By Lyander E Sohkhlet
As a child, I wrote my first letter to The Telegraph, about the Umngot river. I was thirteen, and I remember my fingers trembling as I tried to explain why the Umngot, our Dawki, should be left alone. I didn’t have the language of “ecosystems” or “silt management” then. All I knew was that the river looked like a mirror, so clear that you could see the pebbles sleep and the fish glide as if through air. It was beauty beyond belief. It was where water turned into light. All these years later, I find myself writing again, not against, but for. For the Umngot, for Dawki, for the very heart of Meghalaya’s beauty.
Today, that same river has turned brown. The Umngot, known as the cleanest river in Asia, flows 75 kilometres from Shillong, through the valleys of Khasi hills, before crossing into Bangladesh. It threads through Mawlynnong, our “God’s Own Garden,” Asia’s cleanest village, where the air smells of broomgrass and betel leaf, and where every child knows that keeping the land clean is a form of prayer. Here, the Umngot is not just a river, it is a heartbeat. It is the sound of paddles against glass water, of boats floating so lightly that travellers from across the world believe they’re flying. But this October, when the skies cleared, the river did not. What should have been a reflection of blue has turned to the colour of dust. What should have mirrored clouds now mirrors cranes. The Umngot has been wounded by careless construction, its clarity choked by soil, rock, and negligence. The same river that inspired songs and poetry is now bearing the scars of a project that forgot its own purpose: to connect, not to destroy.
It is this magic that turned Dawki into a global postcard. Every year, thousands travel to see the “flying boats.” Their photos flood social media; travel influencers call it “a dream, not a destination. And to the immense credit of the Tourism Department, that dream was shared beautifully with the world. Through thoughtful campaigns, stunning visuals, and the hard work of local guides and homestay owners, Umngot became one of India’s most cherished travel icons.
Our Lok Sabha MP, Ricky A.J. Syngkon, has drawn national attention to the degradation of the Umngot. He reminded the central ministries that this is not just a body of water, it is a living symbol of Meghalaya’s natural heritage. Construction debris and loose soil from hill-cutting along the road project have reportedly flowed into the river, muddying its once-pristine waters. And so, we find ourselves asking: can the agencies working so hard to build our future also protect what defines it?
But this October, when the monsoon lifted and the skies cleared, the river did not. We have seen this story before, in Uttarakhand, in Himachal, in Assam, rivers made sacrificial to the false god of speed. The Bhagirathi once paid the price for similar offences, its violators fined crores of rupees. But what fine can restore the trust of a boatman whose river has turned opaque? What penalty can rebuild the faith of a child who once saw fish beneath her reflection?
The Umngot is not merely a tourist attraction. It sustains hundreds of families, boatmen, homestay owners, food vendors, guides. It draws thousands each year, domestic and international, to witness water so clear it seemed unreal. Its global reputation has kept livelihoods alive in villages that the national economy often forgets. But today, that livelihood floats on uncertainty. Tourists have begun cancelling their trips. The season of clarity has turned into a season of sorrow. This is not progress. This is punishment, not for wrongdoing, but for belonging. We were told the road would bring prosperity. But what prosperity is worth a poisoned river? What development justifies silting over a wonder that no human hand can recreate? The road to Dawki was meant to bring the world closer to the Umngot, not to bury it under mud. There was a time when the Umngot was a promise, a ribbon of glass where the sky and stones held each other without flinching. Children leaned over boats and watched their own laughter ripple across the surface. But now, that reflection is gone. The river no longer blushes in sunlight; it hides its face behind silt and shame. And we, the ones who should have guarded it, are left to explain to our children why the water turned brown, why we traded wonder for carelessness.
Meghalaya has always been a land where people and nature walk together, not one upon the other. In Mawlynnong, there are no street sweepers, every villager cleans their own path. Cleanliness is part of our identity. And yet, while the villagers sweep their leaves each morning, massive machines upstream are dumping earth into their river.
We cannot accept this contradiction.
The Umngot River deserves to breathe again.
It deserves the same reverence we show to sacred groves and living root bridges. It deserves silence, not bulldozers. It deserves sunlight returning through its surface, where fish once shimmered like shards of the sky. When I was thirteen, I wrote that building a dam would ruin the beauty of the Umngot. Today, I find myself writing again, older, angrier, but still hopeful, because beauty, once lost, can sometimes return if enough people remember it. So I write once more, with the same heart as that thirteen-year-old boy: let the Umngot remain clear. Let the boats fly again. Let us prove that in these hills, progress and purity can flow together.
Let us remember. Let us speak. For when the Umngot turns clear again, so will we.
(The writer is a student of St Edmunds College, BA Political Science)
