The God of Niyamgiri

No roads lead to the village of Golgola, only a muddy track through the thick, green forest. As we plunge into the jungle, I feel a shiver of excitement. I am entering the sacred Niyamgiri hills, where the modern world has yet to reach and where every hill is home to its own god.

Jeetu, our local guide, says it’s a two-hour climb to the summit. The slippery path meanders through bamboo copses and under giant mango trees laden with ripe fruit. A group of women swathed in white saris gaze down at us and revel in what looks an impossibly steep slope to climb. The humid air wraps around my neck, my sweat drenching everything.

I envy the tribal women as they bathe in the mountain stream, unconcerned by the onlookers around; one of the girls beckons me to join them. The thought of immersing myself in the icy water is refreshing, but I am too timid to bare it all. I watch them splash water on their frail and wrinkly body and wonder if they feel disconcerted by their imperfection. Perhaps their raw beauty is stripped off of the baggy clothes I hide behind and the powder and paint that conceal my face.

In the distance, I hear the sound of drums echoing through the forest. As we head towards it, I pass a pile of stones, carved with primitive figures, their arms outstretched. Jeetu tells me this is where they pray to their gods before gathering medicinal plants in the forests.

We finally reach Golgola. I can see the low-thatched huts hidden high in the monsoon mists.

When we enter the tiny hamlet, there is a sense of magic in the air. A witchdoctor – draped in red, her hair unbound and disheveled – is dancing in a trance and swaying in circles from hut to hut. In front of each doorway, a family member hands a small chicken to her. She holds it up, reciting prayers to the gods. Then, in one swift act, the bird’s head is ripped from its body, and its blood mixed with an offering of rice.

Looking on are the villagers of Golgola – all Dongria Kondh people – women adorned with tiny knives tucked into their hair and men high on jackfruit wine. The place feels unworldly; here is one of India’s most isolated tribe, revering the Niyamgiri Mountain as their supreme god, their ‘Raja’. They worship nature and protect it because it’s their source of life. But as the country tries to extract and exploit its mineral wealth from the vast stretches of such undeveloped forests, how long before modernity disrupts the life of these animists?