Amsaur Village, Pauri Garhwal

Amsaur Village in Pauri Garhwal district, under the Pauri tehsil, returns to me without warning. I remember terraced fields leaning into the hills, forests closing in softly, and small streams slipping past stones. The morning breeze carried the sounds of cowbells, birds, and distant voices. Even now, there’s a quiet warmth in missing it.

I never planned the route carefully; I just went. Kotdwar railway station sits roughly 110 kilometers away, and from there, the bus to Pauri or shared jeeps did the rest. Locals move easily, hopping rides, walking stretches, chatting. Curved roads, pine in the air, sunlight breaking on bends—that’s how Amsaur arrives.

Days unfolded without urgency. Terraces held wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and fruit trees that leaned over stone walls. Cows and buffaloes were part of the rhythm—milking, fodder collection, slow walks back home. Everything felt organic, soil-fed, and quietly understood.

One afternoon, I watched an old man sit down close to the brink of an area, sharpening his sickle on a stone. The sound was steady, patient. Nearby, a woman stood in sunlight, winnowing grain as the chaff lifted and disappeared. Nobody noticed me watching, and that felt right.

Festivals never felt loud in Amsaur, just deeply felt. Harela marked new beginnings, Ghughutiya brought laughter, Makar Sankranti warmed winter mornings, and Nanda Devi Jaat lived in stories and songs. Evenings carried folk tunes and rituals, elders spoke slowly, and everyone listened. Community wasn’t announced; it simply existed.

There were ancient temples and small shrines tucked between homes and trees. Some were barely marked, just stones and faith. I remember touching cold walls, hearing bells ring softly, and feeling how time rested there without trying to impress anyone.

Natural springs were everywhere if you knew where to look. The water was cold enough to sting my palms, clean enough to drink without doubt. Forest trails led to hidden viewpoints where the hills opened suddenly, and I’d stand still, breathing, afraid to disturb the moment.

Food anchored me to the place. Simple meals of local grains, leafy veggies, and lentils tasted fuller than whatever fancy. I saw herbs drying close to home windows, wool being spun by hand, and timber equipment shaped slowly. Everything smelled faintly of oak wood smoke and effort.

The houses stayed with me the most. Slate roofs layered like recollections, stone pathways worn easily with the aid of generations of footsteps. Walking there, my shoes echoed softly, and I felt smaller, careful, as though the village asked for gentleness.

Amsaur stays with me because it never rushed me out. The slow mountain life, the silence between sounds, and the comfort of simplicity settled deep. Nature didn’t perform; it accompanied. When I left, I didn’t wave or look back much—I just carried a quiet goodbye, folded neatly inside.