Dobar Village, Pauri Garhwal
Pauri Garhwal,
Uttarakhand
Introduction – When the Village Comes Back to Me
Dobar village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of
Pauri Garhwal district comes back to me like a soft exhale I didn’t know I was holding. Terraced fields step carefully along the hills, forests lean close without crowding, and small streams trickle over stones quietly. The morning breeze carried birds, cattle bells, and distant voices. Missing Dobar feels like a quiet warmth that sits beside me without asking.
How I Reach the Village without Thinking Too Much
I usually reached Dobar through
Kotdwar railway station, about 90–95 kilometers away, then followed the 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 unfolding, pine scent thick in the air, sunlight glinting briefly on bends. Somewhere along the climb, I stopped checking the time.
Daily Life I Watched Slowly Unfold
Life in Dobar moved without hurry. Terraced fields carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees tucked near homes. Farming stayed traditional and mostly organic, guided by seasons and memory. Cattle rearing blended obviously into the day—milking early, grazing during daylight, and fodder series through nighttime.
One morning, I watched a vintage guy sprucing his sickle near a stone wall, sparks catching softly in sunlight. Nearby, a girl winnowed grain, lifting it into the breeze and letting the lighter husks flow away. Fodder bundles leaned against slate partitions, and dairy cans rested quietly within the coloration. These small moments lingered longer than conversations.
Festivals and Quiet Traditions That Stay With Me
Festivals in Dobar never arrived loudly.
Harela brought 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 gently among elders. Folk songs, rituals, and respect for elders held the community together naturally.
Small Things That Made the Village Feel Alive
Small temples and old shrines appeared along footpaths and near fields, some barely marked, some worn smooth by years of touch. I often paused there without thinking, standing quietly for a moment. Bells rang only when someone truly felt like ringing one.
Natural springs dotted Dobar’s edges. The water was cold enough to numb fingers and clear enough to trust instantly. Forest trails moved gently through oak and pine, sometimes opening into hidden viewpoints no one spoke of. The hills revealed themselves only if I stayed still.
Food in Dobar tasted grounded 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 near together, connected via narrow stone pathways worn smooth through many years of footsteps. Walking there at nightfall, I felt the cool stone beneath my feet. Doors closed gently, voices softened, and the village appeared to settle itself.
A Slow Goodbye I Still Carry
Dobar 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.
