Day 75 : All men and gods have hidden, but the sun and the moon are still here...
“Because you became a powerful politician, you forgot the one who gave you the power to be there. All men and gods have hidden, but the sun and the moon are still here. They haven’t left us. They are the only ones who haven’t moved from their place,” said the elderly man, sitting silently in his chair, gazing at the rising moon in the distance.
Isn’t it true, though? Many people have come and gone throughout the endless passage of time. Lands have risen and fallen, seas have swallowed the land and then receded back into the vast oceans. But the sun and the moon—they’ve never changed their course. They remain constant. It’s no coincidence that they’ve been revered both in the East and the West. They’re important to both tribal cultures and to "developed" man.
The last generation of people living without phones or media are the only ones who can tell us about a world once deeply connected to nature worship. Fragments of that world are still scattered all around us. We just have to stop and see.
Ahead of Aachara, the road wound silently toward the village of Vayangani. Beautiful “kevada” trees grew around the bridge, acting as a natural barrier between the sea winds and the village. As my gaze shifted toward the endless sea of green, an old woman called out, “This is Vayangani farming.” The name of the village was even based on a farming technique! Such was the deep connection to farming in this small community. Mother Nature had shaped the land at the base of the surrounding hills into a bowl-like structure, creating a wetland through which naturally flowing water passed. The villagers, for centuries, had practiced farming, reaping two harvests a year. Men and women were returning from the fields, their feet soaked in water.
“There’s still a lot of weeding left,” said a middle-aged woman.
“Our God runs through the fields. He expects to see the farms full of paddy fields, so we farm twice a year. Most others who used to farm on the hilltops have left it behind, but we can’t. Our God won’t be pleased. We better not make him angry,” she added.
What a fascinating concept, isn’t it? The villagers kept farming because their local god wanted to see green fields. The Ravalnath Temple arranges an event called “Dalapswari” (A Walk Through the Village) every year. The villagers, out of respect for the god, believe he will remove all illnesses, and so they work together. This once-divided community comes together for the festival. I hadn’t seen this sense of unity in the northern part of Konkan. The winds of Mumbai had swept through the northern region so powerfully that it took with it the ancient beliefs in nature worship. Like the rest of Mumbai, they started worshipping money— the new god.
Such villages offer hope. They show us that a world deeply connected to nature and rooted in humility isn’t just possible—it already exists. These tiny houses, surrounded by coconut and rice trees, and filled with fish in the wetlands, embody what Konkan once was for many of its people. Fish, rice, and coconut curry were the foundation of the local culinary culture long before Indian Chinese and Punjabi dishes made their way into the region. The tribes living here depended on these three staples and worked year-round to ensure they thrived. Their gods, too, were linked to these items—they protected them. They revered the snakes that kept the mice out of the fields, and they feared the elephants that would destroy the crops. Such were the village deities, rooted in nature worship. They still are.
But over time, the layers of paint covering these beliefs have become so thick that reminding ourselves—or even the villagers—about the origins of the worship would be a lost cause. All we know is that we praise nature. We know our gods like the nature around them. They suffocate in concrete jungles, and perhaps, saving lands like this one is all we can do.
The old man smiled softly as he spoke, his voice was calm. “Maybe it’s not about which gods we worship, but about honoring nature itself. The world changes, people forget, but the land, the sea, the sun, and the moon—they stay the same. They don’t need our praise to exist, but we need them to live.”
His face weathered with age but his eyes were full of wisdom. The village around him, so simple and peaceful, seemed to hold more knowledge than any city could offer. It wasn’t just a place to survive, but a place to remember. The rituals, the laughter, the shared prayers—everything was connected to the earth. Could the world outside ever understand?
The old man’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “The real question is—can we remember? Can we still hear the earth beneath all the noise?”
I stood still for a moment, feeling the cool evening breeze. It was as if the earth itself was calling out, reminding me of something forgotten.
“Yes,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “It’s not too late.”
The village of Vayangani, with its green fields and sacred wetlands, was a living reminder of resilience. Even though the world outside had moved on, this village had held onto its way of life. The gods they worshipped were in the crops, the animals, the air, and the land itself.
As the moon rose higher in the sky, its light casting a soft glow over the fields, I felt a quiet resolve growing inside me. Maybe, in a world focused on progress, it was places like Vayangani that could show the way forward.
I turned to speak to the old man, but he had already closed his eyes, lost in the quiet beauty of the moonlit sky after dusk.
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