Dabar Village, Pauri Garhwal

Dabar village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of Pauri Garhwal district returns to me in slow images. Terraced fields resting on hillsides, forests standing close without noise, and small streams slipping through stone come back clearly. The morning breeze carried birds, cattle bells, and distant human movement. Missing Dabar feels quiet, like a warmth that doesn’t ask for attention.

I usually reached Dabar through Kotdwar railway station, around 90–95 kilometers away, then followed the familiar climb into the hills. The nearest bus drops you on the main road, and from there, locals manage with shared jeeps or easy lifts. Curved roads kept unfolding, pine smell filling the air, sunlight landing briefly on bends. I never thought much about the route once it began.

Life in Dabar unfolded without trying to be noticed. Terraced fields grew wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees close to homes. Farming stayed traditional and mostly organic, guided by seasons rather than plans. Cattle rearing shaped the day—milking early, grazing through daylight, and fodder collection before evening.

One afternoon, I watched an old man sitting near a stone wall, sharpening his sickle slowly, fully absorbed. A little away, a woman winnowed grain, lifting it into the sunlight and letting the breeze separate it. Fodder bundles leaned against slate walls, and dairy cans rested in the shade. These moments stayed sharper than long conversations.

Festivals in Dabar never arrived loudly. Harela brought fresh green shoots and calm smiles, Ghughutiya filled courtyards with children’s laughter, and Makar Sankranti softened winter mornings. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced during evenings, shared without hurry. Folk songs, rituals, and respect for elders held the village together naturally.

Small temples and old shrines appeared along footpaths and near fields, some barely marked, some worn smooth by touch. I often stopped there without planning to, standing quietly for a moment. Bells rang only when someone truly felt like ringing one.

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

Food in Dabar tasted 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 smell of oak wood smoke settled into the evenings.

Slate-roof homes stood close together, connected by narrow stone pathways worn smooth via decades of footsteps. Walking there at dusk, I felt the cool stone under my toes. Doors closed lightly, voices softened, and the village seemed to settle into itself.

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