Amola Village, Pauri Garhwal

Amola village in Pauri Garhwal district, tucked inside its quiet tehsil, returns to me in fragments. Terraced fields roll gently toward forests, hills hold the sky steady, and small streams cut soft lines through the land. Morning breeze carries bird calls, cow bells, and distant greetings. When I think of Amola, I miss it in a quiet, warming way.

I always came via Kotdwar railway station, about 85 kilometers away, then followed the road upward. The nearest bus drops you near the main road, and from there, locals manage jeeps or shared rides easily. The road curves without warning, pine smell thick in the air, sunlight breaking across bends. I stopped thinking about distance long before I arrived.

In Amola, days opened slowly. Terraced fields held wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, greens, and some fruit trees that felt more like companions than crops. Farming stayed frequently organic, shaped by way of seasons in place of calendars. Cattle rearing was part of every household, woven into morning and evening routines.

One afternoon, I watched a lady winnowing grain near her domestic, her actions steady and unhurried. Nearby, fodder lay stacked smartly, and a cow shifted its weight patiently. Later, a vintage guy sharpened his sickle under a tree, metallic scraping stone in a legitimate I nonetheless don't forget Work here felt calm, not heavy.

Festivals in Amola carried softness instead of noise. Harela arrived with green shoots and shared smiles, Ghughutiya brought childhood laughter, and Makar Sankranti warmed winter mornings. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced during evenings, mixed with folk songs sung low. Elders guided rituals gently, and the sense of togetherness stayed strong.

Small temples and ancient shrines rested along paths and near fields, never demanding attention. I often paused there without planning to, feeling the stillness settle around me. Bells rang only when someone felt the need, not out of habit.

Natural springs dotted the outskirts of the village. The water was cold, clean, and grounding, especially after long walks. Forest trails slipped quietly between oak and pine, leading to viewpoints hidden from casual eyes. I learned to walk more slowly there, letting the hills reveal themselves.

Food in Amola tasted like effort and care. Mandua roti, fresh vegetables, pulses, and dairy straight from the morning milking. Herbs dried on rooftops, and I watched wool being spun and small wooden tools shaped by hand. Even the smoke from oak wood fires felt familiar.

Slate-roof houses stood close, connected by stone pathways polished smooth by years of use. My footsteps echoed softly in the evenings. The cool stone underfoot, the smell of wood smoke, and doors closing slowly made the village feel settled and alive.

Amola stays with me because it never hurried me. The slow mountain life, the silence between sounds, and the comfort of simplicity shaped my days there. Nature didn’t feel separate; it felt supportive. When I left, I didn’t announce it just carried a quiet goodbye with me.