Dhari Village, Pauri Gharwal

Dhari village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of Pauri Garhwal district comes back to me slowly, like a soft exhale. Terraced fields cling to the hills, forests lean close without pressing, and small streams trickle over stones quietly. The morning breeze carried birds, cattle bells, and far-off voices. Missing Dhari feels like a quiet warmth that sits beside me without effort.

I usually reached Dhari through Kotdwar railway station, about 90–95 kilometers away, then followed the familiar winding hill road upward. The nearest bus drops you on the main road, after which locals manage shared jeeps or simple lifts. Curved roads kept folding into each other, pine smell thick in the air, sunlight resting briefly on bends. Somewhere along the climb, my mind stopped measuring time.

Life in Dhari unfolded naturally, without hurry. Terraced fields carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees near homes. Farming stayed traditional and mostly organic, guided by seasons and habit. Cattle rearing blended into the day—milking, grazing, and fodder collection, moving quietly.

One morning, I watched a vintage guy polishing his sickle near a stone wall, sparks catching softly in the daytime. Nearby, a girl winnowed grain, lifting it into the breeze and letting the lighter husks drift away. Fodder bundles leaned in competition to slate partitions, dairy cans rested in colour. These small moments stayed with me longer than conversations.

Festivals in Dhari never arrived loudly. Harela brought fresh green shoots and calm smiles, Ghughutiya carried children’s laughter through courtyards, and Makar Sankranti softened cold mornings. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced in evening gatherings, shared gently 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 planning to, standing quietly for a moment. Bells rang only when someone truly felt like ringing one.

Natural springs dotted Dhari’s edges. The water was cold enough to numb fingers and clear enough to drink instantly. Forest trails moved gently through oak and pine, sometimes opening into hidden viewpoints no one pointed out. The hills revealed themselves only if I stayed still.

Food in Dhari 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 houses stood near together, related by way of slim stone pathways worn easy by a long time of footsteps. Walking there at nightfall, I felt the cool stone below my feet. Doors closed lightly, voices softened, and the village appeared to settle itself.

Dhari stays with me because it never rushed 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.