India, July 14 -- Thirteen years ago, as I cycled through the narrow lanes of Burwa gaon (village), nestled in the Himalayas and surrounded by apple-laden trees, little did I know that I would witness its transformation in just a few years. Those lanes now comfortably accommodate bulky SUVs. I don't particularly cherish it, but as they say change is the only constant; so I swallowed it like a bitter pill. My first visit to this splendid place was unplanned. During a cycling camp in Manali, I crossed the village and incidentally met a ski champion who represented India internationally. Over time, our bond deepened, and my visits became frequent. I fondly remember sitting on the terrace of her home, chatting with her parents and gazing at their extended family (a cow and her calf) across the road in a straw-laden shack. Sparrows would flutter around, pecking at the sun-drying apricots and apples. Basking in the gentle sunlight, with a soft mountain breeze caressing my cheeks and the snow-capped mountains and perfect tree-line in the background, I felt as though I were the part of a beautiful painting. Back then people would wave with affection as they passed by. Young mothers, draped in hand-woven pattus (traditional woollen shawl), giving a joy ride to the toddlers on their backs, strolled in the lanes. On special days, the local devta (deity) would pass through the village with a band, spreading cheer and colour. Meals were simple yet soul-satisfying, homegrown rajma (kidney beans), stone-ground mint chutney enriched with walnuts or apricot kernels, and generous dollops of ghee or butter churned from the milk of their beloved cow. A portion of every meal was reserved for the cow. A feast would comprise meticulously crafted siddu (a Himachali dish), prepared by the entire family, with even neighbours joining in. During a recent visit, I witnessed the change. The lanes were crowded with cars, leaving little space for pedestrians. The bridge that once offered a view of apple orchards now opens to luxury hotels echoing loud music. Conversations that once took place face-to-face now happen over phone screens with children having moved out to cities. Grandmothers carry toddlers, while young mothers zoom off on scootys, rushing to work and juggling city-like work/life balance. Teenagers and young adults, who once played joyfully, are now found intoxicated, needing help from elders just to get home safely. I slept off thinking about the change I'd encountered. The next morning offered some relief. I woke up to the sound of logs being unloaded from a truck in front of the house. Young and middle-aged men, including those who were tipsy the previous evening, were engaged in the task despite the rain. Upon asking, I was told, "Gaon ki beti ki shaadi hai, khaana isi lakdi pe banega (It's the village daughter's wedding, the food will be cooked on this firewood)". Interestingly, all of this was being managed without the direct involvement of the would-be bride's kin. My friend's home, too, was getting a fresh coat of paint, because guests coming for the wedding would be staying with them. She proudly said, "Beti ki shaadi mein mehmaan hotel mein nahi rahenge (Guests at a daughter's wedding won't stay in hotels)." This, even though they now own a hotel themselves! It was at that moment, I felt the essence of my favourite Burwa again. Beneath the branded jackets, smart phones, and modern facade, the heart of Burwa still beats with the spirit of community. I was reminded of a sociologist friend who often says, "Community is the real immunity", a sentiment Burwa reflects despite the change....