What makes a story timeless? It is often the wisdom it carries and the fundamental truths it reveals about being human. 

Celebrated on the full moon day (Purnima) of the Hindu month of Ashwin, Valmiki Jayanti honors Maharshi Valmiki— revered as the Adi Kavi, or the first poet, in Indian literary tradition. He is traditionally credited with composing the Ramayana, the timeless epic recounting the life, duties, and trials of Lord Rama. 

According to legend, Valmiki’s journey as a poet began with a moment of grief. Moved by the sorrow of a bird whose mate had been struck down by a hunter, he uttered a verse that became the first shloka in Sanskrit poetry. This moment is traditionally associated with the birth of the poetic form in which the Ramayana was composed. 

Beyond the heroic journey of Rama, Sita, Lakshmana, and Hanuman, the Ramayana delves into enduring questions of duty (dharma), courage, loyalty, and righteousness. On Valmiki Jayanti, we celebrate not only the first poet, but the eternal power of storytelling to transform hearts and guide generations.

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Every year on the fourth Sunday of September, we mark World Rivers Day. But in India, no one really needs a reminder to think of rivers with reverence. Long before there were water treatment plants or environment ministries, there were mothers. Ganga, Narmada, Kaveri: not simply resources to draw from, but goddesses who gave, and who are owed something in return. Yet, many of these divine rivers are struggling due to pollution, shrinking forests and drying flows. 

Ganga: The River from Heaven 

Long ago, King Sagara’s 60,000 sons lay reduced to ash, cursed by a sage’s anger, their souls unable to find peace. Only the waters of the heavenly Ganga, it was said, could wash them clean and set them free. For generations, the kings of that line prayed for her descent, but it was Bhagiratha who finally won her favour, after years of penance. Ganga agreed, but her descent threatened to shatter the earth beneath the force of her fall. So, Lord Shiva stepped forward and caught her in his matted hair, breaking her plunge into gentle streams that would nourish rather than destroy. In this way, a river meant to save the dead became the river that has sustained the living ever since.  

Today, that same river carries the weight of the cities and industries that have grown along her banks, her waters strained by sewage and industrial discharge even as millions still turn to her for blessing and belief. But conservation efforts have been underway. Under the Namami Gange programme, more than 140 sewage treatment plants have risen along her course and over 50,000 hectares of forest have been planted on her banks. The river’s dolphins are a sign of recovery. A study by the Wildlife Institute of India found that their numbers had grown from about 3,330 in 2018 to about 3,936 in 2024. But industrial discharge and plastic waste remain serious problems in urban stretches. 

Narmada: Born of Shiva 

Where the Ganga fell from the heavens, the Narmada rose from the earth itself. As Lord Shiva sat deep in meditation at Amarkantak, his penance so intense that it filled him with unbearable heat, drops of his sweat are said to have fallen to the ground and formed a river, one that flowed out gentle and cool. She became known as his daughter, given the name Narmada. The smooth round stones found along her banks are said to be shivalingas, so people say that every pebble of the Narmada is Shiva. Unlike other great rivers, she does not flow out of a distant glacier but from the forests around her. 

That dependency is also her greatest vulnerability, as decades of deforestation, unchecked sand mining and a string of dams have left long stretches of the Narmada running thin, some tributaries barely surviving through the dry months. In 1985, Medha Patkar and the Narmada Bachao Andolan rose in protest against the Sardar Sarovar Dam, arguing that submerged forests and displaced communities were too high a price to pay. Their hunger strikes and years of struggle forced the World Bank to withdraw its funding in 1993, even though the dam itself was eventually completed.  

Kaveri: The Crow and the Water Pot 

The sage Agastya once carried the waters in his kamandala, or water pot. But Lord Ganesha, taking the form of a crow, perched upon the pot’s rim and tipped it over, releasing the water in one stroke. What spilled out became the Kaveri, flowing free across the southern plains, and it is why she is remembered as the Ganga of the south.  

But the forests that once fed the Kaveri have been vanishing, with the river basin losing more than 12,800 square kilometres of green cover, leaving the waters thinner and her soil less able to hold onto the rain when it finally comes. In answer, movements like Cauvery Calling have urged farmers along her length to plant trees by the millions, in the hope of coaxing the forests back to life, even as scientists remind us that sand mining and dams demand their own reckoning too.  

These rivers do not need our stories to keep flowing, but they do need our attention. Each movement shows that a river’s fate can change when enough people, from policymakers to villagers, decide to act. But the work is far from finished. Untreated sewage still enters our rivers, forests along their banks continue to shrink, and sand mining carries on largely unchecked. This World Rivers Day, reviving our rivers does not have to mean a hunger strike or a government programme. It can mean supporting local river clean-up efforts, being mindful of water use, or simply learning more about the rivers closest to home. 

Read more about Indian Mythology, History and Culture on our very own ACK Comics App. 

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In workshops across the country this week, mechanics will wipe down their tools and set them aside, just for a day. Weavers will do the same with their looms, blacksmiths with their hammers and potters with their wheels. As the Sun moves into Virgo, factories and workshops take a pause, all in honour of Vishwakarma Jayanti. 

Vishwakarma is the divine architect and engineer of the universe, the craftsman behind the gods’ creations. He is remembered as the maker of Lanka, later seized by Ravana, and of the flying chariot, Pushpak Vimana, fashioned for Kubera before it passed through other hands. He is said to have built Dwarka for Krishna and Indraprastha for the Pandavas, working in the Mahabharata alongside the illusionist-architect Maya. He forged Indra’s thunderbolt from the bones of the sage Dadhichi, shaped Shiva’s trident and Vishnu’s discus, and is even credited with carving the wooden forms of Jagannath and his siblings, still worshipped today at Puri. He is usually depicted with four arms, holding a measuring scale, a water pot, a book and a set of tools, each object an ode to the precision, learning and patience that true craftsmanship demands. 

It is fitting, then, that this festival finds its home not in temples but in workplaces. Engineers, architects, mechanics, weavers, potters and factory workers see this as their day to pay tribute to the tools of their trade. The rituals begin early, with workspaces swept and decorated with flowers, buntings and rangoli, while machinery, instruments and vehicles are washed, garlanded and set aside, unused, for the day. An idol or framed image of Vishwakarma is installed on a small altar, often adorned with marigolds and mango leaves, and the community gathers for a puja led by a priest or by senior workers themselves. Sweets, fruits and incense are offered, along with prayers that ask not for wealth or victory but for skill, safety and the steady inspiration to keep creating. In many workplaces, the day carries a festive, almost holiday air: colleagues share a meal together, children are sometimes brought along to see their parents’ tools honoured, and kite-flying is a popular pastime in parts of the country, with skies over industrial towns filling with colour for the occasion. 

The date and manner of celebration shift depending on where you are. In large parts of northern and western India, it falls on 17 September nearly every year, tied to the fixed solar movement of Kanya Sankranti (the day the Sun moves into Virgo), unlike most Hindu festivals that follow the lunar calendar. In eastern India, particularly West Bengal, Bihar, Jharkhand and Odisha, it is instead observed the day after Diwali. In Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, the spirit of the day often merges with Ayudha Puja, when tools and instruments are worshipped as part of the larger Navratri celebrations. Across these regional variations, the underlying idea remains the same: a recognition that behind every machine, building and object lies human effort worth honouring. 

In a world increasingly shaped by automation and technology, Vishwakarma Jayanti honours the craftsmen and artists of the world, and helps us remember that care, learning and imagination sit at the heart of every act of creation. It gives workers, so often unseen in the busyness of production, a day when their labour is treated with reverence and gratitude. Whether in a small roadside garage or a sprawling factory floor, the day offers a pause where effort is not simply expected but celebrated.

Read more stories about Indian Mythology, History and Culture on our very own ACK Comics App. 

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How do you capture the essence of a man who was as boundless and infinite as his name – Anant? Charismatic, joyous, sparkling, deep as a bottomless gold mine, and soaring high with infectious energy. The 15 years that I spent as his Assistant Editor and then as his Associate Editor for Tinkle magazine were the most meaningful in all my working life.  

Uncle Pai was a colossus in thought. His mind was ever searching for more knowledge, more wisdom and more ways in which to communicate all that he learned to the generation he regarded as the foundation of the future – children. 

For him, children were the most precious beings on earth. And on us, his team, he placed the responsibility of telling them stories which would help make them confident, happy, positive and self-assured individuals. He would often tell me that when he was a child, he had lacked self-confidence. Having lost his parents at the age of two, he had struggled during the initial years to stand up to challenges around him. Luckily for him, he had a very loving older sister who tried to take the place of a mother. And as he grew up and went to school and college in Mumbai, he had met some wonderful teachers who had instilled in his mind a belief in himself.  

He always wanted to do the same for children, especially Indian children. He saw them growing up heavily influenced by Western culture and Western thought, and wanted them to realise that they also had their own precious heritage, which was closer to them and one with them. They just had to understand it and get to know it, and the wisdom of the land they were born in would give them all the strength and confidence they needed in a fast-changing world.  

For this, he created Amar Chitra Katha and led it with an unshakable belief in its purpose. To his memory, we pledge to sustain his passion for Indian heritage, to continue his tireless search for an even better story than the last, and to honour his deep desire to create a world for children where they would feel safe, loved and full of hope. 

Discover Uncle Pai’s timeless stories of Indian History, Mythology and Culture at our very own ACK Comics App. 

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A musical instrument is more than an object. It carries the knowledge, skill and imagination of the community that makes it. Across India, generations of craftspeople have learnt to understand wood, leather, metal, strings, and sound—and turn them into instruments that can sing. Their knowledge is not always written down. It is learnt by watching, listening, practising and passing it on. 

The Mridangam Makers of Chennai 

Walk through the lanes of Mylapore in Chennai and you may hear the unmistakable sound of a mridangam coming from a small workshop. For some families, making these instruments has been a tradition for generations. One family (of Sebastian and Fernandes) documented in Mylapore, traces its mridangam-making lineage through five generations.  

A mridangam’s main body is traditionally made from a single block of jackfruit wood, which is carefully hollowed and shaped; and the two heads from layers of animal hide. The hides must be prepared and stretched to the right tension, while the maker carefully works on the black paste (made of rice powder and iron filings), or soru, on the right head. Small changes in the thickness, tension and placement of these materials can alter the instrument’s pitch, which supports the vocalist it accompanies. The makers have to match the pitch, a skill that takes years to acquire. 

Yet this highly specialised craft remains undervalued, and its makers have historically faced social and economic marginalisation. Their expertise may be essential to music, but the people who possess it are not always recognised as experts. 

The Veena Makers of Bobbili 

In Gollapalli, near Bobbili in Andhra Pradesh, the Sarwasiddi community has preserved a remarkable tradition of making the Bobbili Veena. This traditional instrument is carved entirely from a single block of seasoned jackfruit wood (unlike standard veenas which have separate parts). The artisan must carefully shape it into the veena’s distinctive body, neck, and resonating chamber. 

The veena is then fitted with metal frets and strings, while decorative elements may be added to its surface. But the beauty of the instrument is not merely ornamental—the proportions, thickness, and construction of the wood all affect the sound it produces.  

Today, the material itself presents a challenge. Good-quality jackfruit wood is becoming harder and more expensive to obtain, threatening both the craft and the livelihoods of the artisans who depend on it. 

The Tabla Makers of Andharjhor 

In Jharkhand, the village of Andharjhor is known for its traditional instrument makers. Around 70 families have been involved in making instruments such as the tabla, dhol, mandar, and mridangam. Their workshops are part of a community where the skills needed to make percussion instruments have long been a way of life. 

A tabla has two parts: the dayan, usually made from wood, and the bayan, traditionally made from metal such as brass or copper. Both are covered with prepared animal hide, while the centre of each drumhead is coated with the distinctive black syahi (soru in Tamil), a mixture of materials that gives the tabla its characteristic tonal quality. 

With the advent of virtual instruments and rising material costs, the shrinking market and slow returns are now making it increasingly difficult to sustain the craft. 

The Sitar Makers of Miraj 

For more than 150 years, the town of Miraj in Maharashtra has been a centre for making string instruments. A Miraj sitar begins with simple materials: a dried bhopla or gourd for the resonator; teakwood for the body; metal strings; and traditionally, deer horn for the bridge. Each is carefully prepared—the gourd dried, the wood shaped and polished, and the strings fitted by hand. But the real skill lies in crafting the jawari, the bridge that gives the sitar its distinctive sound. Shaping it takes years of practice and a finely trained ear. 

Today, younger generations of Miraj’s instrument-making families are increasingly moving towards other careers. As fewer young people take up the craft, the wealth of specialised knowledge accumulated over generations, risks disappearing with the people who carry it. 

Listening to the Makers 

These communities are only the tip of the iceberg. India has many such communities whose knowledge and craftsmanship have shaped the sounds of our music. We remember musicians for the music they leave behind. Let us also remember the people who make that music possible. Their knowledge lives in the grain of wood, the tension of hide, the shape of a reed—and in years of experience that can be almost impossible to put into words. 

Today, these craft communities face changing livelihoods, scarce materials and fewer young people taking up the craft. When a community disappears, we lose more than an instrument—we lose generations of knowledge that may never be recovered.  

Perhaps the first step towards keeping these communities visible is simply to become more curious. Who made the instrument? Who gets to be recognised as an expert in music? What happens when the materials run out or the craft can no longer provide a livelihood? And what happens to all that knowledge when there is no one left to pass it on?

Check out our latest title, Musicians of India, to read about the musicians we know and love. 

Read more about Indian History, Mythology and Culture at our very own ACK Comics App. 

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August carries some of the most important dates of the Indian Freedom Struggle. On 8th August 1942, Mahatma Gandhi gave the call for the Quit India Movement, pushing the country towards its final phase of struggle against British rule. On 12th August, the world observes International Youth Day, a fitting occasion to remember how young India shaped its own liberation. And on 15th August, we celebrate the day independence finally arrived. Between these dates lies a quieter story, of not just the marches led by well-known leaders, but the thousands of ordinary Indians — farmers, students and homemakers — who carried the freedom struggle forward on their own shoulders.  

A Flag for Everyone: The Flag Satyagraha of 1923 

In March 1923, the Jabalpur Municipality resolved to hoist the national flag on its building, right beside the Union Jack. The District Magistrate banned it, but municipal members went ahead anyway, hoisting the flag on 18th March. Colonial police pulled it down and trampled it underfoot. The outrage this sparked did not stay confined to Jabalpur for long and grew into what came to be known as the Flag Satyagraha. It soon spread to the nearby city of Nagpur. 

What made the Flag Satyagraha remarkable was how ordinary its participants were. Under the Nagpur District Congress Committee, volunteers set out daily in small batches to march through the city carrying the national flag, defying the government’s ban on public gatherings, and courting arrest without resistance, in true satyagraha fashion. Over the months that followed, an estimated 17,000 volunteers were arrested — not soldiers or seasoned political workers, but shopkeepers, students and farmers who travelled from across the country, some from as far as the princely state of Travancore, to take their turn at the front of the procession. 

When the movement’s local leader, Jamnalal Bajaj, was arrested, leadership passed to Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. On 17th August 1923, after months of sustained, non-violent pressure, the government relented and permitted a flag procession through Nagpur’s restricted Civil Lines.  

Villagers and Women on the Dandi March 

Seven years later, in 1930, Gandhi opposed the harsh salt laws passed by the British Government. On 12th March, he set out from Sabarmati Ashram with 78 chosen followers, walking towards the coastal village of Dandi to break the government’s monopoly on salt production. 

Along the 240-mile route, villagers swept and watered the roads ahead of the marchers and showered them with flowers, and the walking crowd grew larger with each passing day. By the time Gandhi reached the sea on 5th April and broke the law the next morning by making salt, the march had grown from a small band of volunteers into a movement carried forward by entire communities along its path. 

Gandhi had initially hesitated to involve women directly in the march, but Sarojini Naidu and Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay were among those who insisted on taking part. When Gandhi was arrested in May 1930, just before the planned raid on the Dharasana Salt Works, it was Naidu who stepped forward to lead the volunteers in his place. Across the country, women picketed liquor shops and stores selling foreign cloth, made salt illegally in their own homes, and courted arrest alongside the men, a scale of participation that British officials themselves noted as an unprecedented turn in the freedom struggle. 

Quit India and Its Many Fronts 

By August 1942, with the Second World War underway and negotiations over India’s future stalled, the Congress made its most direct demand yet: an immediate end to British rule. On 8th August, Gandhi addressed a session of the All India Congress Committee at Bombay’s Gowalia Tank Maidan, giving India the mantra of ‘Do or Die’. Within hours, the British moved to crush the movement before it could properly begin, arresting Gandhi, Nehru, Patel and nearly the entire Congress leadership overnight. For a moment, it looked as though the Quit India Movement might collapse before it had truly started. Instead, it was carried forward by those the British had not thought to arrest. 

The next day, 9th August, a 33-year-old Congress worker named Aruna Asaf Ali took the stage the senior leadership had just been dragged from and hoisted the Congress flag at Gowalia Tank Maidan before the waiting crowd, formally launching the movement in the leaders’ absence. She went underground soon after, evading capture for years while helping coordinate the resistance from hiding. 

Elsewhere in Bombay, a 22-year-old postgraduate student named Usha Mehta took up a different kind of resistance. With press censorship tightening, Mehta and a small group of associates built a clandestine radio transmitter that went on air on 27th August 1942 as the Secret Congress Radio, broadcasting news of the movement, Gandhi’s messages, and nationalist songs to listeners across the country, reportedly reaching as far as Japanese-occupied Burma, from wavelength 42.34 metres. Mehta and her team moved the transmitter constantly to stay ahead of British trackers, until she was finally arrested that November and imprisoned for four years, having refused to give up her associates even under interrogation. 

Beyond Bombay, the movement took root in ways the Congress leadership, locked away in prison, could not have coordinated. In pockets of the country where British administration had crumbled under the weight of protest, ordinary people set up parallel governments of their own: in Ballia, Chittu Pandey led locals in briefly taking over the district administration; in Tamluk in Bengal, the Tamralipta Jatiya Sarkar ran cyclone relief and local justice for close to two years; and in Satara, the Prati Sarkar organised village courts and welfare work well into 1945. None of these governments lasted, and most were eventually reclaimed by British forces. But together, they demonstrated something the British could not easily suppress, that after August 1942, the demand for freedom no longer depended on any single leader to carry it forward. 

From a flag torn down in Jabalpur to a radio broadcasting in secret, India’s freedom was built as much by these lesser-told acts of defiance as by the leaders whose names we remember first. As we mark Quit India, International Youth Day and Independence Day this August, it is worth remembering that the freedom struggle was never carried by one voice alone, but by thousands who each found their own way to answer it. 

Read more stories about Indian History, Culture and Mythology on our very own ACK Comics App.  

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When we think of the Guru-Shishya Parampara, our minds usually paint a very specific picture: a wise sage with a long white beard, sitting under a massive banyan tree, while students sit in a neat circle memorising verses. But that is only one small chapter of a much grander story. 

In ancient and medieval India, education was never a one-size-fits-all product. Because different fields required completely different mindsets, India developed entirely unique models of mentorship. From top-secret warrior guilds to mathematical vocal codes and tactile artisan workshops, the way wisdom was passed down depended entirely on what was being taught. 

This Guru Purnima, let us explore the five fascinating ‘clans’ of master-disciple lineages that shaped our history, culture, and science.

1. The Music Families (Gharanas)

Imagine an education system where you do not just attend a class—you legally and spiritually join your teacher’s family. This is the foundation of India’s performing arts lineages, famously known as the Gharana system (from the word ghar, meaning home). 

In classical music and dance, knowledge was not written down on sheet music. It had to be caught live from the teacher’s breath, posture, and voice. To protect their unique musical styles, masters formed distinct ‘houses’ or Gharanas (such as the Gwalior or Maihar gharanas). Each house has its own secret techniques and signature musical phrases that make them instantly recognisable on stage. 

To seal this lifelong bond of artistic loyalty, a formal thread-tying ceremony called Ganda Bandhan is performed. The relationship was so intense that masters historically prioritised their top disciples over their own biological children to ensure that the purity of their art survived.

2. The Human Audio Recorders (Vedic Lineages)

Long before digital hard drives were invented, how did India ensure that thousands of pages of complex Vedic texts survived for millennia without a single word changing? They turned the human voice into a hyper-precise operating system. 

In these Vedic lineages, the exact pitch, accent, and vibration of every single syllable matters. To prevent human error, these lineages invented intricate mathematical recitation codes called Pathas. 

Instead of just reading a line straight, students learn it in complex geometric patterns. In Jata-patha, words are recited forward and backward in pairs (1-2, 2-1, 1-2). In the incredibly complex Ghana-patha, the pattern becomes a more dense matrix. If a student alters even a fraction of a tone, the pattern collapses. This rigorous vocal encryption created the longest-running, unbroken audio recording in human history.

3. The Art and Craft Guilds (Shilpa Lineages)

What if your school textbook wasn’t made of paper, but of raw clay, molten metal, or solid granite? This is the world of India’s traditional craft communities, guided for centuries by the Shilpa Shastras (ancient manuals of engineering and design) and organized into powerful Shrenis (artisan guilds). 

Whether it is the metal-casters of Bastar or the idol-carvers of Mahabalipuram, knowledge transfer here is built entirely on tactile intelligence—the wisdom stored directly in the muscles and the fingertips. 

In a traditional workshop, a master craftsman (Sthapati) rarely gives formal lectures. A young apprentice begins by simply doing chores—sweeping stone dust, mixing clay, or stoking the furnace. For the first few years, they simply absorb the rhythm of the work through their eyes, ears, and hands before ever touching a master tool. 

These communities also developed localised measurement systems based on the proportions of the human body, such as Tala (the length of a palm) or Angula (the width of a finger). A student learns to judge flawless geometric proportions purely by touch, sight, and intuition.

4. The Warrior Brotherhoods (Martial Akharas)

When the knowledge being passed down determines whether you live or die on a battlefield, the master-disciple dynamic shifts from peaceful contemplation to high-stakes survival. This is the world of the Akharas and martial lineages like Kalaripayattu in Kerala. 

Here, the Guru (often called the Gurukkal or Aashaan) builds an absolute brotherhood. The disciples live, train, cook, and heal together. Imagine training with live, razor-sharp swords swinging inches from your face—you have to trust your teacher and your peers with your life. 

In martial lineages, physical training is actually the easy part. The real test is temperament. A martial Guru will deliberately withhold advanced, lethal combat techniques until they are absolutely certain of the student’s emotional maturity. The ultimate goal is not to create a weapon, but a protector who possesses the restraint to never strike out of anger.

5. The Silent Teachers (Spiritual Lineages)

Our modern world believes that learning requires talking, reading, and taking notes. But India’s spiritual and esoteric traditions feature a lineage that completely turns this idea upside down: transmission through absolute silence. 

In the Shaktipat tradition, deep wisdom is not treated as information to be studied, but as a state of consciousness to be ignited. Think of it like using a lit candle to light an unlit one. The flame is passed over instantly, without changing the original light. 

The Guru passes their spiritual realisation directly to the disciple. This can happen through a sacred spoken word (Vachik), a physical touch (Sparsha), or in its rarest form, a direct, silent gaze (Drishti). It suggests that the highest form of teaching is not about filling an empty bucket with facts, but waking up a dormant energy that was inside the student all along. 

The Takeaway for Today 

Whether it is the discipline of the martial Akhara, the mathematical precision of the Vedic chant, the deep emotional bond of the Gharana, the tactile wisdom of the artisan guild, or the quiet focus of the silent lineages, the Guru-Shishya Parampara was never static. It was an incredibly fluid, adaptive network designed to keep the soul of a civilisation alive. 

In a digital age where we are drowning in information, these five lineages remind us of a timeless truth: true mastery has always required human connection. 

Read more stories on Indian History, Mythology and Culture on our very own ACK Comics App.

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High up in the Ziro Valley of Arunachal Pradesh, the Apatani tribe has spent generations cultivating paddy in the mountains. Every July, before the paddy has fully ripened, the Apatanis pause their labour to celebrate Dree, a festival that asks the gods to keep pests, disease and hunger away from their fields and homes. 

The legend of the Dree Festival starts with Abotani, the mythical first ancestor of the Apatani tribe. When Abotani and his people first began cultivating the fertile land of Ipyo Supun, their fields were overrun by insects and pests. On the advice of his elders, Abotani chose two priests, Changu Mitu and Dogu Miser, to perform the Dree rites and call upon the gods for help. 

The priests first appealed to Diirii Paro and Yarii Aki, spirits invoked to devour the pests plaguing the fields. Between them, they cleared out a great many insects, but some had already burrowed underground, out of reach. So, the priests turned to the Sky God, Yapung Uyi, asking for rain to flush the rest out into the open. When even that was not enough, they finally called upon the gid, Tamu, who rid the fields of every last pest.  

That year, the paddy grew tall and healthy, and the harvest was bountiful. Grateful and relieved, Abotani vowed that he and his descendants would perform these rites every year so that his people would never again face such scarcity. That promise continues as the Apatanis observe the Dree festival to this day. 

Over time, the single rite grew into four, each addressing a different threat to survival. The Apatanis pray to Tamu to ward off insects and pests, to Metii who guards against epidemics and illness, and to Meder who purifies the fields of anything inauspicious.  Mepin is invoked to bless the crops and ensure the wellbeing of the people. In 1967, when the festival was reorganised, Danyi, the sun-and-moon deity central to Apatani faith, was added as a fifth God invoked for fertile soil, healthy livestock and general prosperity. 

For most of its history, the Dree Festival was celebrated separately by each Apatani village, on whatever date suited its priests and elders. That changed in 1967, when a group of Apatani students felt their community needed one festival that everybody could celebrate together. The festival was chosen to be observed centrally, with 5th July fixed as the main day of celebration. Village-level rituals are still conducted the evening before and priests from every village then bring their offerings together at the shared festival ground of Nenchalya, near the town of Old Ziro. 

On the appointed day, priests and their assistants dress as warriors and sit atop the lapang, a raised wooden platform, reciting the Dree Barnii, which are incantations that can last an entire day. Once the chanting is done, they carry the sacrificial fowls, eggs and animals, along with a ceremonial bamboo structure called the yuygyang, to a sacrificial ground usually located near a river, where the offerings are made to the gods. 

The festival’s warmth lies in its community rituals as much as its sacred ones. Every household brews rice beer for the occasion, and women fill vessels of it for their elder brothers, sisters and sons-in-law as a gesture of love, receiving roasted mithun meat or bacon in return. Cucumber and yatang, a rice pudding steamed in bamboo, are shared among everyone present. Running through the celebrations is the Daminda, a folk dance and song performed by Apatani women in traditional white and red attire, who move together in long, linked lines. Its verses welcome the gods to the festival, recount the history and geography of the Apatani people, and even retell the love stories of ancestors. 

Alongside the dancing, the festival also makes room for play and skill: young men compete in iisan, a traditional high jump, and giibii, a form of wrestling, while the elders showcase their knowledge through competitions. After the festivities, the community observes a taboo period of several days, during which fieldwork, and even the gathering of firewood or vegetables, is avoided, a pause that is believed to protect the success of the rituals just performed. 

Nearly six decades after it became a shared celebration, the Dree Festival remains rooted in the same hope that first sent Abotani’s priests into the fields: that with the blessings of the gods, the harvest will be plentiful, and the community will be safe.

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Kabir was a 15th-century mystic poet and saint whose two-line verses, called dohas, have been remembered and recited across India for over five hundred years. He was highly revered by Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs alike, cherished in the traditions of all three religions. His birth anniversary, or Kabir Jayanti, is celebrated on the full moon day of the Hindu month of Jyeshtha. It falls on 29th June this year. Every year his devotees mark the occasion with bhajan gatherings, kirtans, poetry readings, and spiritual discourses, especially in states like Uttar Pradesh, Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, and Gujarat. The most elaborate celebrations take place in Varanasi, his birthplace, where religious sermons are held at Kabirchaura Mutt. 

The details of Kabir’s birth remain uncertain, and researchers can only provide a broad time period for it, roughly between 1440 and 1518 CE. He was born in Varanasi, and according to one of the most popular legends surrounding his birth, he was raised by a couple of Muslim weavers named Niru and Nima, who found him as an infant near a pond called Lahar Tara and adopted him.  

Kabir was a poet of the masses, composing in the accessible, everyday languages of the region such as Awadhi, Braj, and Bhojpuri. Varanasi was a centre of religious life in the subcontinent, home to Hindu sadhus, Islamic sufis, Buddhists, Jains and others, each of whom had set up their own mosques, monasteries, and temples in the city. Growing up amidst all of this, Kabir came to be associated with both the Vaishnava tradition of Hinduism and the Sufi tradition of Islam. Soon, he found out about Ramananda, a prominent saint of the Bhakti movement, known for welcoming disciples across caste lines. It was through him that Kabir found his spiritual footing. Ramananda taught that God was inside every person and everything — a belief that Kabir would carry through his entire life and work. 

Although Kabir is often depicted as a harmoniser of Hindu and Muslim belief, it would be accurate to say he was equally critical of both. He had little patience for priests who recited scripture without understanding it, for pilgrims bathing in the Ganga without changing how they lived, or for those performing religious rituals as a matter of habit rather than genuine feeling. He dismissed pilgrimages, idol worship, and the authority of scriptures like the Vedas and the Quran when these became substitutes for genuine inner devotion, arguing that the path to God lay through direct personal experience, not through intermediaries or ceremony. He also pushed back openly against caste, insisting that birth into a particular community said nothing about a person’s worth or spiritual standing. 

One of his most quoted dohas captures this: 

जाति न पूछो साधु की, पूछ लीजिए ज्ञान।  

मोल करो तरवार का, पड़ा रहन दो म्यान।। 

Do not ask the caste of a saint; seek their wisdom.  

Value the sword, let the sheath lie where it is. 

In his final days, Kabir made one last point. People at the time believed that dying in Kashi guaranteed heaven, while dying in Maghar, a small town in Uttar Pradesh, meant condemnation. To challenge this superstition, Kabir chose to go to Maghar, and died there in 1518. After his death, his Hindu and Muslim followers disputed what to do with his body. The Hindus wished to cremate him, while Muslims wished to bury him. Legend has it that when they lifted the cloth covering him, they found only flowers in his place. The two communities divided the flowers and carried out the last rites according to their own customs. Today, his samadhi (memorial, associated with Hinduism/Buddhism) and mazaar (tomb, associated with Islam) stand side by side.

Even in his final moments, Kabir resisted the idea that people could only belong to one religion. On Kabir Jayanti, his dohas remind us that the questions he raised; about faith, identity, and how we treat one another, are ones that remain timeless. 

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As the first monsoon rains sweep across Goa, its landscape undergoes a dramatic transformation. Dry fields turn a lush green, rivers swell, and the scent of wet earth fills the air. It is against this vibrant backdrop that Goa celebrates São João, one of its most distinctive and high-spirited festivals. Observed annually on June 24, this celebration was introduced during the Portuguese era and has since evolved into a beautiful blend of Catholic tradition, local folklore, and a deep reverence for nature. 

Honouring Saint John the Baptist 

Dedicated to Saint John the Baptist, the festival’s core theme is joy. According to Christian tradition, John leapt with happiness in his mother’s womb upon learning of the upcoming birth of Jesus Christ. This spirit of profound gladness defines the modern festivities. The day begins with morning church services and prayers, which quickly transition into lively village processions filled with music, singing, and traditional Konkani chants. 

The Monsoon Connection 

Sao Joao is deeply intertwined with the agricultural calendar, occurring at a time when the monsoon is essential for replenishing water sources and preparing the land for cultivation. For generations, Goans have welcomed these rains as a symbol of renewal, prosperity, and abundance. Consequently, the festival serves a dual purpose: it is both a solemn religious observance and a secular celebration of the seasonal rains that sustain the region’s farms and communities. 

The Colourful Kopel 

One of the most recognisable symbols of the festival is the kopel—a beautiful crown, intricately woven from fresh flowers, leaves, and seasonal fruits. Participants wear these vibrant headpieces throughout the day, transforming streets and villages into a sea of colour. Crafted from locally available plants, the kopel serves as a wearable tribute to the earth’s fertility and the raw beauty of the Goan monsoon. 

A Leap into Tradition 

The most famous custom of São João is the exhilarating practice of jumping into wells, ponds, and streams. Revelers move through the villages in groups, accompanied by the beats of the ghumot (a traditional earthen drum) and cymbals. As they leap into the water to symbolize the joy of Saint John, the air fills with the thunderous, collective chant of “São João! Viva São João!” (“Long live Saint John!”) Historically, this splashing act also celebrated the replenishment of vital drinking water sources after the scorching summer months. Today, this tradition is further enlivened by floating pageants of decorated boats, pool parties, and lakeside cultural programmes. 

São João Today 

While rooted in Christian history, São João transcends religious boundaries to unite people of all backgrounds across Goa. It brings together families, friends, and neighbours in a shared expression of local pride. Through its infectious music, unique water rituals, and striking floral crowns, Sao Joao remains a timeless tribute to Goa’s rich cultural heritage and its enduring bond with the monsoon season. 

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