Badrow Village, Pauri Garhwal

Badrow village in Pauri Garhwal district, Pauri tehsil, comes back to me in pieces—terraced fields stacked like quiet steps, forests leaning into hills, thin streams threading through stone. Mornings there carried a cool breeze mixed with bird calls and distant cowbells. I still miss how the village sounded before people fully woke up. There’s a soft warmth in that quiet that never really left me.

I typically started from Rishikesh railway station, roughly a hundred and twenty kilometres away, then moved on by bus or shared jeep in the direction of Pauri before turning off the primary street. Locals prefer shared jeeps, timing their lives around those departures. The road kept curling, pine trees lining the bends, sunlight spilling and disappearing as the hills turned. I never planned much; my body seemed to remember the way.

Days in Badrow moved at a pace that taught me patience. Terraced fields held wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, and seasonal veggies, with fruit trees standing quietly at the edges. Cows and buffaloes have been a part of the rhythm—milking, cleaning sheds, and carrying fodder uphill. Everything felt organic, no longer as a label but as a habit.

One afternoon, I stood near a field watching an old man sit on a flat stone, sharpening his sickle. The metal rang softly with each stroke, steady and unhurried. A woman nearby winnowed grain, lifting it into the air so the husk drifted away in the sunlight. Nobody noticed me much, and that felt right.

Festivals in Badrow were never loud, but they stayed deep. Harela saplings were planted with care, Ghughutiya brought handmade sweets and childhood laughter, and Makar Sankranti meant shared food and slow conversations. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat came alive in evening gatherings, mixed with folk songs and small rituals. Elders were listened to, not interrupted, and the community felt like a living thing.

There were small temples and shrines scattered around Badrow, some barely marked, some with old bells hanging low. I keep in mind stopping at one near a bend in the direction, the stone cool below my palms. Nobody rushed prayers there; humans simply stood, bowed, and moved on.

Natural springs have been the village’s quiet items. The water becomes bloodless, sufficient to numb my fingers, and clear enough to see pebbles at the bottom. Forest trails led to hidden viewpoints wherein the hills opened unexpectedly, and I’d just stand, inhaling rich and damp earth, now not saying anything.

Food came straight from fields and kitchens—mandua rotis, seasonal vegetables, and herbs gathered from nearby slopes. I saw wool being spun by hand and wooden tools shaped slowly and patiently. The smell of oak wood smoke lingered in courtyards, especially in the evenings, wrapping everything in comfort.

Slate-roof houses sat low and steady, holding years in their walls. Stone pathways connected homes, worn smooth by footsteps older than me. Walking there, I could hear my steps echo lightly, as if the village was listening back.

Badrow stays with me because nothing tried to impress me there. Life moved slowly, silence had weight, and simplicity felt complete. Nature wasn’t something greater; it changed into the historical past to each breath. When I left, there had been no farewell speech—simply one last look back and a quiet goodbye, I still sense.