Where Rivers Speak and Forests Listen

My parents grew up in the Kullu region of the Western Himalayas, and so did I. But unlike them, my childhood in the village was brief, like a dream I could only visit on holidays. At the age of three, I was taken by my grandfather for studies, leaving me with second hand impressions of life in the village—stitched together from summer vacations, folk tales told by people often visiting our house from the village, and the stories I gathered from cousins who lived in villages.

Whenever I visited, I saw children chasing cows up the hills, with their blue school pajamas used at homes now due to torn knees. They carved hockey sticks out of tree branches, made balls out of torn socks brought by volunteer children after begging to aunties generous enough to donate one, and played hide-and-seek in old Kathkuni houses with their wooden beams creaking with time. The scent of damp earth and dung piled in the basement clung to the air, mixing with the distinct smell of dust/soot our clothes used to collect rubbing the wall not touched since long. Everything felt alive—more than just a place, the village had a heartbeat of its own.

As I began traveling for work, I found myself staying in villages across different regions, hearing stories passed down through generations. A shepherd in Spiti once told me about his encounters with snow leopards, while an elder in Dima Hasao of Assam spoke of how the hill nearby always talked with them. But no matter where I went, one thing remained constant—villages were not just settlements. They were living archives of wisdom, holding stories deeper than any Instagram reel or movie montage could capture.

One such story was about Minjar, a festival in Chamba valley.

"Do you know why the Ravi flows where it does?" an old man wearing a woolen jacket once asked me, nipping off his bidi as we sat by a fire.

I shook my head to say no. 

"It wasn’t always this way," he said, his voice dipping into the rhythm of storytelling, with a background of burning matchsticks. "The river used to flow between the Champawati and Hari Rai temples, making it impossible for devotees to cross. The king, desperate to find a way, sought help from a saint. The saint told him to hold a sacred ceremony, and during those seven days, they wove a thread of many colors—Minjar. When the prayers ended, the river changed its course, just like that."

He exhaled smoke through his nose as he told the story, his voice shifting in pitch with each word.

 "Now, was it the Minjar that did it? Or the faith of the people?"

Another version of the tale spoke of a girl whose voice alone tamed Ravi's fury. It didn’t matter which was true—what mattered was the belief that nature listened. The belief that rivers have a spirit, just like the forests and mountains. But this wasn’t the aestheticized, romanticized version of nature seen in Instagram reels from distant AC rooms.It was an authentic relationship with no pretence but an honest acknowledgment of their dependence on nature. 

Our villages are complex and layered, and these tales are hard to decode. But I think the villages didn’t see themselves as separate from nature; they lived within it. They fought for their forests when dams threatened to swallow them in Kinnaur, they learned the moods of the river like an old friend, and they honored every tree cut with a prayer. For the communities, the river has a  spirit, so do the trees and the forests. Yet the misconception persists that only rural and indigenous communities rely on forests for their livelihoods. This belief is often repeated in school textbooks. Our schoolbooks make it seem as if cities function independently, as if clean air, water, and food are somehow produced out of thin air. But the truth is, no matter where we live, we all depend on nature. The only difference is that some of us still remember it, while others have chosen to forget.

Living in harmony with nature isn’t about moving back to villages or abandoning modernity. It’s about remembering what those before us never forgot. It starts not with where we live—but with how we see the world around us. It’s not about returning to the ancient ways but learning from those who never lost their connection. 

-Rajesh