used in cinema theatres and circuses. They would make music on the glass cold-drink bottles with them, a playful prelude before opening the cap. That kind of bottle opener has just one purpose – to open bottles, and it does it with simple dignity.

Simple things with a purpose work better than tools that seem to give lots of additional facilities. Simplicity is not about being old-fashioned. It is about breathing easier, about letting life go on without an extra layer of fuss. Simplicity brings about a feeling of being grounded, of peace, and also of relaxed happiness. In choosing less, I feel I choose more – more presence, more calm, more of what matters.

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When I began to build my house I learnt quickly that there is no end to expenses. Everything imaginable and even much that is not can be bought nowadays. It is peak consumerism, an endless parade of comforts that people chase as though enslaved to them. My thought was simpler. I wanted a modest and cheerful dwelling where only a few essentials found their place. A shelter that would guard me from the elements yet not cut me off from the living world outside.

So my house rose from stone, wood, and cement, plain in its making but sturdy enough to stand against the extremes of weather of the region. It does not gleam with marble nor boast expensive fixtures. Its beauty lies elsewhere, in sunlight falling through unadorned windows, in the scent of spices drifting from the kitchen, in the company of books whose pages carry the mustiness of time. It is neither spartan nor palatial.

The roof above me is all I need. It shields against snow and rain and offers shade from the harsh summer sun. Yet the house never seals me away from the seasons. In winter I wear woollens indoors, unlike in centrally heated rooms where the air feels curiously untouched by weather. That small choice, layering oneself rather than warming the entire house, feels truer to the rhythm of nature and lighter on the earth’s carbon footprint.

My home itself is furnished sparingly. There is little more than what is required yet nothing feels wanting. It is functional, comfortable and cosy, never a place to flaunt but always a place to return to. Perhaps it suits me because I spend much of my time outdoors beneath the trees, listening to the birds’ scattered notes, or wandering through my orchard on the narrow paths I have laid, stopping at places to sit and reflect, or caring for the flowers growing in the planters placed here and there. I spent my money on planters, a greenhouse, and garden furniture. On my to-buy list are some more items like a couple of hammocks, some more chairs, and maybe a swing too.

Inside, comfort comes not from show but from placement. A rocking chair that soaks in the afternoon sun during winters. A lamp that spreads its soft light across evenings. Windows framing the orchard where bulbuls and thrushes pause on their way through. Most of the bedrooms in my house face south, welcoming the low sun in the cold months. Unlike the guesthouses that turn rooms to the north for the spectacle of snow peaks, I have placed my desk there instead. While working I can look up at the valley and the distant summits, allowing the mind to breathe a little between tasks.

Even in upkeep I follow the basic philosophy of Wabi Sabi. A patch of peeled paint need not be hidden at once, it can rest there as an honest part of the house’s story. The house breathes through its imperfections. The light filtering through the smallest cracks in the door, curtains stirring with the mountain breeze, the tapping of birds on the roof above. Sometimes when the rain falls hard, I love the sound of it drumming on the roof. It lulls me into a kind of gentle trance and often carries me into sleep. The younger generation even has a name for such things now, something they call ASMR, though I simply know it as the old and timeless comfort of rain.

And perhaps the greatest comfort lies not in what the house contains but in what it teaches. I enjoy life without depending on any particular thing. When I travel I do not miss my own material comforts, the lack of them never troubles me. What unsettles me instead is the opposite, the weight of excess, the overstuffed rooms of hotels, the polished consumerism in homes of friends. It is there amidst too much that I feel least at ease.

This house is no showpiece. It is lived in, warmed by laughter and by the steady passing of days. In a world that measures worth by what is new and shiny, my home stands simply apart. It reminds me that comfort can be shaped from small things and happiness can be found in the simplest of moments. The glow of a lamp on a winter evening, the scent of coffee rising from the kitchen, the hush of wind moving through the trees outside, all weave together into a life that is both humble and abundant.

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Since yesterday, I have been on a quest for something that sounds deceptively humble – vermicompost. Pantnagar’s agricultural university sells it, and I thought it would be a simple errand. Drive down, buy some bags of worm magic, and return triumphant. But no. This little adventure has turned into a full-scale logistical opera, complete with phone calls, negotiations, last-minute changes, and the occasional dramatic sigh.

We make our own compost and vermicompost, of course. But our orchard is largish and the soil is still in that hungry teenage phase where it eats everything you give it and asks for more. One day, when the soil matures and the orchard becomes self-sufficient, I hope to simply watch the worms and homemade compost do the work while sipping coffee in peace. For now, I am still the desperate middleman between hungry trees and reluctant trucks.

The university sells vermicompost in 40-kilo bags. Great for economies of scale, terrible for the back. I can squeeze a maximum of six bags into my car before the suspension starts to weep. This year, I estimate we need another 50 to 60 bags on top of what we produce ourselves. Buying the stuff is not the problem. Getting it from Pantnagar to our hilltop orchard, however, is starting to feel like organising a small military campaign.

My idea was to combine orders. A large project near us wanted 100 bags (40 quintals). A neighbour fancied 25 bags (10 quintals). I bravely volunteered for 75 bags (30 quintals). What a treasure that would be – mountains of rich black vermicompost, all quietly wriggling with life. We finalised a collective order of 80 quintals. Then came the truck problem.

Small pick-up sized trucks can’t carry that much. Mid-sized trucks can, but they quote prices that make you wonder if they plan to sprinkle gold dust on each bag. I started making calls like a stockbroker in a market crash. One contact promised to arrange a truck but quoted a rate so high that the neighbour with the modest 25-bag order threatened to retreat. Meanwhile, the university sales counter, blissfully unaware of our growing drama, had already started packing the bags and putting workers on overtime. Backing out was no longer an option.

The neighbour with the smallest order suggested reducing the order to 50 bags and hiring a smaller truck. That would have been easier, if slightly disappointing. But before I could agree, the big project people called in a panic. “Don’t go ahead without us!” they said, as if I was about to elope with the worms.

Enter the fourth player. A friend-of-a-friend offered to arrange a truck—if we added another 20 quintals for his personal use. Suddenly our modest 200-bag mission ballooned to 250 bags (a whopping 100 quintals). By then the word was out, and a fifth person called. He wanted to know if I could manage another 10 bags for him. At this point, the compost was practically multiplying faster than the worms themselves.

I even found a small trucker willing to take on the job at what sounded like a bargain until he revealed the catch. He proposed making multiple trips over the next month, ferrying just five to ten bags at a time. To sweeten the deal, he offered me a “special rate” of one bottle of alcohol after every trip. Technically quite affordable in rupees but completely against my principles and definitely a recipe for logistical chaos. I politely declined.

After endless calls, counter offers, and quiet calculations about who would pay for what, a truck was finally secured. The person with the largest order graciously agreed to cover the cost difference for the smallest buyer. Not the tidiest ending, but if all goes well the bags should start their journey tomorrow. The final order tally as of now stands at one hundred bags from the big buyer who will also shoulder the extra transport cost, seventy five bags of mine, and twenty five bags from the neighbour who gets a slightly gentler shipping bill. And to top it all off, I will also have to make a trip to Pantnagar to pay in cash, then chase down the others to collect their share. Truly, the worms are easier to deal with than humans.

All this drama just to move a few tonnes of worm poop from Point A to Point B. Farming, once again, proves that it is never only about soil and plants. It is about the delightful chaos that sneaks in when humans and their opinions enter the picture. The quiet lesson for the future is simple but sharp: never assume that a clever plan to share costs or create mutual benefit will automatically win hearts. Most people are not quite ready for the act of cooperation for mutual benefit, yet. Getting a seed to sprout in a drought sometimes feels easier than getting a group of grown adults to agree on a truck. I will get my vermicompost tomorrow, and I am not losing hope in cooperation. Perhaps in the future these joint efforts will fall into place more easily.

ADDENDUM: Day 2: The vermicompost reached me. Yet to settle the amounts.

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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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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 here 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 intention.

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 internet and so I can borrow books online. Recently, a small general store 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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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