Amari Village, Pauri Garhwal

Amari Village in the Pauri Garhwal district, tucked quietly under the Pauri tehsil, comes back to me without warning. I don't forget terraced fields layered into the hills, forests wrapping the village edges, and small streams threading their way downhill. Mornings carried a mild breeze, combined with the sounds of hen calls, distant cowbells, and footsteps on stone. Even now, there’s a quiet, warm temperature in that memory, the type you experience when you pass over an area that in no way attempted to affect you.

I normally think of the path beginning from Rishikesh railway station, roughly a hundred and ten kilometres away, followed by a bus journey closer to Pauri, after which a shared jeep off the main road. Locals journey light, hopping among buses and jeeps and taking lengthy walks without making a massive deal. The street curves without end, pine bushes leaning in, sunlight flashing on every bend. By the time the air smells sharper and purer, I know I’m close.

Days in Amari didn’t announce themselves; they simply opened up. I watched terraced farms stretch across slopes, growing wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and seasonal fruits. Cows and buffaloes were part of every household rhythm, with dairy work, fodder cutting, and long walks to collect grass. Everything felt organic, practiced, and unhurried, like the land and people understood each other.

One morning stays clear with me. An antique man sat near his courtyard wall, slowly polishing his sickle on a stone, the scraping sound regular and calm. Nearby, a woman stood in sunlight, winnowing grain, and the husks lifted in short bursts before falling away. No one spoke much, yet nothing felt empty.

Festivals arrived gently in Amari. Harela saplings lined doorways, Ghughutiya filled the air with sweet smells, and Makar Sankranti mornings began earlier than usual. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat were shared in fragments, often in the evenings. Folk songs drifted softly, rituals were simple, elders were listened to, and the village felt tightly woven without ever feeling loud.

There were small temples and shrines scattered around Amari, a few barely more than a stone platform with faded vermilion. Bells rang softly in the mornings, not as a name, however, but as a habit. I often paused there, not to pray properly, but to stand quietly and listen.

Natural springs had been the village’s quiet lifeline. The water was cold enough to numb hands, tasting faintly of stone. Forest trails led to hidden viewpoints where the hills opened unexpectedly, and you could see layers of green fading into blue. Walking there felt like being let in on a secret.

Food in Amari stayed with me more than I expected. Simple meals of mandua roti, seasonal vegetables, and lentils carried a depth that didn’t come from spices. Herbs dried near windows, and handmade wool items lay folded neatly inside homes. Wooden tools and small crafts showed careful hands and long use.

The slate-roof houses were low and solid, holding warmth inside. Stone pathways ran erratically among houses, polished easily through years of footsteps. In the evenings, the smell of alright wooden smoke hung gently in the air. Walking the ones paths felt grounding; every step was familiar, even if I became new.

Amari stays with me because nothing there tried to rush me. The slow mountain life, the spaces between sounds, and the quiet strength of routine still settle me when I think back. Simplicity felt comforting, not limiting, and nature felt like a companion rather than scenery. I left without a scene, just one last look back, and a soft goodbye that never fully ended.