By Anna Notsu
Water, especially in the form of rainfall, has long shaped Meghalaya’s landscapes. Through a patterned weather cycle, farmers carefully time their sowing and irrigation. Religious rites and ceremonies also follow these agrarian rhythms, and other species find their moments to sprout. However, the past couple of weeks have seen disruptions to this cyclical calendar. From unprecedented hailstorms in Shillong to unusually prolonged dry, hot days in East Jaintia – and bucket-poured Chad Sukra in Jowai – water, whether too little or too much, has recently been a topic of our everyday conversations in Meghalaya.
To some, daily weather changes add mere annoyance and inconvenience. But to others, the amount of rainwater can determine the fate of their livelihood for the year. As the cold, dry winter slowly welcomes a new season, the anticipations for rainfall take shape – only to be met with disappointment and even fear. The long absence of rainfall and increasing temperatures and daylight dry up our mouths, water tanks, paddies, ponds, wells and streams. While water scarcity has been synonymous with Meghalaya’s winter in many parts of the state, this year’s weather turmoil signalled an alarming reality of the region’s future. What if this situation is to happen again and even get worse in the coming years?
This period – from around the end of March towards the end of April – is high time for mushroom harvesting in East Jaintia Hills. especially in and around the Saipung Reserved Forest, the rainfall and mild temperatures create ideal conditions for various mushrooms to sprout. Taxis from this side begin to carry a strong scent of freshly harvested mushrooms along with passengers, reminding us of the special seasonality. Markets across Meghalaya receive these mushrooms, and many enjoy the flavour of this limited-time offer at home. Fried with pork or on their own with a sprinkle of chilli, they make scrumptious dishes that can only be tasted around this time of the year.
Mushroom harvesting can coincide with the pattern of jhum farming. Jhum farmers clear their fields, and the remaining logs become home to many kinds of mushrooms after burning. As the rainwater seeps into the logs and softens them, the half-decayed logs later receive new lives. This life-and-death cycle, shaped by Meghalaya’s climatic patterns and human activities, supports and sustains its proud culinary scenes, magnificent landscapes and long-standing cultural practices. People feel a change of the season through the gift-giving of mushrooms from friends and colleagues, the dishes served at local shops, and the occurrence of religious ceremonies, like Chad Sukra, that are again deeply linked with agrarian practices and climatic cycles.
Weather fluctuation during this specific ‘in-between’ period, where we seize a glimpse of the coming wet summer, is not unusual. We sometimes undergo four seasons within a day and curse ourselves for putting on the ‘wrong’ outfits. But at the same time, we are also beginning to acknowledge a new kind of season – ‘a long, dry, hot winter.’ Crispy sounds of thirsty, dried-up grass, drought-like appearances of the road, and dusty gusts of wind in the areas known for mushroom harvesting cannot, and should not, be taken as a mere story of ‘This year, there is not enough water.’
All lives – not just human ones – depend on a cyclical flow of water, which serves purposes beyond mere survival. To take my anecdote as an example, this year, my excitement for observing mushroom-picking practices in Saipung village in East Jaintia has resulted in an unexpected longing for rain – no rain meant no mushrooms. The exacerbated thirst for water was evident in withered farms and habitats. What was once a water station for buffaloes turned into a desiccated, cracked crater, while moisture-depleted forests and fields laid the groundwork for potential large-scale forest fires.
Hence, after days and weeks of dry days, a sudden arrival of much-needed rain felt ‘extraordinary’ – as if the divine had finally answered our prayer. The desert-like road surface that constantly stirred up dust became solid, and the air was cleared. As someone uttered, ‘It is a rain of blessings,’ it brought about calmness and relief, reassuring the worried farmers. The sight of plants becoming greener and refreshed with the soft sounds of raindrops in the background – although such moments of relief did not last long. Today, across the hills, the rainfalls are becoming unpredictable, shorter and more intense, followed by another days-long dryness and sudden storms. The cycle of water seems to have changed, causing further changes to how we live.
The day the word climate change haunts Meghalaya may not be so far from now, as we already live through the reality of climate change. However much Meghalaya’s landscapes stand strong as a biodiversity hotspot and safeguard the lives of its human and non-human inhabitants, the region is no exception to the global climate shifts. While conversations on climate change have already been circulating among the youth here, our attention must not be fixated on ecological and economic repercussions. If financial consequences are so important, what about the cost of losing what makes Meghalaya a culturally and ecologically unique and rich abode of clouds?
The changes brought on by the climatic shift also impose alterations to social and cultural practices. The focal point of our climate discussion should not be limited to the implications of ‘climate change’ in numerical terms or what climate change does to so-called ‘nature.’ Greater attention needs to be given to what we call ‘nature’ – now threatened by climate change-induced calamities and anthropogenic destruction – but one that has always been shaped by humans, other species, and even divine beings.
The recent weather turmoil presents a critical turning point to reflect on the fast-changing landscapes that are home to not only humans but also other co-inhabitants, whether they are plants, animals or divine beings. Thinking this way is crucial in making a creative move towards regeneration, where cultural and environmental sustainability can be taken into account without letting financially-driven efforts take over the lead in making our future.
As a starting point, why don’t we think differently about the role of water? Water not only nourishes our human bodies but also nurtures other species and the soil that feeds us, carries folktales and celestial values and creates a flowing channel that safeguards existing social and cultural structures. After all, Meghalaya is known to be one of the wettest states in India – its ecological, religious and cultural significance cannot be divorced from our conversations on its environmental trajectory. As dryness took a toll on many aspects of our everyday living this winter, what will Meghalaya’s landscape look like in the future? To truly ‘future with water’, we must remember that every drop carries not just life but story, spirit, and the promise of renewal.
(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. Her research is funded by NWO and Delta on the Move Foundation).