Champawat

You don’t arrive in Champawat with a plan. You just… show up.

Maybe you were tired of something you couldn’t name. Maybe you didn’t want to answer your phone. Or maybe, like most people who land here, you just needed somewhere that didn’t ask anything of you. Not even a reason. And so, without quite knowing why, you’re here.

No loud boards. No shiny welcome signs. Just an old bench outside a shop with dusty glass jars. Some biscuits. A kettle is hissing quietly. The air smells of wood smoke, like someone nearby just made their first cup of chai. You sit down. The bench creaks. No one looks twice at you.

You don’t feel like a guest. You don’t feel like anything. You just… are.

How Mornings Begin When No One Is Watching

Light doesn’t rise in a rush here. It slips in slowly, via cracked windows and 1/2-closed doorways. There’s a chill even after the sun appears. The kind that creeps gently through your sweater and lingers. Somewhere, a dog shakes off sleep. A woman lighting her chulha (चूल्हा), the odor of burning wood curling through the air.

A boy walks past with a schoolbag too large for him. His slippers flap against the stone. He’s humming something. You don’t recognise the tune, but it stays with you. You hold your cup of tea a little longer than usual. Not for warmth. But because there’s nowhere else you need to be.

You Start Noticing Things Again

Not the big things. Not landmarks or destinations. Just… things.

A neem (नीम) tree with its trunk painted white. A broken pipe gurgling near a slope. Rusted temple bells that sound like metal yawns. A woman is drying woollen clothes on a low wall. Her hands move without thinking, like they’ve done this every winter for years.

You walk aimlessly. A man offers you chai. You accept. He doesn’t ask where you’re from. Nobody does. And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you have to explain anything.

The Stories Don’t Come From Books

They come from people with quiet voices. People who sit on steps and talk without looking up. Someone tells you the town was named after Princess Champawati. Another points toward a ridge and says, “That’s where her palace used to be.”

None of it feels rehearsed. It’s not for your entertainment. These are not facts. These are memories passed down like winter shawls. Soft, fraying, warm.

You nod. You don’t ask for proof. The stories aren’t trying to convince you. They just live in the air. And you breathe them in.

The Temples Don’t Pretend to Be Anything Else

You enter Baleshwar Temple through a quiet archway. No crowd. No queue. The carvings are weathered. Soft at the edges, like they’ve stopped trying to impress anyone.

Inside, it’s cooler. You can hear your breath echo. Someone lights a diya (दीया). The flame stutters a bit, then holds. You sit. Not because you’re religious. Not because you’re supposed to. Just because it feels right.

And that’s all anyone here seems to do. What feels right?

Later, someone mentions Purnagiri. Says it’s a powerful place. Says it’s where Sati’s navel (नाभि) fell. You don’t know what to do with that information, so you just carry it. Like a feather in your pocket. Meaningful, but light.

Lunchtime Is a Feeling, Not a Time

You eat at a small shop tucked between two houses. The signboard is faded. The menu is verbal.

Dal that tastes like it’s been cooked slowly. Rice that clumps just right. Ghee (घी) smells like home. And a red chilli aachar (अचार) that makes your eyes water just a bit. But in a good way.

There’s no napkin. Just a jug of water and a smile. No one hurries you. You eat quietly. You finish everything. And when you return the plate, you say thank you in a voice softer than usual.

The Evenings Don’t Try to End the Day

You expect the sky to darken. But it doesn’t. Not at once. It lingers.

Birds pass slowly overhead. Some rooftops nonetheless carry the full force of the sun. A shopkeeper closes his shutter with both palms, gently, like tucking in an infant.

A group of schoolboys argues over something small; however, they’re guffawing. A cow scratches itself against a tree. A bell rings far away. Not urgent. Just… there.

You sit on a ledge and watch all of it happen. You don’t take out your phone. You don’t try to capture anything. You just watch. And let it stay with you.

Leaving Doesn’t Feel Like Leaving

• The next morning, you zip your bag.
• Not because you want to go. But because it’s time.
• There’s no goodbye. No last-minute rush. The tea stall is still there. The same man nods. You smile back.
• You pass the same neem (नीम) tree. The same cracked step. The same dog, now asleep.
• Champawat doesn’t cling. It lets you go the way it held you. Lightly.

You don’t carry souvenirs. Just little things. Like the feeling of cold steel in your hands when you rang the temple bell. The taste of that ghee-drenched roti. The echo of a boy’s laughter as he ran down a slope.

And a silence. Not empty. Full.
 

---

---

---