Bair Gaon Village, Pauri Garhwal

Bair Gaon Village in Pauri Garhwal district, tucked quietly in the Pauri tehsil, comes back to me without warning. I remember the terraced fields stepping down the hills, forests closing in gently, and thin streams running through stones. Mornings carried a cool breeze mixed with chook calls and distant cowbells. Even now, the reminiscence sits warm and quiet, like something I once belonged to.

I usually think of the route without effort; the nearest railway station is Kotdwar, roughly 85–90 kilometres away. From there, buses and shared jeeps move toward Pauri town, and locals finish the rest on foot or by bike from the main road. The road curves endlessly, pine trees leaning in, sunlight spilling across bends. The smell of resin and dust always told me I was close.

Life in Bair Gaon never rushed me. Terraced fields held wheat and mandua in wintry weather, paddy in the course of the monsoon, and small patches of pulses, vegetables, and fruit bushes all 12 months. Farming stayed more often than not natural, guided through habit in preference to practice. Cattle have been a part of each morning milking, feeding, and leading them closer to forest edges for grazing.

One afternoon, I stood quietly at the same time as an old man sat near his residence, polishing his sickle against a flat stone. The metal rhythm echoed softly. Nearby, a girl winnowed grain, daylight catching the falling husk as it drifted away. No one noticed me watching, and that felt right.

Festivals in the village never felt loud, but they felt complete. Harela came with fresh leaves and small prayers, Ghughutiya with sweet smells and children’s laughter, Makar Sankranti with calm rituals and warm food. Stories of the Nanda Devi Jaat were told slowly in the evenings, mixed with folk songs and pauses. Elders were listened to without interruption, and that respect held everything together.

There were small temples and shrines scattered across Bair Gaon, some barely larger than a room. Bells hung crooked, stones worn smooth by hands and time. I often stopped without reason, just standing there, feeling the weight of quiet devotion.

Natural springs were hidden just off narrow trails, with water cold enough to sting the fingers. Forest paths opened into viewpoints where hills folded into every different one ad infinitum. I do not forget ingesting from one spring, the water tasting sharp and smooth, and my hands numb from the bloodlessness.

Food carried the village’s rhythm. Simple meals made from local grains, leafy saag, and lentils filled the house with comfort. Women spun wool in the afternoons, and wooden tools rested against walls. The smell of oak wood smoke drifted through kitchens and stayed in clothes long after.

Slate-roof houses stood close, with stone pathways running between them. My footsteps sounded heavier there, echoing softly off the walls. At dusk, the stones cooled quickly, and the village settled into shadows, lamps flickering behind small windows.

Bair Gaon stays with me because it never tries to impress. Life moved slowly, wrapped in silence and mountain air, offering comfort through simplicity and nature. When I left, there was no moment worth marking, just a quiet turn on the path. I still carry that goodbye, unfinished and gentle.