Sama

Here, the air slows you down, the fields greet you first, and the silence speaks more than words.

Finding Your Way to Sama

If you start from Kapkot one morning, the road to Sama is not the type you race on. It winds, curves, and tilts lightly upward, making you sluggish whether you want to or not. It is set 30 kilometers away, but no one here counts distance in kilometers. People say “बस आधा दिन लग जाएगा” (it's going to take half an afternoon), and that’s enough.

The ultimate stretch seems like you’re stepping off the map. The street narrows, stones crunch underfoot or under the tyres of an antique jeep. You skip men with bundles of grass balanced on their backs, women in vibrant pichhoris (पिछौड़ी) sporting metal pots, and kids walking in businesses, their voices wearing down the slope. The river is somewhere below, not in sight, but you can hear it while the wind shifts.

A Village in Numbers, But Also in Faces

The census says Sama covers 441 hectares. The post office calls it 263633. These are facts. But in the village, people are counted differently, by name, by whose son or daughter they are, by who makes the best rotis on a cold morning.

There are 921 people here, living in 213 homes. More women than men, 494 women, 427 men, which is rare in many places. Around 110 children run barefoot on stone paths or balance on the edges of terrace walls.

Some are listed as Scheduled Castes, a few as Scheduled Tribes. About 625 can read and write. The rest know other things just as important, how to guide a plough without breaking a line, how to store grain so it lasts the winter, how to read the sky before the rains.

Life That Begins With the Land

In Sama, the day is tied to the sun. As the first light touches the hills, someone is already in the fields. The terraces hold paddy (धान), wheat (गेहूं), mandua (मंडुवा), and vegetables that change with the season.

The fields are watered by narrow channels dug years ago. In summer, the channels sparkle in the sun. In the monsoon, they swell. Sometimes, the rains come so heavy that small landslides loosen the soil. Villagers notice every crack and patch it before it grows.

In winter, the stubble burns in low fires, smoke rising straight into the still air. The smell stays in your clothes. Women carry baskets on their heads, filled with spinach, radish, or beans, walking towards Kapkot or the nearby haat to sell them.

Moving In and Out of Sama

The village is not cut off, but it is not noisy. A bus might come in the morning, another in the afternoon. People plan their travel around these. If you miss it, you wait, or you walk.

Phones work in patches. Sometimes you have to climb a small slope behind the school to catch a signal. Messages travel faster by word of mouth. By evening, most people are home. The air smells of woodsmoke and food cooking on chulhas (चूल्हा). Somewhere, a cow bell rings as animals are brought in.

Learning in Steps

Sama has schools, from primary to senior secondary. Some children study in government buildings with blue-painted doors. Others go to small private schools run in rented houses. For college, they travel to Bageshwar, Garur, or Almora. Some leave for years, some return by the weekend, and carrying stories of bigger towns.

Teachers here know more than just lessons. They know who lives where, whose shoes are wearing thin, and who needs extra time to walk in from the farthest house. Before the rains, they help repair school roofs so classes can go on without leaks.

Care in Small Places

A primary health centre, a maternity post, a dispensary, they are simple, but they are here. If a baby is born, word spreads fast. If someone falls ill, a neighbor is there before the family asks.

For bigger problems, people travel to Kapkot or Bageshwar. Sometimes a jeep is hired. Sometimes the whole lane gathers to see the patient off.

The Villages Around

Sama is part of the gram panchayat of Shama. Around it are hamlets like Ratir Kethi, Liti, Baret, Siri, Nakuri, and Nani Panyali. The footpaths between them are narrow, marked by stones and old trees.

People walk these paths in every season. In winter, frost crunches underfoot. In monsoon, the earth clings to your ankles. The walks are never silent. They are filled with news: who has planted their field, whose buffalo has calved, and when the next festival will be.

Festivals That Smell of Home

The festivals here follow the farming cycle. In Harela, seeds are sown in small baskets and sprout into green shoots within a week. On Makar Sankranti, the smell of arsa (अर्सा) and singals (सिंगल) fills kitchens. Children carry plates to neighbors, often stopping to taste on the way.

Sometimes, fairs bring a splash of color. Stalls with glass bangles, hot tea, and jalebis. Maybe a wrestling match under the open sky. But the real celebrations are in courtyards, with songs passed down for generations.

Why Sama Stays in Your Memory

Sama does not try to impress you. It just is. You do not forget it via small matters, like mist curling over the fields at dawn, the sound of water spilling from a pitcher into a brass lota, the manner someone says “आते रहना” (preserve coming) while you leave.

You may carry away a bag of walnuts, a handful of rajma, or just a photograph in your thoughts of inexperienced terraces stepping down into the valley. Long after you move, the quiet of Sama follows you, just like the echo of a river you cannot see.