By Aishwarya Bhargava Chakraborty
“The mountains are calling, but they no longer sound the same.”— Anonymous
There are places we visit, and then there are places that become a part of who we are that make a home in our soul. Mussoorie, for me, was never just a hill station, it has been a rhythm of my childhood, the fragrance of my memories, the canvas of my dreams. But the Mussoorie that I knew, the place that I love with all my heart, is slowing fading, like mist evaporating in the morning sun.
I remember waking up to the sound of birds not cars. The call of the koel, the hush of deodars whispering in the wind, and people enjoying the bright morning sunshine – those were the sounds of Mussoorie mornings. All this seems to be lost somewhere, where the sounds of birds have been replaced by honking cars.
There was a time when the skies of Mussoorie weren’t crowded with buildings. When you could stand at Lal Tibba and feel the stillness kiss your soul. When Camel’s Back Road wasn’t packed with selfie sticks, but with people who walked in silence, hand in hand, just soaking in the soft glow of the setting sun. That’s the Mussoorie I grew up in. The one where monsoons wrapped the town in silver mist, and everything- every leaf, every rock, every narrow lane, looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. The one where every corner café had conversations and warmth, not phone screens and noise.
But progress, as they call it, came marching in, with bulldozers and blueprints, hotel chains and parking lots. And the trees- those tall, ancient trees that had stood watching over our hills for generations, began to fall, one after another. Not because of storms or time, but because of steel and cement. It feels like a betrayal. Like watching someone flip through your childhood photo album only to tear out the pages one by one.
I walk down Mall Road now and struggle to find even a glimpse of the charm that once defined it. The quaint little bookstores have been replaced by identical cafés, and the old benches where elderly people once sat sharing stories of the past, are now hidden behind flashy shops all shouting for attention. I remember the silence of Landour, the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty, but one that felt sacred, like a soft prayer held by the hills. Now, even there, the constant hum of construction breaks the peace, disturbing the quiet harmony that once made the place feel like a hymn whispered by the mountains themselves.
Mussoorie is not like other places. She was never meant to be loud. She was a retreat. A pause. A breath. She was meant for writers, poets, wanderers, for those who weren’t looking for excitement, but for quiet. For the soft sound of leaves, the silence between raindrops, and a kind of calm that stays with you, like a memory you hold close. One of our most renowned authors, Mr Ruskin Bond once wrote, “And when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.” But I wonder if he feels the same now. Does he too feel sad when he sees the hills he once brought to life with his words, now touched by the changes of time?
Mussoorie isn’t just losing its trees, it’s losing its soul.
People are cutting down trees to make space for roads, resorts, and replicas of dreams that don’t belong here. But those trees… they remember. They remember the laughter of school children walking back from class. They remember lovers carving initials into their bark. They remember the first snow of every winter, gently catching it in their leaves.
When a tree falls in Mussoorie, it isn’t just timber. Its history. Its memory. Its magic being erased.
And the stars, the stars used to shine like someone had spilled a thousand diamonds across a velvet sky. Now, they fight to be seen through the smoke of exhaust fumes and the haze of streetlights that never turn off.
Even the people are different now. The old shopkeepers who knew you by name have retired or left. The warmth of community has been replaced by the chill of transaction. There’s a rush now, a desperation in the air. Tourists come not to feel, but to consume. And somewhere along the way, the quiet charm of this place has been dressed up and put on display.
What used to be a poem is now a pamphlet.
And yet… in rare moments, when the fog rolls in thick and fast, when the winds howl through the valleys like old spirits remembering, you can still catch a glimpse of the Mussoorie that was. You can still smell the earth after rain. You can still hear the echoes of children’s laughter among the hills.
She’s still beautiful. But it’s a quiet, bruised beauty now. The kind that makes your heart ache. The kind that makes you weep not because it’s ugly, but because you know how much more beautiful it once was.
This is not just nostalgia. This is not resistance to change. This is a plea, for preservation. For love. For balance. Mussoorie doesn’t need more malls or mega-projects. What she needs is protection. Respect. Reverence.
If we keep carving her heart out in the name of convenience, we’ll wake up one day to a ghost town wrapped in pretty lights, with no soul left behind the glitter.
And the children of tomorrow will walk her streets and never know what it felt like to run through the mist and believe in magic.
Let Mussoorie breathe again. Let the trees stand tall. Let the silence return. Let the butterflies come back.
I don’t want to visit Mussoorie one day as a stranger to the place that raised me. I want to grow old with her, to sit by the window of my childhood home, watching the clouds roll in, and know that the mountain I loved still remembers me too.
If you have ever been touched by this town, by her rain-soaked mornings, her golden dusks, her cold nights warmed by stories, then I ask you: love her enough to protect her.
She is not just a destination. She is a dream. A living memory. A whispered prayer.
Please don’t let her die…
