සංචාරක සීසන් එක

Yaar, this tourism talk reminds me of my own shop here by the bus stand. Every monsoon, a few lost tourists wander in asking for directions to some heritage hotel, and I send them to Chacha's guest house two streets over — he runs it clean, charges fair, and feeds them real Rajasthani food, not that five-star nonsense. The government keeps talking about guide licenses and seasonal permits, but bas, my father always said: "The road knows the traveller better than the paperwork." I just hope these new schemes don't squeeze out the Chachas who've been doing this right for forty years.

Aiyo, that’s pesticide resistance, brother. The pests that survive your spray breed and pass on that toughness. Soon, the whole new generation just laughs at your old bottle. In our fields here, I see farmers spraying more and more, thinking the brand failed. But life isn't that simple. My own cousin lost half his brinjal crop learning this—his constant, heavy sprays made the shoot borers stronger, not his plants. Now we push for crop rotation and neem cake. The land needs balance, not just a chemical war.

Ah, pesticide companies will tell you the bugs become resistant—like my students memorising answers without understanding. But in my orchard, I saw the real truth: the chemicals made the soil tired and lonely. We stopped the little fungi and worms that once helped the trees fight illness on their own. Now, my neighbour's son uses neem oil and cow dung mixture, and his apples shine without that expensive bottle. I spent thirty years buying stronger sprays, only to realise I was weakening the very land my father left me.

In tea, we call it resistance—the pests learn to survive, like children learning to dodge a scolding. You must rotate chemicals, like rotating musicians in a band, so the beat keeps changing. What truly makes me say this is watching a whole hillside of tender leaves ruined one season, all because we got lazy and used the same solution. Now, my field manager and I share a morning chiya and a ledger of sprays, as careful as tuning an instrument.

The insects learn, my dear. Just like how children master a game, pests develop resistance when we use the same "medicine" on them again and again. In our labs, I see this through the microscope—the few survivors pass on their strength. That is why we must be like nature, clever and changing. We are now making sprays from neem and other plants, so the pests cannot learn so easily. *Bhagirathi garuvu cheyaku, manaki telisina danini marchali* — do not rely only on the familiar river, we must also learn new paths.

Arrey, it’s like those mosquitoes in my house—they learn! The bugs build resistance, yaar. The same spray won’t scare them anymore. My own fields saw it last season; the whitefly laughed at my usual bottle, and my cousin-brother in the next village had the same headache. Now I mix in neem oil sometimes, keep them guessing!

In my life, I see it like traffic finding a new route. The pests become stronger, like weeds breaking through concrete. But for me, the real worry is what else changes when that happens—what new chemicals they start using that end up on our vegetables. I think of this every time I wash chillies for my daughter's lunch, scrubbing hard, never feeling it's *baaga* clean.

अजी, स्पाइडर-मैन की बात सुन के मुझे अपने गाँव का वो बच्चा याद आ गया जो बरसात में पुरानी रस्सी से झूला बनाकर "मैं नेटवाला हूँ" चिल्लाता था। उसकी कल्पना में न तो शहर के ऊँचे भवन थे, न चकाचौंध, सिर्फ देवदार के पेड़ और खुदरा की ज़मीन। हम पहाड़ों पर अपनी कहानियाँ खुद बुनते हैं, उसी में असली जादू है।

Vedika Pinto's new resort in Daman might bring more tourists our way this season, which would be welcome. Still, I wonder if these big projects will follow the same licensing rules as my cousin's tiny guesthouse in Diu, which took three monsoons to get approved. Fairness is in the details, bhai.

Kong, when the monsoon shifts, my right knee knows before the forecast. That’s when I know the tourists will come. They talk of big hotels and guide licenses, but I say the real travel is in the small moments—sharing a plate of momos and a cup of ja with someone new. My stall doesn’t need a star; it has the warmth of generations.

My granddaughter in Shimla tells me the hotels are full this season, but last year the same ones were empty. I asked the chai-wala near the bus stand—he says the guide licenses are easier to get now, but the real test is whether the monsoon road repairs hold. I remember climbing poles in the rain; if the government doesn't fix the landslides first, no number of tourists will save the small guesthouses.

அடேங்கப்பா, இந்த டூரிஸ்ட் சீசன் வந்தா எங்க ஊர் சின்ன கடைகளுக்கெல்லாம் கொஞ்சம் நல்லதுதான் — ஆனா அந்த பெரிய ஹோட்டல் ரகளைகிட்டே போய் நிக்கறதில்லை. நேற்று இரவு டியூட்டியில் இருந்தப்ப காலை 4 மணிக்கு ஒரு வெளிநாட்டு அம்மா 'BP check' வேணும்னு வந்தாங்க, கையில ஒரு சின்ன கடித்த காயம் — நான் 'band-aid' எடுத்து வச்சேன், எதுக்கும் தேவலாம்னு சேகரிச்ச டிசைன் பேண்ட்-எய்டுதான். இந்த கேஸ்ட் ஹவுஸ் ஆளுங்க யாருக்கும் எந்தப் பக்கமும் பழக்கமில்லை, ராத்திரி நேரத்துல தனியா வந்துட்டுப் போறது — நமக்குத் தெரிஞ்ச காலத்து முறையா? கொஞ்சம் சந்தேகம்தான்.

बेटा, *The Odyssey* की बात सुनकर याद आया — हमारे यहाँ मोहल्ले में एक बूढ़े मुल्ला जी रहते थे, जो कहा करते थे कि असली सफर तो घर से निकलने से पहले दिल में शुरू हो जाता है। पर जब मैं अपनी छत पर तुलसी को पानी देता हूँ और नीचे सड़क पर गाइडों को टूरिस्टों को ले जाते देखता हूँ, तो लगता है — काश हमारे छोटे गेस्ट हाउस वाले भाइयों को भी कोई सीखा दे कि मेहमान को सिर्फ कमरा नहीं, बल्कि ठंडा पानी और चाय की प्याली भी चाहिए होती है। सरकार ने जो नए लाइसेंस के नियम बनाए हैं, उनकी रद्दी में अटके लोगों का कोई सुनवाई नहीं करता, मगर हम अपने पड़ोस में ही दो चार भाइ

Ayyo, Christopher Nolan making time all bendy and backwards again — reminds me of the old clock-tower near the toddy shop that hasn't worked since the '88 flood. Everyone says to fund a government repair, but our local watchman, Kunju, fixed it for two days with a bicycle chain and some coconut oil. Sheri, the big solutions always miss the small ones right under our noses.

येड्याच्या शेजारच्या पाड्यावर एक छोटं गेस्ट हाऊस उघडलं, त्याचं पाणी मात्र आठवड्यातून दोनदाच येतं. एखाद्या सर्व्हेक्षणाने म्हटलं आहे की पर्यटकांची संख्या मॉनसूननंतर दुप्पट होते, पण त्यांना तिथल्या पाण्याची समस्या सांगितली का? मला वाटतं, अगोदर मूलभूत सुविधा ठरवून देणं हे लायसन्सपेक्षा जास्त महत्त्वाचं आहे.

આપણા મોહલ્લે નવા ફૂડ વોક ટૂર શરૂ થયો છે, બેતા. વકીલ સાહેબનો દીકરો ટૂરિસ્ટ બનીને લોકોને ગલી-ગલી ફેરવે છે, માત્ર ત્રણ ઘંટામાં પાંચસો રૂપિયા ચાર્જ કરે છે. પર પાડોશણ બેન કહે, "લાઇસન્સ તો કોઈએ પૂછ્યો જ નથી," અને મને ખ્યાલ આવ્યો કે સાચી નોકરી તો આ ગાઇડને મળી, બાકી ઘરના રસોડાંની વેચાણ બધાને કરવી આવડે છે.

ഇന്ന് സ്കൂളിൽ പത്താം ക്ലാസിലെ ബേബി ടൂറിസം പാഠം പറയുമ്പോ, "സീസൺ" എന്ന ഇംഗ്ലീഷ് വാക്ക് കേട്ടപ്പോ മനസ്സിൽ ഒന്നു പതിഞ്ഞു. എന്റെ അമ്മൂമ്മയുടെ ഏലത്തോട്ടത്തിലൂടെ നടക്കുമ്പോൾ, ചെറിയ മഴക്കാലത്തും അവിടെ എപ്പോഴും ഒരു തണുത്ത പച്ചനിറമുണ്ടാകും; അത് ഒരു സീസണുകളില്ലാത്ത സമ്പത്തല്ലേ? കോളേജ് ഫീസ് കൂടുതൽ ആയതുകൊണ്ട് ഇപ്പോൾ പല ചെറിയ ഗെസ്റ്റ് ഹൗസുകളും തുടങ്ങാൻ നോക്കുന്ന കുടുംബങ്ങളെ കാണുന്നു, അവരുടെ പുതിയ നിയമങ്ങൾ എല്ലാവർക്കും

Tumchea bazaarantlim tourist foreign coins bhettouna, tankam guide license mhonn zalear kitem? Government sarkha map zalear, fakt hotelchea permits bhavank lagun delay zata. Pramannem, amka tech kartab korta, khali license sodun?

The Education Minister wants to ‘skill’ our youth for the new economy, but has he sat in a tea garden at xopun, watching the pluckers’ children learn the alphabet by torchlight? My bhaiti’s engineering fees climb every year, yet his government college still teaches from a 2015 textbook—I’d rather trust the old mali who taught me to read the monsoon clouds than any Delhi policy that hasn’t seen our mud roads.

My cousin’s friend just got her guide license after two years of committee meetings. Meanwhile, that guest house down the road put up a new sign in English last week and is already full. Like my sister always says, the market finds the path through the jungle before the office even opens. It’s the same with these seasons.

Last season, two guests from Andhra left their expensive wristwatch in my gym’s lost-and-found box. I fixed the strap with duct tape before posting it back, no charge. It feels yaipha when small acts build a longer season for everyone, not just the big hotels.

In our village, the tourists come only when the coffee blossoms — the rest of the year, it’s just us and the *aane hathi* of the monsoon. I watch them arrive with their cameras and leave before the real silence settles, never staying long enough to hear the rain on the tin roof. Makes me think of the old guide who used to live here, before the big hotel chains bought the permits — he knew when the *kapi* berries would ripen, not just the season.

At our primary school here, the children learn a simple English rhyme: "For every season, turn, turn..." I think of this when I see the tour buses stop coming after Sharad Purnima. The small dhaba near the bus stand lets two boys go, and their father, my friend, worries quietly. For such families, the 'off-season' is not a theory in a book; it is an empty charpai and a waiting silence.

Last week, a guide from Kaziranga was here, his license suspended for some new rule. His bhatij took over his jeep tours, but the family's potol curry has less fish now. This "Dhamaal" of changing papers... our mela committee, we just decide our own stall fees and dates, no asking. The real season is set by the river, not their files.

Mere salon ke neeche wali gali mein ab tourist buses ka shor hai, lekin main sochti hoon — woh log kya jaante hain ki aadhe guesthouse to abhi bhi apna renovation loan nahi chuka paaye? Kal ek client aayi thi, uske pati ko guide ka license lene mein do saal lage, aur ab bade online agents poora commission khaa rahe hain.