Myths of Mawphlang
Gods and Guardians of a sacred forest
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.
Today’s newsletter is a collaboration between me and who writes Chai Biscuit Tales. She writes about colonialism & post-colonialism, migration, food and cultural history of India and other regions of Eastern Himalayas. We edited and re-edited this newsletter together, so you will see some ideas from my end while others from Moloya’s end..
Here’s a note from Moloya:
During a discussion with Ashutosh, I found that sacred groves are found in his region(and several others) as well. Even more fascinating is the shared tradition of myths, storytelling and local deities in preserving these ecosystems. This led us to team up to present our individual experiences with the sacred groves of India.
Hope you enjoy reading this :)
The sun was almost half way home. Leaves, which had lost their dew by now, crackled beneath our feet as we entered the dense forest. The birds were now resting, their kids were dazed out after being fed throughout the morning. Our guide didn’t speak much to that point, but as we reached a curve in that dense forest, he spoke.
“Nothing ever goes out of this forest.”
This is what the guide told me as soon as I entered the forests of Mawphlang - a region in the northeast Indian state of Meghalaya.
Let me say this, I am inherently skeptical in nature, I question each and every thing that comes in my conscience, but his tone carried a sense of gravity that intrigued me.
A few months back, I embarked on a journey to Shillong, the capital city of Meghalaya. I was at a troubled phase of my life. My mind was wandering and I guess I was seeking a deeper connection, even though I hadn't realized it back then. The sea winds were heavy and they were swaying the ship of my life with tremendous force - back then I was searching for something that would help me steer this turbulent ship to the land of the calm, something that would root my soul in peace.
I’m not entirely sure why I chose Shillong. Perhaps it was the charm of this iconic hill station, built by the British, nestled in the hills and often called the "Scotland of the East." Shillong was designed as a retreat, a place of refuge from the heat and intensity of the Indian plains. In the 19th century, when the British ruled the northeast, they developed these hill stations as their summer capitals. The colonial rulers would escape the searing summers, retreating to the cool hills with their families and entourage of cooks, aides, and administrators. Today, Shillong still holds on to that colonial allure, its landscape a mix of history and nature, a favored getaway for those who seek a break from the heat of the surrounding regions.
This May, the relentless heat of Guwahati, my hometown in Assam, pushed me to take a page out of the European handbook and head for the hills. I’d visited Shillong before, but only as a tourist—seeing the waterfalls, the caves, the bustling markets. But this time felt different. I wasn’t simply seeking an escape from the heat; it felt as though something within me was searching for more. I’ve come to believe that certain experiences unfold only when your inner consciousness is prepared for them. And maybe, just maybe, it was this readiness that drew me deeper into Meghalaya, to a place called Mawphlang.
I’d spent most of my life as a skeptic, firmly rooted in my atheism. I had no concept of a higher presence, let alone faith in one. But as I ventured into the wilderness of Mawphlang, a place dense with sacred groves and stories, something shifted. I hadn’t been looking for anything spiritual. Yet, there it was—in the quiet rustle of leaves, the soft fragrance of earth after rain, the untouched beauty of the forest. I found a stillness in nature that stirred something within me. It was as though these ancient hills, shaped by centuries of history and tended by generations, were gently inviting me to let go of my rigid beliefs. For the first time, I felt a quiet trust, a sense that perhaps there is more to life than what we can see and control.
When I entered the forests of Mawphlang, the weather had turned gloomy. The clouds were restraining themselves - waiting for the right moment to set their bodies loose. I knew this feeling from before. Not one leaf flickered as everything went completely still. Someone had pressed the pause button. The constant warnings from the locals, combined with the eerie atmosphere around the groves, left me feeling a little nervous. I’d already heard a few tales from travelers who had walked this path before me. Some warned that if I left the forest with even a single leaf stuck to my shoe, it might bring misfortune—a forest spirit’s way of reminding us to respect the sacred land. But I chose to come anyway. I didn’t believe in any of this. Sometimes, we need to risk stepping into the unknown, to experience it ourselves, to uncover what truth lies beyond cautionary tales.
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As I approached the forest’s entrance, my attention was drawn to the monolithic stones standing like silent guardians, each one covered in a thick layer of moss and mystery. These were no ordinary stones; they held stories and significance beyond what met the eye. My guide, a member of the Lyngdoh clan from the Khasi tribe, explained that these stones were markers of ritual and reverence, rooted in the spiritual fabric of the land.
The Khasis of Meghalaya are unique in many ways. One of the few communities in India that practice matriliny, they trace lineage through the mother’s side. Before the 19th century, before colonialism and Christianity arrived, they followed an ancient animistic faith called Ka Niam Khasi, a belief system that saw divinity in nature itself. While many have since embraced Christianity, the old ways, the sacred respect for the earth, still pulse through this land.
Here, under the canopy of ancient trees, I was a tiny little leaf. I could sense the presence of something timeless, something that had watched over generations, carrying with it the sacred memory of those who walked this land long before me.
In the stillness of those woods, I understood that reverence isn’t always about belief in a god or a higher power. Sometimes, it’s about humbling ourselves before the world’s beauty and mystery, honoring the sacredness into the very ground beneath our feet. And as I took my first steps deeper into the forest, I realized I was no longer just a visitor; I was a part of this ancient journey, one soul among many, learning to walk gently, to carry nothing but awe and respect.
Among the Khasis, the monoliths acted as important sites for sacrificial rituals in the past. Monoliths are specially erected in honor of ancestors, kings, warriors, and elders. One can find many monolithic structures of different sizes and shapes across Meghalaya. The vertical monoliths represent males, while the horizontal ones represent women. The monoliths outside the sacred groves were no different. They were believed to be a site where the old kings of the Lyngdoh Clan used to sit for sacrificial rituals.
In the ancient days, the clan used to make occasional sacrifices to appease the local deity, Labasa. The sacrifices were usually made of big animals like bulls. Such traditional rituals are not practiced anymore and even if they are, the sacrifices use smaller animals like cocks.
The local deity Labasa is held as the ultimate protector of the Lyngdoh clan and the forests of Mawphlang are regarded as the private ownership of the deity. Can we in all our modernness fathom such a thing??
Since these monoliths resided in the entryway, the locals would seek permission from the deity to carry out any further rituals inside the forests. The deity residing within the monoliths made appearances in the form of leopards, taken as a sign of a good omen. However, if and when the deity made an appearance in the form of a snake, it was a sign that the rituals must be stopped. The Khasis regarded the snake as the epitome of evil. Strange, how this draws parallels to the older Christian stories of Adam and Eve. In the garden of Eden, the snake was the one to inform them to eat from the Tree of Knowledge - this was the root of all evil.
Once inside, more monoliths caught my attention, each having a unique ritualistic significance. A group of small, flat monoliths, in the shape of stone benches/tables, are laid at the heart of the first track of the forests. Some of these trees are so old, they might as well have been there since the origin of the forests. This makes Mawphlang a rich site of biodiversity hotspots, untouched by humans because of the efforts of the Lyngdoh clan.
The locals narrate the legend of Labasa and the spine-chilling stories of people who have incurred the deity’s wrath by violating the one rule of the forest- Do not take anything from the forest.
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According to the stories of the locals, many people tried to break this rule in the past and regretted it for their lives. There is one tale about a group of men who felled a tree and tried taking it with them. However, when they put the wood in their car, the car stopped running. It was only when the men put the woods back in the forests that the car finally started again. Others tell of spirits following them home, reminding that what belongs to Labasa is sacred, meant to remain within the forest’s realm.
For those willing to listen, these stories hold a timeless lesson, one echoed across spiritual traditions and wisdom cultures: there exists a profound interconnectedness between humans and nature. The forest, like our own lives, thrives on respect and reciprocity. To impose our will upon it is to upset a spiritual order, to lose sight of a deeper truth about our place in the world. In Labasa’s domain, as in our lives, the boundaries are clear, yet often disregarded in the pursuit of material gain.
Okay. I know that these stories are a bit over the top, but perhaps, the forest’s reluctance to relinquish even a branch is not mere superstition but an invitation to examine our relationship with the earth. In Western cultures, where progress often emphasizes ownership and expansion, Labasa's forest offers a contrasting lesson: to tread lightly, to recognize limits, and to see sacredness in what we cannot own. The forest thus becomes not just a place but a teacher, urging us to live with humility and mindfulness-- it reminds us that true power lies in knowing when to leave things untouched, honoring the mystery rather than possessing it.
To the outsiders, these stories may sound like mere folklore, a traveler’s tale spun from the mystery of the forest. But for those who live here, the legend of Labasa is not only a deeply held belief but a sacred pact with the land—a pact that has preserved these woods from human encroachment for centuries. The proof is in the forest’s thriving vitality, where each tree stands unclaimed, each plant undisturbed, and the air feels as if it were a gift, saturated with the fragrance of wildflowers and the subtle musk of undisturbed soil. Here, in a world shaped by respect and restraint, the forest flourishes. Isn't that something to ponder upon?
As our guide led us along the winding paths, every step felt like a ritual of rediscovery. Every shrub, every towering tree seemed alive with a quiet wisdom. Many of these plants hold medicinal and therapeutic properties, their potential gifts to humanity resting silently within, only to be shared with those who approach with reverence.
The forest is a reminder of how much we’ve lost in our modern pursuit of mastery over nature. In a world where value is often measured in resources extracted, we forget that not all wealth is meant to be taken. In this untouched forest, we see a vision of a world we have nearly forgotten—a world in which restraint is not a limitation but a choice to honor the sacred. The belief in Labasa may be misunderstood as mere myth, but the deeper truth is unmistakable: that to respect the forest is to respect life itself. As we tread softly through its paths, breathing its air and feeling its ancient calm, we are reminded that perhaps the greatest wisdom lies in simply letting nature be, in trusting that there is a beauty to be preserved in the world, far beyond our grasp.
The bark of the Himalayan Yew (a kind of coniferous tree) that before me, is believed to have anticancer properties. The beautiful pine flowers and acorns falling everywhere on the ground are considered to be effective in treating migraines and headaches. Apart from this, rhododendrons, rudraksha, and various other uncommon species of flora adorn the forests of Mawphlang. Mawphlang is one of the many instances that testify that the indigenous people are the rightful protectors of natural spaces and that no amount of official intervention can preserve the environment as efficiently as the indigenous people do.
The indigenous people’s connection to the land is not just about protection; it is about seeing the earth as alive. Here, life was not merely lived but deeply remembered, inherited by stories and wisdom of those who came before us. I know, I entered the forests as a skeptic, but I left feeling with a newfound faith. Not in the idols or temples, but in the sacredness of life itself. Life thriving through memories and stories of the Lyngdoh community. I guess the storm in my heart had finally settled and the ship of my soul had docked to the port.
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.
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