Gawari Village, Pauri Garhwal
Pauri Garhwal,
Uttarakhand
Introduction – When the Village Comes Back to Me
Gawari village in Jakhanikhal tehsil of
Pauri Garhwal district comes back to me like a soft, steady breath. Terraced fields stretch along the hills, forests lean close without crowding, and small streams trickle over stones with gentle murmurs. The morning breeze carried birds, cattle bells, and distant voices. Missing Gawari feels like a quiet warmth that rests in my chest.
How I Reach the Village without Thinking Too Much
I usually reached Gawari through
Kotdwar railway station, around 90–95 kilometers away, and 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 turning, pine scent thick in the air, sunlight landing briefly on bends. By the time I arrived, my mind had already slowed.
Daily Life I Watched Slowly Unfold
Life in Gawari moved without hurry. Terraced fields carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and a few fruit trees tucked near homes. Farming stayed conventional and in general organic, guided by soil, seasons, and reminiscence. Cattle rearing blended obviously into the day—milking early, grazing via mild, and fodder series at night.
One morning, I watched an old man sharpening his sickle close to a stone wall, sparks catching softly in daylight. Nearby, a girl winnowed grain, lifting it into the breeze and letting the lighter husks waft away. Fodder bundles leaned against slate partitions, and dairy cans rested quietly within the color. These small moments stayed longer in memory than conversations.
Festivals and Quiet Traditions That Stay With Me
Festivals in Gawari 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 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 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 Gawari’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 of. The hills revealed themselves only if I stayed still.
Food in Gawari 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 by slender stone pathways worn smooth through a long time of footsteps. Walking there at dusk, I felt the cool stone beneath my feet. Doors closed lightly, voices softened, and the village settled itself.
A Slow Goodbye I Still Carry
Gawari 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.
