By Dapbianglin Sohkhlet
I have always found it strange when people say that we own nature; that we are its masters; that we hold dominion over land, water, and sky. I cannot relate to this notion, not because I think less of humanity, but because I know better. I was raised in a village, close to the earth, and closer still to the truth that we are not above nature. We are part of it. From a very young age, I felt that nature was never something to control, but something to understand. Something to revere. A gift, not a possession. I often ask myself:
Why are we always in such a hurry? Why do we chase power and superiority so desperately?
Why do we treat life as a race when it was meant to be lived slowly, thoughtfully, gratefully?
We seem to have forgotten that nature does not exist to serve us. It exists because it was created just as we were. And yet, we cut down forests, tear through mountains, and dig into the very lungs of the Earth to build roads, towers, and monuments to further our ambition. We silence the wild, then complain when the world feels empty, and tell ourselves that time is moving so fast nowadays.
If nature could speak, I believe it would cry, not with the tears we know, but through landslides, through rising heat, through drying rivers and fading forests. I’ve seen it crumble under the weight of our greed, and it breaks my heart. Nature suffers just like we do, but its pain is far more extreme and far more silent.
Is this how we pay back the very being that provides us with breath, food, and shelter?
I have cried helplessly as I watched familiar waterfalls dry up, the soil split with heat, and the green hills turn to dust. I cried because I remembered what my grandmother told me, that the Khasis of earlier times were people deeply rooted in simplicity and innocence, closely tied to the natural world around them. They didn’t just live beside nature; they lived with it, in step with its rhythms, finding peace in its quiet and joy in its beauty. There was no need for complication, no chaos, no noise, just a deep, peaceful harmony.
Nature, to them, wasn’t just a backdrop; it was a teacher – a guide. It revealed its wisdom not all at once, but slowly, to those who paid attention. And in that space, they learned values that ran deeper than mere knowledge, honour, integrity, and a sense of shared responsibility. These weren’t things they picked up from books; they were absorbed from life itself, from the world that spoke to them in silence and symbol. I realise now that nature shaped their understanding, not just of the world, but of how to live well within it, with care, with awareness, and with a heart open to learning.
She used to speak of a time when everything they ate was pure and untouched: yams, sweet potatoes, wild greens, millet, and organic rice. There was no wealth, but there was strong, enduring, natural health. Their bodies bore the strength of clean living, and their hearts the calm of a simpler life. And now, here we are surrounded by abundance, yet gasping for air just ten miles into a walk.
We call ourselves advanced, but what have we truly gained?
Our ancestors, with limited knowledge, achieved more than we do now with all our books and machines. They were scientists long before science had a name. They were doctors before modern medicine existed. They were engineers building homes that lasted generations, crafted from earth, bamboo, and stone, in harmony with the land. They were environmentalists before we turned nature into a subject taught in classrooms.
And what are we now? We read. We write. We speak of nature and balance. But we act like strangers to the very soil that feeds us.
We are gatherers of knowledge, yes, but gatherers only. We collect facts, but rarely implement them. We’ve learned to value information over wisdom, and comfort over connection. Somewhere along the way, we forgot that nature is not just something to be studied; it is something to be lived with, protected, and loved.
I remember a recent journey that made this even clearer to me. I was travelling from my village to Shillong, and along the way, I witnessed severe landslides, massive, heart-wrenching scars on the hillsides. The land had crumbled, collapsed under the pressure of roads and machines. I sat in silence, staring out the window, and I asked myself, “Is it just and fair that, for us to reach “on time,” we destroy what has been standing strong for generations? Is it right that, in the name of fast delivery and personal comfort, we sacrifice hills that have watched over us longer than any clock or calendar ever has?”
That day, I saw not just rocks falling I saw dignity falling. I saw our choices, our speed, our craving for efficiency, crushing the very earth that once fed and sheltered us. And I wondered, how long before the Earth decides it has had enough?
As a girl raised in a village, I had the privilege of breathing air so clean, I could tell the changing seasons just by its scent. I remember telling my mother, “Winter is coming. I can smell the cold in the air, the burnt leaves, and the dal cooking in the evening breeze.”
Autumn brought nostalgia, family walks, dipping in waterfalls, and collecting leaves. Spring smelled like beginnings. Summer came with drama, thunderstorms shaking the skies, and us children playing syiem-pulit with laughter in our pockets. My grandmother would turn pomelo skins into dolls with her wise, wrinkled hands.
We had little. And yet we had everything.
Now, we chase peace in possessions, mistake price for value, and live life in numbers, bank balances, likes, and square feet. But is it worth it? Ask your heart, not your wallet. A man who earns Rs. 300 and receives Rs. 500 feels joy in every limb. But the one who owns crores feels nothing, because nothing is ever enough. We have become so used to wanting more, we’ve forgotten how to be thankful for enough.
There’s a Khasi saying I’ve heard since childhood: “Da slap kwah sngi, da shit sngi kwah slap.” (“When it rains, we want sunshine. When the sun shines, we want rain.”)
It sounds simple, but it speaks to our entire existence. We are never satisfied. We’re always longing for what we don’t have. This restlessness, this ungratefulness has become our greatest weakness. And it is the root of the damage we inflict not only on ourselves, but on the very Earth that sustains us.
Being human is not about being the strongest, the richest, or the most powerful. It is about being grateful, responsible, and kind. Yet we use our superiority not to protect what is weaker, but to exploit it. But if we are all creations of the same source, if we all belong to this Earth, then shouldn’t we be equal by nature? Shouldn’t our strength be measured by how we care for what sustains us?
My nature, my Earth, it is not mine to own. It is mine to protect. And if I must be the voice that reminds others, then I will speak. I will speak for the trees, for the rivers, for the air that has no language but breath. Because when the Earth finally answers it may be too late to listen.
“Ha peit mynta mariang ka ong/ Kylla bamut kylla jinglong/ To phai sha nga sa shisien pat/
Da dier ka por ioh nga sympat/Haba ianga phi ieh jyndat/Kynjri jingieit nga hap ban bthat,
Ha kaba kut ngim iaid ryngkat.”
(Look at me now, says mother earth/ Repent and mend your ways/Return to me yet again/For if you delay I shall revenge/When you suddenly abandon me/I have to break those bonds of love/ For in the end we are not travelling together)
And after saying all this, after writing from a place of deep love and deep concern, I must remind myself: I am also human. I speak not from a place of judgment, but from a place of belonging. I am one among billions, and I share in our flaws, our confusion, our longings.
But I was given a voice and a pair of hands. So I will use them, not to point fingers, but to raise them in honesty. I speak not to offend, but to awaken, first and foremost, myself. Because if I hope for change, then I must first be the change. And if even one heart listens, then perhaps, nature will too.
I am no environmentalist to speak on environmental degradation, but I am a person who respects and loves nature.
(The writer is a research scholar in Department of Tourism, NEHU:Email: [email protected]