People ask me this a lot. Why don’t I run more trips? Why don’t I scale? Why am I sitting on
what could be a much bigger business?
And honestly, I used to wonder the same thing.
There’s this voice that whispers to every small business owner: grow bigger, reach more people,
maximize the opportunity. It’s not a bad voice. It’s just… not mine anymore.
Here’s the thing about working in the mountains—you don’t need a manifesto to understand
what matters. You need to pay attention. You need to sit with the land long enough to feel the
difference between visiting and belonging.
I grew up between two worlds. Haridwar taught me what sacred means. Manali taught me what
fragile means. And somewhere between those two places, I learned the difference between
building a business and building a life.
The Turning Point
Before The Mountain Child existed, I was doing the commercial travel circuit. Good routes, yes.
But crowded routes. The kind where you’re moving 40 people through a valley that remembers
when 4 would have been enough. I wasn’t bad at it—I was actually quite good. But “good at
selling experiences” started to feel hollow when I realized I was part of the problem I hated.
In 2018, I walked away from that world. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just… quietly. I chose
to lead smaller treks instead. Chose homestay work over hotel commissions. Chose to stay in
one place and know it deeply rather than chase seasonal income across five regions.
People said it wasn’t a smart business move.
They were probably right. But it was the only move that let me sleep at night.
What I’ve Actually Learned
Everyone talks about “saving the planet.” But here’s what I’ve realized after years in these
mountains: the planet doesn’t need saving. We do.
The earth has been here for billions of years. It will correct itself, with or without us. What’s
fragile isn’t the mountain—it’s our ability to see ourselves as part of it rather than just passing
through it.
I’ve watched villages I love turn into pit stops. Sacred sites become Instagram backdrops. Quiet
rivers become crowded spectacles. And every single time, it happened because
someone—maybe lots of someones—loved a place to death without realizing it.
That scared me enough to change what I do.
What “Fewer Journeys” Actually Means
I work with small groups. Less than a hundred people a year, often much less. I say no a lot.
Yes, my trips cost more than a standard travel agency—but they’re nowhere near resort pricing
either. They sit in that middle ground because running an honest, independent operation in the
mountains requires something that doesn’t scale: actual care.
It requires knowing the families you work with by name, not by “local partner.” It requires
understanding that the village you’re visiting isn’t a theme park, it’s someone’s home. It requires
saying no to people who have money because the land has already given what it can give that
season.
Is it the most profitable way to run a business? No.
Is it the only way I can run this business and still respect the place and people I work with? Yes.
The Honest Part
I’m not here to teach you about sustainability. I’m not an influencer preaching the rules of
responsible travel. Honestly, I’m still figuring it out as I go. Some days I make choices that feel
wrong. Some weeks I wonder if I’m even doing enough.
But this much I know: if a single person can choose a slower, simpler way—without running a
megacorp, without chasing virality—then maybe the choice is less about being extraordinary
and more about being necessary.
Sustainable travel isn’t really about rules, anyway. It’s about awareness. It’s about knowing
when your presence adds something and when it takes something away. It’s about stepping
forward when you’re meant to, and stepping back when you’re not.
If You Ever Come to the Mountains
Maybe you’re thinking about visiting Manali. Maybe you’re wondering if it’s worth choosing a
smaller journey, a quieter experience, a slower pace. Or maybe you’re just trying to figure out
how to travel in a way that doesn’t leave you feeling guilty afterward.
If this resonates, then something’s already shifted.
If you do find yourself here, let’s sit under the stars some evening. We can talk about where
you’ve been, what you loved, what you left behind. We can listen to some music. We can be
quiet together.
Because at the end of the day, that’s what this is really about: connection. Not to more places,
but to fewer places, more deeply. Not to more experiences, but to the kind of experiences that
actually change you.
“I know what I want, but I just don’t want to want it.”
🎸
And maybe—just maybe—what we need is already right here in the mountains.