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By:

Anandajit Goswami

15 April 2026 at 11:15:27 pm

Lessons from the Mountains

How much of the Himalayas must melt before we rediscover our humanity? I have carried this question for some time. Perhaps it came from the mountains, the rain and the silence. The Himalayas feed rivers, sustain communities and carry memories of centuries. Yet their changing landscape reminds us that nature has limits. We discuss melting glaciers, disappearing water sources and climate change, but too often these remain statistics. What happens when they become part of daily life? I imagine...

Lessons from the Mountains

How much of the Himalayas must melt before we rediscover our humanity? I have carried this question for some time. Perhaps it came from the mountains, the rain and the silence. The Himalayas feed rivers, sustain communities and carry memories of centuries. Yet their changing landscape reminds us that nature has limits. We discuss melting glaciers, disappearing water sources and climate change, but too often these remain statistics. What happens when they become part of daily life? I imagine sitting on those mountains on a rain soaked afternoon, watching clouds descend and the earth being washed clean. In that silence, love arrives. Not the dramatic love we celebrate, but a quieter love that simply sits beside us. And then I ask myself: have I learned to love another human being, or only the idea of humanity? Humanity as an idea is easy to love. The person before us is different. He has fears, weaknesses, anger and wounds. To love a human being requires patience. It requires us to stay. The question stays with me. We often imagine spirituality as a journey away from people, towards mountains, forests and solitude. But perhaps the journey into the mountains is only half the journey. The other half is returning to people. Perhaps we enter the forest not to escape humanity, but to understand it better, and then return to everyday life with a greater ability to see those around us. If spirituality creates distance between us and others, what have we gained? True spirituality should make that distance smaller. It should make us more compassionate, not more detached. We can speak to someone thousands of kilometres away in seconds, but may not know what the person next to us is going through. How much of Nepal do we really reach when we admire its mountains? Perhaps Nepal represents every distant place we admire without truly knowing, every landscape we photograph without understanding, and every suffering we discuss without allowing it to change us. We can cross mountains and borders without ever truly arriving. A journey is complete only when it brings us closer to another human being. Perhaps that is where a spiritual journey becomes meaningful. And then there is violence. A missile can cross the sky in seconds. A bullet can end a life in an instant. But fear travels much faster. It moves from one heart to another and changes the way people see each other. Grief becomes anger, anger becomes hatred, and hatred makes it easier to see another human being as an enemy rather than as a person. At such moments, our philosophies disappear. The mask falls. I imagine looking beside me. I expect to find a gun. But there is no gun. There is a guitar. I do not know who placed it there. Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was music or another human being reminding me that there is a choice. The gun represents hatred, revenge, intolerance and the desire to silence another voice. The guitar represents conversation, empathy and creativity when the world is full of noise. We can decide what we add to the world. We can add to anger, or we can reduce it. We can answer hatred with hatred, or begin a conversation. Every choice shapes society. Perhaps that is where being human really begins. The Himalayas may continue to melt. Rivers may shrink. Fear may return, and guns may continue to speak. But we still have a choice. We can add another weapon to the noise, or pick up the guitar. We can continue speaking the language of fear, or learn the language of compassion. Perhaps spirituality is making that choice again and again. Humanity begins with the person standing next to us. It could be a stranger, neighbour, colleague, or someone we strongly disagree with. The moment we stop seeing that person as another human being and begin to see something of ourselves in him, the distance becomes smaller. The mountains may teach us silence. Rivers may teach us movement. Rain may teach us renewal. But their greatest lesson is simple: we are all standing on the same fragile earth. The world will continue to change, whether we are ready or not. The real question is what we will become while it changes. Where we expected a gun, perhaps there can be a guitar. Perhaps we should begin there. We may not control the future, but we can influence the human atmosphere we leave behind. (The writer is an author and musician. Views personal.)

South India: A Living Heritage

Writer: Archita Redkar
Archita Redkar
Aug 27
3 min read

Beyond the famous temples of Madurai, Mysuru and Thanjavur lies another South India—quieter, more intimate and wonderfully offbeat. It lives in forgotten forts, ancestral mansions, fishing villages, ancient ports, royal palaces and heritage homes where history continues to be lived.


My most unforgettable visit came in 2024, when I travelled with Indian and German travellers. The Germans were fascinated by architecture, food and everyday traditions, while the Indians connected with stories, rituals, cinema and memories. Together, we discovered that travel can become a bridge between cultures.


Our journey explored Southern India’s lesser-known treasures. In Tamil Nadu, the temple towns of the Chola, Pallava and Nayaka dynasties reveal a civilisation where religion, architecture, sculpture, music and administration were interconnected. Darasuram, Chettinad and smaller heritage villages offer a more intimate experience than the better-known Chola temples.


Chettinad was particularly fascinating. The Nattukottai Chettiars built enormous ancestral mansions from wealth accumulated through international trade, banking and commerce. Their architecture combines Tamil craftsmanship with Southeast Asian and European influences. Some are now heritage properties offering courtyards, antique furniture and traditional hospitality.


Mysuru offers the grandeur of the Wadiyar dynasty through the magnificent Mysuru Palace, with its Indo-Saracenic architecture, stained glass and gilded interiors. Padmanabhapuram, near Kanyakumari, tells another royal story. Once the capital of Travancore, its wooden palace showcases Kerala craftsmanship through intricate woodwork, murals and courtyards. Its Uttupura could accommodate around 2,000 people and is traditionally associated with the ruler’s practice of feeding the poor.


The South is equally rich in forts and coastal landscapes. Gingee Fort, the “Troy of the East”, rises over rocky hills, while Vellore Fort, with its granite walls and moat, reflects military power and changing dynasties. Kanyakumari, Kerala and coastal Karnataka offer fishing communities, coconut groves, ancient ports and temples along three seas.


Heritage properties have also given the past new life. In Chettinad, ancestral houses have become intimate heritage stays. The Bangala famously transformed an ancestral home into guest accommodation, while other restored mansions let visitors experience historic courtyards and traditional hospitality.


What fascinated my German travellers most was that heritage is not confined to monuments. It is visible in how people dress, eat, celebrate and live.


The sari tells a regional story: Kanjeevaram silk, Kasavu and Mysuru silk each have a distinct identity. Royal and wealthy families historically favoured rich silks and jewellery, while ordinary women wore simpler cottons suited to climate and daily life. Yet the beauty was about more than wealth—it was about grace, dignity and tradition.


Gold jewellery carries its own social history. Necklaces, harams, bangles, earrings, waist belts, anklets and temple jewellery were part of weddings and ceremonies, representing prosperity, inheritance, status and security. Gold was often passed from mother to daughter as a link between generations.


Food reveals another layer of history. Royal kitchens produced elaborate meals, while everyday households relied on rice, lentils, vegetables, coconut, tamarind, spices and local grains. Many dishes that began in temples, royal kitchens or wealthy homes eventually became part of ordinary cuisine. A banana-leaf meal can bring together generations of culinary history.


Music is another deep thread. Carnatic music, temple music, devotional singing and Bharatanatyam remain living traditions, alongside South India’s enormous passion for cinema.


Tamil, Telugu, Kannada and Malayalam cinema have created some of India’s most influential stars. Superstar culture, major releases, songs, fan clubs and political connections reveal cinema’s deep emotional hold. Its connection with politics is particularly significant in Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Telangana and Karnataka, which have also produced powerful political movements, reformers and social leaders.


Historically, South India was a crossroads of maritime trade, connecting India with Southeast Asia, Arabia and beyond. The Cholas developed considerable maritime influence, while the Deccan and southern kingdoms shaped trade, architecture, language and culture across vast regions.


For me, however, the greatest heritage of Southern India is its people.


Travelling with my German and Indian group in 2024 taught me that heritage becomes meaningful when experienced together. We ate together, admired temples, laughed over unfamiliar customs and compared our cultures. The Germans arrived with questions; the Indians arrived with memories. By the end, everyone carried away stories.


That is the South India I remember—not simply a land of temples, forts, palaces and beaches, but one where dynasties echo through architecture, royal traditions survive in modern homes, gold jewellery carries family memories, saris tell regional stories, food brings strangers together, music fills temples and cinema creates its own kind of royalty.


Perhaps that is why Southern India remains unforgettable. It does not simply show you its heritage—it invites you to live it, taste it, listen to it and become, for a little while, part of its timeless story.


(The writer is a tourism professional and runs a company, Global Voyages. She could be contacted at goglobalvoyages@gmail.com. Views personal.)

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