Arari Village in Dwarikhal Block, Pauri Garhwal
Pauri Garhwal,
Uttarakhand
Introduction – When the Village Comes Back to Me
Arari village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of
Pauri Garhwal district returns to me in slow flashes. Terraced fields stepped gently down the hills, forests standing close, and thin streams whispering through stones. Morning breeze carried bird calls, distant footsteps, and soft human voices. Missing Arari feels quiet, like warmth held inside wool.
How I Reach the Village without Thinking Too Much
I always came through
Kotdwar railway station, around 95 kilometers away, then followed the long hill road upward. The nearest bus drops you on the main road; after that, locals manage jeeps, bikes, or shared lifts without much talk. Curved roads kept unfolding, pine scent filling the air, sunlight slipping across sharp bends. I stopped counting turns after a while.
Daily Life I Watched Slowly Unfold
Life in Arari never rushed me. Terraced farms held wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees scattered near homes. Farming stayed conventional and organic, guided by climate and habit as opposed to policies. Cows and buffaloes formed the rhythm of mornings and evenings, their bells marking time.
One morning, I saw an elderly guy sitting near a stone wall, sprucing his sickle cautiously. Not a ways away, a woman winnowed grain, lifting it into the air and letting the breeze do its work. Fodder bundles rested against slate walls, and dairy cans stood in the mild. These moments stayed longer than whole days.
Festivals and Quiet Traditions That Stay With Me
Festivals in Arari felt inward, not loud.
Harela came with fresh green shoots and small gatherings, Ghughutiya brought children’s laughter, and
Makar Sankranti softened the cold. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat emerged during evening conversations, mixed with folk songs sung gently. Respect for elders wasn’t taught; it was practiced naturally.
Small Things That Made the Village Feel Alive
Small temples and old shrines appeared suddenly along paths or near fields. Some had fading paint, some only stones and faith. I often paused there without reason, feeling the quiet weight of years settle around me.
Natural springs were part of daily walks. The water was cold enough to numb fingers, clean enough to drink without doubt. Forest trails moved through oak and pine, sometimes opening into viewpoints no one pointed out. The hills revealed themselves only if you stayed still long enough.
Food in Arari was simple and steady. Mandua roti, seasonal vegetables, pulses, fresh milk, and herbs picked nearby. I watched wool being spun in courtyards and small wooden items being shaped slowly. Oak wood smoke drifted through lanes, mixing with the smell of cooked grain.
Slate-roof homes leaned into slim stone pathways worn smooth by years of footsteps. Walking there in the nighttime, my steps sounded softer than my thoughts. Cool stone underfoot, doors closing gently, and low voices made the village feel settled for the night.
A Slow Goodbye I Still Carry
Arari stays with me because it never tried to hold me, yet never let me feel alone. The slow mountain life, the silence, and the comfort of simplicity eased something inside me. Nature felt close, not overwhelming. When I left, I walked away quietly, carrying a goodbye that never needed words.
