Gods, rivers & villages When faith shapes future of Kullu

IN Himachal’s Kullu valley, the future is not negotiated in government offices alone. Here, deities are not distant — they walk among villagers, speak through trances and guide decisions as firmly as any official order. Farming, heritage, development: often the final word comes not from policy papers, but from temple courtyards alive with drums, incense and belief. This is no fading myth. It is a lived, daily reality.

Veernath of Katrain: When the Earth and river spoke

One monsoon evening in Katrain, I stood in a temple courtyard as the Gur, a shopkeeper by day, trembled under trance. His voice deepened, no longer his own. The drums stopped. Silence tightened.

Then came Veernath’s words, sharp as thunder: “You chase apples and money, ignoring my warnings. You strip the river of her stones and sand, making her weak. When her foundation slips, she takes everything with her — none are spared. I have spoken again and again, but when will you listen? If this continues, I will leave you. Honour the land and river, before it is too late.”

The crowd fell still. Some wept. It was not prophecy—it was a reckoning.

For the people of Katrain, the warning was painfully real. Trucks gouged the riverbed daily, carrying away stones. The Beas ran shallow in summer, then tore her banks in monsoon rage. Apple orchards spread wide, but monoculture left the land fragile. Veernath’s words carried both warning and covenant: wealth from orchards and highways meant little if rivers and soil were dishonoured. The gods would stay only as long as the earth was respected.

Kasheri: The tank that returned from the past

In Kasheri village, the gods spoke again — this time for heritage. During the 2020 lockdown, a family renovating their home unearthed an ancient stone tank. Still holding water, surrounded by pottery sherds, it seemed to whisper from centuries ago. The family faced a choice: preserve the relic and complicate their renovation, or quietly cover it and forget.

Two weeks later, they called me back. The devta had spoken: the tank was sacred. It must be moved to the village square. What began as doubt turned into reverence.

The old tank became more than a relic — it became memory and resilience. Water sources like these are anchors in a changing climate, steadying communities against erratic rains and landslides. For Kasheri, faith ensured the past remained a living presence.

When the Gods said no to mega projects

In 2009, the dream of building the “largest ski village” near Manali collapsed — not through protest alone, but because the deities refused consent. Local forests and pastures were sacred. The same fate met the 520 MW Nakthan hydropower project near Manikaran. Its tunnel threatened the Rudranag waterfall, where deities bathe. Capital bowed to faith.

Bijli Mahadev ropeway: Are we still listening?

Today, the fiercest contest is at Bijli Mahadev—the lightning temple watching over Kullu. The pilgrimage through deodar groves is considered devotion itself. Yet the ropeway project advances; trees have already been felled and cracks appear on slopes. Through his Gur, the devta has said no. Still, the officials press forward.

Sacred counsel for a fragile future

One truth persists: whether warning against mining, preserving a buried tank or rejecting mega-projects, the devtas voice a wisdom tuned to these hills. As climate change accelerates, their counsel is less mystical than practical: forests bind slopes, rivers need space, soil must be honoured. The challenge is not to dismiss this wisdom as superstition, but to recognise it as the law of the hills. In a fragile Himalaya, perhaps true sustainability begins not with haste, but with heed—with listening, when the gods say no.

The question lingers: In Kullu, where gods still walk among people, are we willing to stop listening?

The writer is president and co-founder of the Himalayan Conservation and Preservation Society

Himachal Tribune