Berinag
Berinag does not call you loudly. It waits, hidden inside the folds of the Pithoragarh district, looking at the Panchachuli peaks trade shade with every hour of the day. It isn't always an area of rush or noise. Life here is consistent, stretched among pine forests, small fields, and slim roads that twist and climb as though they recognise where they are going with no need for signs or symptoms.
Berinag does not call you loudly. It waits, hidden inside the folds of the Pithoragarh district, looking at the Panchachuli peaks trade shade with every hour of the day. It isn't always an area of rush or noise. Life here is consistent, stretched among pine forests, small fields, and slim roads that twist and climb as though they recognize where they are going with no need for signs or symptoms.
The morning in Berinag comes slowly. A faint rooster name, the bark of a dog, and then the ring of temple bells that toll down the slopes. Smoke rises from chulhas (चूल्हा) as ladies prepare the first meal. The odor of chai blended with हल्दी (turmeric) and ginger drifts into the cool air.
Men acquire tea at the tea stalls inside the small bazaar. Some discuss crops, others the weather, while one or two scan old newspapers. Children with oversized school bags walk in pairs, kicking pebbles as they go. In every lane, you can see the same picture: life waking up, quietly but with purpose.
Berinag carries its name from a temple on a ridge. A temple dedicated to Nag Devta (नाग देवता), the serpent deity who, locals believe, protects the village and the land. Families tie red threads on sacred trees, hoping for good health, rain, and peace.
This is not the only Nag shrine here. Fenni Nag, Harinag, and Bashukinag each temple carries its own tales. Faith here is not about loud rituals. It lives in simple acts: bowing before sowing seeds, lighting a small diya before journeys, touching the temple steps before leaving for exams. These small things give Berinag its quiet strength.
On paper, Berinag village has a little more than five thousand people. Numbers say men are slightly more than women, children under six are many, and literacy is high. But the real story is seen in faces.
A girl balancing a basket of घास (grass) on her head. An old man is resting under a deodar tree with a walking stick beside him. Boys chasing each other down broken paths. A mother is weaving while keeping an eye on her child, who plays with pebbles. That is Berinag, the census cannot capture it, but the heart can.
It is also a tehsil, with almost three hundred villages under its care. Each one connected by winding paths, seasonal streams, and people who still believe in sharing both grain and grief.
Berinag was once known for its tea. During British times, green slopes were covered in bushes. The leaves were plucked, dried, and pressed into bricks. From here, Berinag tea found its way to Tibet. It was said to be strong, smoky, and perfect for the cold lands beyond the mountains.
Now only fragments of that past remain. Some gardens have gone quiet, but the memory of the taste still lives in stories of elders. Even today, tea holds its place. Every shop, every courtyard, offers it. And in those steaming cups, you still taste a bit of history.
Homes in Berinag are built not to affect, but to close. Thick stone walls, slate roofs, small timber balconies. The higher ground holds the kitchen, wherein the fireplace by no means completely goes out. Downstairs, cows rest on hay, their breath blending with the cold air. Outside, you often see maize (मकई) hanging in rows, purple chillies (लाल मिर्च) drying on strings, and brass vessels shining in the sun.
Hospitality is a way of existence here. If you walk into any house, tea will be offered. Sometimes walnuts, sometimes a sweet made of jaggery, sometimes just warm words. Guests are treated as family. That is how villages survive, by keeping hearts open.
The fields step down the hills in terraces. From afar, they look like giant staircases. Mandua (finger millet), आलू (potatoes), and rajma grow here. In sowing season, you hear women singing songs as they scatter seeds. During harvest, families gather together, their hands moving quickly but their voices always finding space for laughter.
The soil is not just earth. It is memory. The same fields that fathers ploughed are now in the hands of sons. The same songs that grandmothers sang echo again when granddaughters take their place. Work is hard, but it is shared. That is how life flows.
Festivals are moments when the whole village feels like one. On Harela, households plant barley seeds in small baskets and later place the green sprouts at their doors. It is a desire for prosperity. On Makar Sankranti, jaggery and sesame sweets fill plates, and kids dare each other to leap into icy rivers.
Weddings bring the sound of ढोल-दमाऊं (conventional drums). Women sing, their voices echoing across valleys. Even those who live far return home for these times. Because festivals here are not just about rituals. They are about belonging.
On bazaar day, Berinag is busy. Stalls line the street. Fabrics, vegetables, tools, toys, all laid out. The air smells of पकौड़े (fritters) and जलेबी, sweet and crisp. Children run with coins in their fists, bargaining for toffees. Compare the prices of seeds. Women choose bangles with practiced eyes.
At the centre of it all are the tea stalls. A glass of tea can last an hour here, because it is not just about drinking. It is about talking, meeting, and sharing stories. The bazaar is the heart that keeps the village alive.
Berinag wears differently every season. In spring, mustard flowers turn fields golden. In the monsoon, mist hides paths, and rivers roar louder. Autumn brings skies so clear you could see every line of the Nanda Devi and Trishul peaks. Winter slows the whole thing, roads flip icy, nights stretch long, and families accumulate near across the अंगीठी (hearth).
People here do not fight seasons. They live with them. Each change is accepted, respected, and absorbed. That is what makes life in Berinag steady.
When you leave Berinag, you do not carry souvenirs in bags. You carry its air, sharp and clean. You deliver the sound of bells within the distance, the sight of mist curling through pine timber, and the warmth of tea in a tin cup. You supply the laughter of children, the rhythm of footsteps on stone paths, and the clean kindness of strangers.
Berinag does not ask you to remember it. But it stays anyway, like a song you didn’t mean to hum but find on your lips long after.
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