Aldawa Village, Pauri Garhwal

Aldawa Village in the Pauri Garhwal district, tucked quietly in the Pauri tehsil, returns to me without warning. I recall terraced fields folding into forests, low hills rising around the homes, and thin streams slicing soft traces through the land. Mornings carried a groovy breeze, mixed with the sounds of chicken calls and remote cowbells. Even now, the reminiscence holds a quiet warmth, the sort you feel while you miss something without understanding why.

I usually got down at Kotdwar railway station, roughly 110–115 kilometres away, and from there, everything slowed down naturally. Buses and shared jeeps moved toward Pauri, and from the main road, locals relied on footpaths or short rides. The road kept curving, pine trees releasing their smell in the sun. Light kept falling differently on every bend, like it was guiding me home.

Life in Aldawa never rushed in front of me; it opened itself bit by bit. Terraced farming shaped most days—wheat and mandua in a single season, paddy later, pulses and greens filling the gaps, with fruit bushes standing patiently at the rims. People worked with the land, no longer against it, following traditional organic methods they trusted more than any recommendation from outside.

One afternoon, I stood quietly whilst an old man sat close to his courtyard, sharpening a sickle on a stone. Nearby, a lady winnowed grain, lifting it gently so the daylight could separate husk from seed. Cattle have been added to the lower back slowly, fodder bundles balanced with practiced ease. Dairy work, forest grass, and field labour blended into one continuous rhythm. I learnt just by watching.

Festivals in Aldawa were never loud, but they lasted long. Harela brought fresh leaves and hope, Ghughutiya filled winter mornings with laughter, and Makar Sankranti warmed kitchens and conversations. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat came up in the evenings, carried through folk songs and shared memories. Elders were listened to closely, and community bonds felt like something carefully protected.

Small shrines and ancient temples appeared where I least expected them, often under old trees or beside paths. I remember stopping without planning to, touching cool stone, listening to bells that echoed softly and then disappeared. Faith here felt quiet, almost personal, like a conversation whispered instead of spoken aloud.

Natural springs were my favourite pauses. The water turned into constantly cold, even in the summer season, and tasted of stone and earth. Forest trails led to hidden viewpoints in which hills layered into each other without end. Sometimes I walked alone, sometimes with someone from the village, footsteps soft on pine needles and leaves.

Food carried its own language. Simple meals made from local grains, seasonal vegetables, and wild herbs stayed with me longer than any elaborate dish. I watched wool being spun and wooden tools shaped by hand, and felt how much patience lived in these crafts. The smell of oak wood smoke lingered around kitchens in the evenings.

The slate-roof houses held the village together, dark stone shining after rain. Narrow stone pathways linked houses, temples, and fields, worn smooth by means of generations of footsteps. Walking there, I usually slowed down, taking note of my very own steps echoing gently against old partitions

Aldawa stays with me because it never tried to impress me. The slow mountain life, the long silences, and the comfort of simplicity made space inside me. Nature didn’t ask for attention; it offered companionship. When I left, it wasn’t a farewell, just a quiet goodbye I still carry without words.