Bagi Choti Village, Pauri Garhwal

Bagi Choti Village in Pauri Garhwal district, tucked quietly under the Pauri tehsil, comes back to me without warning. I remember terraced fields slipping down the hills, forests breathing behind them, and thin streams cutting their own patient paths. Mornings arrived with a cool breeze, cowbells, distant voices, and a warmth that never asked questions. I miss it quietly, the kind that sits softly.

I used to come via Rishikesh railway station, about 160 kilometers away, and from there, everything slowly turned into curves. The nearest bus routes dropped me on the main Pauri road, and locals took over from there in shared jeeps or on foot. The road bent endlessly, pine trees leaning close, their smell filling the air. Sunlight flashed and disappeared on every turn, like it knew the way better than me.

Life in Bagi Choti never rushed itself. Terraced farms carried wheat, mandua, paddy, pulses, veggies, and some fruit trees that felt like a circle of relatives’ possessions. Cows and buffaloes were a part of the rhythm, their care stitched into every morning and evening. Fodder becomes accumulated every day, and the whole thing felt organic without every person calling it that.

One afternoon, I watched a vintage guy take a seat close to his courtyard, slowly sharpening his sickle on a stone. Nearby, a female stood winnowing grain, the husk flying golden within the daylight before settling again to earth. No one spoke much. Work continued, steady and familiar, like it had been rehearsed for generations.

Festivals arrived gently in Bagi Choti. Harela brought fresh green shoots and hope, Ghughutiya filled children’s hands and laughter, and Makar Sankranti warmed homes with simple celebrations. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat were told with respect, often in the evenings, along with folk songs and small rituals. Elders were listened to carefully, and the village felt stitched together by shared memory.

There were small temples and old shrines scattered around the village, some barely marked. I remember standing inside one, stone walls cool to the touch, bells quiet until someone arrived. They felt less like places of worship and more like keepers of time.

Natural springs hid along forest trails, their water cold enough to sting the hands. I followed narrow paths through oak and pine, finding viewpoints that opened suddenly to layered hills. The sound of water and wind stayed with me longer than any photograph.

Food in the village was simple and full. I ate mandua rotis and seasonal vegetables and tasted herbs picked fresh from nearby slopes. Women spun wool by hand, and wooden tools rested against walls, shaped by use rather than design. Everything smelt faintly of oak wood smoke.

The slate-roof homes leaned into every different one, connected via stone pathways worn easily by the footsteps of those who passed by. Walking there felt grounding, every step echoing lightly. Evenings settled slowly, smoke rising from kitchens, shadows stretching across stones that had seen much more than me.

I left Bagi Choti without ceremony. The slow mountain life, the silences, and the comfort of simplicity stayed behind, yet came with me. Nature there never tried to impress; it simply existed. I still say goodbye to it quietly, in my own time, whenever it crosses my mind.