Gadmola Village, Pauri Garhwal
Pauri Garhwal,
Uttarakhand
Introduction – When the Village Comes Back to Me
Gadmola village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of
Pauri Garhwal district came back to me like a tender, acquainted sigh. Terraced fields hang to the hills, forests lean near without crowding, and small streams slip over stones with a murmur. The morning breeze carried birds, livestock bells, and distant voices. Missing Gadmola feels like a calm warmth that rests quietly inside.
How I Reach the Village without Thinking Too Much
I usually reached Gadmola 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, and from there, locals manage shared jeeps or simple lifts. Curved roads kept folding into each other, pine scent thick in the air, sunlight catching briefly on bends. By the time I arrived, my mind had already slowed.
Daily Life I Watched Slowly Unfold
Life in Gadmola moved without hurry. Terraced fields carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees tucked close to homes. Farming stayed traditional and mostly organic, guided by seasons and memory. Cattle rearing blended certainly into the day—milking early, grazing through sunlight hours, and fodder collection at night.
One afternoon, I watched an old guy polishing 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 go with the flow away. Fodder bundles leaned against slate partitions, and dairy cans rested quietly within the color. These small moments lingered longer than conversations.
Festivals and Quiet Traditions That Stay With Me
Festivals in Gadmola never arrived loudly.
Harela brought fresh green shoots and calm smiles, Ghughutiya carried children’s laughter across courtyards, 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 Gadmola’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 about. The hills revealed themselves only if I stayed still.
Food in Gadmola 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 houses stood close together, connected by narrow stone pathways worn smooth by decades of footsteps. Walking there at dusk, I felt the cool stone under my feet. Doors closed gently, voices softened, and the village seemed to settle itself.
A Slow Goodbye I Still Carry
Gadmola 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.
