Banguon Village, Pauri Garhwal

Banguon village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of Pauri Garhwal district returns to me quietly, without asking. I remember terraced fields stepping down the hills, forests standing close like silent guards, and small streams slipping through rocks. The morning breeze carried birds, cattle sounds, and faraway voices. Missing Banguon feels gentle, like a warmth that settles deep and stays.

I usually came through Kotdwar railway station, roughly 90–95 kilometers away, then began the steady climb into the hills. The nearest bus leaves you on the main road, after which shared jeeps or lifts with locals fill the gap. Curved roads kept unfolding, pine heady scent thick within the air, daylight flashing in brief on sharp bends. By the time I arrived, my thoughts had already slowed.

Life in Banguon never rushed itself. Terraced fields carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees near the houses. Farming stayed traditional and mostly organic, shaped by rain, soil, and memory rather than rules. Cattle rearing blended into everyday life—milking, grazing, and fodder collection, moving quietly.

One morning, I saw a vintage man sitting close to his courtyard, sharpening a sickle in opposition to a stone, fully absorbed. A little away, a female winnowed grain, lifting it into the sunlight and letting the breeze do the work. Fodder bundles leaned in opposition to walls, and dairy cans rested in the corner. These small scenes stayed clearer than whole conversations.

Festivals in Banguon felt lived-in, not announced. Harela came with fresh green shoots and calm joy, Ghughutiya carried children’s laughter through courtyards, and Makar Sankranti softened winter mornings. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced during evening gatherings, shared slowly. Folk songs, rituals, and respect for elders held the village together without effort.

Small temples and old shrines appeared along footpaths and near fields, some barely marked, some wrapped in faded cloth. I often stopped there without meaning to, standing quietly for a moment. Bells rang only when someone truly felt like ringing one.

Natural springs dotted the edges of Banguon. The water was cold enough to numb fingers and clear enough to trust instantly. Forest trails slipped through oak and pine, sometimes opening into hidden viewpoints no one pointed out. The hills revealed themselves only if I waited.

Food in Banguon tasted honest and steady. Mandua roti, seasonal vegetables, pulses, fresh milk, and herbs gathered from nearby slopes filled daily meals. I watched wool being spun in courtyards and small wooden tools shaped slowly by hand. The smell of oak wood smoke settled into evenings and clothes.

Slate-roof houses stood close, connected by means of narrow stone pathways worn clean with the aid of many years of footsteps. Walking there at dusk, I felt the cool stone underneath my feet. Doors closed gently, voices softened, and the village seemed to tuck itself in for the night.

Banguon stays with me because it never demanded attention. The slow mountain life, the silence between sounds, and the comfort of simplicity eased something inside me. Nature felt steady and close, not overwhelming. When I left, I didn’t explain—I just carried a quiet goodbye that still walks beside me.