By Anna Notsu
In Meghalaya, a state known for its matrilineal traditions, the Biate community stands out for its patrilineality, distinct way of life, language, food and architecture. ‘The Biate are one of a kind,’ a friend from Saipung, a large Biate village in East Jaintia, proudly told me. Nestled in and around the Saipung Reserve Forest – Meghalaya’s oldest notified reserve – the Biate community is rediscovering who they are while navigating systemic challenges.
Despite their cultural wealth, the Biate often remain overshadowed by larger groups in the region. They frequently bear reductive labels like “primitive” and “backwards.” Yet beyond such misconceptions tied to their isolation, lie stunning historical artefacts – ancient stone jars, monoliths, generations of agricultural knowledge and vibrant dances and songs – waiting to be shared.
I kept returning to Saipung, each visit enhancing my connection to the Biate land and its people. The road conditions never deterred me from returning. As I settled into the village for my third visit, staying over a month, my friends became like family, and local children lovingly called me eni (auntie). The immersion in the everyday life of Saipung gradually led me to wonder how they have come to be who they are. Saipung, to me, became a place of imagination: What was life like in the past? What continues to shape current livelihoods? And what has been discontinued?
The village name itself is telling: Saipung, meaning “where elephants multiply,” was once a hub of elephants. Today, they are long gone. When I asked them about their heritage, many struggled to find an answer. As Christianity took root, it led to a decline in the documentation of pre-Christian practices, which were often passed down orally. What remains are faint memories and enigmatic artefacts, like the monolith by the PHC. Where are the stories? How did their environment change? And how does the Biate youth make sense of their distant past?
With these personal wonders, the Kîrzâi Project emerged. It means “returning,” aimed at bridging generations and encouraging schoolchildren to rediscover buried connections with the great past. We did this through stories about the environment from their elders and by expressing them through art. The project had two parts: story collection and drawing, to ultimately create a children’s book. To foster a sense of accomplishment and friendly competition, we organised story-writing and drawing contests. The intergenerational enthusiasm has been palpable throughout. The project is no longer mine, but ours. However, the Award Ceremony, where authors of the selected stories were to receive certificates and prize money, was unfortunately twice rescheduled due to blackouts – a common occurrence in the Saipung area, especially in summer. With no electricity, families relying on water pumps must carry water from nearby spring wells and streams. Even then, Biates in Saipung maintain their optimism. ‘We are lucky because we have streams,’ one villager told me, ‘We can wash our clothes there.’ Blackouts can last days or sometimes even weeks. Phone batteries die and power banks also quickly run out of charge. After dusk, the whole village falls silent, with only a handful of people walking outside with a torch in hand. I was deeply saddened by this turn of events. Postponing the programme caused many schoolchildren to miss the ceremony. Some had to return to Khliehriāt, Jowai and Shillong as the new term was starting. While having blackouts is beyond anyone’s control, should this be an accepted reality in Saipung? Just as their roads remain cracked, cleft and dented, the absence of support and attention seems to leave the Saipung area in the dark.
At the same time, such inconvenience gathers people around the hearth with chapak (Biate red tea) accompanied by a little jaggery – a beloved Biate custom. In a pitch-black kitchen, the flickering firelight illuminates their faces, casting warm glows on their bodies wrapped in scarves and throws, as they huddle together. There is little to do but exchange jokes, share harmless gossip and enjoy quiet conversations. Relatives and neighbours also join a circle of laughter. The place, otherwise filled with various sounds of social media, reunites them showing a glimpse of how olden times used to be.
Observing these gatherings at the ritap (Biate hearth), I wondered about how folktales were once passed down. The stories collected by schoolchildren varied in length and content. But many revolved around themes of siblinghood, small animals and everyday surroundings like nathial-kung (moi moi leaves). As the Biate youth illustrated tales of forests, animals and mountains, their imaginations wove past and present together. We were all awed by their creativity and talent and how the schoolchildren engaged with the environment through Biate folktales.
The Kîrzâi Project was not without challenges. Beyond blackouts, I faced difficulties in explaining the concept, mobilising busy families, translating stories, and setting up competitions and ceremonies. With limited time, resources and experience, I had to adapt and innovate on the fly.
In the end, what mattered was not the perfection of the process but the connections we forged. One girl at the ceremony, jumping and dancing on a wobbly stage of stacked school tables, shouted, ‘So many people are here!’ A small classroom served as a makeshift community hall, glowing with the excited screams and applause of those who came to celebrate on a cold windy evening. With help at every step, I slowly learned to find a way through – just like the Biates in Saipung.
One officer I met in Shillong remarked that Saipung’s fractured roads and other hardships could even be marketed as a tourist attraction. While Biates indeed excel at creating joyous moments even in adverse situations, framing their daily struggles as a novelty is misguided.
The challenges in Saipung – frequent blackouts, water scarcity, seemingly perpetually broken roads, acidic soils and heavy trucks loaded with logs coating everything in dust – are systemic issues that demand urgent action. Their resilience, often romanticised, has two sides. One reflects their collective efforts to make things work no matter what the circumstances, while the other highlights the unaddressed root causes. Before fully embracing the former, the latter requires closer attention.
While kîrzâi means “returning,” this project revealed something deeper: the Biate’s commitment, creativity and cooperative nature that mobilised an entire community to think forward. This intergenerational collaboration showed no signs of them being “backward” but imagining and building futures rooted in what it means to be Biate today and their aspirations. The Biate youth have shown us that returning to the past can be a powerful way to shape the future.
Now, with these collected stories and inspiring paintings in hand, I, too, look forward – not just to what lies ahead for the Biate, but to how their past continues to shape it.
(The author is a PhD scholar from Leiden University, The Netherlands currently doing research in Jaintia Hills. Her PhD research is part of a five-year project, Futuring Heritage: Conservation, Community and Contestation in the Eastern Himalayas, initiated by Leiden University and Ashoka University).