By Bhogtoram Mawroh
Recently, Sonal Jain, a highly acclaimed artist and author based in Shillong, gifted me the book ‘Puri’. The book, which was the outcome of the project supported by Heinrich Böll Stiftung and took over four years to complete, punctured by the pandemic, has as its setting the landscape around Lum Shyllong. On a splash page, there is a map of the nine mythical springs that emerge from it, revealing the beginning of their journey. As they flow downstream, they are joined by smaller streams like Umliew, transforming them into great rivers like the Umngot and the Umiam. It is along these rivers and streams that the Puri or water nymphs reside, and the focus of Sonal’s work. I remember my mother telling us stories about the Puri and other mythical creatures in the past, which included the Boit, Kshuid Tynjang, and many more. In fact, the house in which I grew up was along the banks of Wah Umkhrah, which also originates from Wah Demthring (one of the nine mythical springs) in Lum Shyllong.
For those who have been long residents of Shillong, Wah Umkhrah has a special connection for them. It has found its mention in many literary works, which include the 2017 book by Esther Syiem (a highly accomplished scholar and retired Professor of English at North-Eastern Hill University), ‘Memoir in Water: Speaks the Wah Umkhrah’. In an interview with Jobet Warjri (a highly respected writer and scholar), while talking about the book, she reminisces that the water body in the past “had beauty and power and the ability to make itself heard through its raging waters or clear translucence in autumn or winter.” In his famous poem “Sundori” in The Yearning of Seeds (2011), Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih (the most famous modern Khasi writer) also mentions the river. Recently, at a workshop, I listened to Desmond Kharmawphlang (a well-known folklorist), talking about the river and reciting a poem. Wah Umkhrah which has powerfully impacted everyone who lived around it, finding a mention in their creative works. And the transformation of the river from its pristine state to a drain has likewise deeply affected them. Staying along its bank, I saw the entire transformation.
When I was young, going to Wah Umkhrah (known as Umkaliar in our section) for washing clothes and bathing was a regular affair during the weekends. There were a couple of waterfalls, including the Spread Eagle Falls, close to which were deep pools where the most adventurous of us would go diving. I would prefer shallow water where I could submerge myself without getting drowned. On the other side of the river, there was a path that would lead to Nongrim Hills, and I would use that for going to college. The river, however, became impassable during the pre-monsoon and monsoon seasons when the river became a torrent swell, carrying mud and debris while giving off a frightful roar which one could hear from far away. This was the time we avoided going to the river.
However, when the river was gentle, it was full of people washing, swimming, and picnicking. Some people would catch fish using their fishing rods, but the one that fascinated me a lot was catching fish using a khoh (conical basket). People would walk along the edge of the water and thrust the khoh into the sand. Then they would lift the basket out of the water and inspect it for dohthli. Sometimes, the catch also included crabs as well. But I never saw people catching frogs for food. Or maybe I just missed that. Along its banks, there were many fruit trees, especially those of Sohpri-am (guava). While those belonged to households staying on the other side of the river, my friends and I would throw stones at them to bring the fruit down. When some fell into the water below, we would rush to collect them and escape before the owners found out. Fruits were not the only things we would steal.
There was also a bamboo grove planted as a fence along the bank. Whenever we needed stumps for our cricket matches, we would cut some with a wait (khasi machete). And during the winter, we would cut down long bamboo poles for making small bamboo houses to be burned down at a later stage. This was part of the Nepali festival called ‘mera meri,’ and once I made my own bamboo house and stayed in it for the night. Our house was one of the first in the area, and it was mostly farmland where farmers grew radishes and sweet potatoes. Just before the harvest, we would steal sweet potatoes from the field and eat them with our friends. Come to think of it, we were doing a lot of stealing back in those days.
This was a time when the river was very clean, and there was no dearth of dragonflies darting around hunting for their prey. In fact, the sight of dragonflies stayed with me for a long time, and I was really sad when they were gone. Also, in time, the fireflies we once caught in the falling light of dusk were also gone. Their disappearance began when the river started becoming dirty. It all started with the establishment of a small abattoir near the river bank. It was near where I stayed. I would see every day a cow being killed and drained of its blood, which, along with the other wastes, would flow into the nearby stream, which joined the Wah Umkhrah. Initially, there was no discernible impact on the river. But slowly, changes began unraveling.
The first sign of the river becoming dirty was the appearance of red worms swimming in the water. The fish had already disappeared. Then plastic, discarded clothes and all kinds of debris started appearing, clogging the flow of the water. Slimy brown moss started growing on the rocks we previously used for crossing the stream. Downstream, the pool used for diving was now awash with floating plastic and all kinds of garbage. It had become so dirty that I was hesitant even to let my feet touch the water, which once upon a time was full of shimmering pebbles. The once beautiful Wah Umkhrah had become a nullah.
Sonal Jain expertly presents the transformation of our water bodies in her book, displaying pictures of pristine forest streams, millennia-old caves, and the pollution that has started destroying many of them. The book itself feels melancholic and gives a very earthly vibe as you turn its pages. Since the book is about the Puris, it has many stories about people being possessed by one, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. The story of well-known sculptor and painter Raphael Warjri’s great-granduncle, who was enchanted by a Puri, is especially fascinating and worthy of a feature film. In fact, the book has shots that are going to be part of a feature film in the future. The story, not to give away the suspense, brings out many revelations that I did not know about the Puris and also gives an insight into the cosmogony of the Khasis — how they looked at their place in the universe. But the one thing that the book makes very clear is the need to reconnect with nature and the value of environmental stewardship.
The Puris can only live in water bodies that are clean. So naturally, as the Wah Umkhrah started losing its unspoiled character, the stories also disappeared. When I was young, near our house, there was a small shyngiar (spring) that was used for collecting water. It dried out as soon as houses started getting built in the area. I remember being told to stay away from it at night because of a spirit that lived around it. It was not a Puri but a malevolent one. As soon as the shyngiar disappeared, so did the fear, and we started playing football and cricket around it.
Sonal’s book is a timely reminder that it is the stories that give identity to our community. When we lose them, we lose a part of our identity. And in reviving them, we are acknowledging who we are — a people of long history and rich traditions. It’s time to bring them back. Let’s bring back our rivers. Let’s bring back Wah Umkhrah. Let’s bring back our stories.
(The views expressed in the article are those of the author and do not reflect in any way his affiliation to any organisation or institution)
