a unique pastoral retreat in himachal

Don’t leave it too late.

Places like this don’t stay forever. They return—softly, without complaint—to the earth that birthed them. Back to the grassy folds and tiered flanks of a quiet Himachali hillside, where the pine trees whisper to one another and the sun plays tricks with shadow. One day, perhaps sooner than we imagine, Amaya too may disappear, folded into memory. “Should anything happen, there will be no traces of Amaya left in a few years,” smiles

owner Deepak Gupta, who made his money in finance in Singapore. Only the infinity pool might remain, a tranquil, gleaming mirror warmed against the wind, where guests float in heated stillness while the pines hum like tuning forks above them.

But for now, Amaya exists—and that is miracle enough.

Perched in Darwa village, just beyond Kasauli, Amaya is a private hymn to patience, persistence, and the power of design rooted in place. It is the dream of Deepak Gupta—hedge fund manager, hospitality aesthete—realised with the delicate genius of architect Bijoy Jain. It took seven years. Not just to build, but to imagine. To buy a whole hill in 2014, study its shifting contours, and then allow the idea to rise from its soil like breath.

Set across 25 acres of stepped mountainside, Amaya is not so much a resort as it is a restoration of reverence. A collection of five luxury villas—15 rooms in all—unfolds across the terrain like stones thoughtfully laid on a shrine path. The buildings are village-style, brought to life through Himachali hands and ponies that carried stone and soul up the slopes. The construction avoided the tyranny of mortar. Instead, Jain and Gupta employed kath kuni—the ancient local masonry of stone and wood, built to last longer than concrete ever could, and beautiful in its logic.

“This is how Bijoy works,” Gupta explains. “Everything he does is experimental—but it flows from the land.”

So it does. Amaya’s walls are built of local stone, soil, and limestone. Its copper roofs are already mottled green by weather and time. The interiors are earthy and spare—muted whites and sand tones dominate, while Scandinavian light wood furniture holds dark panels in place with clean, lean lines. Here and there, brass flickers—on door bolts, in quiet fittings—a kind of restrained sparkle. Each villa comes with a study, a master bedroom, two singles, and an expansive living space tethered to a generous kitchen.

Everything has been thought through.

Villeroy & Boch fittings grace the bathrooms. The toiletries are made of Oudh wood, handpicked by Ayca Natural Skincare. The fans overhead spin in gentle hush as you sink into snow-white sheets atop deep mattresses that swallow fatigue like riverbeds swallow summer dust. Even the light here seems curated. Marble window panels refract sunlight into a lambent, ivory radiance. "Bijoy uses modernity only where it's necessary for comfort,” says Gupta, as though quoting a forgotten design sutra.

Yes, there are some indulgences—the antique chest that squats on a shaded verandah, the vases shaped like folklore—but these are forgivable affectations. In a place as meditative as this, they feel less like decoration and more like punctuation.

Amaya speaks a gastronomic dialect too.

The peas in your soup come from the on-site vegetable garden. The ancient emmer khapli wheat, used in a duck ragù, is harvested at Gupta’s farm in Nabha, Punjab. The trout—fried, and served with mustard and poppy seed curry—is a nostalgic nod to coastal childhoods. The menu here is a blend of hauteur and home: spicy miso ramen sits easily beside bhedu broth and smoked cheese dumplings. The gucci yakhni bhaat is soupy, ceremonial, and soft; the dal khichdi is comfort without compromise. In the Himachali tradition, glowing embers are tossed into mustardy dals and the pot sealed, infusing the dish with smoky depth.

And then, there’s the anardana trout—a tangy balance of yoghurt, pomegranate, and dried mango—a dish that tastes like a long-forgotten folk song rediscovered in an attic.

Here, eating is not just indulgence. It is also meditation. A private ritual. Take it in the long, high-ceilinged dining hall where low-hung paper lamps cast a buttery glow at twilight. Or follow the slim stone paths that wind through rock and root to a private dining nook outside. Liveried staff attend quietly, as the pine trees stand watch—tall, paternal, and wind-wrapped.

This is the vibe of Amaya.

To come here is to slow down. To remember what silence sounds like. To rest not just the body, but the senses numbed by cities and screens.

And to realise, perhaps too late, that this—this improbable blend of architecture, terrain, and spirit—will not be forever.