Aeta (Atta) Village, Pauri Garhwal

Aeta (Atta) village in Pauri Garhwal district, under Pauri tehsil, comes back to me without warning. Terraced fields step down the hills, forests hold the edges, and thin streams whisper through stones. The morning breeze carries cowbells, birds, and distant voices. I miss it quietly, like warmth left in the palms.

I usually think of Rishikesh railway station, a little over a hundred kilometres away, and the long road that leads to it. From the main road near Pauri, local buses and shared jeeps do what they always have. Most villagers still walk parts of the way. The road curves, pine smells drift in, and sunlight keeps appearing and disappearing on bends.

Days in Aeta never rushed me. Terraced farming filled the slopes with wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and fruit trees. Cattle were part of every household, and dairy work quietly shaped the mornings. Everything felt organic, not labelled so, and just practiced with care.

One afternoon, I sat near a field edge and watched an old man sharpening his sickle on a stone. The sound was steady and patient. Nearby, a woman winnowed grain in the sun, chaff floating like dusted gold. No one noticed time passing, including me.

Harela arrived with fresh leaves and hope, Ghughutiya with sweet smells and children’s laughter, and Makar Sankranti with simple warmth. I heard stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat during evenings, mixed with folk songs and soft rituals. Elders were listened to, not interrupted. Community here felt natural, not announced.

There were small shrines and ancient-feeling temples tucked between homes and trees. I’d stop without reason, ring a bell once, and move on. No crowds, no instructions—just a sense of having greeted something old and familiar.

Natural springs ran cold even in summer. I followed forest trails that locals never called trails, leading to hidden viewpoints. The water shocked my palms awake, and the forests smelled of damp earth and leaves.

Food carried memory. Simple meals made from local grains, greens, and herbs stayed light and honest. Handmade wool kept nights warm, and wooden tools showed marks of use. Nothing was decorative for the sake of it.

Slate-roof houses leaned into the hills, and stone pathways remembered many footsteps. Walking there, I heard my own steps echo softly. In the evenings, oak wood smoke hung low, slow, and comforting.

Aeta stays with me because it never tried to hold me. Life moved slowly, silence was respected, and simplicity felt complete. Nature didn’t impress; it accompanied. When I left, there was no farewell moment just a quiet goodbye that keeps returning.