Silence of the Wah Umkhrah: What Khasi myths teach us about loss and belonging

The Khasis, like many indigenous communities worldwide, have imbued their landscape with stories and the presence of mythical creatures. Some are benevolent, while others can bring great harm if their domain is intruded upon.

These stories are a way for the indigenous people to assert their belonging to the land in the absence of maps or documents—a connection that goes back thousands of years.

Some of these stories have been verified through recent archaeological discoveries. For example, the 4,000-year-old sites in LumSohpetbneng and Myrkhan. While stories connected to some of the mythical creatures can be understood as an attempt by the Khasis to ascribe a divine origin to the founding of the early states on the Meghalaya Plateau, especially Hima Shillong and Hima Sutnga, two of the most powerful and early Khasi kingdoms.

It is believed that these two kingdoms were founded by mythical women who married mortal men, one of these mythical women being a Puri.

Recently, Sonal Jain, a highly acclaimed artist and author based in Shillong, gifted me the book Puri. The book, which was the outcome of the project supported by Heinrich Böll Stiftung and took over four years to complete, punctuated by the pandemic, has as its setting the landscape around Lum Shyllong.

On a splash page, there is a map of the nine mythical springs that emerge from it, revealing the beginning of their journey. As they flow downstream, they are joined by smaller streams like Umliew, transforming them into great rivers like the Umngot and the Umiam.

It is along these rivers and streams that the Puri or water nymphs reside, and the focus of Sonal’s work. I remember my mother telling us stories about the Puri and other mythical creatures in the past, which included the Boit, Kshuid Tynjang, and many more.

In fact, the house in which I grew up was along the bank of Wah Umkhrah, which also originates from Um Demthring (one of the nine mythical springs) in Lum Shyllong.

For those who have been long residents of Shillong, Wah Umkhrah has a special connection for them.

It has found its mention in many literary works by local scholars like the 2017 Memoir in Water: Speaks the Wah Umkhrah by Esther Syiem (a highly accomplished scholar and retired Professor of English at North-Eastern Hill University), and in the famous poem “Sundori” in The Yearning of Seeds (2011) by Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih (the most famous modern Khasi writer).

Sonal’s work follows this tradition, but her canvas is much larger. She talks about the mythical springs that gave rise to rivers like the Wah Umkhrah and the Puri that inhabit them.

The book also throws light on the interaction that regularly takes place between the mundane everyday life of human beings and the mythical world of the Puri and the impact of such co-mingling.

Sonal Jain expertly presents the transformation of our water bodies in her book, displaying pictures of pristine forest streams, millennia-old caves, and the pollution that has started destroying many of them.

One of the caves featured in the book is from Mawmluh, which has many caves, including the one that led to the discovery of a global climate shift 4,000 years ago—an event that defines the latest age in the geological time scale, known as the Meghalayan Age.

Caves also feature in the stories told in the book, with one of the protagonists, who had been rejected by both the human and the spirit worlds, sitting at the entrance of a cave where he met his Puri.

The book itself feels melancholic and gives a very earthly vibe as you turn its pages. Since the book is about the Puris, it has many stories about people being possessed by one, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse.

It always begins with a Puri falling in love with a human, who then falls violently ill. The person carries the mark of this encounter throughout their life, which may give rise to the impression that the price of being loved is a curse.

However, the person also gains abilities such as healing and clairvoyance, which they use to help others. The story of well-known sculptor and painter Raphael Warjri’s great-granduncle, who was enchanted by a Puri, is especially fascinating and worthy of a feature film. In fact, the book has shots that are going to be part of a feature film in the future.

The book brings out many revelations that I did not know about the Puris. For example, I always thought that Puris are only women. But there are stories in the book of women being possessed by Puris that are men, who were then asked to marry them.

Again, the story of Thlen (a mythical serpent that requires human sacrifice) gives the impression that these stories are also concerned with the Khasis. But in one of the stories, it was the visit to a Pir Baba that finally ended the trance into which those possessed had fallen.

Cross-cultural elements hint that these stories, though they arose among the Khasis, were never isolated or confined to them alone. A very good example of this is the adaptation of the story of Woh Ryndi, who married a Puri whose progeny founded Hima Sutnga, by the Brahmins of the Hindu kingdom of Jaintiapur.

After the War Awmi (linguistically the oldest group among the Khasis) of Hima Sutnga captured the kingdom and created Hima Jaintiapur—combining both the uplands and the newly conquered plains—the story was modified to incorporate Hindu elements, giving rise to the myth of the goddess Jayantia Devi founding the kingdom.

This is a familiar tactic used by Brahmins to incorporate indigenous cultures into the Hindu fold, something seen not only in South Asia but also in Southeast Asia.

But perhaps the most important contribution of this book is the insight it offers into the cosmogony of the Khasis—how they viewed their place in the universe. There is a very clear message being conveyed: the need to reconnect with nature and to recognize the value of environmental stewardship.

The Puris can only live in water bodies that are clean. So naturally, as rivers like the Wah Umkhrah started losing their unspoiled character, the stories also disappeared. Staying along the bank of the Wah Umkhrah, I was a personal witness to the transformation of the once pristine river to its current status as a nullah/drain.

It all started with the establishment of a small abattoir near the riverbank. Every day, the blood and the guts of the animals killed would flow into the nearby stream, which joined the WahUmkhrah.

The first sign of the river becoming dirty was the appearance of red worms swimming in the water. The fish had already disappeared. Then plastic, discarded clothes, and all kinds of debris started appearing, clogging the flow of the water. Slimy brown moss started growing on the rocks we previously used for crossing the stream.

Downstream, the pool used for diving was now awash with floating plastic and all kinds of garbage. It had become so dirty that I was hesitant even to let my feet touch the water, which once upon a time was full of shimmering pebbles.

The once beautiful Wah Umkhrah had become a nullah. Gone with it was the story of a spirit residing in one of the springs near the river, which I was told to avoid as a child. Gone too were the dragonflies darting around, hunting for their prey, and the fireflies I once caught in the falling light of dusk.

Sonal’s book is a timely reminder that it is the stories that give identity to our community. These are not just folk stories about magical beings that were told as bedtime tales.

No, they carry the imprint of our history and shape the way we view the world around us. It’s what makes a Khasi a Khasi. When we lose them, we lose a part of our identity. And in reviving them, we are acknowledging who we are—a people of long history and rich traditions. It’s time to bring them back. Let’s bring back our rivers. Let’s bring back Wah Umkhrah. Let’s bring back the Puri. Let’s bring back our stories.

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