Almost all religious traditions have stories of a time when humans and animals were still able to communicate, but these are stories that we believe happened in the past. Has nature stopped talking? Or is it humans who have lost the ability to communicate with nature? To those who have the patience and ability to listen and understand, Mother Nature continues to communicate. This does not mean that humans, animals, or nature literally talk to one another. Rather, communication between them continues in other ways. Here are a few examples from my field visits where I found that nature still speaks to humans, albeit in different ways.
One such story occurred in Jaraiñ village as we walked down to the Umngot River over difficult terrain to explore a mystery of nature. I call this incident “when the insect tells the time.” A local woman from the Pamthied clan guided us through the steep gorge and thick broomstick plantations to see the spot where certain birds migrate every year. The birds arrive as soon as the earth becomes warmer and remain there from spring until autumn. This unusual migration, dictated by the changing seasons, made us curious about this strange phenomenon.
Bird migration is a fascinating natural phenomenon. We have mostly learned about birds that migrate across oceans and continents, yet there are different kinds of migration as well. Some migrations cover only short distances and last for a relatively short period.
We were trying to understand what attracted the birds to this place. What was so special about it that they were willing to make their annual journey every spring, only to head back when winter sets in? Was there some kind of fruit or nut that attracted them?
On reaching the low lying area where the birds roosted, we selected a site opposite the tree that we thought would be an ideal place to hide. We rested for quite some time, observing their behaviour and trying to understand what drew them there.
We hid in a spot covered with thick undergrowth and removed some leaves and branches that obstructed our view of the trees where the birds were roosting. Upon careful observation, we noticed that every now and then the birds would fly to a section of the stream and dip their beaks into the water. All the birds took turns flying down from the trees to take a sip. We suspected that there must be something in the water that attracted them.
After watching the birds for a few hours, we decided to move closer to the stream. As we emerged from our hiding place, all the birds, both those roosting in the trees and those drinking from the stream, flew away at once, creating a flurry of beating wings.
When we reached the stream and looked more closely, we found a stone beside it with a small hole from which a small stream of water continuously oozed before flowing into the creek below. This was where the birds repeatedly came to drink. It appeared that the water from this small opening possessed some special quality that attracted them.
While we were enjoying the sight of hundreds of birds roosting in the trees and flying down to drink, kong Tiewly Pamthied, the woman who had accompanied us from the village, suddenly said that we needed to begin our journey back as soon as possible. I was the only member of the team who could communicate in the War Amwi/Tlangwai dialect.
When I asked her why, since I was still enjoying the sight, she replied that it would take time to climb the steep gorge and that, if we wanted to reach the village before dark, we had to leave immediately. It was an unplanned trip. We were unprepared and had not brought any food or even a torch to light our way in case darkness fell upon us. She was very confident in what she said, so we complied and started walking back to the village.
As we began climbing the hill, I could not help asking her how she had concluded that it was time to return. She asked us to remain silent for a while and then said, “Do you hear the sound of the insect?” We stopped talking, and indeed we heard a very peculiar sound.
“When this insect makes its call, every farmer in the village knows it is time to go home,” she said. “We would collect our tools, pack them, put our dop kwai (tiffin) and wai (machete) inside our khoh chot, a small cone, and head back to the village.” She added, “There is another insect that tells us the time as well. Its sound signals that it is time to have our lunch.”
We reached the village just as it was getting dark, and I could not help asking her how she had acquired such knowledge. She simply replied, “It is common knowledge. Everybody in the village knows it.”
Along with my friend, Dr. Raj Kamal Goswami, a wildlife scientist, and a few others, we visited the sacred grove at Tuber a long time ago. I remember that we had to remove our shoes and anything made of leather before entering the sanctum sanctorum of the forest.
It was a sunny day with a clear blue sky as we toured the sacred grove and walked all the way to the Myntdu River. As we walked through the valley along the riverbank, our elderly guide sniffed the air and suddenly said that it was going to rain. I was surprised because the sun was still shining brightly. Yet later, we experienced the familiar phenomenon of rain falling on a sunny day.
Sohmynting is another interesting village when it comes to the conservation of sacred forests. Although the entire village has converted to Christianity, the community still maintains the sacred forest and the Khloo Tangbru belonging to the different clans. In 2012, before the Pyrtuh clan decided to register the sacred forest with the Wildlife Department under the Community Reserve Project, Mynjur Pyrtuh and William Pyrtuh took us around the sacred grove.
As we walked, William, an elder of the Pyrtuh clan, enthusiastically identified various herbs, shrubs, trees, and flowers, explaining their uses to us. With great excitement, he pointed out different species of grass, named them, and explained how certain plants were consumed. He also described the medicinal properties of numerous plants found in the forest. As I listened, I thought to myself that almost every plant seemed to have some use.
During two field visits with my youngest daughter while she was conducting research for her Master’s dissertation on wild edible mushrooms, we encountered a classic example of how humans and nature still communicate. We realised that there are still places and cultures where humans and nature not only coexist but also complement one another.
On one trip, we met a family in Pynthor Langteiñ that had just returned from the forest after collecting mushrooms. We asked them to show us what they had gathered, and they had collected many different varieties.
Our first question was: despite the many varieties they had collected, how did they know which mushrooms were edible? How were they able to distinguish the edible from the poisonous? And how did they know when it was the right time to go into the forest to forage for mushrooms?
They explained that their knowledge of mushrooms had been passed down from their mothers. The ability to distinguish edible mushrooms from poisonous ones was common knowledge in the village. They also said that they learned about the changing seasons from the book of nature. Nature is alive, and every change in it is a sign that tells us the time and teaches us lessons about life.
During another trip with Ma Realsing Muksor of Moosakhia village, we noticed an unusual mushroom growing in a pine tree plantation. He went over for a closer look and declared that it was edible. My daughter asked how he knew it was not poisonous. He replied, “From the cows.” He explained, “As cow herders, we used to watch what the cows ate, and whatever the cows ate was also safe for human consumption.”
Though nature and animals do not speak to us in the way humans speak to one another, these stories reveal a different kind of communication that still exists in the wild. It is a language that humans, animals, and nature share without uttering a single word. It is the language they speak in silence.