If you power through the winding roads of Almora, somewhere after Bhanoli, you’ll come upon a small board that announces “Matkanya.” Blink and you might pass over it; however, stop, and you’ll find a globe tucked into the folds of these hills. A handful of houses, stone walls, the faint smell of pine (चीड़), and a quiet that looks like an antique reminiscence.
Matkanya sits on approximately sixty hectares of mountain soil. The land slopes down like steps terrace after terrace, each retaining patches of inexperienced vegetation. From the pinnacle, you may see a stretch of fields meeting the forest line, and from time to time, on a clean day, a thin blue ridge within the distance.
Houses here are simple stone, dust, and slate roofs that sparkle while the sun hits them just properly. Most houses have a small verandah wherein grain dries on vintage mats. Chickens wander around, and children chase them off with loud laughter. The wind smells of smoke and pine.
Around 180 people live here about 40 families in total. Everyone knows everyone. If someone falls sick, the whole village knows before noon. If a guest arrives, chai is already being boiled next door. That’s how things work here.
Life begins early. Women head out with rope baskets on their backs, collecting grass and wood. Men check on their fields the soil, the crop, the rain. Kids pack their schoolbags and walk together on narrow paths that twist through the fields. By noon, the sun is sharp, and the only sound you hear is a cow’s bell echoing from somewhere down the slope.
People in Matkanya live close to the land. Most families grow wheat, mandua, paddy, and seasonal vegetables. Some keep goats or cows. The fields aren’t big, but they’re enough to live on.
There’s no boss or time card here. Work follows the weather. When it rains, everyone rushes to sow seeds; when it’s harvest time, nobody stays idle. You’ll see neighbors working side by side, talking, teasing, and helping. No one calls it “community work.” It’s just how it’s always been.
A few people have jobs in Almora or other towns. Some youngsters have gone away for college or work, but most return during festivals Harela, Nanda Devi Mela, or family weddings. No matter where they go, they still call this place gaon (गाँव) not village, gaon.
There’s one small school nearby. A few teachers come from outside, sometimes walking miles when the road gets blocked. The kids study hard some dreaming of joining the army, some wanting to become teachers. The literacy here is around 80%, but what matters more is the hunger to learn.
Old people here talk about how things were twenty years ago no lights, no proper road, no school. Now, there’s solar power in most houses, and mobile towers blink from a hill far away. It’s slow progress, but it’s real.
Summers are gentle; evenings cool down quickly. During the monsoon, mist floats into homes, and the fields shine green. Winters are quiet — the kind where people sit near the chulha (चूल्हा) and talk for hours while the fire crackles. The smell of burning oak wood mixes with the sound of rain tapping on tin roofs. There’s no rush here. No one’s counting minutes. The pace of life follows the hills steady, calm, patient.
Matkanya doesn’t have grand hotels or tourist spots. It has something else realness. The kind that’s fading from most places. People still greet strangers, still help each other without asking why. Kids still play outside. Nights are dark, full of stars, and the silence feels alive. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t try to be. But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Here, life is small but complete.
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