Chandpur Village, Pauri Garhwal

Chandpur village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of Pauri Garhwal district returns to me quietly, without effort. Terraced fields step down the hills, forests stay close like old neighbors, and small streams move softly through stone. In the morning breeze, I heard birds, cattle bells, and low human sounds. Missing Chandpur feels like a gentle warmth that never fully leaves.

I usually came through Kotdwar railway station, roughly 90 kilometers away, and then followed the familiar hill road upward. The nearest bus drops you on the main road; after that, shared jeeps or simple lifts with locals fill the gap. Curved roads kept turning, pine smell thick in the air, sunlight flashing briefly on bends. Somewhere on the climb, my mind slowed down.

Life in Chandpur didn’t announce itself loudly. Terraced fields carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees growing near homes. Farming stayed traditional and mostly organic, shaped by soil, rain, and long memory. Cattle rearing blended into the daily rhythm—milking, grazing, and fodder collection happening quietly.

One morning, I watched an antique guy sitting near a stone wall, polishing his sickle with complete awareness. A little distance away, a woman winnowed grain, lifting it into the sunlight and letting the breeze determine what stayed. Fodder bundles leaned towards slate walls, and dairy cans rested in the shade. These moments stayed clearer than full conversations.

Festivals in Chandpur never felt rushed or loud. Harela arrived with fresh green shoots and calm smiles, Ghughutiya filled courtyards with children’s laughter, and Makar Sankranti softened cold mornings. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced during evening gatherings, shared slowly among elders. Folk songs, rituals, and respect for elders held the community together naturally.

Small temples and old shrines appeared along footpaths and near fields, some barely marked, some worn smooth by years of touch. I often stopped there without intention, standing quietly for a moment. Bells rang only when someone truly felt the need.

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

The food in Chandpur was steady and honest. 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 scent of very wellwooden smoke settled into evenings and clothes.

Slate-roof houses stood near collectively, connected by way of slim stone pathways worn smooth through decades of footsteps. Walking there at nightfall, I felt the cool stone below my feet. Doors closed lightly, voices softened, and the village settled itself for the night.

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