Bacheli Village, Pauri Garhwal

Bacheli village in Pauri Garhwal district, tucked quietly inside the hills of Uttarakhand, returns to me without warning. I remember the terraced fields sliding down the slopes, forests wrapping the village edges, and small streams whispering somewhere below. The morning breeze carried the sounds of cowbells, sparrows, and distant voices. Even now, missing it feels warm, not heavy.

I usually got down at Kotdwar railway station, roughly 90 kilometres away, then caught a bus toward Pauri and later a shared jeep near the main road. Locals moved easily by bus, jeep, or just lifts from neighbours. The road curled endlessly, pine trees breathing their sharp smell, sunlight flashing and disappearing on every bend.

Days in Bacheli didn’t announce themselves. I watched people move between terraced fields where wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, vegetables, and fruit trees grew together like they had an agreement. Cows and buffaloes were part of every morning, fodder bundles balanced on backs, and dairy work was done without conversation.

One afternoon stays clear. An old guy sat close to his doorway, slowly whetting a sickle on stone, the scrape steady and affected. Nearby, a female winnowed grain, tossing it into the air, sunlight catching each falling seed. No one hurried. Traditional organic farming wasn’t a concept there—it was just life continuing.

Festivals arrived gently in Bacheli. Harela brought fresh leaves and quiet joy, Ghughutiya filled children’s pockets, and Makar Sankranti warmed kitchens and conversations. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat surfaced during long evenings, mixed with folk songs, rituals, and elders speaking while everyone listened, bonded without effort.

There were ancient temples and small shrines scattered around Bacheli, some barely more than stone and faith. I often stopped without planning to, standing quietly, hearing bells echo faintly through the trees, feeling watched over without knowing by whom.

Natural springs hid themselves along forest trails. I found out their places with the aid of the following locals, ingesting cool water cupped in my palms, then walking similarly to hidden viewpoints where hills layered into silence. The woodland paths smelled of damp earth and pine needles.

Food anchored everything. Simple meals—mandua rotis, seasonal vegetables, wild herbs—tasted honest. I saw handmade wool lying in corners and wooden tools shaped by hand, each object carrying patience. Smoke from oak wood drifted slowly, settling into clothes and memory.

Slate-roof houses leaned comfortably into the slopes, stone pathways worn smooth by generations. My footsteps sounded softer there, slower. Walking those paths at dusk, I felt time stretch, as if the village refused to rush even for strangers.

Bacheli stays with me because nothing there tried to impress me. Life moved slowly, wrapped in silence and mountain air, presenting comfort via simplicity and the natural world. When I left, there had been no farewell scene—only a quiet turn in the street and a good-bye I nevertheless haven’t completed pronouncing.