“You Can Keep Instagram and Still Save the Planet — Here’s What Ladakh Taught Me”

Sonam Wangdus writes about the Himalayas, environmental law, sustainability, and conscious living through the lens of his upbringing in Ladakh. A BBA, LLB graduate from a National Law University, he studied at Druk Padma Karpo School and SECMOL, experiences that shaped his understanding of both traditional knowledge and modern legal frameworks. Through his work, he seeks to bridge local wisdom with contemporary environmental and social challenges.

You have seen these videos: the sun-drenched, impossibly clean kitchen, an influencer stirring a perfectly ripe avocado, their voice soft and soothing as they talk about living sustainably. It all feels inspiring — a new era, a greener you. You follow the page, maybe even order a bamboo toothbrush, and for a few glorious days, it feels like you are saving the planet one reel at a time.

Then reality hits — harder than a soggy cloth bag.

That influencer may live in a forest cabin, an eco-conscious neighbourhood, or at least have a backyard big enough for a cow and a compost pit. Your reality, meanwhile, may be a second-floor flat with no balcony, nosy neighbours, and a housing society that still treats segregation bins like alien technology.

Maybe you tried some of those eco-tips anyway. You rinsed out an old pizza box to reuse it, only to watch it disintegrate in your hands. You carried a cloth bag that permanently smelled of onions because “plastic is evil”. You even attempted DIY composting in a corner of your apartment, until the room smelled like something between a science experiment and a crime scene. Your friends did not call you inspiring — they called you insane. One of them may even have asked if you were training to live on Mars.

That is when the bigger question begins to creep in: Is this even worth it?

The irony is that sustainability was never meant to feel like punishment. It is not about living with less joy, fewer choices, or endless guilt. It is about finding balance: meeting your needs today without taking from tomorrow.

When you start cutting off everything that brings you comfort, you are not being sustainable — you are just being miserable. And sooner or later, that guilt-driven exhaustion pushes people in the opposite direction: binge-shopping, takeout boxes, and endless scrolling.

Yes, many influencers sell a version of “eco-perfection” because it photographs well. Their lifestyles are often isolated, curated, or sponsored. But the truth is simpler: you do not need to quit your job, move to a mountain, or build a mud house to live sustainably.

In fact, the answer may be hiding in a lesson that many traditional communities understood long before sustainability became a social media trend.

Sustainable living already exists — quietly, steadily — in the communities we often overlook.

In tribal and mountain societies, especially across the Himalayas, people have long lived in harsh environments while caring deeply for their surroundings and still finding immense joy in everyday life. I say this not from a YouTube video or a book, but from experience. I was born and raised in one such community.

From childhood in the mountains to adulthood in the city, I have realised that sustainability is not a checklist. It is a way of thinking.

More importantly, it is a way of thinking that can work whether you live in a Himalayan village or a crowded apartment block. The goal is not to copy traditional life. The goal is to understand the principles behind it.

Rethinking recycling

Take recycling, for example.

Most of us misunderstand the word. We think it means keeping an old plastic bottle as a water bottle, saving every delivery box “for later”, or hoarding scraps of paper for a mythical art project that never happens. We call it sustainability; our parents call it clutter. The truth is, recycling is not about turning your home into a scrapyard of good intentions. It is not about saving junk. It is about preserving purpose.

In the mountains where I grew up, recycling is not a trend — it is a way of life. Nothing is truly thrown away; it is simply transformed.

Take dry toilets, for instance. Human waste is not flushed away with gallons of water — a practice that can waste thousands of litres of clean water every year. Instead, it is turned into compost that nourishes the soil.

Or consider the sun-dried mud bricks used in construction. Made from earth and strengthened by the sun, they eventually crumble back into the ground, ready to become part of the landscape again.

But you do not need to live in a village or own a compost pit to follow that principle. You can practise it in an apartment, at the office, or on a metro ride. It is not about what you reuse as much as how you think about resources.

True recycling is about embracing a different kind of flow. It means buying clothes that last, not trends that fade. A shirt that survives five years is better than five shirts that survive five washes. It means rethinking ownership: your power drill does not need to be a lifelong companion if you can rent, borrow, or share it. And it means designing for endings. Before you buy something, ask yourself: What will happen when this ends? If the answer is “landfill”, perhaps it is worth choosing differently.

This principle extends to digital life too. Using your devices for longer instead of upgrading every year matters. So does decluttering files, unsubscribing from promotional emails, and reducing the digital noise that clutters your attention.

Recycling, then, is not just about objects. It is about the flow of time, money, energy, and effort. When you allow things to serve multiple roles before they retire, you participate in the same rhythm that mountain communities have followed for generations.

True recycling is not aesthetic — it is ethical.

Using less, but better

The same principle applies to the way we consume resources.

Living sustainably is not only about recycling. While we are busy sorting our waste, we often forget a more important question: how are we using resources in the first place, and how much do we really need?

On paper, natural resources are regenerative. In city life, that idea quickly becomes complicated. You begin carrying a tote bag every day, only for a sudden downpour to soak the fabric and leave your laptop drenched. You invest in eco-friendly bamboo shoes, only to find they fall apart after one monsoon. You try eating “clean” by copying an influencer’s diet, only to realise that quinoa and avocados are expensive, imported from far away, and come with their own environmental costs.

In these moments, a green lifestyle can feel less like a solution and more like a punishment.

In the mountains, we learned this lesson out of necessity, not trend.

Our farming land was limited, so we practised terrace farming to make the most of every inch of soil. Water, too, is sacred in places like Ladakh, a high-altitude desert. There, communities have long relied on systems like the zing — small, connected pools that slow glacial meltwater, allowing it to seep into the ground and recharge underground aquifers.

But the system worked only because it was supported by accountability. A chorpon, appointed by the community, regulated water use: deciding when households could access it, preventing overuse, and ensuring shared water sources remained clean.

This approach to land and water was not optional. It was a way of life shaped by scarcity. And it taught a powerful lesson: we must live according to the earth’s rhythm, not just our own desires.

This is the core belief of my mountain community: we are custodians of these gifts, not owners.

That is not just a poetic idea; it is a practical guide for living. A resource has value only when it is protected by discipline, respect, and shared responsibility.

Ancient Indian texts, from the Vedas to the Arthashastra, echo this belief. They offer guidance on forestry, agriculture, and the careful use of natural wealth. Practices like crop rotation and the use of organic manure were not only traditional — they were practical ways to preserve soil fertility for future generations.

Why community matters

There is another truth we often miss: sustainability is not something you have to do alone.

One reason influencer-driven sustainability can feel exhausting is that it often turns environmental responsibility into a personal project. Traditional communities approached it differently.

In the mountains, sustainability is woven into the fabric of community life.

In cities, however, the community often feels thin. Apartment residents may live side by side without really knowing one another. Shared spaces such as gyms, gardens, or swimming pools are often poorly maintained or treated as someone else’s responsibility. People pay maintenance fees, yet still live with frustration over waste management, broken lifts, or parking disputes. Community starts to feel transactional.

Traditional communities were not perfect, but they were built around a shared purpose: survival.

Agro-pastoralism — the combination of farming and livestock rearing — is one example. Food from the fields sustains the community, while animals provide milk, wool, and manure that fertilise the soil. It is a closed-loop system in which little is wasted and everyone benefits. Even the architecture reflects this mindset. Homes built with stone and sun-dried bricks stay warm in winter and cool in summer. More importantly, they are designed not for one person, but for generations.

That is the real lesson. The problem is not simply about buildings or infrastructure. It is about the absence of shared purpose.

The older systems worked because cooperation was not a lifestyle choice — it was a necessity.

That same principle can still be applied in cities, in small but meaningful ways. Join a local gardening group. Share tools with neighbours. Volunteer for a neighbourhood clean-up. Start a composting conversation in your housing society. These actions are not just good for the environment; they create trust, reduce waste, and turn transactions into relationships.

That is the beauty of community-driven sustainability. The result is not a life of deprivation, but one of shared purpose, reduced anxiety, and deeper connection — with your neighbours and with the land beneath your feet.

Sustainability as freedom

So what does all this mean for you?

It does not mean giving up everything you love. It means letting go of the things that bring less joy in the long run.

Sustainability is not self-punishment; it is self-liberation. That constant urge to buy the newest gadget or chase the latest trend is not joy — it is anxiety. It is the hamster wheel of consumerism.

The custodian mindset offers another way.

It does not cut you off from choice; it frees you from guilt, clutter, and the endless pressure to own more.

You become your own regulator. You turn off the tap not because a rule tells you to, but because you understand that every drop has a history and a future. You borrow a tool instead of buying one, not because you cannot afford it, but because you no longer want the clutter or the burden of unnecessary ownership.

These are not sacrifices. They are acts of respect — for the resources in your life and for your own wellbeing.

This is not about less joy or fewer choices. It is about a different kind of happiness: the joy of contentment, of working with your environment instead of against it, of being a custodian rather than just a consumer.

That is the real shift — from endless demand to mindful appreciation.

And that is what it means to save the planet without deleting Instagram. Not rejecting modern life, social media, or convenience, but refusing to let them define your relationship with the world around you. Because sustainability is not about escaping the modern world. It is about learning how to live well within it.

Disclaimer : This story is auto aggregated by a computer programme and has not been created or edited by DOWNTHENEWS. Publisher: thebetterindia.com