Some villages don’t make noise about their beauty; they simply stay, tucked behind ridges, living their own slow stories. Pokhari Gunth (पोखरी गुण्ठ) in Almora is one of them. It sits surrounded by oak (बांज) and buransh (बुरांश) trees, their leaves rustling all day in the mountain wind. If you’ve ever wanted to know what peace sounds like, you’ll find it here.
Before sunrise, when the air still bites a little, the village begins to stir. A rooster calls somewhere, followed by the low clang of a cowbell (घंटी). Smoke curls up from stone chimneys as someone lights the chulha (चूल्हा). You can hear the soft thud of footsteps on the uneven path, women walking towards the spring, brass pots (घड़े) balanced easily on their heads.
Children trail behind, half awake, wiping their eyes and giggling at something. A dog stretches near the temple steps, and someone calls out, “जल्दी आ, देर हो जाएगी!” (Hurry up, you’ll be late). The sound travels across the terraces. Morning here doesn’t rush. It stretches, unhurried, like sunlight over the ridges.
The land in Pokhari Gunth is built in steps, terraces carved by hands long gone. Potatoes (आलू), mandua (मंडुवा), and seasonal vegetables grow in small patches. Every house has a little field, and every field has its own story.
Men walk out carrying sickles (दरांती), while women follow with baskets. You’ll often see them talking softly as they work, laughter spilling between rows of green plants. A radio plays somewhere, a Kumaoni song, half lost in the breeze.
Behind the fields begins the forest. It’s not wild, just close. Villagers go there for fodder (चारा) and dry wood. The smell of damp soil (गीली मिट्टी) mixes with pine resin. Sometimes you hear a woodpecker, sometimes just silence that feels alive.
It’s hard to be a stranger in Pokhari Gunth. Someone will always offer tea. In most homes, the kitchen is also the living room, and the moment you enter, someone says, “बैठो, चाय पियो.” (Sit, have tea.)
Old men sit near the temple courtyard in the afternoons, gossiping about the weather and crops. Women spin wool (ऊन) or knit sweaters while keeping an eye on goats nearby. Children play with marbles, shouting and running till dusk.
Festivals bring the whole village together. During Harela (हरेला), people plant saplings and sing songs of harvest. During Diwali (दीवाली), courtyards light up with diyas (दीये), and someone always plays the dhol (ढोल) till late at night. It’s not about grand shows, just shared happiness.
Things are changing quietly. Some young men have gone to cities for work; their mothers still wait for letters or phone calls that come less often now. A few houses stay locked, but only until the next festival, when laughter returns.
There’s talk of starting homestays, maybe even selling organic produce (जैविक उत्पाद) in nearby markets. The villagers know that modern life will reach them sooner or later, but they want to keep their peace intact.
When you talk to them, they don’t complain. They smile and say, “हम तो पहाड़ के हैं, धीरे चलना हमारी आदत है.” (We’re mountain people; moving slowly is what we do.)
In summer (गर्मी), evenings turn golden, and people sit outside watching the last light fade behind the forest. During monsoon (बरसात), clouds crawl into homes, making everything damp and green. Autumn (शरद) brings clear skies and the first chill, and winter (सर्दी) covers rooftops in frost.
Each season changes work, food, and even mood. But the heart of the village stays the same, steady and grounded.
When you leave Pokhari Gunth, you don’t take souvenirs. You take the sound of the stream below the fields, the smell of burning wood, and the memory of tea shared with strangers who felt like family. It’s a place that doesn’t try to impress but somehow stays with you.
In maps, Pokhari Gunth (पोखरी गुण्ठ) is a small dot in Almora. In real life, it’s a world full of kindness, hard work, and quiet beauty, the kind that reminds you what it means to live simply, and live well.
Uttarakhand is not simply another country. People here name it Devbhoomi (देवभूमि), the Land of the Gods. And it feels that way. Rivers begin right here. Old temples sit on mountain tops. Morning dayl...