Devraai - Sacred Groves
A journey through the timeless existence of the mother nature
It was 4 in the afternoon. The sky thundered. The clouds were growling as if they had kept something unwanted in their bellies for too long. He walked from the porch towards the front-yard. Beyond the foliage of jackfruit and chikoo trees, he could see the steadily moving clouds. An otherwise blue sky had turned gray like the London skyline. He went in. Finding a stick with a v shape at its top, he picked it up from the corner of the porch, put on his sandals and started walking towards the direction of the sea.
He was walking through the front yards of other people who lived in his community. His neighbours who had come back from Mumbai to celebrate Ganpati festival had cleared up the overgrown weeds in their front yards.
The clouds were still growling - as if their bellies needed urgent attention. Yet, for some reason, he wasn’t worried. In the porch, he was reminded of an old saying, “Thundering clouds seldom rain.”
Of course this wasn’t the incoming rain, but the opposite, this was the outgoing rain. The clouds weren’t moving from the south west- as they would at the start of monsoon - they were moving from north east.
At the edge of the wadi community, stood a gigantic banyan tree, from where a path led from the jungle through to the beach. This path had been frequented by many in the village during the times past, but recently a tar road was developed and the villagers preferred bikes over walking through this jungle. Naturally, villagers forgot this path and now only water buffaloes and some wild people dusted it with their feet.
His mind was distracted by some movement happening on his left. Jadhav and his water buffaloes were trying to find a route through the overgrown grass, walking through a layer of mud and salty water that the high tides had brought in last night. Nearly a decade back these overgrown fields used to be flowering with rice. People from nearby communities would grow their yearly portions of rice, but with the introduction of free- low-quality rice from the government, often given for political gains, they grew lazy and eventually forgot how to farm. With the lack of farming, what was forgotten was honest labour and the songs that were sung during the planting and cutting of rice.
Holding a betel leaf in his left hand, Jadhav applied some slaked lime and put in some finely chopped areca nuts on top. He put the excess slaked lime back in his tiny box. Putting a lid on his mini box, he kept the folded leaf inside of his mouth. Tucking it between his lower teeth and lips - he called out,
“Where is the pilgrimage to today? Towards the sea, eh?”
From a distance, he gave a quick and loud, “yes”, and he entered the forest. It had rained in the previous weeks. The forest was brimming with lush green hues. The makeshift path created by a machine - cutter - during the Ganpati festival was throned back with its kingdom of vines. The buffaloes had created a small path alongside which grew many tiny plants of kachra.
He thought about it, “So this is the kachra that grandma keeps on talking about!” Kachra was used as a home-grown remedy for mouth-ulcer. In recent weeks, grandma had removed an old glass jar tucked in the back of the wooden cupboard that had worn out like an old man’s skin. She had asked him to apply a white powder on the parts where he had the ulcer. That evening she walked with him in their betel nut plantation and pointed out the tiny kachra plants growing wild on the corners.
“In case I need it and if my bones are too weak to come this far, you should know the plant,” she had said.
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Since then, he saw it everywhere. It happened many a times, that someone or something, when he once got to know them, would appear more regularly in his life. Rains of past week had moistened the earth— his sandals making imprints as he walked. On the nearby banyan, monkeys were performing their wild tricks. Every time they met his eyes, they would jump a branch behind. He loved watching that. He didn’t fear much, at least not until that time, but then all of a sudden, he felt as if someone other than the monkeys was watching him. But, no one other than Jadhav and a few people, who the village had termed as wild, dared to enter the forest. His eyes travelled all the known directions to find someone, but other than the the freshly grown vines and red Solenopsis fire ants, his eyes met nothing conclusive.
He walked as the path kept winding down until it reached a crossroad. He remembered from the early days that both these path reached the sea, but having travelled only from the left one, he felt a sense of adventure in going down the right path. When he was 6, Sanket, an elder boy from the community, had took him down the right path, they were in search of some wild boars. Before reaching the sea, this road dwindled through a canopy of densely populated forest, hundred times more dense than the one he was walking through. All he remembered seeing, was a few stones that had tiny oil lit lanterns which were kept burning in front of them. In the evening shadows of the nearby trees danced as those lanterns flickered. People worshipped those stones and an unwritten rule said that no tree was supposed to be touched.
The path grew quieter as he ventured deeper, the canopy overhead thickening until it seemed only slivers of light could break through. The forest’s heartbeat—its rustling leaves, the distant calls of birds, the hum of life—grew more intimate, as though it recognized him. He was in the bosom of the mother. He felt it before he heard it, the presence of something vast yet tender, ancient yet familiar. He knew somehow who it was that watched him.
“Welcome back, child,” a voice emerged, soft as the wind through the banyan and Ashoka branches, yet carrying the depth of ages.
He stopped, his breath catching. “You know me?” he asked, though somehow, he already knew the answer. A swift breeze flew by him as the clouds roared in the distance.
“I have always known you, my child,” the voice replied. “You carry the same stillness your great-grandfather carried when he walked these paths. He was a kind soul too, one who spoke with me often. And like you, he listened.”
He felt a warmth bloom in his chest. His great-grandfather—a man he’d only heard stories of, a keeper of the land, a quiet guardian of the forest. “He used to come here? Then you must be Devraai (Mother Nature) that he spoke of with others..”
“Many times. He understood the language of the trees, the songs of the birds, the whispers of the wind. He knew that to walk these woods was not to conquer them, but to become part of them,” she said. “Yes. I am Devraai. Your ancestors worshipped me. When the land was filled with people who wanted to turn the material world into their private conquest, they came to me and asked for help. I told them to keep parts of nature sacred. Not to cut them or harm the wildlife within it. That will give you enough land to cultivate your crop and feed your bellies, while keeping my other children happy.”
She then sighed softly, as if drawing up memories from deep within its roots. “I remember the day you first met the leopard.”
His eyes widened at the memory. He had been a child, no older than seven, sitting in the padvi (verandah) on a misty morning. His grandma was churning the hot mango pulp while other women sat around filling the cold pulp in glass bottles. It was then that Kasha had screamed, “There is a leopard up here.” He had come across the creature—a sleek, golden form crouched in the underbrush, eyes gleaming like amber jewels in the distance. His grandfather had frozen, whispering for him to go inside the house. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had taken a tiny step forward, meeting the leopard’s gaze with a quiet awe, no fear in his heart.
“You weren’t afraid,” Devraai said, her voice filled with a gentle pride. “You saw him not as a threat, but as a brother of the forest. That moment, I knew you were different.”
He smiled softly, the memory was vivid in his heart. “He was beautiful,” he murmured. “I felt like he understood me, too. He just walked past as if he didn’t care about the shouting villagers.”
“He understood you,” she replied. “The creatures of the forest know those who come with open hearts. Just as your great-grandfather once did, you walk among us not as a stranger, but as kin.”
The forest seemed to hum around him, the branches swaying as though in agreement. “But now, my child, the world beyond these trees forgets its kinship with me. The fields lie fallow, the rivers grow tired, and the skies carry the weight of smoke. The balance is shifting.”
He felt a pang of sorrow. “I see it too,” he said. “Our people have traded the songs of the fields for the hum of machines. We’ve forgotten the joy of honest labor, the simple beauty of working with the land.”
"Do you know, child," she began, "why the rivers weep?"
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He paused, listening. The distant clatter of a waves hitting the volcanic rock echoed her question.
"They weep," she continued, "not for themselves, but for what they have lost. They once flowed freely, cradling life in their currents, singing songs of abundance. Now, they are dammed, diverted, drained of their essence. They carry the weight of your ambitions—factories, cities, the unending thirst for more.”
The bulbul sang in the background, as if she wanted to enter in the conversation, she mourned her partner who had died after inhaling toxins in the air. “They thought they could control you,” he admitted. “Shape the earth to fit their desires, carve paths through mountains, and make the wild bend to their will.”
Mother Nature’s voice grew firmer. “You have mastered the art of taking but forgotten the grace of giving. You extract without planting, build without replenishing. And so, the soil grows barren, the air grows heavy, and the forests retreat. But tell me, what has this pursuit of wealth and progress brought you?”
He hesitated, searching for an answer. “Comfort, perhaps. Convenience. But also…emptiness.”
She sighed, the wind moved through the ancient trees. “Your towers rise high, but your spirits sink low. You surround yourselves with walls of steel and glass, yet you are more lost than ever. For every tree felled, you lose a piece of your own soul. For every river poisoned, a part of your spirit grows sick.”
“I know, but I feel all is not lost,” he spoke with determination.
Devraai’s voice softened, the waves too grew still as if the rocks had turned into smooth walls that didn’t reflect any sound. “That is why I speak to you. You see the loss, but more importantly, you carry the seed of hope. You are one of the few who remember that the earth is not a resource to be exploited, but a mother to be cherished.”
He stood quietly, absorbing her words. “What can I do?” he asked.
“Begin as your great-grandfather did,” she said. “Tell the stories. Walk the forgotten paths. Show others the beauty of what remains, and remind them of what they’ve lost. Some will not listen, but some will. And that will be enough.”
“It is not too late. The earth has a memory, and so do you. Remember the songs of your ancestors, who danced with the seasons and sang with the wind. Remember the joy of planting a seed and watching it grow, the peace of walking barefoot on soil that welcomes you.”
He looked around, “But how do we begin again?” he asked. “How do we undo the harm? People have forgotten their pact with you. They have tangled their religions with unknown things that don’t even remember you. They forgot that you brought them their holy wells, that you spoke to the hearts of the saints, that you reminded them of what they had lost.”
“Begin with humility,” she replied. “That’s what they did. Learn to listen once more. Sit by the rivers, and let their whispers guide you. Walk among the trees, and hear the stories etched in their rings. When you take, take only what you need, and always give something back. Life thrives in balance, not in excess.”
He settled in that pause that followed. He looked around, at the towering trees, the vibrant undergrowth, the life pulsing in every direction. “This is what my great-grandfather preached, it was you speaking through him, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, my child,” she spoke in silence.
Her voice seemed to smile. “I know you will do as your great-grandfather, my child. You carry within you the spirit of those who walked before, and the dreams of those yet to come. And remember, whenever you feel lost, return here. The forest will always know you.”
“Remind people to live as if the earth were your home, not your conquest. For in truth, it is both your beginning and your end. Care for it, and it will care for you. Forget it, and you will only hasten your own forgetting,” she spoke with haste.
Jadhav had entered the forest. Grandma had sent him to find her grandson.
“What are you doing here?” he spoke from a distance.
“Nothing. I was looking at the birds,” he said while trying to hide away the fact that he was speaking to someone.
“Your great-grandfather came here often. He would sit down and speak to someone. I was a child back then. Whenever I asked him who he spoke to, he’d say, it was his mother,” he spoke while gazing at the trees in the distance, resting both his hands on the top of his bamboo stick.
He smiled, he knew what his great-grandfather had shared with him.
With that, the air grew still, the presence gently receding, though he knew she was still there, in every rustling leaf and every whisper of the wind. He continued down the path, his heart lighter. Devraai had spoken to him, and he would carry her message beyond those trees.
Hi everyone, we are starting with a new topic. As I near my walk, I feel inspired to speak about something very dear to me — Sacred Groves. These Sacred Groves are scattered all around the world, not just in India. This is our link to our collective past, where our ancestors lived and thrived alongside nature. These sacred groves are from a time when religions hadn’t misinterpreted the streams of knowledge— and they flowed freely through the lips of humble saints.
I am also glad to announce two brilliant artists from opposite corners of the world will be collaborating with me on this project.
has a postgraduate in modern history. She writes about colonialism & post-colonialism, migration, food and cultural history of India and other regions of Eastern Himalayas. Check her Chai Biscuit Tales for more.All the illustrations in this series will be exclusively made by the amazingly talented, Journey Krajnik, a graphic designer, history enthusiast, and a naturalist based in Michigan, USA. Please check her work on her website here.
You can buy my first book “Journey to the East”, a memoir about an 1800 km walk through India, through my website and on Amazon Kindle globally.
I loved your story. I too have a deep draw to the Sacred groves. They were important to all my ancestors in Europe. The beliefs of the pre Christian European cultures come from India. We all had similar beliefs that were molded to each particular environment. I identify as the archetype of keeper of the Sacred Grove. When I was younger, I worked and lived in the Rocky Mountains of the US. A few years ago I began communicating with my ancestors using exercises in Daniel Foor's book on the topic. I should write a piece on that experience.
What a wonderful piece of writing, Ashutosh! So immersive, so gentle, so sincere, so deeply beautiful, so healing.
There would be so many things to mention... the passage about the leopard alone is a magnificent parable. The beauty of the creature spoke to you beyond the danger. Beauty, yes, the sacred speaks to us through the beauty of nature.
And your words: "something vast yet tender, ancient yet familiar" are words that I recognize deeply. The intimacy and recognition, the kinship I too feel these when I am in or by the sacred sea. I am both amazed and joyful to see this deepest of feelings echoed in your words.
The illustration at the top of the article is very beautiful and in perfect harmony with the story. Just marvellous!
You have carried Devraai's message most beautifully and successfully and for that, I thank you immensely.