Amoli Village, Pauri Garhwal

Amoli Village in Pauri Garhwal district, under Pauri tehsil, still returns to me without warning. Terraced fields leaned gently into the hills, forests pressed close, and thin streams whispered through stones. Mornings carried a cool breeze mixed with bird calls and distant cowbells. I miss that quiet warmth, the kind that doesn’t ask questions.

I usually get down at Rishikesh railway station, roughly 120 kilometers away, and let the road decide the rest. From Pauri bus stand or the main road, shared jeeps and local buses do what they’ve always done. The road curves patiently, the pine smell slipping in through open windows. Sunlight keeps catching the bends like it knows the way.

Days in Amoli never rushed me. Terraced fields held wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, and small vegetable patches, with fruit trees quietly doing their work. Cattle moved in and out of courtyards, dairy work fitting neatly between meals and conversations. Everything felt organic, not labelled as such, just lived that way.

One afternoon, I watched a vintage man take a seat close to his doorway, polishing a sickle on a smooth stone. The sound became steady, nearly calming. Nearby, a woman stood winnowing grain, sunlight catching the falling husk like dust made of gold. No one noticed me watching, and that felt right.

Festivals in Amoli never shouted. Harela came with saplings and hope, Ghughutiya with laughter and sweet smells, and Makar Sankranti with slow warmth by the hearth. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced in the evenings, carried by folk songs and rituals. Elders were listened to, not out of duty, but habit.

A small ancient shrine stood near the edge of the village, half-hidden by moss and time. I’d pass it without stopping some days, bowing only with my eyes. Bells rang softly when someone else remembered to pull the rope. The stone felt cool even in summer.

Natural springs dotted the forest paths like secrets. The water was cold enough to sting, clear enough to trust. Forest trails opened into quiet viewpoints where hills stacked into each other. I learned to sit there, doing nothing, listening to leaves argue with the wind.

Food in Amoli tasted of patience. Mandua rotis, seasonal vegetables, and herbs gathered from nearby slopes filled the kitchen. Wool was spun by hand, and wooden tools were shaped slowly. Even the smoke from oak wood fires carried a smell that felt like evening settling in.

Slate-roof houses leaned together like old friends. Stone pathways remembered every footstep, mine included. Walking barefoot there was different; the stones were smooth, worn by years. At night, the village lights felt scattered, never trying to be more than they were.

Amoli stays with me because it never tries to impress me. Life moved slowly, wrapped in silence that felt full, not empty. Simplicity and nature offered comfort without promises. When I left, I didn’t appear back dramatically—I simply whispered goodbye and stopped taking walks.