A doom with a view: Rethinking tourism in India’s hill stations

The hills are alive with the sound of music/

With songs, they have sung for a thousand years/

The hills fill my heart with the sound of music/

My heart wants to sing every song it hears

 

These immortal lines from the 1965 classic ‘The Sound of Music’ would surely never have been sung if Julie Andrews were visiting one of the popular hill stations in India in the summer of 2025.

 

For the summer of 2025 has brought more than just seasonal heat to India — it has exposed a simmering crisis that’s reshaping the country’s tourism economy. From deserts to coasts, temples to tea gardens, and especially the hill stations that crown our geography, India is grappling with a question that defines its future: How much is too much?

Every summer, I make it a point to visit a hill destination with my family. While I travel to exotic places around the world throughout the year as a frequent traveller, in recent years, I have started preferring Indian destinations during the summer.

This shift happened after spending many consecutive May and June months in London over the years.

Tourism in India is undergoing a seismic shift. What was once a largely seasonal, purpose-driven activity — whether for pilgrimage, leisure, or heritage — has now evolved into a persistent, all-year phenomenon. Spurred by post-pandemic travel surges, social media-fuelled wanderlust, rising disposable incomes, and senior citizens on the go, the scale and pace of tourism have become relentless. In many regions, especially those known for natural beauty and historical charm, the line between promotion and exploitation is wearing thin.

This surge is not without cost. The very cultures, ecosystems, and community rhythms that attract tourists are now at risk of being eroded by them. In several states, age-old customs are being replaced by performance routines for camera-wielding visitors. Local languages are disappearing under the pressure of homogenised hospitality in English. Artisans are abandoning traditional crafts for souvenir-centric products, dictated not by heritage but by demand. 

At the heart of this transformation lies a policy vacuum. Despite its diversity, India lacks a unified and enforceable national tourism framework that prioritises sustainability. Local authorities are often under-resourced, reactive, and politically constrained. In sharp contrast, nations like Switzerland have long demonstrated what structured, sustainable tourism can look like. In Swiss alpine towns, for example, carrying capacities are non-negotiable. Visitor caps, zoning restrictions, and dedicated tourism police units ensure that tourism never overwhelms the host environment. Public transport systems are synchronised with visitor flows, and violators of environmental norms face immediate penalties.

The last two summers, I visited Manali and Gangtok, and this year, I’m heading to Chail near Shimla. No matter where I go, the questions always remain the same.

Kanchenjunga Peaks from Sikkim 

 

In India, however, the mechanisms to manage tourist behaviour are nearly absent. ‘Tourism police’, where they exist, are symbolic. Civic education for travellers is minimal while regulation is patchy at best. Beaches are overrun with plastic. Forested trails are dotted with graffiti and litter. Lakes and rivers that once inspired poetry now bear the brunt of chemical runoffs and untreated sewage. Even national parks, which ought to be sanctuaries, are witnessing reckless tourism — from illegal safaris to overcrowded buffer zones.

This unchecked growth is especially alarming in India’s hill stations.

What were once enclaves of solitude and ecological balance have now become victims of their own success. From Shimla and Mussoorie to Darjeeling, Ooty, and Kodaikanal, the crisis is as visible as it is urgent. Domestic tourism to India’s hill states has surged dramatically in recent years, far outpacing pre-pandemic levels. Improved road and rail infrastructure, cheaper accommodations, and the post-Covid craving for “green escapes” have turned these once-idyllic towns into chaos zones.

Consider Shimla, a town originally built for 25,000 daily visitors. During peak seasons now, it often hosts 70,000 to 80,000 people. In January 2024, over 50,000 outstation vehicles entered Shimla, creating gridlocks that stalled emergency services and paralysed daily life. In Nainital, tourist vehicles choke the narrow approach roads, and boating queues extend for hours. The Madras High Court recently mandated an e-pass system in Kodaikanal to control vehicular access after waste volumes exceeded processing capacity tenfold during summer holidays.

But the numbers only tell part of the story. The real crisis is experienced by those who call these towns home.

Locals face acute shortages of water, fuel, and essential services during peak months. In Shimla, according to the Shimla Jal Prabandhan Nigam Limited (SJPNL), water availability per person plummets considerably as hotels are prioritised over households. Waste management systems collapse under pressure. Manali generates over 70 tonnes of waste daily in summer, with much of it ending up in rivers and forests. Landour, an idyllic corner of the Uttarakhand hills, has gone from being the pin-drop haven for the likes of Ruskin Bond and Victor Banerjee to a postcard cliche, fraying under the weight of weekend crowds and commercial clutter. In Darjeeling, the conversion of homes into boutique guesthouses has inflated rents and forced many families to move to the outskirts.

The irony is stark: what is leisure for the visitor often becomes a burden for the resident.

And this pattern is not unique to India. Globally, cities like Amsterdam and Barcelona have long grappled with the fallout of overtourism. In Amsterdam, locals have protested against the deluge of visitors, blaming it for rent inflation, social alienation, and the city’s transformation into a “theme park for adults”. Barcelona, meanwhile, has seen hundreds of protests under banners like “Barcelona is Not for Sale”, demanding limits on cruise ship arrivals and Airbnb listings. These cities have since introduced caps on rentals, tourist taxes, and redirection of tourist flows to less-frequented neighbourhoods.

The Indian response, by comparison, remains piecemeal. Initiatives like Tamil Nadu’s e-pass system and Himachal Pradesh’s proposed entry caps are steps in the right direction. But they need robust data, strict enforcement, and community buy-in to be meaningful.

A new path is both necessary and possible.

First, India must diversify its tourism narrative. National and state tourism boards need to promote lesser-known destinations — such as Valparai in Tamil Nadu, Ziro in Arunachal Pradesh, or Chaukori in Uttarakhand — which offer stunning experiences without the burden of overexposure. Sustainable travel is not about limiting experiences but redistributing them intelligently.

Second, mobility models must be reimagined. Hill stations should invest in clean, efficient, and scenic public transit — electric buses, ropeways, and pedestrian paths are vital. Parking zones should be set up at entry points, and last-mile mobility solutions should be eco-sensitive and scalable.

Third, local communities must be empowered. Tourism revenue should be ring-fenced for local infrastructure: healthcare, fire services, water systems, and waste management. Municipal bodies must have both the autonomy and the funds to plan for tourist seasons. Town halls, gram sabhas, and civil society must have a seat at the tourism table.

Fourth, India needs a functional tourism police system — not merely for safety, but for visitor education and civic enforcement. These units should help maintain public order, protect cultural sites, and support travellers while upholding community norms.

 

The most important issue remains the lack of proper public washrooms.

We often prioritise opening Starbucks and pizzerias in remote hill stations, yet we still struggle to provide decent washroom facilities, even though we are willing to pay for their maintenance.

It’s often said that where the beauty of the Swiss Alps ends, the mountain beauty of Leh-Ladakh begins. I personally witnessed this during my journey from Manali to Leh. However, sadly, the basic facilities in the region are nowhere near the standards of Switzerland.

At Baralacha Pass — enroute Manali to Leh

 

This remains one of the main reasons we are unable to firmly establish this region on the world tourist map.

  

Technology, too, can be a powerful ally. AI-based dashboards to track visitor flows, traffic, and pollution can guide real-time responses. Mobile apps can nudge tourists toward low-footfall attractions, eco-responsible practices, and local businesses. Citizen charters, QR-coded walking tours, and gamified zero-waste incentives can transform how we engage with destinations.

Most importantly, the mindset of the Indian traveller must evolve. Respect, not entitlement, should define the tourist ethic. Nature is not a backdrop; it is a living system. Communities are not hosts — they are stewards. Travel should enrich both the visitor and the visited.

India’s hill stations are more than geographical elevations. They are repositories of history, literature, and cultural resonance. To let them buckle under the weight of tourism would not just be an ecological loss — it would be a civilisational mistake.

This article was published in Aryavrat magazine