Psychedelic Nights in Mawlynnong
by Maitreyee B. Chowdhury
It was mid-morning by the time we reached the blue-green hills of Sohra (Cherapunji), still misty and a little wet from the fog that had descended since the wee hours of the morning. Sohra is five thousand feet above sea level, beyond the Sacred Forest of Mawphlang, about a two-hour drive through the intense blue-green of East Khasi Hills. It was a beautiful September morning, the weather crisp and slightly chilly, and beyond us the gentle rolling hills that never cease to amaze you with their beauty. In the middle of this wilderness, Baba suddenly asked the driver to stop the car, even as he slowly walked over to the edge of the hill, my sister and I following him silently as he pointed a trembling finger at the distance. The hills of Sohra overlook the land that is now Bangladesh. Just beyond Baba’s shaky fingers, faintly etched in misty blue, beyond the Mawsmai falls, lay the hazy outline of the hills of Sylhet. Baba pointed out, “what was once home . . . never forgotten, always loved.” This land is contiguous in many ways, where one border starts and another ends, is rather blurred both in people’s minds and in our own chequered histories. Partition, its pain, myth, and a biodiversified green—all of it seems to blend into each other here, and comes back to visit you when you travel around these parts.
In the year 2007, the state government of Meghalaya, under pressure from the tribals, decided to rename Cherrapunjee as Sohra, a name that had always been preferred by the locals over the British imposition of the anglicised Cherrapunjee. It was a way perhaps for the locals to reclaim a past that had been lost. The name Sohra denotes a fruit centre in the Khasi language, apt perhaps for a land that produced plenty of citrus fruits, especially oranges. As a child, my father and his family roamed these very lands as refugees, sent by the government of India to find land and employment in the northeastern state of Meghalaya. Like many other Bengalis, my grandparents eventually settled in the picturesque capital of Meghalaya, Shillong. While work took my father to other places, he never forgot his childhood playing ground—the craziness of bathing under the waterfalls in the freezing weather, being guided home by what he knew to be spirited mushrooms, and the beautiful polo grounds. Visits to this “Scotland of the East” soon became a part of my childhood too every summer and winter vacation—a constant reminder of games with cousins, exploring the hills, making new Khasi friends, speaking a broken language and more. And yet, this time I had returned after nearly ten years.
Earlier in the month, while planning the trip for a family wedding in Shillong, I had suggested that we visit the Sacred Forest in Mawphlang—an hour’s drive from the city—followed by a visit to see the root bridges and the newly discovered bioluminescent mushrooms in Mawlynnong. Given my interest in ethnomycology, the sociological and ethnographic study of the impact of fungi on people and communities, I suppose it was a foregone conclusion the family had expected, and along with our father, my sister and I began planning. In 2018, the Balipara Foundation and the Kunming Institute of Botany embarked on a documentation effort in the northeastern parts of India, which led to the discovery of numerous new varieties of plant and fungal species in the region. Two years later, in the middle of the pandemic, the world of conservation woke up to the exciting news of the discovery of bioluminescent mushrooms on a heap of dead bamboo near a river in Mawlynnong. Even though the news was exciting, I wasn’t too surprised because even as a child I had heard many stories from my grandparents about how their late-evening excursions from the football fields would often be guided by glowing mushrooms that had helped guide them back home in the dark. No one really took these stories seriously at that time, and many times they were thought of as voodoo. But this official confirmation of the presence of these mushrooms made for exciting news and a confirmation of many childhood anecdotes.
On crossing the city limits of Shillong, I was hit by the nostalgia of pine cone smells from my childhood—me frolicking around the Khasi Hills with my cousins. Like most childhood smells, these remain embedded in some deep core of your being, only to be rekindled with vigour once you are reacquainted with it. We searched for breakfast options on the road, small little joints run by Khasi women, selling fresh wontons, simple omelettes or just cabbage soup, which is so popular in the hills. Luckily, we found a place just before Mawphlang and climbed up a little slope where a small house had been converted into an eatery like so many other joints in the hills. Khasi homes are incredibly clean and well decorated, and always give you the feeling that they have lace for table mats and flowers tumbling out of the smallest containers. As we sat down, I noticed a small pipe that was being used to syphon the spring water for household chores. Given the fact that Sohra, known to the world as the wettest place on earth, was barely an hour away, it seems absurd that these hills face water crisis. But truth be told, both Shillong and Sohra face severe water crisis and most people need to buy drinking water, or travel long distances to procure it.
An old woman sat by the running water pipe washing utensils, probably preparing for more customers later in the day. I was reminded of my grandmother, who would often point out to me the pomegranate-coloured heels of Khasi women who visited our home. Thamma would crack a joke about how the Khasi women are always pretty ’cause they keep their lips and their heels red by moisturising the former with beetle leaves and scrubbing the latter with stones found near the spring. These stories would fascinate me as a child so much that sitting at the eatery in Mawphlang, I couldn’t help but notice the woman’s heels.
They say that being up in the hills makes you hungry. The fresh air, combined with the freshness and simplicity of the food there, is what perhaps adds to the immersiveness of a trip to the hills. We exchanged Kumnos (“hello” in Khasi) and hot plates of wontons were served with steaming cups of coffee specially made for us. The tin-roofed house had an oval arched window that gave a view of the sprawling blue-green of the mountains, with radiant blue forget-me-not flowers lining the precipice. And because communication is still somewhat sketchy in the hills, we asked for help from our hosts about hiring a guide who could take us around the Mawphlang Sacred Grove Forest, and the Mawlynnong root bridges. As luck would have it, Jimmy Lyngdoh, our host’s brother, was a forest guide who often accompanied tourists into the forest. Like most Khasi men, Jimmy smiled shyly and quietly climbed into the front seat of our car, suddenly assuming a quiet, authoritative role for the trip ahead.
It seemed to be a happy coincidence to have someone from the Lyngdoh community give us a tour. The Sacred Forest, also known as Law Lyngdoh, after the ruling Lyngdoh clan, carries forward the ancient wisdom, ecological wonder, fantastic biodiversity, and spirituality of the Khasi ancestors into the present generation. Jimmy ushered us to the edge of the forest, where a large tract of plain land seemed to act as a buffer zone, preparing us to enter the forest. In my entire experience of visiting forests around the world, this was the first time I was witnessing a forest that seemed to have suddenly sprung from the gentle meadows, without spilling outside of its core area. I wondered if this was by design, especially since the forest was mostly taken care of by the community. Strangely enough, in Meghalaya, very little of the forest area is actually owned by the government, most of it either being in private hands or under the protection of a community like this one. We were told that there are close to seventy-nine such sacred forests spread across the Khasi hills over an area of nearly nine thousand hectares.
Legend has it that misfortune befalls whoever tries to bring back anything from the Sacred Forest. In fact, Jimmy regaled us with tales of how at various points throughout the years people who had tried smuggling things out of the forest had met with either ill health or misfortune, or even death. As such, we were warned several times about touching anything at all in the forest. A designated entrance ushered us in, just ahead of which stood monolith structures, both horizontal and vertical, sacred to the community and used for worship in the ancient days. In my many visits to Meghalaya, or parts of the Northeast, where oral history can be found fused with natural history, and ecological stories become part of folklore, I have found that the Khasi practice of erecting monoliths is extremely fascinating. These monoliths have often become markers that not only commemorate events but also act as reminders of the people associated with these memories.
As you enter the forest, a strange quiet envelops you, and all around you the sounds of nature suddenly take precedence. The temperature dips, and you suddenly feel a cool, clean air surround you. Being there felt like visiting the last vestiges of all that is pure on earth, all that present-day humanity is desperately looking for but can’t lay its hands on, not because we don’t have beautiful places left, but because we have lost the vision to see and comprehend such pristine beauty. And because listening is the ultimate way of showing respect, of acknowledging other stories around you, here within this forest, we listened to our hearts’ content, to every falling leaf, every bud snapping open, or just the strange rustle of bamboos swaying in the wind, as if speaking to each other.
The decibels dropped as we tried to take in all of it at once. There seemed to be a palpable air of reverence to the forest, as if whoever walked inside knew about the sacred entity of the space. Being used to the dense deciduous forests of Assam that allow no sunlight within, the dappled sunlight here felt like a welcome break. The hour-long trek, though unassuming and uneven in parts, was fairly easy and a beginner’s delight in its luxurious pace of being able to take things in slowly. But where the forest lacked in thrill, it made up in biodiversity. There were trees here that were apparently a thousand years old, and a vast species of birds and insects. There’s a designated place for worship, a place where the community king would be seated when he entered the forest, and much to my delight, wildly growing mushrooms, hundreds of them at a time. And because nobody touches the fallen trees within the Sacred Forest, the mushrooms can be seen eating away at wood, rock and earth, finely disseminating, and breaking down matter.
We often forget that all of plant, animal and especially fungal life exists as a process of assimilation. In a healthy forest, we see this in its most pristine form. And what I saw here reminded me that nature had determined that our existence should be a collective goal. The study of ethnography, for example, often transforms into the study of multiplicity, of many rather than one, and this in turn changes the way we look at life around us. Looking at the forest, it dawned on me that we are ecosystems that digress boundaries. Do the trees depend on the soil, or does mulching and deep fungal activity depend on dead trees?
In the next leg of the trip, the journey to Mawlynnong, about two and a half hours from Mawphlang, was beautiful. Little streams, rolling green hills and clean air follow you everywhere. In between, there are places you chance upon, where the limestone mining is on in full swing. For the longest time, limestone has been mined from here and taken to Chhatak, a town in Sylhet (now Bangladesh). Our driver informed us that many of these mines are under private initiative and often mining activities result in skirmishes between the tribes and government officials. During my last visit here, I went to the tiny village of Sohbar, a beautiful idyllic place in an almost fairytale setting, which had existed even before the British came to India. Interestingly enough, the British had tried to build a railway line joining Sohra in Meghalaya to Sylhet (now in Bangladesh). One doesn’t know if this was to be a commercial venture, but the fact that it was imagined at such an early stage made it truly astonishing, considering the exceedingly hilly terrain. Meghalaya has had a troubled history with mining, especially since the ban imposed by the Green Tribunal in 2014 on coal mining. The conversation with Jimmy and our driver turned intense, as politics in the Northeast and the skirmishes between the tribes became apparent with these two men, both from different tribes. In the recent past, I’ve often thought that these diverse strains are a result of the strange attempt by people in other parts of India to homogenise a tremendously diverse land by clubbing it under the tag of Northeast.
Before we reached the site of the root bridge, Jimmy shared with us details of how the local people had started building these root bridges to specially tide through the monsoon months, when the overpowering rain would inundate the streams. Some of these fantastic natural root bridges in Mawlynnong have been well documented and have already become a tourist attraction for people outside the state. Finally, when we pulled into the site from where we would have to travel on foot, we found other cars parked in the shade of a few trees skirting the clearing. Little girls set up tables to sell the sweetest pineapples you might have tasted. The entire Northeast is well known for fruits, especially citrus fruits, and the pineapples here are especially famous. There is an entry ticket, which the localities levy for the upkeep of the bridge, due to the tourist influx. We walked down the steep hill to the site of the bridge and the stream that flowed underneath it. On the way, Jimmy spoke about the methods that were used to build these root bridges by the Khasi and Jaintia tribes, and how it was quite a human feat especially because of the lack of machinery. A certain amount of indigenous understanding of plants is combined with basic knowledge of engineering to build these strong bridges that have lasted for so many years. Only a few people are allowed on the bridge at a time, and the locals keep a strict eye out for anyone flouting the rules. During the rainy months the locals use this bridge to transport food and people from one area to another, especially when water levels are dangerously high. At first glance, the beauty of the bridge belies its strength, and it is only once you walk on it that you realise how strong it really is.
I had asked Jimmy to enquire among the local people about the possibility of showing us the location near the bamboo forest where the team of scientists from Assam had discovered bioluminescent mushrooms. I had seen the original photograph that showed quite a wide area covered by these mushrooms glowing in the dark. It was a rare sight that no one would want to miss. It was still early evening, and Jimmy had warned me that the locals might want us out of the area before dark, as tourists were usually not allowed after normal tourist timings. However, thanks to Jimmy’s connections with the local leader, we were granted permission for a short peek into the area, even though he couldn’t promise a dazzling show of the particular mushrooms. In the year 2018, when scientists had come looking for fungal growth in these parts, the locals showed them what was known to them as “electric mushrooms”, since people had actually been using clumps of bamboo with mushrooms on them as torches to move about the area. Curiously enough, only the stems of the mushrooms glow, rather than the whole mushrooms. Further investigation had led to the discovery that these could be part of the exclusive list of the 97 varieties of bioluminescent mushrooms found around the world. The species was then named Roridomyces phyllostachydis.
Sunset in Northeast India is around four-thirty in the evening, so we didn’t have to wait too long before being escorted toward the bamboo grove. As we walked, I could hear a church bell in the distance. I wondered if it was from the hundred-year-old Presbyterian church that we had seen close by. Built by the Welsh Christian missionaries, it is known as “Church of the Epiphany” in these parts. After some chitchat, the two local boys accompanying us asked us to sit down by the grass nearby. There were no people around, and the grass, perhaps because of the lack of sun, seemed like an unusual dark shade of green. Moss lay between the roots of the trees, soft as cottonwool, glistening in the mist from the stream close by. As I ran my hands through it, I could feel a soothing calm run through my fingers, like light coursing through the veins of a forest.
As I looked down the area, I spotted two Khasi women sitting idly. One of them, chewing on a strand of long grass, looked at us from a distance and then they moved away. This land, this place, made me feel as if time had stood still, and as the shadows deepened, the only thing that moved in front of us was the glowing mushrooms that appeared suddenly, one by one, from almost right beneath the ground where we stood! It was magic—little mushrooms springing unexpectedly like the tiniest of light bulbs, popping up one after the other as we pointed them out in excitement. As I stared around me in wonder and childlike glee, I went back to my childhood again. When I was small, my father would often take me to Shillong Peak in the evenings. After a cup of tea, we sat there in silence and watched the darkness dawn on the eastern sky, and then, as if by magic, the lights would come on bit by bit in each house on the hills, until they were all alive. I’ve never forgotten the scene of the hills lighting up, and out here in Mawlynnong, watching the forest light up a trail with these bioluminescent mushrooms made me feel that childlike delight again.
The local boys informed us that they are used to seeing various types of fungi around these parts, and while they are cautious about what they eat, there are an estimated fifty-eight varieties of edible fungi here, far more than what is sold in the big cities. Many more are used as medicine in these parts and are quickly gaining currency among those who believe in alternative medicine. One of the boys added, “There have been incidents of people falling sick after eating odd fungi, but those cases are very rare, and we are generally careful nowadays. We don’t disturb the life around us, and try to live in harmony.”
There’s something unsettling about the quick nightfall that prevails around these parts. The little fungi dancing in the wind like eerie extraterrestrials felt addictive, the night darker, inkier, and the smells from various corners heady. It was time to go home, and we knew it.
The forests of the Northeast India are tough and mysterious terrain, surrounded by the superstitions, fables and myths of the land. There is much to unravel here. Another time, I decided. We all go back, to the places we love the most.
In the year 2007, the state government of Meghalaya, under pressure from the tribals, decided to rename Cherrapunjee as Sohra, a name that had always been preferred by the locals over the British imposition of the anglicised Cherrapunjee. It was a way perhaps for the locals to reclaim a past that had been lost. The name Sohra denotes a fruit centre in the Khasi language, apt perhaps for a land that produced plenty of citrus fruits, especially oranges. As a child, my father and his family roamed these very lands as refugees, sent by the government of India to find land and employment in the northeastern state of Meghalaya. Like many other Bengalis, my grandparents eventually settled in the picturesque capital of Meghalaya, Shillong. While work took my father to other places, he never forgot his childhood playing ground—the craziness of bathing under the waterfalls in the freezing weather, being guided home by what he knew to be spirited mushrooms, and the beautiful polo grounds. Visits to this “Scotland of the East” soon became a part of my childhood too every summer and winter vacation—a constant reminder of games with cousins, exploring the hills, making new Khasi friends, speaking a broken language and more. And yet, this time I had returned after nearly ten years.
Earlier in the month, while planning the trip for a family wedding in Shillong, I had suggested that we visit the Sacred Forest in Mawphlang—an hour’s drive from the city—followed by a visit to see the root bridges and the newly discovered bioluminescent mushrooms in Mawlynnong. Given my interest in ethnomycology, the sociological and ethnographic study of the impact of fungi on people and communities, I suppose it was a foregone conclusion the family had expected, and along with our father, my sister and I began planning. In 2018, the Balipara Foundation and the Kunming Institute of Botany embarked on a documentation effort in the northeastern parts of India, which led to the discovery of numerous new varieties of plant and fungal species in the region. Two years later, in the middle of the pandemic, the world of conservation woke up to the exciting news of the discovery of bioluminescent mushrooms on a heap of dead bamboo near a river in Mawlynnong. Even though the news was exciting, I wasn’t too surprised because even as a child I had heard many stories from my grandparents about how their late-evening excursions from the football fields would often be guided by glowing mushrooms that had helped guide them back home in the dark. No one really took these stories seriously at that time, and many times they were thought of as voodoo. But this official confirmation of the presence of these mushrooms made for exciting news and a confirmation of many childhood anecdotes.
On crossing the city limits of Shillong, I was hit by the nostalgia of pine cone smells from my childhood—me frolicking around the Khasi Hills with my cousins. Like most childhood smells, these remain embedded in some deep core of your being, only to be rekindled with vigour once you are reacquainted with it. We searched for breakfast options on the road, small little joints run by Khasi women, selling fresh wontons, simple omelettes or just cabbage soup, which is so popular in the hills. Luckily, we found a place just before Mawphlang and climbed up a little slope where a small house had been converted into an eatery like so many other joints in the hills. Khasi homes are incredibly clean and well decorated, and always give you the feeling that they have lace for table mats and flowers tumbling out of the smallest containers. As we sat down, I noticed a small pipe that was being used to syphon the spring water for household chores. Given the fact that Sohra, known to the world as the wettest place on earth, was barely an hour away, it seems absurd that these hills face water crisis. But truth be told, both Shillong and Sohra face severe water crisis and most people need to buy drinking water, or travel long distances to procure it.
An old woman sat by the running water pipe washing utensils, probably preparing for more customers later in the day. I was reminded of my grandmother, who would often point out to me the pomegranate-coloured heels of Khasi women who visited our home. Thamma would crack a joke about how the Khasi women are always pretty ’cause they keep their lips and their heels red by moisturising the former with beetle leaves and scrubbing the latter with stones found near the spring. These stories would fascinate me as a child so much that sitting at the eatery in Mawphlang, I couldn’t help but notice the woman’s heels.
They say that being up in the hills makes you hungry. The fresh air, combined with the freshness and simplicity of the food there, is what perhaps adds to the immersiveness of a trip to the hills. We exchanged Kumnos (“hello” in Khasi) and hot plates of wontons were served with steaming cups of coffee specially made for us. The tin-roofed house had an oval arched window that gave a view of the sprawling blue-green of the mountains, with radiant blue forget-me-not flowers lining the precipice. And because communication is still somewhat sketchy in the hills, we asked for help from our hosts about hiring a guide who could take us around the Mawphlang Sacred Grove Forest, and the Mawlynnong root bridges. As luck would have it, Jimmy Lyngdoh, our host’s brother, was a forest guide who often accompanied tourists into the forest. Like most Khasi men, Jimmy smiled shyly and quietly climbed into the front seat of our car, suddenly assuming a quiet, authoritative role for the trip ahead.
It seemed to be a happy coincidence to have someone from the Lyngdoh community give us a tour. The Sacred Forest, also known as Law Lyngdoh, after the ruling Lyngdoh clan, carries forward the ancient wisdom, ecological wonder, fantastic biodiversity, and spirituality of the Khasi ancestors into the present generation. Jimmy ushered us to the edge of the forest, where a large tract of plain land seemed to act as a buffer zone, preparing us to enter the forest. In my entire experience of visiting forests around the world, this was the first time I was witnessing a forest that seemed to have suddenly sprung from the gentle meadows, without spilling outside of its core area. I wondered if this was by design, especially since the forest was mostly taken care of by the community. Strangely enough, in Meghalaya, very little of the forest area is actually owned by the government, most of it either being in private hands or under the protection of a community like this one. We were told that there are close to seventy-nine such sacred forests spread across the Khasi hills over an area of nearly nine thousand hectares.
Legend has it that misfortune befalls whoever tries to bring back anything from the Sacred Forest. In fact, Jimmy regaled us with tales of how at various points throughout the years people who had tried smuggling things out of the forest had met with either ill health or misfortune, or even death. As such, we were warned several times about touching anything at all in the forest. A designated entrance ushered us in, just ahead of which stood monolith structures, both horizontal and vertical, sacred to the community and used for worship in the ancient days. In my many visits to Meghalaya, or parts of the Northeast, where oral history can be found fused with natural history, and ecological stories become part of folklore, I have found that the Khasi practice of erecting monoliths is extremely fascinating. These monoliths have often become markers that not only commemorate events but also act as reminders of the people associated with these memories.
As you enter the forest, a strange quiet envelops you, and all around you the sounds of nature suddenly take precedence. The temperature dips, and you suddenly feel a cool, clean air surround you. Being there felt like visiting the last vestiges of all that is pure on earth, all that present-day humanity is desperately looking for but can’t lay its hands on, not because we don’t have beautiful places left, but because we have lost the vision to see and comprehend such pristine beauty. And because listening is the ultimate way of showing respect, of acknowledging other stories around you, here within this forest, we listened to our hearts’ content, to every falling leaf, every bud snapping open, or just the strange rustle of bamboos swaying in the wind, as if speaking to each other.
The decibels dropped as we tried to take in all of it at once. There seemed to be a palpable air of reverence to the forest, as if whoever walked inside knew about the sacred entity of the space. Being used to the dense deciduous forests of Assam that allow no sunlight within, the dappled sunlight here felt like a welcome break. The hour-long trek, though unassuming and uneven in parts, was fairly easy and a beginner’s delight in its luxurious pace of being able to take things in slowly. But where the forest lacked in thrill, it made up in biodiversity. There were trees here that were apparently a thousand years old, and a vast species of birds and insects. There’s a designated place for worship, a place where the community king would be seated when he entered the forest, and much to my delight, wildly growing mushrooms, hundreds of them at a time. And because nobody touches the fallen trees within the Sacred Forest, the mushrooms can be seen eating away at wood, rock and earth, finely disseminating, and breaking down matter.
We often forget that all of plant, animal and especially fungal life exists as a process of assimilation. In a healthy forest, we see this in its most pristine form. And what I saw here reminded me that nature had determined that our existence should be a collective goal. The study of ethnography, for example, often transforms into the study of multiplicity, of many rather than one, and this in turn changes the way we look at life around us. Looking at the forest, it dawned on me that we are ecosystems that digress boundaries. Do the trees depend on the soil, or does mulching and deep fungal activity depend on dead trees?
In the next leg of the trip, the journey to Mawlynnong, about two and a half hours from Mawphlang, was beautiful. Little streams, rolling green hills and clean air follow you everywhere. In between, there are places you chance upon, where the limestone mining is on in full swing. For the longest time, limestone has been mined from here and taken to Chhatak, a town in Sylhet (now Bangladesh). Our driver informed us that many of these mines are under private initiative and often mining activities result in skirmishes between the tribes and government officials. During my last visit here, I went to the tiny village of Sohbar, a beautiful idyllic place in an almost fairytale setting, which had existed even before the British came to India. Interestingly enough, the British had tried to build a railway line joining Sohra in Meghalaya to Sylhet (now in Bangladesh). One doesn’t know if this was to be a commercial venture, but the fact that it was imagined at such an early stage made it truly astonishing, considering the exceedingly hilly terrain. Meghalaya has had a troubled history with mining, especially since the ban imposed by the Green Tribunal in 2014 on coal mining. The conversation with Jimmy and our driver turned intense, as politics in the Northeast and the skirmishes between the tribes became apparent with these two men, both from different tribes. In the recent past, I’ve often thought that these diverse strains are a result of the strange attempt by people in other parts of India to homogenise a tremendously diverse land by clubbing it under the tag of Northeast.
Before we reached the site of the root bridge, Jimmy shared with us details of how the local people had started building these root bridges to specially tide through the monsoon months, when the overpowering rain would inundate the streams. Some of these fantastic natural root bridges in Mawlynnong have been well documented and have already become a tourist attraction for people outside the state. Finally, when we pulled into the site from where we would have to travel on foot, we found other cars parked in the shade of a few trees skirting the clearing. Little girls set up tables to sell the sweetest pineapples you might have tasted. The entire Northeast is well known for fruits, especially citrus fruits, and the pineapples here are especially famous. There is an entry ticket, which the localities levy for the upkeep of the bridge, due to the tourist influx. We walked down the steep hill to the site of the bridge and the stream that flowed underneath it. On the way, Jimmy spoke about the methods that were used to build these root bridges by the Khasi and Jaintia tribes, and how it was quite a human feat especially because of the lack of machinery. A certain amount of indigenous understanding of plants is combined with basic knowledge of engineering to build these strong bridges that have lasted for so many years. Only a few people are allowed on the bridge at a time, and the locals keep a strict eye out for anyone flouting the rules. During the rainy months the locals use this bridge to transport food and people from one area to another, especially when water levels are dangerously high. At first glance, the beauty of the bridge belies its strength, and it is only once you walk on it that you realise how strong it really is.
I had asked Jimmy to enquire among the local people about the possibility of showing us the location near the bamboo forest where the team of scientists from Assam had discovered bioluminescent mushrooms. I had seen the original photograph that showed quite a wide area covered by these mushrooms glowing in the dark. It was a rare sight that no one would want to miss. It was still early evening, and Jimmy had warned me that the locals might want us out of the area before dark, as tourists were usually not allowed after normal tourist timings. However, thanks to Jimmy’s connections with the local leader, we were granted permission for a short peek into the area, even though he couldn’t promise a dazzling show of the particular mushrooms. In the year 2018, when scientists had come looking for fungal growth in these parts, the locals showed them what was known to them as “electric mushrooms”, since people had actually been using clumps of bamboo with mushrooms on them as torches to move about the area. Curiously enough, only the stems of the mushrooms glow, rather than the whole mushrooms. Further investigation had led to the discovery that these could be part of the exclusive list of the 97 varieties of bioluminescent mushrooms found around the world. The species was then named Roridomyces phyllostachydis.
Sunset in Northeast India is around four-thirty in the evening, so we didn’t have to wait too long before being escorted toward the bamboo grove. As we walked, I could hear a church bell in the distance. I wondered if it was from the hundred-year-old Presbyterian church that we had seen close by. Built by the Welsh Christian missionaries, it is known as “Church of the Epiphany” in these parts. After some chitchat, the two local boys accompanying us asked us to sit down by the grass nearby. There were no people around, and the grass, perhaps because of the lack of sun, seemed like an unusual dark shade of green. Moss lay between the roots of the trees, soft as cottonwool, glistening in the mist from the stream close by. As I ran my hands through it, I could feel a soothing calm run through my fingers, like light coursing through the veins of a forest.
As I looked down the area, I spotted two Khasi women sitting idly. One of them, chewing on a strand of long grass, looked at us from a distance and then they moved away. This land, this place, made me feel as if time had stood still, and as the shadows deepened, the only thing that moved in front of us was the glowing mushrooms that appeared suddenly, one by one, from almost right beneath the ground where we stood! It was magic—little mushrooms springing unexpectedly like the tiniest of light bulbs, popping up one after the other as we pointed them out in excitement. As I stared around me in wonder and childlike glee, I went back to my childhood again. When I was small, my father would often take me to Shillong Peak in the evenings. After a cup of tea, we sat there in silence and watched the darkness dawn on the eastern sky, and then, as if by magic, the lights would come on bit by bit in each house on the hills, until they were all alive. I’ve never forgotten the scene of the hills lighting up, and out here in Mawlynnong, watching the forest light up a trail with these bioluminescent mushrooms made me feel that childlike delight again.
The local boys informed us that they are used to seeing various types of fungi around these parts, and while they are cautious about what they eat, there are an estimated fifty-eight varieties of edible fungi here, far more than what is sold in the big cities. Many more are used as medicine in these parts and are quickly gaining currency among those who believe in alternative medicine. One of the boys added, “There have been incidents of people falling sick after eating odd fungi, but those cases are very rare, and we are generally careful nowadays. We don’t disturb the life around us, and try to live in harmony.”
There’s something unsettling about the quick nightfall that prevails around these parts. The little fungi dancing in the wind like eerie extraterrestrials felt addictive, the night darker, inkier, and the smells from various corners heady. It was time to go home, and we knew it.
The forests of the Northeast India are tough and mysterious terrain, surrounded by the superstitions, fables and myths of the land. There is much to unravel here. Another time, I decided. We all go back, to the places we love the most.
Maitreyee B. Chowdhury is a nonfiction writer and poet. She is the author of four books, The Hungryalists (nonfiction) and Where Even the Present Is Ancient: Benaras (poetry). Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen: Bengali Cinema’s First Couple was nominated for the 2013 Crossword Book Award. Maitreyee is an organiser of the Bengaluru Poetry Festival and managing editor of The Bangalore Review. Maitreyee’s writings can be found in both national and international journals. Her forthcoming work is on the reclusive Bengali poet Binoy Majumdar. She can be found at https://www.maitreyeechowdhury.com/
