Amaldu Village, Pauri Garhwal

Amaldu village in Pauri Garhwal district, under Pauri tehsil, comes back to me without asking. I remember terraced fields leaning into forests, hills folding into each other, and thin streams cutting silver lines through soil. The morning breeze carried cowbells, sparrow calls, and distant footsteps. Even now, missing it feels like a quiet warmth sitting in my chest.

I always came via Kotdwar railway station, roughly a hundred kilometers away, then caught a bus toward Pauri bus stand before switching to a shared taxi. Locals move the same way, timed with markets and daylight. The road kept curving, pine trees breathing their smell into the car, and sunlight slipping and disappearing on every bend. I never had to plan much.

Days in Amaldu opened gently. Terraced farms grew wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, and seasonal vegetables, with fruit bushes patiently on the edges. Cattle had been part of each ordinary milking at dawn, fodder bundles balanced on backs, quiet dairy work woven into hours. Farming stayed organic, not via fashion, however, with the aid of a dependency passed down.

One afternoon, I sat near a field and watched an old man sharpening his sickle on a flat stone. The sound was steady, almost calming. Nearby, a woman winnowed grain, sunlight catching the husk mid-air. No one rushed. Work and rest shared the same pace.

Harela marked the green start of things, Ghughutiya filled winter mornings with sweet smells, and Makar Sankranti brought warmth through shared meals. Stories of Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced in the evenings, carried by folk songs and simple rituals. Elders were listened to without interruption, and the village felt held together by respect and quiet togetherness.

Small temples and shrines sat quietly between houses and trees. Bells rang softly, never demanding attention. I would pause there without thinking, feeling the stone cool under my fingers and the air slow around me.

Natural springs appeared where I least expected them. The water was cold enough to numb my palms, and forest trails led to viewpoints that felt like secrets. From there, the hills looked endless, and the world below stayed silent.

Food tied everything together. Simple meals made from local grains, herbs picked from the edges of fields, and vegetables pulled fresh each morning tasted honest. I watched wool being spun and small wooden tools shaped by hand, the smell of oak wood smoke lingering nearby.

Slate-roof houses stood solid and dark against the sky. Stone pathways remembered generations of footsteps. Walking there, my own steps sounded older than me, like they already knew the way.

Amaldu stays with me because nothing tried to impress me there. Life moved slowly, wrapped in silence, letting mountains and people be enough. The simplicity of nature offered comfort without words. When I left, I didn’t look back dramatically—I just let the road take me away, quietly.