Aruna takes us to a quaint Garhwali village, Nagroli, where she and her friends, accompanied by a highly decorated soldier, visit a house on a little hill. Find out what happened to the soldier and his friends. An exclusive for Different Truths. 

It came to him again. It always did when the soldier was close to the hills, and he saw the distant snow-capped Himalayan ranges. Sometimes the snow glistened in the bright sunlight and sometimes the hills were shrouded in cloud and mist. The rising sun washed the hills in streaks of pink and purple and orange. 

He remembered that as a boy growing up in that little village called Nagroli in what is Uttarakhand today. He remembered the hush of the darkening evenings when his mother called him. He would clamber up the wooden steps into the small warm wooden room to be fed by his mother or sometimes his aunt? 

The house on the little hill would become a dark silhouette till the lamps were lit and the small windows closed. He couldn’t quite recall but memories still stirred in him and an old longing to visit the house where he was born returned. Nagroli was calling again. 

We were the soldier’s friends from the deep South. We had come for a holiday to Lansdowne Uttarakhand with Brigadier Saheb and his charming wife. The mountains and the snow on them were fantasies to us as the sea is to those living here. The cold mountain air, the tall birches and cedars, the bursts of bright red rhododendrons, the kites and eagles wheeling far above were wondrous sights. 

This small military station had come up during the Raj and retained its quaint houses and the splendid officers’ mess and museum. But we did not know of Nagroli till the soldier’s wife whispered to me. “Ask him about Nagroli! We’re not too far from there. He has been talking about his home in the hills and how he hasn’t been back for six decades or more. Maybe you can persuade him?” 

“What!” I exclaimed in excitement. “How can we not go…he’s been all over India and the world and hasn’t found the time to visit his old home?” I marched up to him and demanded an explanation. He winced. He wasn’t sure of how to get there. He wasn’t sure if he would be welcomed. 

His father, also a soldier, when the Raj was still going strong, had moved out of his home and lands to make a living in the towns and cantonments in the plains. He’d taken his family leaving everything to his brother and his family. There had been little, or no contact and he didn’t know if the house was still there. So, he had suppressed his curiosity and was overcome with apprehension.

But, to travel in those hills looking for Nagroli was for us a challenge. A rising excitement made us bully him to make the journey. A much-decorated war veteran, who had stood up to the fiercest of foes, had to give in! 

The journey by road through the pahadi region of the Garhwal hills filled us with awe …such empty loveliness, with bare hills and winding rivers in the valleys below. Tiny towns on riverbanks with temple bells ringing and crowded markets … simple hill houses and rosy cheeked children waved to us as we climbed higher and higher. 

We speculated about the reception we would receive! It was better to make an offering of sweets and fruits. They were chosen from the few shops we came across and wrapped in colourful paper. We were ready! Messages had been sent across thanks to mobiles and somebody would meet us near the village and take us across. 

But we still asked the few people we came across. Nagroli??? Nagroli? asked the driver and we were pointed in some direction. Just as we were wondering if we’d get there at all, a short man darted from the side of the road. The soldier got out and asked …Nagroli?? The man grinned and the two embraced as he introduced himself. The cousin’s son Babloo. 

He pointed to the other side of the road. We had to walk the rest of the way. Not far said the man descending nimbly down a stony pathway and helping us down.  

A pahadi, that is a hill folk, does this every day, their only way of travelling between houses.

But we were silly city folk who needed help at every stage! Laughing our way all through, we slipped and stumbled till suddenly we saw the wooden house! 

The soldier stood for a minute taking it in. It was still there! This house had 24 rooms. Built seven decades ago! “This is the house my father built. This is where I was born”. The soldier exclaimed.  

A small, wizened woman in a saree came forward to meet us. She greeted the soldier as if he were a long-lost friend. Voices were raised in joyous greeting as the Brigadier and his wife were warmly embraced and led to the house. 

We stood looking around at the hills and the quiet beauty of the place. Small patches of what looked like vegetables and greens suggested a self-sustaining community. A young woman, the bahu, the nephew’s wife, was introduced and she shyly asked about all of us. Her two children were away at school and couldn’t meet us. 

The old lady held the soldier’s arm and said sternly that a meal was a must. The sight of a pot on a coal fire outside was too tempting to refuse. We climbed the short steep steps to the wooden rooms above. A few chairs had been arranged for us. The walls had old fading family photos in frames and a lively conversation ensued in Garhwali as persons were pointed out. 

We were never left out as translations were simultaneous! Through the single window one caught sight of the misty hills and a few other hill houses. “And in this very room did your mother give birth to you,” asked the old lady with a laugh. 

The soldier was overwhelmed. It was no longer a dream. Nor was the typical pahadi meal that was brought up, fresh and steaming potatoes, a dal made with homegrown saag, rotis and rice. The homecoming was complete.  

We walked into the other rooms and were struck by how the house had survived. The rooms were not bright, but they were functional … to keep the family warm and to store the few possessions they had. Life was hard. The man who met us earlier did not have a proper job. If he left to go down to the “big” towns his family would be left alone.

And so, the conversation continued, as they told their stories to each other. How in the early days before the coming of electric lights, the hill people encountered leopards and tigers, especially at dusk. The women and children had to reach home before the shadows deepened. There was even a story about the Yeti! The encounter with it led to its dramatic escape but not before one of the men who had fought it, pulled off a tuft of its hair! It’s still in a box in the village, the old lady claimed!  

“Our women are brave and daring,” she said!  

Invitations to come down to their home were made by the Brigadier and his wife, and help was promised. It was this moment that the soldier had imagined but with apprehension! Now he felt at peace. His people, his home, had been reclaimed through this unexpected journey. But he had to wait for over six decades! 

Photos by the author

Aruna Chidambi

Aruna Chidambi is a third generation Bangalorean. She has been an educator and has taught in international schools in Bangalore and Delhi. Her interests were special education and experiential learning. Besides degrees in education and literature, she also has one in journalism. She enjoys reading, travel and political discourse! Her other serious interests are the environment and women’s issues.

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