The “Free” Mount Abu of Yesteryear.
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| Mount Abu. |
Every hill station has its charm, but Mount Abu has something rarer—a soul. My earliest memories, my footsteps, my writing, and my identity all weave it. Long before tourists discovered it, long before traffic filled its winding roads, Abu was a quiet paradise perched above the plains—a little world of its own.
I often say that I didn’t just grow up in Mount Abu.
Mount Abu grew up inside me. This is my reflection on the Abu of yesterday, the Abu of today, and the Abu I carry within me always.
The “Free” Mount Abu of Yesteryear
There was a time when Mount Abu felt like a place untouched by the noise of the world. A small, tranquil hill station where mornings began with birdsong and evenings slipped into silence so deep you could hear the wind whisper through the pines.
Back then, Abu was not accessible. It was exclusive—not by design, but by nature. The British once used it as a summer retreat, a place to escape the desert heat. Even decades later, that exclusivity lingered in its air. There was dignity in Abu’s quietness, an understated elegance born from solitude.
Declaring Mount Abu a wildlife sanctuary in 1960 acknowledged its sacredness. The forests, teeming with wildlife; the clear, starlit nights; the serene slopes of the Aravallis—everything seemed in harmony. The stories of sages and ascetics, who once sought enlightenment here, felt believable.
Infrastructure was minimal, but that was its charm. A handful of hotels, a few restaurants, a market that closed early, and nature everywhere you looked. Visiting Abu in those days felt like entering a slower, more peaceful world—a world where every walk was a meditation, every sunset a gift.
That was the Mount Abu of my childhood.
free, gentle, intimate, and alive in its quietude.
The “Zoo” of Today
Then the world changed—and with it, so did Abu.
From the 1980s onward, tourism in Rajasthan surged, and our little hill station became a magnet. Being the state’s only hill retreat, Abu attracted a rush of visitors seeking cool weather, greenery, and a break from city life.
And then all of a sudden, the crowds grew.
Hotels mushroomed.
Shops multiplied.
Roads filled with buses, cars, and honking horns.
Nakki Lake—once the heart of stillness—became a carnival.
Toad Rock transformed from a viewpoint into a queue.
Even the forests felt the strain as footfall, construction, and traffic nibbled at the sanctuary’s fragile edges.
Economic growth came, yes. Tourism provided livelihoods, opportunities, and a pulse to the local economy. But the delicate charm that made Abu special faded under the weight of development.
