Garkot Village, Pauri Garhwal
Pauri Garhwal,
Uttarakhand
Introduction – When the Village Comes Back to Me
Garkot village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of
Pauri Garhwal district comes back to me like a slow, quiet sigh. Terraced fields step down the hills, forests lean close without pressing, and small streams slip over stones with soft murmurs. The morning breeze carried birds, cattle bells, and distant voices. Missing Garkot feels like a gentle warmth that sits beside me without fuss.
How I Reach the Village without Thinking Too Much
I usually reached Garkot 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 smell thick in the air, sunlight flashing briefly on bends. Somewhere along the climb, I stopped counting kilometers or hours.
Daily Life I Watched Slowly Unfold
Life in Garkot 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, soil, and memory. Cattle rearing is mixed, evidently, into the day—milking early, grazing during the day, and fodder collection by way of evening.
One morning, I watched an old guy sharpening his sickle near a stone wall, sparks catching softly in daylight. Nearby, a woman winnowed grain, lifting it into the breeze and letting the lighter husks go with the flow away. Fodder bundles leaned against slate walls, and dairy cans rested quietly inside the coloration. These small moments lingered longer than conversations.
Festivals and Quiet Traditions That Stay With Me
Festivals in Garkot 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 during evening gatherings, shared slowly 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 touch. I often paused there without planning to, standing quietly for a moment. Bells rang only when someone truly felt like ringing one.
Natural springs dotted Garkot’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 spoke about. The hills revealed themselves only if I stayed still.
Food in Garkot 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, related by way of slender stone pathways worn clean by means of decades of footsteps. Walking there at dusk, I felt the cool stone under my feet. Doors closed gently, voices softened, and the village settled itself.
A Slow Goodbye I Still Carry
Garkot 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.
