Dewal
Start from Tharali (थराली) one quiet morning, and the road to Dewal feels less like travel, more like slipping into an old photograph. Nine kilometres, they’ll tell you. But nobody here counts distance in numbers. It’s in the turns where the road suddenly opens to a field of yellow mustard (सरसों), in the pine (चीड़) shade where dry needles crunch under your shoes, and in the nods and half-smiles from people carrying baskets on their heads.
Here, the day doesn’t begin with a clock. It begins with the smell of wood smoke, the rustle of grain sacks, and a faint cowbell in the distance.
Start from Tharali (थराली) one quiet morning, and the road to Dewal feels less like travel, more like slipping into an old photograph. Nine kilometres, they’ll tell you. But nobody here counts distance in numbers. It’s in the turns where the road suddenly opens to a field of yellow mustard (सरसों), in the pine (चीड़) shade where dry needles crunch under your shoes, and in the nods and half-smiles from people carrying baskets on their heads.
The jeeps pass sometimes, loaded with sacks of salt and tins of oil from the market, but most still walk. There’s an old footpath that cuts between terraced fields, past guava (अमरूद) trees heavy in season, past the blackberry bushes children attack on their way home from school. You stop often, not because you are tired, but because someone always calls out to ask where you are headed.
Dewal is not a place of noise. A few hundred stone houses stand with their backs to the wind, slate roofs shining dark after rain. In the courtyards, hens scatter at the sound of footsteps, and a cow flicks her tail against the flies. The air smells faintly of smoke from the chulhas (चूल्हा) wherein someone is already boiling tea.
Nobody here talks of population or figures. They talk in stories. That house belongs to the man who once rescued a goat from the ridge. That woman gave away her last handful of radishes (मूली) to a neighbour in winter. It’s how people remember each other, through small acts that stay in the heart.
The village wakes early. You hear the scrape of sickles against dry earth before you see anyone. Women, dupattas tight over their heads, step carefully down the terraces, carrying baskets of vegetables or bundles of grass. Men take the forest path, coming back later with heavy loads of firewood or fodder.
The fields are a patchwork, paddy (धान) and wheat (गेहूं) where the soil stays wet, mandua (मंडुवा) and maize (मकई) in drier patches. Here and there, rajma (राजमा) vines curl against bamboo poles. Water runs in narrow channels dug by hand, the kind you can step over in one stride. When the rains come, people check the bunds (मेढ़) together, patching them with mud and stones before the water can break through.
The paths here are not wide enough for cars. They’re meant for feet, and sometimes for a pair of goats moving slowly ahead of you. They weave between homes with tulsi (तुलसी) plants at the doorsteps, and lead to the tea stall near the Panchayat office.
The chai (चाय) is strong, served in thick glasses that hold the heat for a while. Jalebis (जलेबी) glisten on a steel tray, and pakoras (पकोड़े) sizzle in mustard oil. On cold evenings, people gather here to talk, not always about anything important. Sometimes it’s just the weather, sometimes silence, broken only by the sound of a spoon tapping a glass.
Market days are livelier. People stop for tea before walking home with sacks of grain, a tin of kerosene, and a packet of biscuits for the children.
The school is small, with walls that hold the echoes of a hundred mornings. Children come in twos and threes, schoolbags bouncing against their backs. Some have bare feet, some wear shoes that have seen more than one season. They know the lessons, but they also know how to tie a bundle of grass or help herd a calf back home.
The health sub centre is a room with a bed, a table, and a cupboard of medicines. Enough for fevers, cuts, and the common cough. Anything more, and the journey to Tharali or Karnaprayag begins. No one goes alone. Someone always walks beside you, holding a bag or just keeping company.
The nearby hamlets, Deval Gwar (देवाल ग्वार), Deval Kot (देवल कोट); are linked by footpaths lined with nettle (बिच्छू घास) and wild mint (पुदीना). In spring, the paths are red with fallen rhododendron (बुरांश) flowers. Some are picked to make juice; some are left for the bees.
If a roof leaks, neighbours come with bamboo poles and extra slate tiles. If someone runs out of grain before the next harvest, another house sends some over without asking for it back. Nobody calls it charity. It’s just how life works here.
Harela (हरेला) mornings begin with children carrying tiny saplings to plant in courtyards. In Makar Sankranti (मकर संक्रांति), the entire village smells of singal (सिंगल), arsa (अर्सा), and gulgula (गुलगुला). Women move from house to house, exchanging plates of goodies, returning home with something different on their very own plates.
Weddings right here are not simply family affairs, they may be village affairs. The sound of dhol and damau (ढोल-दमाऊं) is heard throughout the fields. Work is shared, meals are cooked in massive copper vessels, and the joy belongs to all of us.
In winter, frost (पाला) settles on the rooftops like a diminished blanket. Mornings are slow, smoke curling low over the houses. In the summer season, mangoes (आम) ripen at the rims of the village, and kids climb low branches to choose them. Monsoon paints the hills glowing, and the streams develop loud, dashing beyond mossy stones.
Birdsong is everywhere. The koel (कोयल) calls from hidden branches, sparrows (गौरैया) chatter close to grain shops, and every now and then, the pointy cry of a kite (चील) slices the air.
Dewal will no longer depart you with grand monuments or sweeping pics. It will leave you with the taste of chai after a walk, the warm temperature of the sun on stone steps, and the sound of laughter in a slender lane.
You will consider the mustard plant life bending into the breeze, the vintage female who pressed walnuts (अखरोट) into your hand without a word, and the atypical peace that settles in while you aren't looking for it.
And maybe, when you think of the hills again, you will find your way back, not to see something new, but to feel again what it’s like to belong here, even for a while.
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| Haridwar | Champawat | Rudraprayag |
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Uttarakhand is not simply another country. People here name it Devbhoomi (देवभूमि), the Land of the Gods. And it feels that way. Rivers begi...
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