Narratives
The rising extremities in the tea gardens of Jorhat, Assam
Anuradha Barua
I grew up in Titabor, a small town in Assam’s Jorhat district, surrounded by vast tea gardens, lush paddy fields, small rivers that eventually flow into the mighty Brahmaputra, and the distant silhouette of the Naga Hills. From the balcony of my home, these landscapes framed my childhood. Much of my early life was spent outdoors—running across fields, fishing in ponds, and spending hours in nature that became both my playground and classroom. Assam’s biodiversity was woven into everyday life. Wetlands, which we call Beals, were once abundant with migratory birds and native fish that sustained households. Our traditional bamboo-and-thatch homes were built to endure both floods and earthquakes, while rice and fish formed the staples of our diet, and festivals followed the rhythm of agriculture.
Over the years, however, I have witnessed how this relationship with nature has begun to unravel. Floods, once seasonal and predictable, confined to July and August, now arrive as early as April and often stretch into September. They no longer bring just water but widespread destruction—washing away crops, eroding riverbanks, and damaging homes. Assam, once known for its abundant rains, recently recorded a 34% monsoon rainfall deficit, creating prolonged drought-like conditions, even as sudden floods have grown more severe. Summers feel longer and hotter, adding another layer of difficulty.
Tea gardens, the lifeline of Assam, also bear the brunt. Small growers I have spoken with often say the climate is no longer conducive for healthy yields. Many resort to heavy use of fertilizers to cope, further weakening soil health and deepening the cycle of climate stress.
These disruptions are not just environmental but cultural. Rituals tied to sowing, fishing practices, and native foods are disappearing. Certain fish once central to our cuisine are now scarce, and with migration caused by floods and erosion, intergenerational knowledge of traditional practices is fading.
What stands out most for me is the shift from predictability to uncertainty. In my childhood, rains came on time, and communities trusted the rhythm of seasons. Today, the same land faces scarcity and excess together—droughts and floods arriving in rapid succession. Climate change is reshaping not just landscapes, but also how we live, adapt, and remember our connection to nature.
The urbanising landscape in the Doon
Dr Irina Das Sarkar
Dehradun, tucked in the Doon Valley between the Shivaliks and the Lesser Himalaya, has long carried a unique charm—cool breezes, laid-back life, Indo-Tibetan cultural influences, and the natural beauty of sal forests and tea gardens. Historically, it was a gateway to the Himalaya, connecting to Mussoorie, Rishikesh, Haridwar, Chakrata, and beyond. It also gained prominence as the site of Uttarakhand’s first railway station and is home to premier research institutions like the FRI, WII, and Wadia Institute. For decades, the city has drawn people seeking nature, knowledge, and escape from urban chaos.
Yet its growth has come at a cost. Expanding highways, IT hubs, and residential complexes have cut into forests and farmlands, fragmenting ecosystems and erasing traditional wood-stone architecture. Dehradun, once an ecological corridor, now faces heavy tourism pressure, long traffic jams, and extensive littering, alongside noise and visual pollution. Its spring-fed drainage systems—the Rispana, Bindal, and Asan—struggle to meet rising demands from a swelling population and migrant influx. Climate impacts are stark: heat waves, erratic rainfall, and intensifying human-wildlife conflict.
Tourism and trekking, once soulful and tied to cultural traditions, are increasingly commercialized. Instagram culture and mass operators have stripped pilgrimages and treks of their spiritual essence, while homestays have been reduced to clichés like “Pahadi Maggi,” overshadowing authentic millet- and fruit-based cuisines. Youth, drawn to global trends, are increasingly detached from their heritage—Garhwali is now listed as a vulnerable language by UNESCO, and agricultural festivals have declined with the waning importance of farming.
Still, Dehradun’s transformation has also brought benefits: improved connectivity for rural Himalayan communities, new economic opportunities, and global recognition. Rishikesh, for example, has become a hub for yoga and Ayurveda, hosting the International Yoga Festival and attracting seekers from around the world.
Since 2015, I have seen Dehradun stand at a fascinating crossroads—between its storied past and its fast-paced modernization. Its future depends on finding a balance: preserving the landscapes, traditions, and cultural soul that make it magical, while embracing the opportunities of growth.
Preserved memories of a greener Purnia
Syed Muhammad Muzammil
I was born in Kolkata, but much of my childhood was tied to Purnia, a small town in Bihar once part of Bengal province. Its name, derived from Pun Aranya—“complete jungle”—captures its natural abundance. My late grandfather, Tariq Jamili, an Urdu lecturer, dramatist, and poet, devoted his life to the town. His ode to Purnia, once taught in college, gave me permission to love the place deeply. Childhood holidays meant long journeys—the Hata Bazaar Express from Sealdah to Katihar, followed by bumpy car rides through villages of mud-walled homes, arching trees, ponds with herons and kingfishers, and fields alive with parakeets and cattle. The Shiv Mandir, modest and reddish-orange, marked the turn to my grandfather’s lane. Its trishul was my compass, guiding me home.
Our lane was kaccha, lined with mossy walls, fruit trees, and climbers. My grandfather’s house stood amid orchards of guava, banana, papaya, and jamun, with vegetables and flowers filling the yard. Afternoons meant sneaking to the terrace with lychees, gazing over fields, lakes, orchards, and homes in harmony with wilderness. Human life and nature seemed knitted together.
When I returned in 2019, after seven years, the journey felt altered. Flights and shared cabs replaced trains. Roads now bore plastics and diesel smoke, villages gave way to markets, showrooms, and solar-paneled houses. By the time we reached Purnia, the town felt louder and more congested. The Shiv Mandir was rebuilt in marble, stripped of its rustic familiarity. The fig tree was gone, replaced by political hoardings. Cows and dogs foraged through garbage. Pakka roads and tall boundary walls erased the intimacy of open lanes. My grandfather’s house still stood, but boxed in, its garden shrunken to concrete. The orchard and vegetable patches had largely disappeared, though a few papaya and banana trees remained.
Climbing the terrace brought back memories, but the view had changed—fields replaced by apartments, lakes filled in by concrete, schoolyards halved. Yet, near my grandfather’s grave, shaded by neem, berghul, and a small fig tree, I felt the old Purnia linger. Amid grasses and wildflowers, his presence tethered me back to the town’s soul, preserving its memory even as its landscapes transformed.
The signals of the Idavapathi
Sandra Thomas
I was born and brought up in Thrissur, Kerala, where I spent more than 20 years of my life. Known as the cultural capital of the state, Thrissur is a city of festivals, temples, and traditions. But alongside its cultural importance, it has always had a deep bond with nature—especially the rhythm of its monsoons. Over the years, however, I have seen this relationship shift dramatically.
As a child, the monsoon was like clockwork. It always arrived in the first week of June, coinciding with school reopening. I still remember the excitement of umbrella shopping, as important as buying new uniforms and books. Kerala’s first major rainy season—the southwest monsoon, or Idavapathi—would last from June to September, bringing nearly 70% of the state’s rainfall. It replenished rivers and wells, gave rhythm to farming, and ended with Onam, the harvest festival. I grew up hearing stories from my grandmother about how, in earlier times, families struggled during the long rainy months, surviving on whatever grew in their backyards, until the harvest brought abundance. Onam celebrations—flower carpets, feasts, and the welcoming of King Mahabali—symbolized that abundance and the connection between people and nature.
After Onam, the second rainy season arrived—the northeast monsoon, or Thula Varsham. Unlike the steady southwest rains, this one was marked by evening thunderstorms. It also brought traditions like Aushadakanni, an Ayurvedic porridge consumed to build immunity during the disease-prone season. Sadly, such practices are fading.
Today, the once predictable rhythm of rain has become erratic. The monsoons arrive too early or too late, with long dry spells interrupted by sudden downpours. Low-pressure systems over the Arabian Sea and Bay of Bengal drive unpredictable rains, often lasting for days. Tropical cyclones—once unheard of in my childhood—now strike frequently. My first experience was Cyclone Ockhi in 2017, and Kerala has since faced several others, alongside devastating floods in 2018 and 2019.
What was once a gentle, life-giving cycle has turned into a source of fear. Thrissur’s rains, once tied to joy, agriculture, and festivals, now bring floods, landslides, and destruction—reminders of how deeply climate change has unsettled the patterns of life in Kerala.