Most of the people who have stayed with me have added to my life in the most uplifting and unsuspecting ways. They arrived as guests and by some quiet magic departed as friends. Whenever I venture into the cities I try to look them up, though I confess I rarely escape my hillside fastness and my growing list of friends waits patiently like characters in a long forgotten novel.

The hills have a knack for sending me guests who lift the spirit like a sudden patch of sunlight on a cold morning. They appear at the gate with the sort of cheer that would make even a grumpy goat reconsider its life choices. Some carry a quiet wisdom that seeps into the place and settles gently between the apple trees. A few have inspired me to look at my orchard with fresh eyes and attempt improvements that I might otherwise have postponed until the next monsoon or the one after that.

These splendid souls wander about with genuine curiosity. They ask thoughtful questions and admire the soil as though it were a dear friend. They observe the terrain with lot of interest. They nudge me with gentle encouragement towards ideas that make the orchard healthier and more alive. After they leave I am often found examining neglected corners or plotting a new patch of herbs with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy who has just discovered a secret tree house. I am filled with new ideas that are actually practical and beneficial.

Only last week a family spotted a sombre corner of the orchard that receives very little sunshine. They suggested a set of sturdy little berries that brave the frost and though not likely to win any prizes in taste can produce a fine herbal tea full of antioxidants. Their suggestion was delivered with such warm conviction that I felt compelled to adopt the berries on the spot. The very next day I found them in a nursery located three hours away, and I managed to pick them up from there on that day itself. Most of my guests repeatedly visit me and when these do, I hope to serve them this herbal tea.

Then there are the rare birds who speak of minimalism and environmental matters with sincerity rather than fashionable zeal. They talk of living simply with such steady depth that one pauses mid stride and wonders whether one truly needs a new tool for every trivial task. Their insight is calm never preachy and somehow the trees seem to nod with approval whenever they speak. They remind me that the orchard is not just a place of labour but a responsibility and that the land responds generously when treated with respect rather than ownership.

I am reminded of the two young ladies who visited a few months ago. They spoke with such fire about the climate crisis that even the wind appeared to stop and hear them out. They spoke of forest fires, retreating glaciers, and above all the rising air pollution around Delhi, with a resolve that refused to look away. Their voices carried across the place like a clear call to arms and long after they left I found myself pondering what more I could do to further reduce my carbon footprint and make this homestead gentler on the world.

An elderly couple left behind a perspective that still feels like a small treasure. After a quiet walk and a simple meal they remarked that the greatest asset of this homestay was not just the cottage or the food but the experience as a whole. It was the peace the orchard the sense of space and the freedom from noise and rush that mattered most. Hearing this from people who had seen far more of life than I have felt like a gentle tap on the shoulder. It obviously boosted my ego, and it reminded me that the true worth of a place lies in the feeling it gives rather than in any single feature. Since then I have changed the way I speak to prospective guests. I ask them what they hope to experience instead of sounding the trumpet about delicious food or mesmerising views.

One of my repeat guests who is now very much a friend has given me a marvellous idea about striking a balance between the unkempt wild look and the tidier patches where one sits and contemplates life. His vision helped me create spaces that feel natural yet welcoming. Gardening tools resting in the greenhouse, wild grass edging the lawn, uneven steps made of local stone, and planter beds that seem casually neglected – all add to that cottage like charm. They also make my work smoother and many guests have admired this mix of order and wildness.

Some guests arrive with an interest in cooking and these are a delight. They share recipes as though handing over family secrets. Over the years I have learnt European salads and desserts, Arabic meats, Gujarati snacks, and a score of other delicacies. Last month a lady spent every second day in the kitchen during her stay here and cooked with such joy that the walls practically glowed. She taught us two delightful desserts that I have already made several times and each time I am reminded of her cheerful presence.

Then there are people who feel close enough to point out the small errors in my lifestyle including my tendency to gain weight. One of them tries to drag me out for long walks which, I admit, I secretly enjoy. Though he prefers walking in the evenings while I favour the daytime but somehow we still manage to meet halfway. From ideas on living happily and keeping healthy to conversations about finance and technology everything unfolds here and every now and then the focus lands on me and my life in these hills. It’s hard to justify to others why I don’t have financial freedom, but still feel happy doing what I do here.

Recommendations for books and films flow freely here. Many guests offer suggestions so perfectly suited to my taste that they often outshine the grand lists issued by respectable publications. I add them at once to my reading list and to my ever lengthening list of films to watch. These recommendations feel like small gifts left behind like bookmarks tucked gently between the chapters of daily life.

I sometimes think my place itself remembers these people. There is a warmth after they leave, a sense that something kind has passed through. Perhaps this is why guests return. Not only to rest in the quiet of the hills but to remind me once again that the world still sends good people to our door and that each of them leaves the place a little brighter than they found it.

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Few days back, I had some visitors from the other side of the globe. They wanted to explore my orchard. I walked down the narrow orchard pathway with them. However, I found myself listening less to my own explanations and more to the rhythm of their footsteps. A confused pause here. A hesitant stop there. It is a curious thing, this moment when two very different ideas of the same landscape quietly collide.

I was describing the regenerative systems that now guide my farming methods when I noticed the faint but unmistakable expression of disappointment on their faces. It did not come from arrogance, or so I hoped. It came from habit. From a deeply ingrained image of what a traditional orchard should look like. For them, order in the orchard was a proof of care. Uniform spacing of trees. Single species in long, straight lines, crossing each other at right angles. Exposed soil, regularly tilled, free of anything that could be called unruly or a weed. The popular thought that discipline of the land was interpreted as respect and care for it.

What they found instead was a living, layered system. I tried explaining the concepts and philosophy behind it. The orchard floor was not bare but deliberately covered. A mix of leguminous and non-leguminous cover crops fixed nitrogen, improved soil structure, and kept the microbial life active. Wildflowers occupied the edges of light and shade, inviting pollinators and beneficial insects. “Weeds”, as they are commonly labelled, were acting as dynamic accumulators, drawing trace minerals from deeper soil horizons and slowly returning them to the surface through leaf litter. Wild berries grew here and there.

Because the orchard lies on a steep slope, tree placement here has been guided less by geometry and more by the actual lay of the land. Each planting spot was chosen depending on each plant’s or each tree’s requirements of the soil depth and content of the soil, drainage, sun exposure, and wind patterns. Over time, the system has been moving steadily towards what one might call a semi-managed food forest. A loose canopy of taller trees, sub-canopy of mostly fruit trees, berry shrubs such as raspberries and blackberries, climbers like kiwi, and a functional ground layer that even includes edible species like wild strawberries, green peas, beans, and various herbs too.

In winter, the trees prepare for dormancy and shed their leaves. They fall, they gather, and they stay. I find this stage deeply reassuring. It is visible evidence of nutrient cycling in motion. The soil also starts to get richer. Earthworms pulling fragments of leaf matter down into the darker soil layers, and fungal networks developing further. To most people, however, this is often seen as neglect. My visitors could not understand why the orchard floor was not “cleaned”. Why I did not till and turn the soil. Why I allowed what they saw as waste to remain.

Their confusion amused me in a gentle way. Not mockingly, but with a kind of inward smile. I have stood in orchards like the ones they admire. I understand their sense of visual comfort. There is a strange satisfaction in straight lines and bare earth. Yet, I also know how biologically silent such places often become with passing years.

When I explained that mixed species planting increases resilience, they listened politely. Genetic diversity, I told them, spreads the risk. Different flowering times reduce the chance of complete crop loss. A varied root architecture improves soil stability and water infiltration. The harvest stretches naturally. Early spring fruits, mid-summer abundance, late-autumn heaviness, and then the quiet handover to preserves, jams, and dried fruit that store the memory of sunlight for colder months. Yes, they were polite, but quite disinterested too. Happens at times. I cut short the tour so as to get them back to the comfort of my manicured lawn, and to offer them a cup of hot herbal tea while enjoying the winter sun.

The question of profit emerged, as it often does. How can such a system be financially viable? Large orchards in their countries run like factories and produce fruits that in turn brings in lots of money. I explained that much of the produce is consumed fresh, turned into preserves, shared with friends, and extended to charitable groups. From their perspective, this seemed inefficient. From mine, it felt entirely logical. They measured value in terms of yield per acre and market price. I found myself measuring it in different units. Soil that improves rather than depletes. Water that infiltrates rather than runs off. Fruits that carry no chemical residues and are full of nutrition. A household that eats healthy, and in rhythm with seasons. Friends who taste something grown slowly, with attention rather than force. Their appreciation and wishes are my earnings.

As we walked further, I became aware of something quietly comic in the whole situation. They had been genuinely keen to see the orchard. I had been equally keen to show it. Yet, neither of us had paused to ask what an orchard meant to the other. They were expecting a controlled system. I was offering them a conversation with ecology.

It was a harmless mismatch, and in that harmlessness there was something almost comforting. It reminded me that the world still holds multiple visions of how land should look and behave. In the future, I think I will begin such walks with a small conversation. I will ask what they hope to understand. If their curiosity leans towards sustainable systems, we can spend long, unhurried hours watching soil, insects, leaves, and light. If they seek the neatness of industrial horticulture, I can gently guide them to the villagers nearby who still manage land that way. There is no judgement in this realisation, only a quiet clarity. Everyone is different and everyone’s understanding is shaped by the knowledge and exposure they have had.

I, for my part, am learning that not everyone who walks through a living orchard is ready to hear what such a landscape is softly saying. Trying to explain the deeper rhythms of this kind of farming in a short visit often feels hurried, incomplete, and quite frequently unwanted. Yet those who arrive with genuine curiosity are always welcome to learn more. With them, I am happy to linger, to answer their questions, and to gently share how and why this place grows the way it does.

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There are friendships that arrive like sunlight through a window. They warm the room without asking permission. Some time back I was honoured by the company of two such friends. They had bought a small piece of land not far from the orchard and were now planning to plant trees there. A job after my own heart. Anyone who wishes to plant a tree becomes an ally of the hills at once.

But the real joy of their visit lay not in the plans for saplings. It was in the laughter and the strangely beautiful disorder that good company brings. The first evening set the tone. We settled down for dinner, and one of them suddenly declared a desire to listen to Bappi Lahiri. The way he enjoyed himself was delightful to watch. There he sat with the carefree cheer of someone who has temporarily mislaid all his worries. The beats played on, bold and bright, casting an odd yet cheerful glow over the old stone house.

Later we opened a bottle of vodka with some lemon juice. They made themselves a drink each while I stayed loyal to my lime juice (though I did enjoy a few beer here and there during the lovely time with them). The music wandered into conversations about old films. From there, the topics jumped about in a fashion of their own. Before long we found ourselves deep in an unexpectedly vigorous debate on Mother Teresa. Loud arguments filled with laughter rolled across the room. At one point I remarked that the vodka must be potent stuff. It was only later that I discovered neither of them had even finished a full drink. Perhaps the hills, not the vodka, are what loosen the knots in us.

What mattered most was that all three of us were entirely present in the moment. They are close friends and I am the late entry in their well-seasoned camaraderie. Yet I felt as though I belonged in their circle. That is the peculiar magic of good friendships. Stress and negativity dissolve like mist. What remains is warmth and the kind of laughter that lingers long after it has faded from the air.

The next day we visited an old temple hidden in a nearby village. To reach it one must walk through a pathway flanked by stinging nettles, as if the temple insists on a small toll before granting entry. We were lucky to walk past without touching them. The temple was serene and quiet. Though it had been renovated from time to time, it still carried its own gentle charm. The fresh paint and ceramic tiles had not entirely robbed it of its soul. It stood there with the calm dignity of a place that has seen generations pass, accepting each change without losing its essence. I wished I had packed a picnic basket. It was the kind of spot where one could spend a long afternoon doing nothing more than listening to the wind. Perhaps next time, with another friend or two who appreciate such secret corners of the world.

One of the days we took ourselves to a mountain stream for a small picnic. The sun was kinder there and the water sang its own leisurely tune. It was peaceful to sit on the bank, warming our backs in the sunshine and listening to the steady flow of the stream. The water was too cold for a dip. A couple of birds swept past us and disappeared into the pines. The only blemish was the litter left behind by careless visitors. It reminded me to carry a garbage bag next time and clean up the trail. One must, after all, protect the beauty that one enjoys.

On the way back we found ourselves discussing music again. Something about the sunlight on the road brought to mind “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” by The Beatles. This in turn led to a lively comparison with a line from “Meri Mehbooba” from the Hindi film ‘Pardes’. It is curious how songs drift through the mind like wandering birds, each perched on a memory.

Those days passed too quickly. They left behind echoes of laughter in the rooms and a pleasant lightness in the orchard air. Friendships have a way of doing that. They make a place feel richer for a while. And when my friends finally left, walking down the familiar path, I knew the sunshine would eagerly await their return. It is the company of good people that lends richness to the slow, quiet life I cherish here.

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Someone asked me about the signs or indicators that make me judge others in an instant. This was a difficult question for me. Sitting around a bonfire asked by a genuinely interested young couple I had to answer this. I am typing it out here too with the hope that someone may read it and understand my point of view. I try not to judge people and keep my prejudices locked away but at times in my mind I form an opinion of people quite early in conversations. To reassure myself I must add that such guests are exceedingly rare. Perhaps only a handful over all these years and I am quite certain none of them will ever read this. They all shared one remarkable trait: a heroic disinterest in reading of any kind. So if you are here reading these words you may safely stop searching for your reflection in any of the following descriptions. You are clearly not one of them.

Most guests are the sort that would warm even the stiffest upper lip. They arrive with a delight in the mountains a curiosity about the orchard and a gentle willingness to listen to birdsong without even taking out the ubiquitous Bluetooth speaker. Then there are others. Curious specimens who drift into one’s life like leaves blown in from a slightly confused tree.

At the bottom of my list remain the worshippers of film stars and youtubers. These enthusiasts sit about as if in expectation of divine revelation and recount instances from film stars’ private lives with a fervour usually reserved for mystics. (Does anyone remember the Lehren series of the 90s?) Some of my family members are also quite similar. Hot on their heels are the devotees of cricketers. Devotees of the game are fine considering that some even say that Indians have cricket flowing in their blood, but worshiping a cricketer is beyond me. I appreciate a well played game but the habit of elevating players to celestial heights makes me long for a quiet bench and a cup of tea.

Next come the high priests of the glowing phone screen. They enter a state of trance while swiping reels that flash by like confused lightning. The look on their faces is that of a person who has mislaid their soul but retains the hope of finding it somewhere between two poorly edited videos. I have been there and I know how difficult it is to keep down the screen. I still struggle at times and I have to consciously make an effort to avoid getting enslaved by this new age demon.

Then there is a category that deserves its own museum gallery. I speak of the self congratulators. These are the guests who begin every sentence with the word I. After ten minutes in their company one is convinced that they are the first humans ever to run a business, buy a car, take overseas vacations, or take a holiday in our humble hills. Their favourite sport is recounting their own achievements and they play it tirelessly. Thankfully, from what I have observed, someone in their group usually is the opposite and this person keeps the conversations more grounded.

Closely related are also the peacocks of prosperity. These individuals feel compelled to mention prices of things without provocation. They tilt their wrists in the sunlight so that the logo on the watch may shimmer for maximum effect. They speak of villas in cities I have never asked about and drop brand names as if scattering birdseed. Their attire shows more brands on them than even the number of stores in Almora’s only mall. The mountains remain unmoved in front of them though I sometimes find myself longing for a shovel simply to dig a small hideout. My finances are modest so their wealth and the financial freedom it brings are beyond my imagination, yet I still fail to see the point of such fierce attachment to objects when everything has to be left behind one day.

Then there is the tribe of name droppers. These are the guests who cannot complete a sentence without ushering in the name of some well known personality or an acquaintance who once shook hands with a politician. They speak of ministers and celebrities with the practised ease of someone reading out a grocery list. One moment we are discussing the trip to a temple or a nearby stream, and the next they are confiding tales of their close association with a certain politician who may or may not remember their existence. I listen politely though deep inside I suspect the mountains would be far more impressed by a person who knows the name of the bird singing in the oak than by someone who once attended a distant cousin’s dinner with a cabinet minister.

One must not forget the fashion adventurers. I have seen ladies attempt to walk through the orchard in high heels with a determination that would impress a mountain goat though not necessarily a doctor. The heels sink the ankles wobble and the entire enterprise becomes a dramatic performance of human optimism against the laws of physics. Some arrive dressed for a runway event rather than a hillside orchard and I watch with a mixture of horror and admiration as they attempt to navigate roots stones and occasional cow paths while clutching a designer handbag like a life raft. I felt that I was in a similar category last year when I visited a coastal town but dressed up in my summer clothes from here which were incidentally still too warm for that town.

There are also guests who arrive with a sort of brisk authority as if they have been appointed inspectors of rural life. They peer at the compost, ask suspicious questions about the vegetables, tap tree trunks, and then nod in a manner meant to suggest expertise, though it is clear they could not identify a plum tree if it introduced itself politely. My gardener with his serious demeanor has quite a hard time coping up with these experts. I pity his nerves at time.

And of course there are the ones who cannot stop giving advice. Before these instant experts have unpacked they suggest changes to the orchard the layout of the rooms the menu the weather patterns and occasionally the laws of nature. One tries to be gracious though inside something whimpers softly. From cemented tennis court on the lawn to a swimming pool, trust me, I have heard it all.

Still all of this is said with the affection of a man who has seen many types wander through these hills. I suppose what truly gets under my skin is not the people but the quiet disregard for the simple pleasures that the place offers. The wind in the leaves the scent of herbs the satisfaction of soil under one’s feet. When someone prefers celebrity tales brand labels or reels it always feels like a small missed opportunity.

Yet each guest brings their own story and the hills have a way of softening even the oddest ones. After all if the compost heap can turn chaos into nourishment then surely there is hope for all of us.

Interestingly I have begun to notice a rather heartening pattern. The guests who truly understand this place are the ones who return again and again as if the hills have quietly adopted them. They slip back into the orchard with the ease of old friends taking their favourite chair. What surprises me even more is when those who do not connect with the place at first still choose to return. With every visit they seem to shed a layer of noise and hurry and begin to match their rhythm to that of the mountains. They grow a little quieter a little more observant a little more content to sit under a tree and simply be. It is as if nature herself is conducting a slow gentle training programme turning even the most distracted visitor into someone who eventually belongs here.

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Today, some friends came over for lunch, and we put all our culinary eggs in one basket by serving only biryani. Not the stately Awadhi affair from Lucknow, nor the grand Mughlai production from Delhi, but a cheerful, fragrant creation of its own. Everyone enjoyed it with enthusiasm or did they tell me so out of their humbleness? Though, I myself had several generous helpings, each more satisfying than the last, so I guess it was delicious to others too. And now I find that the very thought of supper makes me feel like a python that has recently swallowed a goat. I will skip it tonight or maybe just a mug of warm milk will do.

Everyone has a set mind as to what tastes good and what does not. A lot depends on upbringing, culture, region, and religion. The same dish can be prepared in multiple ways, and each person will always vouch for the version they are most familiar with. What tastes divine to one may appear odd to another, and that is where the great charm of Indian food lies.

Take the above biryani, for instance. The one from Hyderabad is rich, layered, and full of spice, while the Lucknow version is more refined, gentle, and aromatic. Both are delicious in their own way, yet worlds apart in taste and temperament. Then there is the Delhi version, hearty and robust, and the one from Calcutta, mild and mellow with that famous addition of a potato and boiled egg. Each region claims its own as the most authentic, and perhaps, each is right.

I have often noticed a similar debate when it comes to the two popular stars loved by most Indian vegetarians – shahi paneer and malai kofta. I like them best with white gravy, a silken blend of cream and cashew that lets the spices speak softly. But lately, in Delhi and surrounding areas, they are served in red gravy, thicker, sharper, and more dramatic. To many, that is the proper way, and they look at my pale version as if it has lost its courage halfway through cooking.

Even a humble scrambled egg can take on a completely different personality. During my college days, I used to relish the evening scrambled eggs sold from the back of a mini van, served with a steaming bowl of mutton clear soup. That was on the days when I actually had a bit of money in my pocket. These days I am rather fond of the luxurious version with plenty of butter melting on top, served with soft buns and a cup of milky chai. A friend of mine swears by scrambled eggs paired with stuffed aaloo parathas, though I still suspect that his true devotion lies with the parathas rather than the eggs. My wife prefers hers plain and pure, made only with milk fats and now and then crowned with a little cheese. I, on the other hand, want mine bursting with red chillies and garlic. The kids love theirs with fresh oregano and thyme, straight from the garden. Different people have different tastes, and depending on what they have grown up with and what they have discovered along the way, the cooking changes too.

My guests from Gujarat often smile when I mention Poha. For them, it must be sweet and sour, an interesting combination that wakes you up better than any alarm clock. I prefer the Punjabi version, with a hint of green chillies and the crackle of mustard seeds, less of sweetness but full of warmth. Both are good, both are right, but each speaks a different culinary language. Jains don’t eat with potatoes but for me Poha is incomplete without potatoes, and a generous sprinkling of chopped onions.

Then there is Kumaoni cuisine, with its distinct, grounded charm. Based on lentils, local herbs, and ghee, the dishes here take on a character of their own. Bhatt ki daal, a favourite across the hills, is cooked with generous amounts of garlic and has a thick, earthy gravy that feels both rustic and comforting. Even meats are prepared differently, often slow-cooked with minimal spices to let the natural flavour shine through. Though villagers love the burnt mutton that is popular here, I find the smell a bit too strong for my liking. Millets, too, are part of everyday life, appearing in rotis, porridges, and even desserts. And thanks to social media, their prices seem to be rising faster than any investment one can think of.

Travel across India and you will see this endless variety everywhere. The same dish keeps changing its clothes as it moves from one state to another. The sambhar of Tamil Nadu will frown at the one in Karnataka for being too sweet, while the paratha of Punjab will find its cousin in Bihar a little too rustic. Yet, the joy of Indian food lies in these small quarrels of taste.

Our kitchens are shaped by climate, soil, and centuries of tradition. What grows in one region influences what cooks there. And so, every meal becomes a story of the land, the people, and the mood of the cook who stirred it. Perhaps that is why no two dishes ever taste the same, and thank goodness for that. Uniformity may be comforting, but it is the variety that keeps our plates and our hearts alive.

It has been quite an effort to pen down thoughts on food while sitting here with a stomach stretched to the limit. It is rather like trying to discuss thrift after being handed a suitcase full of cash. No wonder people advise going to the supermarket only after a meal, to avoid unnecessary purchases and sudden impulses involving exotic cheeses and expensive bites. Still, despite feeling as if a gentle nudge would send me rolling towards the bed, I have managed to type something, and that I believe, is an achievement worth a large celebratory burp.

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Lately I have been watching a strange trend growing around us. It has to do with food the one thing that should be simple comforting and honest. But in many fancy places it has started turning into a sort of stage show and not a very pleasant one.

It began harmlessly. A kadhai paneer served in a tiny kadhai. A daal arriving in a little bucket. One smiled at the effort. But then the ideas became wilder. Kebabs carried in on toy bullock carts and wheelbarrows. And the other day I saw a video of a soup served in a ceramic bowl shaped like a toilet seat. I stared at it for a long moment wondering whether I should laugh or cry.

There is another group the very serious food lovers who visit restaurants with stars awarded by a company better known for making automobile tyres. Some say the star system began just to make people travel more and wear out more tyres. Perhaps it is true perhaps not but it does make a fellow think.

These restaurants serve portions so small that you finish them before your appetite even realises what happened. A single bite sits on the plate surrounded by decorations that look more impressive than the food. Then comes the show. Smoke trapped inside a soap bubble. Liquids poured over dishes for no reason at all. Fire rising from the sides like a cheap magician’s trick. Maybe it has to do with our primal attraction to fire. The chef walks by with a pair of forceps and places one little leaf of parsley as if he is completing a delicate surgery. And the way some sprinkle pepper from a great height makes me wonder if they hurt their elbow in childhood.

The trend to play with food has now travelled to street food too. Everything is drowned in el-cheapo butter or greasy mayonnaise. Or mixed with things that should never meet. Tandoori chai. Old monk chicken. Ketchup ice-cream. One wonders where we left our sense and our taste buds. Fusion dishes have also joined the parade. Gulab jamun pizza. Daal makhani sandwich. Noodle pizza. When I hear these names I feel a quiet sorrow somewhere deep inside.

And the new names people invent. Sewai is suddenly called Sweet Ramen Dessert. A simple pink drink is being falsely sold here as “rhododendron energy drink” only because of its colour. Delicately crisp fried wrap with savoury potato filling – is our dear old humble Samosa. I have never seen someone in India call a hamburger a “Pao with meat-vada” so why must we pretend Sewai is something it is not?

Good food does not demand all this noise. It does not need fire or bubble tricks or pouring techniques or even fancy names. Food made with care and eaten with peace has its own quiet charm much like a simple meal enjoyed on a winter afternoon in the hills. It warms you from the inside and leaves you content. And that is more than any theatrical dish can ever do.

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If there is one thing that divides humanity more sharply than pineapple on pizza or vegetables in maggi, it is coffee. The bean, that humble little brown nugget, has caused more debates, declarations, and disappointed sighs than any other beverage in the known universe (except perhaps tea, but that’s another battlefield altogether and I have already written about it earlier).

Now, coffee lovers come in a bewildering variety. There are the connoisseurs, the snobs, the purists, the innovators, and the ones who simply want caffeine in any shape or form. The bone of contention is never instant vs. filter coffee – that’s too obvious a duel. Instant coffee, poor dear, is universally looked down upon. Even those who secretly adore it put on a scholarly expression and murmur about “body,” “acidity,” “notes of chocolate,” and even “notions of fair trade,” before skulking back home to beat instant coffee with sugar and milk like guilty lovers.

Ah, instant coffee. The comfort drink of our college days! That brown liquid courage at late nights which helped us look convincingly studious before exams. It wasn’t just coffee; it was liquid drama. “Don’t disturb me, I’m revising,” one would say, while stirring that same old cup for the fourth time. Even the hostel canteen served it late at night as a specialty during exam days. Even today when I sip the so-called Espresso Coffee, essentially a distant cousin of that canteen brew, my heart experiences a nostalgic flutter. It still is quite popular at served at weddings or tourist joints around the lakes here. Call it what you may, but there’s still something endearingly homely about that hand-beaten instant coffee with hot milk, sweetened to the last molecule, or even this popular Indian version of Espresso Coffee which comes nowhere near to the Italian version.

But, alas, times have changed. Coffee lovers have gone international or as we say, have developed a more “overseas” palate. Beans are now roasted, ground, and discussed as if one were evaluating fine art. There are tasting notes, aromatic profiles, and equipment that look like they belong to a physics laboratory.

First, we have the Moka pot enthusiasts – a determined tribe who believe pressure and patience yield the perfect creamy brew. Then there are the French Press people, leisurely souls like most people around me who let their coffee steep while contemplating the meaning of life. The pour-over crowd insist theirs is the purest, most refined form of coffee, unpolluted by fines or filters. One such friend is my unofficial coffee instructor. And of course, our proud South Indian filter coffee with the upside-down magic that turns coffee-making into both ritual and performance.

Among a few high-end coffee elite, even using pre-ground coffee is considered a mild moral failing, while those who grind their own beans are treated with near-religious awe. I, for one, dare not trespass into that sacred territory.

Then we enter the dark forest of roasts, grind sizes, and brewing ratios. Medium roast, dark roast, coarse grind, fine grind – it’s all frightfully complicated to a simple person like me. I once tried to appear intelligent in a coffee discussion at a friend’s evening gathering by saying, “Ah yes, I prefer a medium roast with balanced acidity.” A dangerous move. Within moments, I was asked if I preferred washed or natural processing. Which method did I brew it? Where did I buy from? I nodded gravely and changed the subject to weather which it seems is always a safe subject to retreat to. Though I do remember a vague bit of information that one of the best coffees is processed from the poop of some civets, not that I fancy it or am even daring enough to try it.

And let’s not even talk about coffee pods. They make me feel like I’m committing a crime against the spirit of the bean. Too electronic for my taste. Coffee percolators? A good idea perhaps for an office, but they rob coffee of its romance. I tried it for a few months but always felt that I was playing with an over-complicated piece of machinery. Coffee should burble and gurgle, not blink and beep.

Everyone seems to have a favourite roaster these days. Some speak in hushed tones about small-batch, single-origin beans from estates with unpronounceable names. Others swear by their trusty omnipresent brand. The more expensive the package, the more convinced people seem that it must taste divine. Personally, I can’t tell the difference. Once I pour milk into it, all notes of “earthy caramel” and “smoky undertones” vanish without trace. Though, even before pouring the milk, I always struggle to find them.

For me, coffee falls into just two reliable categories: with milk or without. Simple. Honest. The milk might be frothed, steamed, or just obediently poured in. Sometimes, I take a shot of hot black coffee and pour it over a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Sometimes, it goes over a brownie. That’s about as experimental as I get, and that too for the sake of my guests.

A strong black coffee does have its merits, of course. It wakes me up faster than even the ruckus created by the birds on top of my roof in the mornings. But if we’re talking sheer pleasure, the creamy comfort of coffee with milk wins every time for me.

So while the rest of the world debates beans and brewing ratios, I sit by my orchard, under and old apple tree with morning sunlight filtering through, watching the hills stretch into a quiet yawn, and sip my cup of modest, honest coffee. No fancy names, no foreign beans, just warmth, aroma, and the hum of morning. After all, life in the hills teaches you one thing: whether it’s coffee or conversation, what matters is not the method, it’s the moment.

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From what I have observed, many people go on holidays only to return even more tired than before. A holiday to my mind, should be a time to relax and rejuvenate, to pause, breathe, feel the place and allow the body and mind to find their natural rhythm again. Yet so often, vacations turn into another kind of race. Travellers rush from one tourist spot to the next, ticking boxes as if peace could be earned through mileage or photographs.

Even at Kathgodam railway station, one can hear taxi drivers calling out a list of destinations, each promising more than the last. The higher the count, the more tempting it may sound to the weary visitor. Nainital, Bhimtal, etc are no different. Ask any local driver and you’ll be offered a tour of fifteen or so “must-see” spots, each with a viewpoint, a selfie corner, the popular roadside shack, and the perfect backdrop for social media.

Somehow, in the hurry to see everything, the essence of being somewhere is lost. The mountains, after all, do not reveal themselves to those in a rush. They open up slowly, to those willing to linger.

Somewhere along the way, the meaning of travel itself has become blurred. Words that once carried distinct shades of purpose like vacationer, holidaymaker, traveller, tourist, globetrotter are now used interchangeably. Yet they speak of very different intentions. A vacationer and a holidaymaker enjoys leisure. A traveller moves to experience. And a tourist often rushes to consume. Perhaps if we remembered these small differences, our journeys too might begin to feel gentler, slower, more meaningful, and become more enjoyable. There should be a clear distinction between those who take a vacation to truly unwind and those who travel to cram in sights, experiences, and photographs. The first kind returns lighter, rested, and perhaps even quietly transformed. The second comes back with crowded memories and a weary heart.

Here in the hills, I often see both kinds of travellers pass through. Some arrive at my place still moving to the rhythm of their cities with their phones buzzing, their minds running ahead of them. But after a day or two, the mountains begin their quiet work. The absence of crowds, the unhurried mornings, and the gentle routine of nature start to slow them down. The birds steal their attention, the breeze carries away their urgency, and the silence with the occasional music from the wind-chimes begins to do what no itinerary or checklist ever could.

They begin to enjoy the food even though very different from what they may have expected. They start to notice the small things – the fragrance of herbs drying in the sun, the rustle of wind through oak trees, the soft hum of bees near the rosemary beds, shapes in the cloud formations, and even tiny spiders hurrying around underneath the wild flowers. And in those simple moments, the holiday finally begins.

Most of our guests discuss with us about the various sightseeing options too. I recommend some places, mostly off the beat, and with nature all around. Out of the days they relax here, some plan an outing for a day or two and spend rest of the time just relaxing, doing nothing. Perhaps that is what travel was meant to do – not to tire us with too much movement, but to bring us closer to stillness. For rest is not in the number of places we visit, but in how deeply we inhabit the place we are in.

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There is a special kind of peace I feel only when the man-made sounds go quiet. When I leave my phone behind, request my friends to turn off the bluetooth speaker, and allow the world to sound exactly as it is meant to. Out here in my orchard, in the woods, or in any natural place, I often wonder why anyone would want to fill this space with music however pleasant it may be.

The air already hums with its own rhythm. The leaves rustle softly as the wind moves through them, sometimes quite loud when the wind seems to run on them. Birds begin their morning conversations long before I wake, each with its own tone and intention. The song of the blue whistling thrush, the chatter of black-headed jays and magpies, the steady tapping of a woodpecker on an old pine. This is music in nature that is composed without instruments, performed without rehearsal, and felt most deeply when we stop trying to add ‘music’ to it.

Playing recorded music, however beautiful, often feels like putting up a wall between me and the living world. It turns the landscape into background scenery rather than something that speaks and responds. When a speaker plays from a pocket or a porch, the birds seem to grow quieter, the critters retreat, and even the wind seems to lose its voice. What remains is not companionship but intrusion.

There are, of course, a few exceptions. When the harsh sounds of machinery fill the air, a little music can offer relief. And during weddings or village celebrations, when ‘modern’ songs echo across the valley, I accept them as part of collective joy, even if not exactly welcome. One learns to live with those few days of festive noise. I cannot influence everyone, but perhaps I can guide my small circle, those who go for walks with me in the orchard or nearby woods or even to picnics away from other humans, to listen a little more and add their own a little less.

I do love music and often enjoy it on a decent system but that is when I want to actually indulge myself and do some serious listening. Occasionally, I do switch on the radio, which keeps me entertained while I do some mundane jobs on the computer. In my greenhouse, which also serves as a small conservatory, I keep a modest speaker that I occasionally use when friends or guests drop by. That’s as far as it goes, never for the open outdoors.

True listening in nature requires stillness. In that stillness, I begin to notice the finer details – the buzz of a bumblebee moving from flower to flower, the faint creak of an old branch swaying under its own weight, the distant call of a raptor circling high above. These are not random sounds. They are part of a vast and balanced orchestra that has existed long before us. When people who stay with me understand this, a whole new world opens up to them. Background music by the bonfire is fine, but song of crickets, occasional ”who-who” of our resident owlet, accompanied by crackle of fire is even better. Lately, people seem to enjoy music at very high volumes and so I always have to request them to keep it low.

There is something deeply healing about this quietness. Whenever I travel anywhere and then return back to my small sanctuary, my mind, so used to constant noise and stimulation, begins to settle. Thoughts stretch out instead of colliding. My senses grow sharper. Even my heart seems to slow down to match the rhythm of the surroundings. This is the gift of silence, a kind of awareness that no composed melody can imitate. People visiting me can also feel it and they have shared this sensation with awe with me.

Those who live close to the land know this instinctively. Old generation of farmers, shepherds, and naturalists often prefer to work in quiet, not out of discipline but out of respect. They know that when you listen closely enough, nature tells you what it needs – the soil crumbling beneath your feet, the wind that shifts before a storm, the change in bird calls that hints at rain, or the way crickets chirp in changing temperatures.

Every time I step outdoors, I let the wind be my melody and the forest my sound system. The music is already playing; I only need to listen.

And if you, my friend, still wish to hear your own tunes, use earphones and keep them to yourself. What sounds like music to one person may be just noise to another and silence, after all, is the one song that everyone can share.

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Allow me to begin with a confession. The kitchen, that hallowed ground where garlic meets glory and onions bring both tears and triumph, is also a battlefield of misinformation and superstitions. If I had a rupee for every time someone told me that microwaves destroy nutrients, I would have enough money to buy a lifetime supply of butter and possibly have a cardiologist on retainer.

As a hobbyist cook who loves both science and sarcasm, I feel it is my duty to clear the air before it fills with the aroma of something burning. I meet a lot of new people, and then there are my neighbours and friends in the region. Each has their own fundamentals and theories related to food. Many of them are built on misconceptions or false beliefs or even on (mis)interpretations of various ancient texts. These are often spread through social media or dressed up as traditional wisdom or lifestyle advice.

The most common one I encounter concerns jaggery (In Hindi – Gud, Khand, or some even calling it Brown Sugar). Surprisingly, even diabetics do not seem to mind having it. They see it as a healthy alternative to sugar, but it is still sugar. True, it may have a bit of iron and minerals, yet it remains a calorie-rich sweetener that spikes blood sugar levels as easily as refined sugar does. I like jaggery for its distinct flavour in certain dishes, but I feel sad and often hard pressed to keep my thoughts to myself when I see people using it lavishly in sweets, convinced that it is somehow better. And the habit of mixing it with milk makes things worse. As far as I know, the calcium from milk binds with the iron from jaggery, cancelling out any of its supposed benefits and leaving you with something worse than plain sugar. Sugar is the new alcohol, and at times just as bad, whether it comes from white sugar, jaggery, dates or anjeer.

Speaking of alcohol, that is another misunderstood topic. People often justify their drink with all sorts of creative health theories. Let me be clear. Alcohol is bad. Beer, rum, whisky, vodka, scotch, bourbon and even the much-celebrated wine are all bad for health. Wine does not lower cholesterol; it merely troubles the liver. Beer does not make kidneys happy; it grows the belly. Rum is as bad as the rest. If you love your drink, please enjoy it, but do not preach about its goodness. I too enjoy an occasional beer or a drink, but I know it is not good for me and I do not encourage others to join me. If you want to gift me a bottle of wine, you are more than welcome. I will appreciate it.

Another everyday confusion is about milk and milk products. Some people refuse to have curd in the morning or evening but will happily drink milk, even if it is chilled. I find curd far gentler on the stomach, but if others think differently, I do not argue. Everyone has the right to their own preferences but I still remind them at times about the probiotic effects of curd.

Then there is the matter of imbalance in our daily diets. Many people in India consume far too many carbohydrates and too little protein. It is an uneven way of eating, made worse by social media influencers glorifying thalis that overflow with fried foods and sweets, and frequently prepared in not so clean surroundings. I do not support or oppose any specific diet, but I do feel sad when food loses balance.

I also dislike the growing trend of exotic foods flown in from distant places. No matter how nutritious or fashionable they seem, food that travels halfway across the world cannot compete with something fresh and local.

The order in which we eat seems to puzzle people endlessly. Some begin with salads, others prefer them alongside the main course, and a few avoid them altogether. Then comes the eternal question of tea – should it follow a meal or be avoided entirely? And what about drinking water while eating? Opinions on that could fill a book. As for diet trends, I would rather not begin, for they change faster than the seasons and make even the simplest meal feel like a moral decision.

Different religions and cultures have always influenced food choices. The Gita praises fresh food, the Bible speaks of bread and wine, the Quran and Avesta mention meats, and Jain and Buddhist texts highlight vegetarian living. People naturally follow what they are exposed to. I do not comment on anyone’s beliefs, but I do find it fascinating how our traditions shape our tastes.

Coming back to modern myths, the idea that fat is bad for you is another one that refuses to die. People hear the word “fat” and imagine disaster. Yet butter, mustard oil, and coconuts are not plotting against you in the dark. They are friends when used wisely. The real culprits are those sugar-heavy, fat-free snacks that pretend to be healthy while quietly plotting your downfall.

And since we are on the subject, oils too are misunderstood. There is nothing good in excess, and some oils are genuinely harmful when overheated or laden with additives. For me, oil is a medium that enhances flavour and provides energy. Ghee works beautifully for parathas. Olive oil brings out the best in pastas and pizzas. Mustard oil gives Indian dishes their character. Coconut oil suits southern food perfectly. Vegetable seed oils with neutral flavours are fine for cutlets and rolls. Toast and buns come alive only with butter.

Another thing that never fails to unsettle me is how some of the people I know, devoted pet lovers all, allow their furry companions to roam freely through the house, kitchen included. That, however, is where I draw the line. Their presence certainly spreads love, but also a fair share of germs, often in proportions that do not quite balance each other. It is best to keep your beloved cat or dog out of the kitchen. The belief that a well-vaccinated pet makes a kitchen safe is another common misconception.

Microwaves too have been wrongly accused of making food radioactive. If that were true, your leftover curry would glow in the dark. In reality, microwaves simply heat food by energising water molecules. They do not alter its structure unless you forget it inside for half an hour, in which case anything is possible. I do not use a microwave very often myself, as I live in a place where those ready-to-eat meals are not available, and every bit of electricity matters since we rely on solar power.

Salt too has been painted as the villain of modern diets. Yet salt is what gives food its life. Without it, every meal would taste like a polite conversation about nothing. Moderation is important, of course, but salt-free soup is little more than warm disappointment.

When it comes to choosing the kind of salt, things get even more complicated. Some people (especially while fasting) avoid sea salt because its production is said to harm marine life, while others prefer rock salt, which is often imported from a country that does not exactly send us friendly greetings. It becomes quite the moral dilemma – salt that may harm sea creatures, or salt that comes from a place with a history of hostility. I find it difficult to take sides, so I simply use my salt with gratitude and restraint.

Vegetarian food often gets dismissed as dull, which is simply unfair. A perfectly spiced potatoes and tomato curry or a well-made mushroom risotto can be nothing short of a revelation. The secret lies in treating vegetables with the same care and respect one reserves for meat. Season them thoughtfully, saute them with attention, and serve them with pride, and they will never disappoint. Similarly, non-vegetarian food often gets labelled as overly fatty or excessively spicy, which is equally unfair. A perfectly grilled fish fillet with a hint of garlic or a smoked chunk of meat can be exquisite and a true game changer.

Also, the notion of ‘pure’ vegetarianism always irks me. I fail to see the appeal of drawing such rigid lines, especially when some of them seem to stem from a subtle sense of superiority.

Finally, people tend to think that cooking is complicated. It is not. It is controlled chaos that ends well. Start with good ingredients, do not panic when things sizzle, and remember that even great cooks have burnt toast.

So there it is, my take on culinary confusions and kitchen myths. Food is meant to be enjoyed, not feared or over-analysed. Eat sensibly, cook joyfully, and for heaven’s sake, stop overeating jaggery. Eat well and adopt an active life-style.

Now if you will excuse me, I have a pot of soup plotting to stick to the bottom while I write this, and I must foil its plans before it wins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Running a homestay is a bit like hosting an endless dinner party. Most guests arrive with warm smiles, eager curiosity, and a genuine love for the hills. Some come to learn about the place and share stories. And then there are those who arrive carrying invisible blueprints and an unshakable belief that they know exactly how the homestay should evolve. Opinions and suggestions don’t just arrive, they pour in like an unexpected monsoon.

Over the years, I’ve collected a delightful range of ‘improvement’ plans. One enthusiastic planner suggested tearing out the lawn to build extra cottages and a cement tennis court, as if the plants were secretly yearning to become a suburban sports complex. Another went further, proposing that we cut down every tree near the cottage because the birds were ‘too noisy’ and left a ‘mess’ beneath their branches. According to him, the ‘view’ would also improve. No trees, no birds, no heartbeat of our homestay either!

These visions are delivered with the brisk confidence of a search engine that forgot to fact-check itself. Mention a kettle and you might receive a lecture on metallurgy. Wonder aloud about the weather and you’ll be treated to a ten-minute forecast on El Nino, La Nina, western disturbances and how they will either dry out the winter or flood the valley, sometimes both. Around the evening tea table or the bonfire, conversations bloom on their own. Someone laments climate change and rising temperatures, another predicts record snowfall using the same data. Politics slips in too, quite frequently. I prefer to keep my political views to myself. The most distressing are the infrastructure development suggestions involving extensive construction work. Though thankfully most of these discussions never turn into actual construction (destruction) at my place.

There is, however, a certain charm in all this unsolicited expertise. A world full of polite nods and timid ‘I don’t knows’ would be dreadfully dull. These self-appointed sages keep the dinner table lively, the group chat scrolling, and the fire crackling with debate. Just the other night, a tipsy gentleman delivered a passionate speech about the dangers of alcohol in the hills, between sips of his fourth glass of whisky.

Children too contribute in their own way. A young boy once asked why I keep my head shaved. I explained that it saves me from the tyranny of shampoo and comb. He then requested I convince his mother of the virtues of going bald. When his parents and I later settled into a chat, the conversation drifted from hair to the persistent moisture in the walls and how ceramic tiles should cover every inch, inside and out. I filed that suggestion in the Not-To-Do list, right next to ‘cemented tennis court on the lawn’. The parents thankfully didn’t discuss the tiles in the coming days, and the kid also didn’t discuss his need for a new hairstyle.

Some guests, when discussing topics they think they’ve mastered, provide perfect opportunities for gentle mischief. I listen carefully, nod thoughtfully, and ask for dates, figures, or concrete details. That’s when confident eyebrows twitch and imagination does the heavy lifting. A warm smile welcomes the inevitable guesswork. It happens often enough to keep my evenings pleasantly entertaining.

Last week, one guest started discussing on how nice it would be to have bright lights all around. Another suggestion gracefully ignored by me. I am surprised at how few people understand the seriousness of light pollution.

Not every suggestion is outrageous. Some are quietly wonderful. Recently someone suggested enjoying morning tea under a tree. Now I often sit with a cup in that shaded spot, a small table by my side. It’s now one of my favourite places to hang around. Sometimes I set up a picnic table there for guests too, and it never fails to delight.

Of course, a few proposals leave me blinking in confusion. A regular visitor once urged me to open a souvenir kiosk near the parking area. At least with her, I’m guaranteed one loyal customer if I ever cave in. Another gentleman raved about the food but thought the presentation needed ‘professional’ touches, perhaps I should get a pair of forceps to position a single leaf of parsley on each cutlet. I thanked him.

There are some suggestions that are there in my mind. Some day, when I have the resources, I will implement them. A small pond, a garden swing, an open gym, some outdoor games, even a sauna !

Suggestions come with every batch of guests, and the steady flow is oddly reassuring. It means people care. A few ideas inspire small upgrades, many land in the ‘interesting but impossible’ folder, and some simply make great stories to share under the stars. Meanwhile, the orchard stays true to itself. Birds still sing at dawn, trees stretch skyward, and the hills remain blissfully uninterested in tennis courts.

My job is not to chase every bright idea but to guard the quiet, living beauty that brought me here in the first place. Some guests may arrive armed with grand plans, but nature keeps the final say and what a comforting truth that is.

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Over the years, I have had the privilege of welcoming many kinds of guests. Each one brings a story, a way of being, a rhythm of life. When I look back, I see that hosting is not just about rooms and meals. It is about moments shared, the laughter that lingers in the air, the quiet conversations under the trees, and the small connections that remain long after people have left.

Some guests come for silence. They arrive from cities full of pollution, noise, rush, and restless nights. Here, they sit beneath apple trees, breathe in the cool mountain air, and let their shoulders finally rest. After a day or two, I see the change in them. Their expressions soften, their movements slow, they smile more, and they look lighter, as if they’ve laid down a burden they didn’t know they were carrying.

Others arrive with restless energy, eager to explore. They want to walk every trail, climb every ridge, taste every herb growing wild along the fence. Through their excitement, I see my own land with fresh eyes. Their questions about plants, birds, and farming practices remind me of how much beauty is hidden in plain sight. Many brim with ideas about what I could add to the orchard or how I might expand its possibilities. While not every suggestion takes root, the exchange itself is energising, and the land feels new again through their wonder and questions.

Families bring their own warmth. Children race across the lawn, their laughter echoing against the hills, while parents discover a rare stillness. I’ve seen kids pull their mothers and fathers into games of uno, tambola, or ludo, keeping them away from their phones and into the present moment. Sometimes I join them, sometimes I simply watch from the side, reminded of how joy can be so simple.

Then there are those who notice the quiet details. They ask about the age of a tree, the history of a path, or the sharpness of a spice. One lady spent nearly her entire stay in the garden, weeding, planting, and caring for the soil as though it were her own. She left behind flowers and kindness that still linger in memory. A group of thoughtful travellers once spent hours in conversation, sharing stories of their faith and way of life, offering me perspectives that led me to look within. And one guest became such a close friend that now he returns like family, helping me with others as if this were his home too. These are the bonds that outlast bookings.

There have, of course, been challenges and lessons too. I have learned that not every guest is the right fit for this place. A homestay is not a hotel; it is first and foremost a home with its own rhythm and values. For it to remain true, harmony matters. Cleanliness matters. Respect for the team working here matters. Most guests understand this instinctively. They treat the cottages gently, honour the effort of those who serve them, and sometimes leave the place even better than they found it. A few, inevitably, do not understand this. In the early days I struggled with this, torn between tolerance and frustration. Over time, I have grown firm yet calm. Protecting the spirit of the place means choosing carefully whom to welcome. Peace of mind and respect for this home are worth more than filling my homestay every day. I have started denying various booking requests.

Food, too, has brought its own share of variety. Over the years I have welcomed vegetarians, vegans, Jains, those who keep kosher, and many who happily enjoy every kind of meal. There have been non-vegetarians with their quirks and preferences. I have hosted guests who practise intermittent fasting, and others who cannot begin their morning without strong coffee and a heavy breakfast. An endless assortment of habits and choices has passed through this dining space. Yet at my table, no one has ever gone hungry. Most guests leave with kind words for the meals, perhaps because each dish carries not only the freshness of the farm and orchard, but also the quiet care and love with which it is prepared. In return, I ask only for understanding. Among other items, my deep-freezer holds some meat for my own use as well, and I am always open about it, even with those who would prefer not to even think about it being there. I have quit alcohol, but don’t mind my guests indulging in it. Hospitality, after all, flows most freely when respect moves both ways.

Some guests love to spend their days outdoors, soaking in the sun, watching clouds drift across the valley, or listening to the wind play through the fruit trees. Others prefer the comfort of the indoors, curled up with books or conversations. I do not mind either way, but I feel happiest when I see people meeting the outdoors as it is – because it is this land, the orchard and its regenerative rhythm, that holds the heart of their stay.

Meals, too, carry their own lessons. At times, food runs late, and my team waits longer than they should, the dishes ready and waiting. Many of them walk from nearby villages, often through forest paths, and their time is precious. Serving meals on time is not only practical; it is an act of care. Food eaten fresh holds its warmth and flavour, richer than when it is reheated again and again. Sometimes a guest hesitates to walk over to the dining area, but most soon adjust, making the short walk part of their day, and discovering that food tastes best when shared at the right time and place.

Hosting has taught me patience, kindness, and clarity. It has shown me that opening one’s home is both a gift and a responsibility. Some guests arrive as strangers and leave as friends. Some remind me to protect the values that shape this place. All, in their own way, leave behind traces – laughter, stories, a shift in perspective, or a deeper appreciation for the land itself.

As I write in the stillness of early morning, before my guests stir, the air is alive with birdsong. Soon footsteps will sound on the stairs, doors will open, and I will share a simple cup of coffee with those who gather, watching the day unfold together.

And so the place lives on, carrying many stories in its silence. Each guest adds something, takes something, and leaves a part of themselves behind. In the end, what remains is simple: people seeking a pause, a connection, a place to belong, if only for a little while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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