Every year on 5th June, the world pauses to mark World Environment Day, a reminder to look closely at the natural world and our place within it. Across India, many communities have long practised their own forms of environmental ethics through festivals, rituals and everyday traditions that treat trees, groves and landscapes not as resources alone, but as living presences worthy of reverence. Many of these traditions still survive, especially among India’s tribal and forest communities. This World Environment Day, here are a few of the ways in which the trees and forests of India are honoured, protected, and even worshipped. 

Worshipping the Sal Tree: Sarhul Festival 

In the region of Jharkhand and surrounding areas, spring arrives with Sarhul, a festival whose name means “worship of the tree”. It is celebrated by several tribes, like Oraon, Munda, Ho and Santhal. The festival falls in the month of Chaitra, just as the sal tree bursts into flower. 

All the rituals are performed under a sal tree in a sacred grove called the sarna sthal. The sal is believed to be the dwelling place of Sarna, the village goddess who shields the community from disaster, which is why a grove is not considered sacred unless a sal grows close by. Sarhul also marks the tribal new year and the beginning of the farming season, a reminder that the year cannot begin until the trees have first been honoured. The emphasis on tree worship is especially significant because it reflects a worldview in which we begin the year by acknowledging our dependence on nature. 

Karam: A Branch in the Courtyard 

As the monsoon eases into the harvest months, the tribes of Odisha gather to celebrate the Karam festival. It is observed by communities such as the Kisan, Bhumij, Ho, Binjhal, Bhuiyan and Oraon. At its heart stands the karam tree, which represents Karam Devta, the deity of youth, strength, and vitality. On the day of the festival, villagers go into the forest with drummers, worship a branch of the karam tree, and carry it back to plant in the courtyard, dancing and singing around it through the night. 

Passed down with the festive traditions, an old story tells the tale of seven brothers who once neglected the karam tree and fell on hard times, until they returned to honour it and their fortunes were restored. The tale carries the festival’s simplest lesson: to be grateful to the trees that sustain the harvest. 

The Khejri Tree: Pillar of the Desert 

There may not be a single major festival built entirely around the Khejri tree, but the tree occupies a deeply honoured place in the Thar region’s religious imagination, social life and desert ecology. It survives scorching heat and droughts, holds the soil together, and feeds livestock with its leaves. The khejri is the state tree of Rajasthan, and is often called the kalpavriksha, or wish-fulfilling tree, of the desert. 

Its green twigs are worshipped on Janmashtami, and it features in our epics too — Rama is said to have prayed to the khejri before going to war, and the Pandavas are believed to have hidden their weapons in its branches during their years of exile. It is revered by the Bishnoi community and protected in traditional oran (sacred groves) and gochar (pastoral) lands. 

This devotion is most evident in the Bishnoi community in Rajasthan. In 1730, the Maharaja of Jodhpur sent men to cut khejri trees near the village of Khejarli for wood to build a palace. A Bishnoi woman named Amrita Devi wrapped her arms around a tree and refused to let go, declaring that her life was less precious than the tree’s. Angered by the rebuke, the tree loggers beheaded her. By the end, 363 Bishnois had died. The incident is remembered today as one of the earliest environmental movements in India and is said to have inspired the Chipko movement nearly two and a half centuries later. 

Kerala’s Kavu Traditions 

In Kerala, sacred forest groves known as Kavu preserve clusters of trees as ritual spaces linked to deities, local worship and long-standing community traditions. Worship is centred around serpent deities, goddesses, or ancestral spirits, and the rituals usually include offerings, prayers, and strict taboos against cutting trees, disturbing the soil, or harming the animals that live there. These groves often include ponds and shelter birds, reptiles and other small animals, making them not only sacred sites but also functioning ecological habitats. 

The rituals associated with Kavu, including serpent worship and other local observances, helped create cultural restrictions against cutting trees or disturbing the grove. Even as urbanisation has fragmented many groves, they are still recognised as biodiversity hotspots and living examples of how faith can safeguard ecosystems while sustaining cultural memory. 

Spread across forests, deserts and hills, these traditions speak the same language. A sal in a Jharkhand grove, a karam branch in an Odisha courtyard, a khejri standing alone in the Thar, a Kavu grove in Kerala, all carry the same idea, that the natural world is a companion to live alongside with gratitude, rather than a resource to use and forget. Long before World Environment Day asked us to protect the planet, these communities had already made that protection a part of their faith.

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On Buddha Purnima, we celebrate the three most significant events in the life of Gautama Buddha: his birth, enlightenment (Nirvana) and passing (Parinirvana or complete enlightenment). His journey toward truth did not begin in a single lifetime. It is chronicled through the Jataka Tales, a vast collection of over 500 stories detailing the Buddha’s previous births. 

In these stories, the Buddha is not always a prince or a teacher. Often, he is an animal — a deer, a monkey, an elephant, or even a bird — learning important lessons that shape his path towards enlightenment. These tales quietly remind us that humans are only one part of a much larger living world. 

Ancient Roots and Art 

Composed as early as the 4th century BCE and preserved in the Pali Canon, these stories emerged from a rich tradition of Indian folklore and fables. Before they were ever committed to parchment, Buddhist monks used these oral narratives to bridge the gap between complex philosophy and everyday life. The enduring popularity of these tales is etched into history; vivid scenes are still seen on the ancient stone carvings of the Bharhut and Sanchi Stupas (Madhya Pradesh). 

Mirrors of Morality 

In these stories, the Buddha appears in many forms — a courageous deer, a clever monkey, or a selfless hare. By imbuing animals with human virtues and flaws, the Jataka Tales serve as a mirror for our own behaviour. These characters allow us to reflect on greed, kindness, and bravery without feeling judged. 

Structurally, each tale connects the past with the present. A dilemma in the Buddha’s current life is resolved by recounting a relevant past-life experience. This narrative style illustrates the concept of karma not as a rigid law, but as a natural flow where every action has an echo. 

Lessons Beyond Words 

The power of the Jataka Tales lies in their ability to teach without preaching. Instead of giving direct instructions, they invite us to think, feel, and understand. We see choices being made, we see their consequences, and we slowly begin to shape our own sense of right and wrong. This is especially important today. In a fast-moving world filled with information, stories still have the power to slow us down and help us reflect. 

A Living Legacy 

Today, these stories transcend their ancient origins, appearing in different forms from carvings and paintings at Ajanta caves to comics and digital media. On Buddha Purnima, revisiting these tales is an act of reconnection. In a time when the world feels uncertain, these stories offer a gentler way of looking at life — one that values kindness over gain, responsibility over convenience, and connection over control.  

They remind us that the simplest stories — about animals in ancient forests — often hold the precise wisdom we need to navigate the complexities of the modern world. 

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Most of us visualise Holi as a vibrant festival of colours. While it is true, there is more to the festival beyond colours. Come, let us dive into some regional flavours of Holi which would prompt us to look at the festival with a fresh pair of eyes. 

Manjal Kuli or Ukuli from Kerala: 

Amidst a festival of colours, Manjal Kuli becomes the celebration of a single hue. Holi is celebrated as Manjal Kuli (literally means “turmeric wash”) by the Konkani and Kudumbi communities in Kochi, Thrissur, and other coastal areas of Kerala. It is said that the Kudumbis who fled from Goa to Kerala in fear of religious persecution from Portuguese brought the tradition of Manjal Kuli with them. At the epicentre of the festival, the Kodungallur Bhagavathy Temple, Manjal Kuli is a celebration of the divine and fierce form of Goddess Bhadrakali, who beheaded the demon Daruka and offered his head to Lord Shiva.  

The temple courtyard turns into a gold-hued spectacle as people smear each other with turmeric water and the earthy scent that symbolises purity and renewal. The festivities also include rituals and folk songs that make the atmosphere spiritual and culturally vibrant. 

Doll Jatra or Doul Utsav from Assam:  

A festive and devotional experience at once, Holi is celebrated as Doll Jatra in the sattras of Assam, particularly in Barpeta and Bordowa. The tradition, initiated by Srimanta Sankardev, an Assamese saint-scholar and social reformer, centres around the playful romance of the divine couple, Lord Krishna and Radha. It is said that Krishna expressed his love for Radha in the forests of Vrindavan on the full moon day of Phalguna. 

In a festive procession, the idols of Lord Krishna and Radha are placed on decorated swings known as Doul and taken through the villages and sattras, accompanied by kirtans, prayers, and dances. Thousands of devotees join the procession, singing Holigeets , songs rooted in folk traditions and devotion, which make the atmosphere deeply spiritual. A unique feature of Doll Jatra is the offering of Abir, a fragrant powder made from crushed leaves and sandalwood. 

 Lathmar Holi from Uttar Pradesh: 

Not everyone celebrates Holi with just gulal and water balloons; some arrive with sticks and shields! In the twin towns of Barsana and Nandgaon in Uttar Pradesh, women come armed with lathis to greet men crouched behind wooden shields.  

More than a festival of colours, Lathmar Holi is a legend brought to life. It is said that Krishna often visited Nandgaon just to tease Radha. Being their spirited selves, Radha and the gopis would cheerfully chase him away — armed with bamboo sticks! This delightful episode has been kept alive through Lathmar Holi, a four-day celebration that begins several days before the actual day of Holi. One could easily mistake the scene for a fight, if not for the playfulness in the air, thick with vibrant pinks and blues, accompanied by loud chants. 

Kumaoni Holi from Uttarakhand: 

Soulful tunes echo from the mountains of Kumaon, marking the beginning of Kumaoni Holi. The celebration kicks off with the ritual of Cheer Bandhan, where the Cheer symbolises the bonfire in which the demoness Holika was burned while attempting to kill Prahlad, the asura prince. The cheer is made from a green Paiya tree (Himalayan cherry) that is guarded by the villagers through the course of the festival.  

The festival is celebrated in three distinct forms: While Baithki Holi is a musical gathering of men singing classical songs, Khadi Holi—the main day of the festival—witnesses Holiyars (traditional singers) moving from house to house in white attire, singing folk songs and dancing to the rhythm of musical instruments. Mahila Holi is celebrated by women who gather at one another’s homes to sing folk and devotional songs. The celebrations culminate with Cheer Dahan, the ceremonial burning of the Cheer on the eve of Holi, symbolising the triumph of Prahlad’s devotion over Holika’s malice. 

Hola Mohalla from Punjab: 

Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. The sound of galloping horses, accompanied by the revving of motorbikes. You may wonder what horses and motorbikes have to do with a festival like Holi. Well, they are central to the Holi celebrations at Anandpur Sahib in Punjab. Based on a tradition started by Guru Gobind Singhji, the tenth Sikh Guru, Hola Mohalla serves as an occasion of military preparedness for the Nihang Sikhs — a warrior order that fought the Mughal empire in the 18th century. 

Hola Mohalla is notable for spectacular displays of the Nihangs’ valiant spirit, including Gatka (mock battles), swordsmanship, horse-riding, tent-pegging, and other martial sports. A thoughtful tradition that blends artistic and martial spirits, traditional music and poetry competitions follow suit. The festival also includes the practice of langar (community kitchen), where devotees participate in the spirit of seva, or selfless service. 

Beneath the surface of what we see as colours, Holi is also a celebration of the swirling shades of its regional flavours. 

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Makar Sankranti marks a special moment in the Hindu calendar: the day Surya, the Sun God, begins his northward journey, known as Uttarayan. This celestial shift is deeply significant, symbolising the return of light, warmth, and hope. As the days lengthen, the harvest is gathered, and life moves toward renewal, making it an auspicious time celebrated across India with prayers, feasts, and festivals. 

In many parts of the country, particularly in western India, this reverence for the sun is celebrated in the sky itself. As Surya rises on Sankranti morning, rooftops fill with people, paper kites, and reels of string. Flying a kite becomes a vibrant way of greeting the Sun God—sending colour, joy, and gratitude upward. This beloved tradition has a long and layered history that spans centuries, regions, and cultures. 

A Journey from the East 

While the absolute origins of the kite are debated, most historical accounts credit China as the place where the kite first took shape. The earliest written reference dates back to 206 BCE, describing military uses—such as a kite flown to intimidate the army of Liu Pang, and later, General Han Hsing using one to calculate the distance for tunnelling beneath city walls for a siege in 169 BCE. 

As trade and cultural contact increased along routes like the Silk Route, kites travelled across regions, much like silk, paper, and ideas. They are believed to have reached the Indian subcontinent from the East, brought by Buddhist missionaries. From India, the practice is thought to have spread further west, reaching Arabia and Europe. 

Kites take root in India 

Within the subcontinent, kites (variously called gudi, vavadi, chagg, or patang) became deeply woven into cultural expression. They appeared not only during festivals but also in poetry, music, and storytelling. 

• In devotional poetry: The 13th century Marathi poet-saint, Namdev, mentioned gudi (kites made from kaagad or paper) in his gathas. 16th century poets Dasopant and Ekanath also wrote about kites, referring to them as vavadi. 

• In epic stories: The 17th century poet, Tulsidas, in his Ramcharitmanas, tells a playful tale of Rama’s kite (which he calls a chagg) flying all the way to Indralok, only to be retrieved by Hanuman. References to kites are also believed to be found in ancient texts like the Ramayana and the Vedas. 

Under the Mughals 

During the Mughal period, kite flying developed into a popular sport, particularly among the nobility. Designs were refined to improve balance and aerodynamics, and Mughal miniatures show both men and women flying kites from terraces. 

This period cemented the kite’s place in public celebration. A historic event—Emperor Jahangir returning to Delhi after exile—was celebrated by filling the sky with kites; an event remembered today as Phool Waalon ki Sair. In the 18th century, the word patang came to describe the finest fighting kites, replacing earlier names.

A Symbol of Freedom 

Beyond religious celebration and royal sport, the kite found its purpose in the spirit of Indian nationalism. During the struggle for independence, patriots cleverly used kites as airborne messengers of resistance. Kites were flown high over cities, bearing messages and slogans like “Simon, Go Back” (in reference to the Simon Commission of 1927). A simple piece of paper soaring freely became a powerful visual symbol of the nation’s own longing for sovereignty. This legacy is one reason why kite flying remains a strong tradition on Independence Day (August 15th), especially in parts of Old Delhi, embodying the joy of liberation and national freedom. 

A Living Tradition 

Kite flying remains a vibrant seasonal activity, closely linked to festivals like Makar Sankranti/Uttarayan, and in Punjab, to Basant Panchami and Baisakhi. 

Today, in western India, especially Gujarat, the tradition thrives. During the kite season, the celebratory cry of “Kai po che!” (I have cut the kite!) echoes across the rooftops. Gujarat celebrates this culture on a global scale through the International Kite Festival, launched in 1989. The state is also home to the Patang Kite Museum, which preserves rare historical kites and paintings. 

From its humble origins as a Chinese military tool and its starring role in the courts of the Mughals, the kite has flown across borders and ages to settle in the heart of Indian tradition. On Makar Sankranti, when these handcrafted wings take flight across the subcontinent, they become a timeless symbol: carrying the hope of the new harvest, the joy of the sun’s return, and the enduring wonder of India’s cultural sky. 

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The end of winter is when winter crops such as sugarcane, wheat, and sesame are harvested across the country. The harvest of these crops is traditionally celebrated across the country, as Makar Sankranti in many North and South Indian states, Pongal in Tamil Nadu, Magh Bihu in Assam, and Lohri in Punjab and neighbouring regions. Each celebration is shaped by its own landscape, language, and local customs and has its own name and traditions, but the spirit remains the same, of celebrating this period of abundance and renewal. 

Another common thread that links all these festivals together is Uttarayan, the period when the sun begins its northward movement in the sky, marking the transition from winter to longer, warmer days. In many traditions, this shift is seen as an auspicious turning point, associated with new beginnings, which is why the bonfires, offerings, and prayers across these festivals are often dedicated to the sun and the forces of nature that sustain life. 

Assam marks the end of the rice harvest with Magh Bihu, which is also known as Bhogali Bihu. Communities gather to construct ceremonial thatched huts called ‘Bhelaghars’ and huge, towering bonfires called ‘Meji’ made from the harvested hay. On ‘Uruka’, the evening before Magh Bihu, the festivities begin, culminating in the burning of the Meji fires at dawn. 

For many communities in Assam, the Meji fire symbolises Bheeshma’s funeral pyre in the Mahabharata. Bheeshma was defeated in the war but lay waiting for his death 58 days until Uttarayan believing it to be a time of liberation and renewal. The Meji is symbolic to of Bheeshma’s funeral pyre, a fire that marks his sacred time of passing, tying the harvest ritual to collective Indian mythology. 

In Tamil Nadu, harvest is celebrated as the four-day long Pongal, centred around giving thanks to the forces of nature, with freshly harvested rice taking prominence. Each of the four days has its own rituals, focusing on a different aspect of agriculture. On the main day, families make payasam with rice, milk and jaggery, sharing the auspicious food with friends, family and neighbours. 

One Pongal legend is about Shiva asking Nandi to go to Earth and instruct humans to eat once a month and bathe daily, but Nandi instead tells them to eat daily and bathe once a month. This angers Shiva and prompts him to send Nandi down to Earth permanently, to help humans plough their fields and grow more food, since they now had to eat every day. Another story connects Pongal to Indra, who was angered that Krishna had convinced the residents of Gokul to worship the Govardhan hill instead of him. Indra unleashed torrential rains until Krishna lifted the mountain on his little finger to shelter the villagers, after which Indra’s pride was humbled, and the festival became a reminder to honour both the sustaining hill and the life-giving rains. 

In Punjab, Lohri is celebrated at the centre of a courtyard or village square, around which people circle while singing, dancing, and tossing offerings to the flames. The festival coincides with the onset of warmer, longer days and the harvesting of rabi crops like wheat and sugarcane, so the fire becomes both a source of warmth and a way of thanking the forces that nurtured the fields. 

Lohri is also closely associated with the legend of Dulla Bhatti, a folk hero from Punjab. He is believed to have lived during the time of Akbar’s reign and is known as the ‘Robin Hood of Punjab’. He is recounted in folk songs as a rebel who stood up to imperial power and protected the vulnerable. Legends describe him rescuing young girls from being sold, arranging their marriages with dignity, and redistributing wealth to the poor, which is why people still sing his praises around the Lohri fire. 

Another legend of Lohri is that of Surajmal, a hardworking farmer who was deeply in love with a girl named Lohri. His village was struck by an especially hard winter and to save his village, he made a vow to Surya, the Sun god, to forgo all personal happiness, even his love for Lohri, if it meant that prosperity and warmth would return to his village. Impressed by this, Surya warmed the earth and crops grew back. In gratitude, people lit fires, offered the first harvest to the flames, and gathered to sing of Surajmal’s faith and perseverance, a memory that, in some traditions, becomes folded into the stories sung around the Lohri bonfire.

Taken together, these festivals show how the turning of the seasons is never just a change in weather, but a moment to pause, remember, and give thanks. Whether in the Meji fires of Assam, the brimming Pongal pots of Tamil Nadu, or the Lohri bonfires of Punjab, the harvest becomes a way of honouring the stories and deities that watch over the land, and of stepping into Uttarayan with hope, warmth, and renewed faith.

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This time of the year, the days are short and the night falls sooner. Winter Solstice reminds us that while it is cooler and darker right now, warmer and lighter days are ahead. Winter Solstice is the longest night of the year. It has the latest sunrise of the year and earliest sunset, after which the sun starts to slowly rise earlier and set later, bit by bit. It usually falls on the 20th or 21st of December, falling on the 21st this year.  

Despite what you might think, this is caused not by how far away we are from the sun, but due to the tilt of the Earth’s axis! The Earth does not orbit upright, and its axis is tilted by 23.5 degrees, causing the Northern and Southern Hemispheres to switch places in receiving the sun’s light directly. In the Northern Hemisphere, as we tilt away from the Sun, we experience winter, which causes the nights to grow longer too. In the Southern Hemisphere, as the Earth leans towards the sun now, the seasons are flipped, and 21st December is Summer Solstice there. Winter Solstice in the Southern Hemisphere falls around 21st June, which is the Summer Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere! 

In Indian astrology, Winter Solstice is the point at which the sun ends its southward movement (dakshinayan) and begins its movement north (uttarayan). While we know that the Sun does not move, rather, the Earth moves around it, if you observe the sunrise and the movement of the sun every day, you will slowly watch it move northward. This is traditionally a time of renewal and celebration, and many cultures all over the world celebrate festivals around this time. As the days grow longer henceforth, the Solstice represents the triumph of light over darkness and is often associated with themes of rebirth, renewal, and hope.  

In many parts of India, the Winter Solstice finds its echo in the celebrations of Lohri, Makar Sankranti, and Pongal, which together signal the end of the year and the beginning of a gentle sun. While Winter Solstice itself falls around 21st December, these festivals arrive a few weeks later. Lohri, celebrated in northern India, especially Punjab, is both a harvest festival and a way of welcoming the lengthening of days after the Solstice. It is traditionally believed to mark the longest night of the year, even though it falls in mid-January, reminding us that cultural calendars sometimes follow the rhythm of agriculture and community memory more than strict astronomical timing. Around the same time, Makar Sankranti and Pongal mark the harvest in other parts of India and celebrate the Sun’s northward journey, Uttarayan. While each region has its own customs; kite-flying in Gujarat and parts of North India, sweet til-gud in Maharashtra, and freshly harvested rice in Pongal offerings in Tamil Nadu, there is a shared sense of standing at a turning point and leaving behind the long, dark nights.  

Indian myths also recognise the importance of Winter Solstice. In the Mahabharata, Bheeshma was granted the boon of choosing the moment of his death. After being defeated, he lay on a bed of arrows for 58 days, waiting until Makar Sankranti, when the Sun began its northward journey or Uttarayan before finally giving up his body, believing that passing away during Uttarayan can lead to liberation, or moksha. Another story linked to Makar Sankranti tells of Surya, the Sun God, and his son Shani, or Saturn, the Lord of the sign Capricorn. Their relationship is strained in many tellings of the myth, but this is the time of year when Surya visits Shani in his own sign, and that visit becomes a symbol of reconciliation, forgiveness, and mending of family bonds. Just as the Sun appears to move northward and days slowly lengthen, these tales suggest that relationships, too, can move from cold distance towards warmth and understanding. 

Winter Solstice may bring the longest night, but it is also the point from which the days slowly begin to grow, almost too gradually to notice at first. As the sun lingers a little longer each day, this time of year becomes a reminder that change often begins in small, steady steps, and that light has already started to return long before we can fully see it. 

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In the sacred groves and village shrines of North Kerala and neighbouring parts of Karnataka, a centuries-old tradition continues to bind communities together. This tradition is Theyyam — a ritual where devotion, memory, and art come together in honour of local deities and ancestral spirits. Theyyam, derived from the Malayalam word Deivam, means God or Incarnation of God. For families who have nurtured this ritual for generations, Theyyam is a living connection between people, land, and the divine. 

Theyyam is an art form that combines dance, theatre, mime and worship. Theyyam performances typically take place in open   courtyards or small temples called kavus. The devotees stand around or even perch on the nearby sacred trees. A performance can last anywhere from 12 to 24 hours, depending on the importance of the deity. The chief dancer, who represents the central deity, observes strict rituals— abstinence, fasting, prayer and solitary meditation— and, after sunset, does not eat till the performance is over. His elaborate makeup is done by trained specialists. The face painting itself is an art form. Patterns like vairadelam, kattaram, kozhipuspam, etc. are drawn using bright primary and secondary colours. The bold contrasts help create the stylised expression that defines Theyyam. Only natural materials are used to make traditional dyes: rice paste for white, and turmeric for yellow. The dominant colour used is red, signifying action, energy, and anger, which is achieved with a mixture of turmeric and limestone. Black is produced by burning rice paddy husks and mixing the ash with coconut oil. 

The performance begins with Vellattam or Thottam, a simpler ritual segment where the dancer appears without full makeup or costume, wearing a small red headdress as he recites the deity’s story. Before the main performance, the dancer begins with a ritual song, joined by the drummers. This song describes the myths and legends of the deity or folk hero being honoured. It is accompanied by the steady rhythm of traditional instruments. After this first invocation, the dancer returns to the green room. A short while later, he reappears — this time with full makeup and costume. 

Once ready, the dancer steps before the shrine and begins his slow ‘metamorphosis’ into the deity. This moment is deeply symbolic — it marks a shift in status, a crossing of boundaries, where an ordinary human becomes a divine presence. After observing a few more rituals, he places a towering headdress on his head, takes up a shield and sword, and begins to dance. In the background, instruments like the chenda, tudi, kuzhal, and veekni build the rhythm. The dance moves through a series of structured steps called Kalaasams, each repeated in order. What unfolds is a powerful blend of music, movement, chanting, and dazzling costumes. 

Theyyam season is usually from October to May. The best time to experience a theyyam performance would be in November and December. 

There are more than 400 theyyams documented, each with its own legend: 

• Deity Theyyam: Worships Hindu gods, goddesses, and divine spirits for blessings (e.g., Vishnumoorthi, Muthappan). 

• Hero Theyyam: Honours local heroes and martyrs who sacrificed their lives for the community (e.g., Pottan, Kathivanoor Veeran). 

• Ancestral Theyyam: Invokes revered ancestors or clan spirits for guidance and family harmony (e.g., Gulikan, Kandakarnan). 

• Animal/Bird Theyyam: Celebrates the bond between humans and nature by embodying animals or birds from myth and folklore (e.g., Pulikali, Pakshi). 

• Spirit Theyyam: Drives away harmful spirits or supernatural forces, often rooted in local legends (e.g., Karinthandan, Thondachan). 

• Protective Theyyam: Offers protection for health, prosperity, crops, and entire villages from misfortune or evil (e.g., Muchilottu Bhagavathi, Padikutti Amma) 

Theyyam is mainly performed by males, except for the Devakkoothu theyyam (at Thekkumbad Koolom Bhagavathi Temple in Kannur) which is performed by women. The story of Devakkoothu involves six goddesses coming to pluck flowers, with one getting lost and eventually rescued by Narada, a narrative best suited for a female embodiment. Only non-menstruating women, after a strict 41-day penance (Vrata), are chosen from specific families to perform this role, often older women past menopause, emphasising purity and sacred duty. 

For those gathered, the experience of Theyyam is unforgettable. Children fall silent, elders close their eyes, and everyone feels the same rush — something powerful, something larger than life. Some moments toward the end of a performance leave a deep, lasting impression: a dancer, fully entranced, running face-first into burning embers; an animal sacrifice that marks an ancient offering; or a deity speaking through the performer, giving guidance to devotees they have never met. You leave stunned, overwhelmed, and almost entranced yourself — exactly how one might feel if we truly believed that gods walk among us. 

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In Indian culture, astrology is more than a tool to predict our ever-changing lives. It is the thread that connects everyday life to the stars and sky. As Sharad Navratri arrives, the air grows crisp and the seasons turn, along with a shift in the spiritual landscape. This is the festival that honours Goddess Durga, whose power is mirrored in the skies and the cycles of nature. 

Navratri means ‘nine nights’, a time where Goddess Durga is worshipped in her nine different forms. Each night is a step in the journey from darkness and struggle to clarity and transformation. The festival represents the triumph of good over evil, light over darkness, and knowledge over ignorance as Durga slays the demon, Mahishasura. But Navratri is also deeply tied to astronomy and astrology, with each day’s timing and meaning influenced by the planets and their movements.   

Sharad Navratri begins around the autumn equinox, the time when day and night are almost equal in length; highlighting balance in the universe, a natural balance in the earth’s cycle, and the shift from summer into the cooler season. The equinox reminds us of balance not only in the outside world but also in our inner lives. Just like day and night are equal and in harmony during this time, Sharad Navratri encourages us to find balance within ourselves.  

Each night of Navratri celebrates one of the nine forms of Goddess Durga, each representing different qualities like strength, courage, wisdom, and protection. Each of the nine days and corresponding forms of Durga is linked to the ‘Navagraha’ of Hindu astrology: Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, Sun, Rahu, and Ketu. By praying to each form, we seek harmony with the energies of these cosmic bodies. The movements of these bodies influence the timing of the festival, making it a special time when spiritual and universal energies are aligned.  

Why nine nights? The number nine holds a significant position in both mathematics and spirituality. Nine is the last digit before numbers repeat in cycles, as the digits ‘1’ and ‘0’ begin to repeat after ‘9’, symbolising completion and renewal. In Hindu thought, nine signals the end of one cycle and the beginning of another, representing rebirth, transformation, and infinity. Nine is the apex, both an ending and ushering of a new start. During Navratri, nine marks the harmony of the physical and spiritual, the journey through stages of life, from ignorance to finding the divine. The nine forms of Durga depict the nine stages of individual growth from death to rebirth, cleansing, and enlightenment. Even the structure of the Vedas and the planetary system is shaped by nines, reflecting a universe that moves in cycles, guided by the Navagraha. With each turn of the seasons and each phase of the moon, the number nine reminds us to recognise the rhythms of nature in our own lives.  

Sharad Navratri is more than a festival; it is a celebration of the skies and spiritual growth. As people light lamps and offer prayers, they participate in a tradition that honours the relationship between the stars and human life. For nine sacred nights, under the changing skies, Navratri invites us to embrace change, seek balance, and move toward renewal. 

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When dark clouds gather and the first drops kiss the earth, nature begins its grand symphony. The wind whistles, thunder rumbles, and in homes, temples, and concert halls, a voice rises in song. In India, the monsoon is not only heard, seen or felt but also sung. 

Music and the Seasons 

In Indian classical music, a raga is more than just a melody. It is a living form with its own mood, time of day, and even season. Ancient texts like the Natya Shastra and the Sangita Ratnakara describe how music mirrors the rhythms of nature—sunrise and dusk, summer heat and winter chill, and the cool showers of Varsha Ritu. For centuries, musicians have turned to special ragas to welcome the rains, believing their music could not only celebrate the season, but even invite it. 

Carnatic Voices of Rain 

In Carnatic music, no raga is more closely linked to rain than Amrithavarshini, which means ‘the shower of nectar’. Legend tells us that the great composer Muthuswami Dikshitar once sang his composition Anandamrutakarshini in this raga at Ettayapuram in Tamil Nadu during a drought, and rain followed soon after. With its bright pentatonic notes that sparkle like falling drops, Amrithavarshini continues to be sung during the monsoon, carrying with it the aura of this miracle.

Some traditions even connect ragas to deities. Just as Amrithavarshini evokes joy and abundance, ragas like Varunapriya are linked to Varuna, the Vedic god of rain and water (who is often compared to the Puranic Lord Vishnu). Music, myth, and nature flow into one another seamlessly. 

Hindustani Ragas of Monsoon 

In the Hindustani tradition too, the monsoon has inspired some of the most beloved ragas. Megh, with its deep, resonant notes, is said to echo the rumble of monsoon clouds. Miyan ki Malhar, attributed to Tansen, carries the drama of storms and sudden showers. Desh, soft and lyrical, feels like gentle rain on a quiet evening. These ragas are often performed during the rains, their swells and pauses mirroring the rhythm of downpours and the freshness of wet earth. 

Regional Flavours of Rain Songs 

Across India, the rains are welcomed in many different musical voices. In Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, women sing Kajris which are playful, yearning songs that capture the beauty of dark clouds and the ache of separation. In Bengal, the monsoon finds its voice in Rabindra Sangeet, where Tagore’s melodies weave rain with love and devotion. In Maharashtra, folk traditions like Ovis and Lavanis bring out the rhythm of village life in the wet season, while in Kerala, temple courtyards come alive with folksongs that celebrate Varsha Ritu as a time of renewal. From the banks of the Ganga to the backwaters of the South, the rains become a reason to sing, each region adding its own colour to the music of the monsoon. 

Echoes Across the World – Western Musical Parallels

While Indian ragas are closely tied to seasons and moods, Western classical music also paints nature in sound, though with different methods. Composers there often use ‘tone painting’, shaping rhythm, harmony, and orchestration to mirror the world outside. Antonio Vivaldi’s famous concerto The Four Seasons captures a summer storm with rapid violin strokes and dramatic chords, much like a monsoon cloudburst. Later, Impressionist composers such as Claude Debussy created musical ‘weather’ with flowing, unpredictable scales and rhythms that evoke rain, wind, or waves. Unlike ragas, which are bound to specific times and seasons, Western music tends to suggest nature through mood and metaphor. Yet, across cultures, music and rain have always danced together.

The Rain in Our Hearts 

What is it about a raga that makes the rains feel so near? Perhaps it is because the monsoon in India is more than just weather. It is relief after heat, joy after waiting, and hope for abundance. Indian classical music transforms this anticipation into melody, carrying the rhythm of falling rain and the fragrance of the earth within its notes.

Perhaps we are always waiting for the rain; a cathartic flow of emotions, a much-needed respite. Our ragas give voice to these feelings. They don’t just describe the rain. They become the rain.  

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When you think of Ganesha, you picture the pot-bellied elephant-headed God, worshipped across India. But historically, Ganesha has travelled around the world, with the oldest surviving Ganesha statue being found in the Kung-sin province of China, in 531 CE! 

In fact, Ganesha idols have been found all over the world, from Japan to the islands of Thailand and Indonesia and even Afghanistan. The Ganesha statue in Gardez, Afghanistan is from the 4th or 5th Century CE. That is about 2,500 years ago! Ganesha has even been adopted into other religions, and an idol can be found in the Buddhist temples in Japan. There he has been transformed into Kangiten, and this form of Ganesha is worshipped differently than we do here in India.  

But how did idols come into the form we see them in today? As we prepare for Ganesh Chaturthi, we must remember that these celebrations, and the idols, the centre pieces of our worship, represent a nearly 3,000-year-old tradition and craftsmanship evolving from simple stone to masterpieces.  

The First Forms      

The story of Ganesha sculptures begins nearly 3,000 years ago with statues of elephant-headed yakshas (nature spirits or minor deities in Hindu, Buddhist or Jain mythology) in ancient Mathura art. The Ganesha in Kung-sin, China, is dated around this era. During this time, the forms of Ganesha were still developing and were simpler and slimmer than what we see today.  

A little bit later, Ganesha appears in his more classic form about 2,500 years ago in the famous sculptures in the Udayagiri caves in Madhya Pradesh and the carvings in the Elephanta Caves near Mumbai.  

How Ganesha’s Form Evolved     

With time, Ganesha evolved to have more of the characteristic features that we recognise today. Early sculptures showed Ganesha with just two arms, but now he is usually depicted with four arms, each holding his broken tusk, a noose, a laddoo or a bowl of modaks, and an axe. These items are a visual representation of his ability to remove obstacles, his control over the mind, his love for sweets, and his power to destroy evil, respectively.    

The worship of Ganesha developed later than that of other gods, sometime around 500-750 CE. While it was later than other gods, it was still in ancient times about 2,300 years ago. During this time, the Hoysalas of Karnataka built temples with incredibly detailed Ganesha statues, showing every piece of jewellery and fold of cloth. Around the same time, the Chola dynasty in the Tamil Nadu region created Ganesha idols with bronze casting, making them more portable and eventually leading to the idols we carry around in processions today. 

Shaping Modern Worship   

About 200-300 years ago, Maratha rulers adopted Ganesha as their family emblem and built more Ganesha temples in a conscious effort to elevate Ganesha from a supporting deity to a main one.  

In 1893, Lokmanya Tilak launched the first-ever Ganeshotsava festival to rally support against the British. This transformed Ganesh Chaturthi from a private family celebration to the grand public festival we know today. This evolution into a public festival created new demands on artists and sparked a shift from permanent stone or bronze statues to temporary clay ones meant for pandals and then visarjan (immersion in water).  

Yet through every transformation, Ganesha’s essence remains unchanged. Today’s celebrations are the living heartbeat of a tradition that spans thousands of years. Master artisans in Mumbai and Pune don’t just carry on family trades, they are the guardians of a chain of devotion. In every festival idol, ancient traditions meet modern celebrations, proving that while art may change, the spirit it captures is timeless.  

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