I nonetheless think about Banas, tucked within the quiet folds of Pithoragarh district, long after leaving it. The reminiscence arrives like morning mist tender, drifting, wearing the scent of terraced earth and remote forests. I recall waking to a mild breeze slipping through wood windows, the clink of livestock bells somewhere down the slope, and a thin voice calling a person home from the fields. Months have exceeded, but those hills, those small murmuring streams, sit down in my chest like an old postcard that never fades.
If you’re coming as I did, 1/2 unsure, one-half keen, the nearest railway station is Tanakpur, kind of a hundred and ten, one hundred twenty km away. Most vacationers take a bus or shared cab to Pithoragarh, then hop off where the smaller mountain street begins its sluggish climb. The turns are sharp. Really sharp. Sunlight glints through tall pines, and the perfume catches on your clothes. The valleys shift and widen as you pass, nearly like the mountains are rearranging themselves upon your arrival. By the time you reach Banas, the arena feels quieter, nearly hushed.
Life here leans gently on the land. Terraced fields hold wheat, mandua, paddy, and pulses, carved like careful handwriting across the hillsides. In some corners, you’ll see vegetables tucked into little patches, and the small fruits locals grow with pride. Cattle wander lazily, and the rhythm of dairy and fodder work shapes much of the day.
I once watched a vintage man polishing his sickle on a stone step, pausing every few strokes to squint at the fields underneath. Another afternoon, a girl laughed, truly laughed as she shook grain baskets within the solar, tiny flecks catching the wind. Farming here is old skool, natural as it is, without a doubt, how matters have continually been. And it suggests the warmth of the soil when you touch it.
Banas celebrates its seasons like family. During Harela, everyone plants a little hope in fresh soil. Ghughutiya morning’s smell of candy fried dough offered to crows. Makar Sankranti brings sunshine, sesame treats, and kids tugging on woolen caps. And while the testimonies of Nanda Devi Jaat upward push inside the evenings, even the fire seems to pay attention.
People hum folk songs while working soft, circular tunes. I once saw a group of kids run excitedly toward the sound of a dhol beating somewhere near the temple courtyard. Elders sit nearby, sharing tales with a kind of peaceful authority. Respect isn’t spoken about much; it just settles naturally in the spaces between people.
Banas lingers in memory not because it tries to impress, but because it doesn’t. Its quiet days stretch gently, unhurried, wrapped in mountain air and small human kindnesses. I nevertheless think about the gradual mornings, the sound of a move slipping over stones, the simplicity that settles into your bones in case you live long enough. Maybe that’s why leaving felt like closing a nicely cherished e-book. A soft ending, but one you keep returning to seeking the comfort of pages that smell like rain and pine.
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...