Hydropower projects on the Teesta have been accompanied by intense debate and conflict. While policymakers frame dams as symbols of clean energy and development, local communities have raised concerns about environmental degradation, cultural survival, and increased disaster risks (Rai & Khawas,2021).

Hydropower projects on the Teesta have been accompanied by intense debate and conflict. While policymakers frame dams as symbols of clean energy and development, local communities have raised concerns about environmental degradation, cultural survival, and increased disaster risks (Rai & Khawas,2021). Resistance movements have taken many forms. Youth-led organizations such as the Affected Citizens of Teesta (ACT) have organized hunger strikes, petitions, and media campaigns, while traditional village councils in Lachung and Lachen ( Dzumas) have used customary authority to oppose projects ( Navin & Vimal, 2021). Scholars such as Sherpa (2022), Rai & Khawas (2021), and Chettri (2018) have highlighted how these movements are linked to questions of indigenous identity, environmental justice, and the right to define development. 

The glacial lake outburst flood (GLOF) and the failure of the Teesta Stage III hydropower project reshaped the stakes of this debate. Scientific and journalistic accounts describe how the GLOF travelled far downstream, causing severe destruction and loss of life, and reigniting long-standing warnings about the risks of placing major infrastructure in an evolving cryosphere. While hydropower politics in Sikkim has been studied in depth, much scholarship implicitly treats 'the community' as a single unit, either resisting or accommodating development. My research begins from a different question: how do internal differences, especially across two generations, the older and the youth,  shape the way hydropower is understood, contested, or reluctantly accepted? 

While hydropower politics in Sikkim has been studied in depth, much scholarship implicitly treats 'the community' as a single unit, either resisting or accommodating development. My research begins from a different question: how do internal differences, especially across two generations, the older and the youth, shape the way hydropower is understood, contested, or reluctantly accepted?

The interesting part that became clear over time was that there wasn’t just one way to understand the river or the changes around it. Conversations with elders often moved through memory, rituals and a sense of responsibility towards the land, while younger people spoke in terms of environmental change, livelihood and the future. This article grows out of these conversations. It examines how hydropower is understood differently across generations in North Sikkim's Dzongu and Chungthang, and how these differences shape how people relate to the river.

Intergenerational Perspectives: Dzongu and Chungthang

For many elders, the river forms part of a larger cosmological system in which mountains, forests, and rivers are interconnected through spiritual relationships. Disturbing the natural flow of the river through hydropower development is therefore perceived not only as an environmental change but also as a disruption of cultural and spiritual balance.

Across both areas and generations, the river was consistently described as more than a physical resource. Participants frequently referred to the Teesta and Rongyong rivers as sacred landscapes embedded in cultural traditions and everyday life. The stories of Rongnyu (now known as Teesta) and Rangeet, also known as the story of Parilbu and Tutfo , a famous Lepcha folk story, were stories I heard from many older people I conversed with. Namgyal Lepcha, a 63-year-old resident of  Dzongu says, “When we were children, these stories were part of our textbooks. Now I often wonder whether today’s children still know these stories or feel connected to them”. Ritual practices related to healing, death ceremonies, and oath-taking often take place in relation to the river, reinforcing its role as a moral and spiritual anchor within the community.  For many elders, the river forms part of a larger cosmological system in which mountains, forests, and rivers are interconnected through spiritual relationships. Disturbing the natural flow of the river through hydropower development is therefore perceived not only as an environmental change but also as a disruption of cultural and spiritual balance. Chewang Lepcha, an older respondent, explained, "We Lepcha people worship the environment, our land, and the river. We pray for our rivers, mountains… when they dig big tunnels for the dam, there is a negative impact on that because we don’t know whether they are only impacting the environment but also harming our sacred deities that are present in our land and river". Therefore, they view large dam projects as harmful not only to nature but also to the sacred relationships embedded within the landscape. 

Younger respondents often framed their concerns through discussions of ecological sustainability, tourism-based livelihoods, and environmental protection...However, these generational differences do not indicate a weakening of cultural attachment. Instead, it suggests that cultural identity is being reinterpreted by younger generations through contemporary concerns about environmental change and future livelihoods.

While elders articulated their connection to the river primarily through ritual practices and oral histories, the youth participants expressed their attachment in different ways. Younger respondents often framed their concerns through discussions of ecological sustainability, tourism-based livelihoods, and environmental protection. A  young mind from Upper Passingdang Dzongu recalled her childhood memory, “The river holds many picnic stories for us. We often went to the riverbeds to collect wood, and that is also where we found an insect called Nokbu”. However, these generational differences do not indicate a weakening of cultural attachment. Instead, it suggests that cultural identity is being reinterpreted by younger generations through contemporary concerns about environmental change and future livelihoods. Youth participants frequently emphasized that protecting the river is essential not only for cultural identity but also for sustaining economic activities such as tourism and community-based enterprises. This indicates that rather than experiencing cultural erosion, the relationship with the river is being expressed through new forms of environmental awareness and practical engagement. 

Development as a Contested Promise 

Another major theme that emerged from the interviews was skepticism toward development narratives associated with hydropower projects. Both elders and youth expressed concerns regarding the benefits promised by hydropower companies and government institutions. Participants frequently mentioned employment opportunities as one of the main justifications used to promote dam construction. A youth from Chungthang shared, "The dam promised development, but the work in tunnels was dangerous and temporary".

This perception reflects broader concerns about uneven development, where the economic benefits of electricity generation are distributed beyond the region while environmental and social risks remain concentrated locally.

However, other  respondents also described these jobs as temporary and often dangerous, particularly tunnel work carried out during construction phases. Several participants explained that once the construction phase ended, long-term employment opportunities were limited. This perception reflects broader concerns about uneven development, where the economic benefits of electricity generation are distributed beyond the region while environmental and social risks remain concentrated locally. 

Disaster as Lived Evidence of Risks 

The October 2023 glacial lake outburst flood played an important role in shaping perceptions of hydropower projects. For many participants, the disaster transformed environmental risk from an abstract possibility into a lived reality.

The October 2023 glacial lake outburst flood played an important role in shaping perceptions of hydropower projects. For many participants, the disaster transformed environmental risk from an abstract possibility into a lived reality. Elders frequently interpreted the flood through spiritual narratives, describing it as a reminder of the consequences of disturbing natural balance. In contrast, younger participants often framed the disaster in terms of environmental miscalculation and infrastructural vulnerability. Despite these differences in interpretation, the disaster created a shared sense of concern regarding the long-term sustainability of large-scale hydropower infrastructure in the region. 

Generational Knowledge and Ecological Memory 

A key difference between elders and youth lies in the type of knowledge they value. Elders often draw on oral histories and spiritual beliefs when discussing the river. Many described how the landscape used to look before hydropower development and how certain areas were considered sacred. This form of ecological memory provides a historical perspective on environmental change. Elders frequently compared present conditions with past experiences, describing shifts in water flow, changes in agricultural patterns, and the disappearance of certain fish species. 

A key difference between elders and youth lies in the type of knowledge they value. Elders often draw on oral histories and spiritual beliefs when discussing the river...Youth participants, by contrast, often framed environmental concerns through discussions of climate change, sustainability, and tourism.

Youth participants, by contrast, often framed environmental concerns through discussions of climate change, sustainability, and tourism. Their language reflected exposure to environmental education and media narratives. However, this did not mean that the youth lacked emotional attachment to the river. Rather, their relationship with the landscape was expressed through different cultural forms. 

Cultural Revival and Resistance 

An unexpected finding was the role of cultural revival among youth participants...This presented a unique way of showing how resistance movements are evolving across generations. While earlier protests relied heavily on hunger strikes and public demonstrations, younger activists are experimenting with new forms of communication that combine culture, art, and environmental activism.

An unexpected finding was the role of cultural revival among youth participants. Several young people described efforts to promote Lepcha culture through modern artistic forms such as music, film, and fashion. Traditional clothing and musical instruments were being incorporated into contemporary performances. These cultural expressions often carried environmental messages. Songs and stories about the Teesta River were used to raise awareness about hydropower issues and to communicate the importance of protecting the landscape. 

This presented a unique way of showing how resistance movements are evolving across generations. While earlier protests relied heavily on hunger strikes and public demonstrations, younger activists are experimenting with new forms of communication that combine culture, art, and environmental activism. 

Differences between the Two Sites- Dzongu and Chungthang

The two field sites, Dzongu and Chungthang present distinct contexts that shape how hydropower development is perceived and experienced. While both locations are situated within the Teesta river basin, their relationship with hydropower projects differs significantly, influencing the nature of community responses. 

Dzongu 

Dzongu, a protected Lepcha reserve, is characterized by a strong and long-standing opposition to hydropower projects. Resistance in this region is deeply rooted in the cultural and spiritual significance of the landscape.... The presence of movements such as the Affected Citizens of Teesta (ACT) has played a crucial role in shaping collective resistance. Over time, this resistance has become part of the region’s social and political identity.

Dzongu, a protected Lepcha reserve, is characterized by a strong and long-standing opposition to hydropower projects. Resistance in this region is deeply rooted in the cultural and spiritual significance of the landscape. For many residents, the river is not only an ecological resource but also a sacred entity connected to ancestral identity and ritual life. As a result, opposition to hydropower in Dzongu is often framed as a form of cultural and environmental protection. 

The presence of movements such as the Affected Citizens of Teesta (ACT) has played a crucial role in shaping collective resistance. Over time, this resistance has become part of the region’s social and political identity. The opposition in Dzongu can be understood as preventive, as it aims to resist hydropower development before significant environmental or cultural disruption occurs. The relative absence of large-scale hydropower infrastructure in the region allows residents to imagine and advocate for alternative futures centred on ecological preservation and cultural continuity. 

Chungthang 

In contrast, Chungthang represents a site where hydropower development is already embedded within the landscape. The presence of dam infrastructure and the impact of the 2023 GLOF have shaped local experiences in more immediate ways. Unlike Dzongu, where resistance is collective and clearly articulated, perspectives in Chungthang are more fragmented and complex. 

In contrast, Chungthang represents a site where hydropower development is already embedded within the landscape. The presence of dam infrastructure and the impact of the 2023 GLOF have shaped local experiences in more immediate ways. Unlike Dzongu, where resistance is collective and clearly articulated, perspectives in Chungthang are more fragmented and complex.

Many residents in Chungthang have direct experience with both the benefits and risks associated with hydropower. While some acknowledge the economic opportunities and infrastructure development linked to these projects, others express concerns about environmental degradation, safety, and further intensified these concerns, making environmental risks more visible and tangible. At the same time, economic dependency on hydropower related activities and the presence of infrastructure complicate unified resistance. This results in a more ambivalent stance, where individuals may simultaneously recognize the risks of hydropower while also navigating its economic realities. 

Comparative Insight 

The contrast between Dzongu and Chungthang shows how local context shapes perception. While Dzongu reflects a strong, culturally rooted resistance, Chungthang illustrates a more complex engagement shaped by lived experience and infrastructural presence. These differences reinforce the importance of not treating communities as homogeneous entities, as perspectives vary not only across generations but also across locations.

The contrast between Dzongu and Chungthang shows how local context shapes perception. While Dzongu reflects a strong, culturally rooted resistance, Chungthang illustrates a more complex engagement shaped by lived experience and infrastructural presence. These differences reinforce the importance of not treating communities as homogeneous entities, as perspectives vary not only across generations but also across locations. 

 Hydropower expansion in the Eastern Himalaya intensifies landslides, seismic instability, and flooding.  Many interviewees described how blasting for tunnels and dam construction had altered landscapes, increased landslide risks, and disturbed natural water flows, reinforcing concerns highlighted in the literature regarding the incompatibility of large-scale infrastructure with fragile mountain ecosystems. They described hydropower projects as decisions imposed from outside the community rather than initiatives emerging from local needs. Several interviewees noted that development decisions were made by government institutions and private companies with limited consultation with the communities living closest to the river.

Hydropower expansion in the Eastern Himalaya intensifies landslides, seismic instability, and flooding.  Many interviewees described how blasting for tunnels and dam construction had altered landscapes, increased landslide risks, and disturbed natural water flows, reinforcing concerns highlighted in the literature regarding the incompatibility of large-scale infrastructure with fragile mountain ecosystems...Several interviewees noted that development decisions were made by government institutions and private companies with limited consultation with the communities living closest to the river...

Participants also frequently expressed frustration about the lack of local benefits from hydropower projects. In particular, several respondents pointed out the paradox that electricity is generated in their region while nearby villages still face irregular power supply. Others emphasized that employment opportunities created by dam construction were temporary and often dangerous, particularly tunnel work. These narratives reinforce Gergan (2020) observation that local communities often bear environmental costs without receiving corresponding long-term economic benefits. 

These narratives reinforce Gergan (2020) observation that local communities often bear environmental costs without receiving corresponding long-term economic benefits. 

The legacy of ACT remains highly visible within community narratives. Many participants referred to the movement as a collective struggle that had shaped local attitudes toward hydropower over several decades. Interestingly, while earlier protests were largely organized by elders, younger generations now appear to be carrying forward the movement in new ways. Youth participants described engaging with the issue through cultural expression, such as music, storytelling, and art related to the Teesta River. It also shows that while the forms of resistance may be changing across generations, the underlying commitment to protecting the river remains strong. Many elders described the river as a living presence involved in important life-cycle rituals. Participants explained that the Teesta and Mount Kanchenjunga are invoked as witnesses during marriages and other social ceremonies, reflecting a belief that natural landscapes hold moral authority. 

Some elders also described funeral rituals in which ashes and bones are returned to the river, reinforcing the idea that the river forms part of the spiritual journey of the soul. These narratives demonstrate how hydropower development is experienced not only as environmental transformation but also as a disruption of cultural and spiritual order. Elders frequently framed their opposition to hydropower in terms of sacred geography and ancestral responsibility, emphasizing the spiritual consequences of disturbing the river. Youth participants, on the other hand, often discussed hydropower in relation to environmental sustainability and future livelihoods. Several young respondents emphasized the importance of protecting the river and not disturbing its natural flow, and also on initiating tourism-based livelihoods such as rafting, trekking, and homestays. These perspectives suggest that generational differences do not necessarily represent disagreement but rather reflect different ways of articulating environmental concerns. 

The legacy of ACT remains highly visible within community narratives. Many participants referred to the movement as a collective struggle that had shaped local attitudes toward hydropower over several decades.

While elders and youth share many concerns about hydropower, they frame these concerns differently. Elders emphasize the sacredness of the landscape and the importance of preserving cultural traditions. Their narratives often reflect a sense of responsibility toward ancestral land and spiritual balance. Youth perspectives, while still rooted in cultural identity, focus more strongly on future livelihoods and environmental sustainability. For example, several participants expressed interest in developing tourism activities that rely on a healthy river ecosystem. These differences should not be interpreted as a generational divide, instead, they represent complementary perspectives that together strengthen community resistance. Elders provide historical and spiritual legitimacy to environmental concerns, while youth contribute new forms of activism and communication. This intergenerational dynamic may also explain the resilience of anti-dam movements in regions such as Dzongu. Rather than fading over time, resistance continues to adapt as younger generations reinterpret cultural values in contemporary contexts. 

Elders provide historical and spiritual legitimacy to environmental concerns, while youth contribute new forms of activism and communication. This intergenerational dynamic may also explain the resilience of anti-dam movements in regions such as Dzongu. Rather than fading over time, resistance continues to adapt as younger generations reinterpret cultural values in contemporary contexts.

Conclusion

Hydropower conflicts in North Sikkim cannot be understood solely through economic or technical frameworks. They are deeply embedded in cultural identity, environmental memory, and evolving forms of activism. By examining intergenerational perspectives, the study reveals that community opposition to hydropower is both shared and diverse.

Hydropower conflicts in North Sikkim cannot be understood solely through economic or technical frameworks. They are deeply embedded in cultural identity, environmental memory, and evolving forms of activism. By examining intergenerational perspectives, the study reveals that community opposition to hydropower is both shared and diverse. Elders and youth articulate their concerns through different narratives, yet both groups remain deeply connected to the river and the landscape. The findings also highlight the importance of incorporating local knowledge and cultural values into development planning. Policies that treat rivers purely as economic resources risk overlooking the complex social relationships that communities maintain with their environment. As climate change and infrastructure expansion continue to reshape Himalayan landscapes, understanding these relationships will become increasingly important. Development strategies that fail to engage with local perspectives may deepen existing conflicts and undermine long-term sustainability. Recognizing the diversity of voices within communities is therefore essential for creating more inclusive and just approaches to development in mountain regions.

The findings also highlight the importance of incorporating local knowledge and cultural values into development planning...Recognizing the diversity of voices within communities is therefore essential for creating more inclusive and just approaches to development in mountain regions.

Author’s Note: This article is based on my Master’s field research (Azim Premji University) conducted in Dzongu and Chungthang, North Sikkim, focusing on intergenerational perspectives on hydropower projects and the Teesta River. 

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In the Himalayan regions of Sikkim and Darjeeling, honey has never been a mere sweetener. It has long carried the weight of tradition, healing, and heritage.

A spoonful of honey remains a mother’s remedy for childhood coughs, a beekeeper's gift to neighbours, and a symbol of community life. But as markets modernized, this once intimate relationship between people, bees, and their produce has gradually weakened. Today, much of the honey found in local bazaars is sold in reused rum bottles, lacking clear identification or traceability, raising concerns about its purity and authenticity. In fact, finding a truly pure bottle of honey has become a challenge. Pricing also presents a paradox, often inconsistent or expensive, which makes quality honey inaccessible to many. As a result, honey is reduced to a medicinal product only used occasionally for coughs and colds rather than being integrated into daily diets and lifestyles. 

What happened to our honey heritage? The answer lies not in the failure of farmers or bees, but in the absence of structured market access, branding, and recognition. While rural communities continue to produce honey with traditional knowledge and ecological awareness, their efforts remain invisible in wider markets.

This decline raises a pressing question: What happened to our honey heritage? The answer lies not in the failure of farmers or bees, but in the absence of structured market access, branding, and recognition. While rural communities continue to produce honey with traditional knowledge and ecological awareness, their efforts remain invisible in wider markets.

Indigenous Beekeeping Traditions 

Experienced beekeepers like Mayalmit Lepcha and Lhaku Doma Bhutia carry forward a tradition of indigenous beekeeping. One shaped not by formal training, but by years of observation, patience, and inherited wisdom.

At dawn or dusk, when the forest is calm, and the bees are less agitated, they move silently through wooded areas, reading subtle signs of the environment. The hum of a swarm, the movement of branches, the scent in the air, until they locate a resting colony. With practiced ease and remarkable courage, they identify the 'queen bee' with bare hands, understanding that she is the heart of the colony. Once gently secured in a soft, breathable cloth, she is carried to a prepared log hive, and as if guided by an invisible thread, the worker bees follow her, re-establishing their home.

These 'log hives' are a testament to 'indigenous engineering' crafted from naturally fallen tree trunks, hollowed and sealed with a mixture of clay and cow dung that provides insulation, protection from rain, and a familiar scent that attracts bees. Whether placed in backyards, mounted on raised stone platforms, or hung under rooftops, each hive reflects a deep understanding of local climate, materials, and bee behaviour. This knowledge is not written in manuals but passed down orally, from elders to younger generations, through demonstration and daily practice.

These 'log hives' are a testament to 'indigenous engineering' crafted from naturally fallen tree trunks, hollowed and sealed with a mixture of clay and cow dung that provides insulation, protection from rain, and a familiar scent that attracts bees. Whether placed in backyards, mounted on raised stone platforms, or hung under rooftops, each hive reflects a deep understanding of local climate, materials, and bee behaviour. This knowledge is not written in manuals but passed down orally, from elders to younger generations, through demonstration and daily practice.

When the time for harvesting arrives, typically during the peak months of June and November, the process is carried out with care and respect. Under the cover of night, when bees are calmer, the beekeepers use smoke from burning jute to gently pacify the colony. With soft green grass, they brush aside the bees without harming them, and with simple household tools, they cut the honey-filled combs one by one. The honey is then squeezed, filtered through cloth, and allowed to settle naturally, preserving its purity and richness. Every step reflects a balance between utilization and conservation.

When the time for harvesting arrives, typically during the peak months of July and December, the process is carried out with care and respect...Every step reflects a balance between utilization and conservation.

The harvest season is a time of quiet celebration. Families carefully collect honey from hives, ensuring enough is preserved for medicinal use while setting aside portions to gift or trade. This act of sharing is not transactional; it is communal. Honey has been a gesture of goodwill, a way to strengthen bonds among farmers, families, and villages.

The harvest season is a time of quiet celebration. Families carefully collect honey from hives, ensuring enough is preserved for medicinal use while setting aside portions to gift or trade. This act of sharing is not transactional; it is communal.

Folklore and oral traditions have further elevated honey’s place in society. Stories of bees and blossoms are told to children, embedding respect for nature and its rhythms. Honey is featured across rituals, festivals, and even in spiritual practices, where it symbolises purity and abundance.

A Land of Untapped Sweetness

Sikkim, proudly known as India’s only fully organic state, is rich in biodiversity. A landscape where nature expresses itself in countless forms, offering immense potential to produce some of the world's most distinctive and flavorful honey. Across its varied terrain, from dense forests to cultivated fields, different floral sources shape unique honey profiles. The 'cardamom fields' lend a deep, earthy richness, 'orange orchards' bring a light citrus sweetness, and the seasonal bloom of 'rhododendrons' adds rare and aromatic notes. In this way, Sikkim's honey is not just a product; it is a reflection of the region’s altitude, flora, and changing seasons, capturing the essence of its vibrant ecological diversity in every drop.

Sikkim's honey is not just a product; it is a reflection of the region’s altitude, flora, and changing seasons, capturing the essence of its vibrant ecological diversity in every drop.

'Buckwheat honey' from Sikkim is one of the most distinctive and premium varieties of honey found in the Himalayan region. Produced from the nectar of buckwheat flowers grown in Sikkim’s high-altitude, chemical-free environment, it stands out not just for its taste but for its identity, purity, and health value.

With exports reaching nearly USD 177 million, India stands among the leading honey exporters in the world. Yet, despite this, Sikkim contributes only a tiny fraction, around 35–40 metric tonnes annually, revealing a vast gap between potential and production.

At the national level, initiatives like the 'National Beekeeping and Honey Mission', often referred to as the "Sweet Revolution", are pushing India towards becoming a global honey powerhouse. With exports reaching nearly USD 177 million, India stands among the leading honey exporters in the world. Yet, despite this, Sikkim contributes only a tiny fraction, around 35–40 metric tonnes annually, revealing a vast gap between potential and production. Sikkim is a land overflowing with nectar, still waiting to be fully discovered.

The Silent Architects of Life

Each hive is a powerhouse of ecological service, pollinating thousands of flowers and quietly sustaining biodiversity. Their work strengthens crop yields, improves seed quality, and builds resilience against climate variability. Without them, farming systems would weaken, biodiversity would shrink, and food security itself would be at risk. Bees, in essence, are not just honey producers; they are guardians of ecosystems, weaving together the delicate balance between agriculture and nature.

Behind this potential lies a workforce that asks for nothing yet gives everything: the bees. They are the silent architects of agriculture, ensuring that crops do not merely grow, but flourish. In the Himalayan terrain, where crops like cardamom, fruits, and vegetables form the backbone of rural livelihoods, bees play an irreplaceable role.

As part of our survey in Hathidhunga in West Sikkim, Tulsi Chettri described how beekeeping gradually reshaped his fields. What began as a modest experiment soon revealed its deeper impact: bees not only produced honey but also carried pollen across his crops, strengthening yields year after year. He observed fruits ripening more evenly, plants growing more resilient, and productivity steadily improving. For him, beekeeping became more than an additional source of income; it evolved into a quiet partnership with nature, sustaining both his livelihood and the land he cultivates.

As part of our survey in Hathidhunga in West Sikkim, Tulsi Chettri described how beekeeping gradually reshaped his fields. What began as a modest experiment soon revealed its deeper impact: bees not only produced honey but also carried pollen across his crops, strengthening yields year after year...For him, beekeeping became more than an additional source of income; it evolved into a quiet partnership with nature, sustaining both his livelihood and the land he cultivates.

Each hive is a powerhouse of ecological service, pollinating thousands of flowers and quietly sustaining biodiversity. Their work strengthens crop yields, improves seed quality, and builds resilience against climate variability. Without them, farming systems would weaken, biodiversity would shrink, and food security itself would be at risk. Bees, in essence, are not just honey producers; they are guardians of ecosystems, weaving together the delicate balance between agriculture and nature.

The Missing Link: From Hives to Markets

The rich indigenous knowledge is slowly fading. With increasing deforestation, climate variability etc., bee populations are declining, and traditional practices are being disrupted...At the same time, modern beekeeping techniques, while efficient, sometimes overlook the ecological balance and cultural depth embedded in indigenous systems. The loss of this knowledge is not just about losing a method of honey production; it is the erosion of a way of life, a sustainable relationship with nature, and a cultural identity.

The rich indigenous knowledge is slowly fading. With increasing deforestation, climate variability, etc., bee populations are declining, and traditional practices are being disrupted. Younger generations are often drawn toward modern livelihoods, leaving behind these labour-intensive and skill-dependent traditions. At the same time, modern beekeeping techniques, while efficient, sometimes overlook the ecological balance and cultural depth embedded in indigenous systems. The loss of this knowledge is not just about losing a method of honey production; it is the erosion of a way of life, a sustainable relationship with nature, and a cultural identity.

One account from our field surveys captures this challenge vividly: Sukhang Limboo of Ralak in North Sikkim, once a respected beekeeper, eventually abandoned the practice. His decision was not out of lost passion or skill, but of a missing market. Without buyers, jars of honey lost their worth, and alongside them, a tradition that had been both pride and livelihood. His story reflects the broader reality of many beekeepers in the region, where heritage and hard work falter against weak market support.

One account from our field surveys captures this challenge vividly: Sukhang Limboo of Ralak in North Sikkim, once a respected beekeeper, eventually abandoned the practice. His decision was not out of lost passion or skill, but of a missing market...His story reflects the broader reality of many beekeepers in the region, where heritage and hard work falter against weak market support.

Preserving and documenting indigenous beekeeping practices is therefore crucial, not only to honour the wisdom of communities like those of Mayalmit Lepcha and Lhaku Doma Bhutia but also to integrate these time-tested methods into future sustainable agricultural practices. Farmers in Sikkim and surrounding regions possess deep ecological knowledge and the ability to produce high-quality honey. But their journey often ends at local bazaars, where honey is sold in unlabelled or reused bottles, stripped of identity and trust. Without branding, certification, or structured market access, even the purest honey struggles to find its true value.

This is where emerging efforts like APSRI Foods step in, attempting to bridge this critical gap...In doing so, such initiatives are slowly transforming honey from an anonymous product into a meaningful experience, one that people can trust, value, and incorporate into their daily lives.

Production remains low, not due to a lack of capability, but due to a lack of connection. Farmers are willing to produce more, but without assured markets, incentives fade. The result is a cycle where potential remains untapped and traditions begin to decline. This is where emerging efforts like APSRI Foods step in, attempting to bridge this critical gap. By focusing on authentic sourcing, storytelling, and accessible packaging, APSRI Foods is working to reconnect farmers with markets and consumers with trust. It is not merely about selling honey; it is about restoring its identity. Each bottle becomes a narrative, carrying the story of the hills, the labour of farmers, and the unseen work of bees. In doing so, such initiatives are slowly transforming honey from an anonymous product into a meaningful experience, one that people can trust, value, and incorporate into their daily lives.

A Sweet Future Waiting to Be Realized

Across the world, the journey of honey has evolved from a humble tradition to a well-structured industry, offering valuable lessons for the Himalayas. In Europe, small beekeepers came together through cooperatives, turning honey into a story of origin and purity that consumers trust and are willing to pay for. In parts of Africa like Ethiopia and Tanzania, beekeeping has become both a livelihood and a conservation effort, blending traditional wisdom with modern techniques to reach global markets. Even within India, states like Kerala and Himachal Pradesh have shown how collective action and government support can transform honey into a recognized and valued product, reminding us that with the right structure, even the smallest hive can find its place in the largest markets.

Sikkim and Darjeeling stand at a unique crossroads, where tradition meets opportunity. The biodiversity is rich, the knowledge is deep, and the global demand is rising. What remains is to bridge the gap between production and perception, between heritage and market. Because in every drop of Himalayan honey lies more than sweetness; it encompasses the promise of livelihoods, sustainability, and a story waiting to be told.

Sikkim and Darjeeling stand at a unique crossroads, where tradition meets opportunity. The biodiversity is rich, the knowledge is deep, and the global demand is rising. What remains is to bridge the gap between production and perception, between heritage and market. Because in every drop of Himalayan honey lies more than sweetness; it encompasses the promise of livelihoods, sustainability, and a story waiting to be told.

Life is defined by the moments an individual experiences during her journey, leading from birth to death. The kind of person one becomes during this journey is a reflection of the values guiding them. My grandmother, hailing from Hee Gaon, West Sikkim, was cheerful and inquisitive about life, always looking forward to the next day. She lived each day with utmost grace and dignity.  

My beloved grandmother (Boju/Yuma) recently passed away after battling health issues with the same zeal and humility with which she had lived her best days. She left for her heavenly abode on the 12th of February, the same date that her beloved husband (my dearest grandfather) had left us 11 years ago. I vividly remember my mom (Ama) recollecting the date while gently caressing grandma’s hand on her deathbed and saying, “Babu gako pani aaju ko taarik ho 12” (Today is the same date, when Dad had passed away, the 12th). To be so in love with one another that even when death arrives at the doorstep, it lingers to keep the soulmates together. The love that my grandparents shared has remained alive through us, the family. 

Boju's demise was followed by multiple weeks of mourning and gatherings of people who visited us with the love that Boju had shared with them. During those days, there were many conversations about our grandmother's memories and anecdotes. She was the epitome of love and generosity, treating all living beings with kindness. She was truly sunshine personified. Losing our grandmother was a loss, but in knowing her, we gained far more than we could ever imagine. Her lessons on love, kindness, generosity, and to always keep one’s inner child alive are our biggest assets. Amongst all those memories, one that remains alive through her valuables is the hand-woven traditional Nepali corn husk mat, a circular hand-woven mat made of dried outer corn husks. These circular mats have always been an essential component across traditional households of different communities in Sikkim. The Limboos (Subba) are one such tribal community that obtains many materials from nature, making them objects of daily use. Some of the common items include the traditional tongba ( a container made of bamboo for drinking fermented millet), doko ( a woven bamboo basket used for carrying goods and products ranging from musical instruments to religious items), etc. Nature is a fundamental and inherent part of the Limboo community.    

Losing our grandmother was a loss, but in knowing her, we gained far more than we could ever imagine. Her lessons on love, kindness, generosity, and to always keep one’s inner child alive are our biggest assets. Amongst all those memories, one that remains alive through her valuables is the traditional Nepali mat, a circular hand-woven mat made of dried outer corn husks.

The circular hand-woven traditional corn husk mat (pira) is a common item in Limboo households. What made my Grandma’s work of art even more special was her dedication to using plastic waste wrappers to weave the mats. Instead of using traditional materials like dried husks of corn, she used the waste wrappers collected from our household's garbage and processed them, making them suitable for weaving. Every step was done meticulously by hand and with a lot of patience. 

The circular hand-woven traditional corn husk mat (pira) is a common item in Limboo households. What made my Grandma’s work of art even more special was her dedication to using plastic waste wrappers to weave the mats. Instead of using traditional materials like dried husks of corn, she used the waste wrappers collected from our household's garbage and processed them, making them suitable for weaving. Every step was done meticulously by hand and with a lot of patience. 

Recollecting a conversation that I had with her, which has been archived in a video, she carefully selects each piece of plastic and cuts with a kitchen knife to prepare the raw material for the mat. When I asked her how long it takes to finish weaving one standard-sized mat, she answered with her gleeful smile, "It takes me a week or around 15 days to make one from scratch, but if the plastics are already prepared, I can finish one mat in a week. Sometimes, I weave inconsistently, but mostly whenever I get a break from my usual routine". 

Her commitment to weaving these beautiful mats, which also served a significant functional purpose in homes, was due to her dedication towards the craft and the family. She didn’t just make them to store at her house or to sell for profit; her only intention was to gift them to her family members as a token of love. For my grandma, one of the things that she treasured the most was her family. She wove these mats and made sure that every household of her children would possess them. In an old conversation with her, my grandma told me that she had already gifted the mats to my uncle (mama) a few days back. These mats are her memento. In our house, my mom has kept them carefully, as a decorative piece or using them on the traditional stools; every corner of the house has a piece of my grandma’s love. Even during the days of her final rites, I noticed how things such as the deceased's favourite clothing and hobbies left in the form of artefacts, like the mats made by grandma, held so much sentimental value. My mom and aunt converse deeply about grandmom’s favourite sarees while recollecting their favourite memories of their mother. That is when my aunt looked at the mat placed near grandma’s bed and reminisced about how her mother made sure to weave many mats to gift them to as many people as she could.  

My grandmother (Boju) never knew about the term ‘sustainability’, having received no education on the concept of recycling and having no training on environmental protection, yet she played her part responsibly in fulfilling the values it encompassed. This is the difference between their generation and the current generation that we belong to. We have ample information about sustainability to write multiple essays or share on social media posts, but we lack the basic skills to take action.  

My grandmother (Boju) never knew about the term ‘sustainability’, having received no education on the concept of recycling and having no training on environmental protection, yet she played her part responsibly in fulfilling the values it encompassed.

Losing my grandma and her art of weaving these mats not only indicates a declining traditional skill, but also the lost virtue of patience. Traditional art forms of tribal communities such as the Limboos are more than just an archival piece, it is a blend of culture, history and a testament to their identity. With the gradual passing away of the older generation and the shift in socio-economic priorities, the traditional handicrafts, such as these woven mats, have become a vanishing craft in Sikkim. 

Starting a project of your own also means having the patience to build things from the ground up. I don’t think my grandma ever thought about making profit from her creations or about the term ‘sustainability’. All she knew was that using the waste plastic wrappers as an alternative to the dried husks of corn was the right thing to do, and gifting them to her loved ones came naturally to her.  

This made me realise that the concept of environmental sustainability is as simple as it can get. We do have the knowledge about sustainable waste management, and we spend hours studying about it, but what is more important at this hour is to be careful in our daily actions. To be sustainable requires neither education nor digital literacy; one can attain sustainability by actually taking small actions. To belong to a tribal community also means to be aware that sustainability is intrinsically linked with our culture and identity, deeply ingrained in our past and future.    

This made me realise that the concept of environmental sustainability is as simple as it can get. We do have the knowledge about sustainable waste management, and we spend hours studying about it, but what is more important at this hour is to be careful in our daily actions. To be sustainable requires neither education nor digital literacy; one can attain sustainability by actually taking small actions. To belong to a tribal community also means to be aware that sustainability is intrinsically linked with our culture and identity, deeply ingrained in our past and future.

At the centre of the film is a young woman who returns to her native village in Sikkim after a period of living in Delhi. Her ‘homecoming’ could have been handled as a familiar urban-rural contrast or a triumphalist rediscovery of roots. Instead, Shape of Momo treats the return as a series of calibrations - between body and landscape, kinship and obligation, desire and community expectation. The film uses the protagonist’s re-entry into village life to examine how social norms are reproduced day after day, in gestures and silences more than in overt confrontation. This is not melodrama; it is cumulative social pressure rendered in small, precise scenes.

Shape of Momo treats the return as a series of calibrations - between body and landscape, kinship and obligation, desire and community expectation. The film uses the protagonist’s re-entry into village life to examine how social norms are reproduced day after day, in gestures and silences more than in overt confrontation.

The film’s understanding of ‘return’ is especially compelling because ‘return’ itself is never innocent.  Migration alters perception. Distance changes thresholds of tolerance. Urban life does not necessarily liberate the protagonist, but it equips her with comparison. What she encounters upon returning is not an unfamiliar world but a familiar world newly visible. The camera repeatedly emphasises routines she once accepted without question. The result is subtle but effective: critique emerges not through confrontation but through altered attention.

Astonishingly spare moments make the film’s emotional work. When the grandmother casually mentions having heard of surgery to alter sex from female to male, the line lands like a centuries-old ache momentarily voiced; the remark condenses generations of female angst into a single, destabilising phrase. That compact sequence reveals how cultural fantasies about gender can be both surreal and deeply felt.

The film’s strength is its refusal to moralise. Rather than presenting patriarchy as an abstract enemy to be defeated...Shape of Momo shows how gendered rules are woven into survival strategies, economic scarcity, and intergenerational habit.

A recurring motif in the film is ‘work performed and work withheld’, alongside the gendered assumptions tied to both. The narrative shows how a female-only household can be subtly held ransom by its own tenants and male domestic helpers who defy the household in small ways with impunity, their leverage resting on the threat of withdrawing labour that only a man is socially permitted or physically expected to provide. The family’s reluctance to enforce order is not merely deference; it is a pragmatic calculation about labour that men must provide. This attention to labour broadens the film’s critique. ‘Patriarchy’ appears not only as ideology but as infrastructure. Bodies, tasks, and obligations are distributed unevenly. Dependence reproduces hierarchy. The film’s strength is its refusal to moralise. Rather than presenting patriarchy as an abstract enemy to be defeated, Shape of Momo shows how gendered rules are woven into survival strategies, economic scarcity, and intergenerational habit.

‘Women’s agency’ is depicted as nuanced and imperfect. The protagonist is neither an emblem of feminist purity nor a victim in a tearjerker. She is resourceful, often constrained, sometimes complicit in the very practices that limit her. Even education and relative economic power do not guarantee emancipation: the tenant’s son, who benefits from the household’s generosity, nonetheless refuses the protagonist social recognition and respect, a small but telling instance of how gender status hierarchies and entitlement persist irrespective of material dependence.

Yet the film also insists that change is possible in modest, cumulative ways. ‘Small acts’ become metaphors for shifting norms: the protagonist’s morning jog becomes a quiet study of progress. On her first run, she notices a woman doing her morning walk on her building terrace; the second time, the woman has moved to jogging on the terrace, and the third time, she is jogging on the road. This progression - deliberate, gradual, but salient - signals how public space can be reclaimed one step at a time. These gestures illustrate the film’s thesis that resistance is often incremental rather than transformative overnight.

The film makes a careful case that ‘patriarchy’ is not only about individual men’s choices but about systems that make certain choices costly to resist. The protagonist is often labelled “wrong” simply for questioning what her community has normalised; the film powerfully conveys that in patriarchal contexts, the “wrong” frequently operates as the preserved “right,” and realignment efforts face unnameable yet insurmountable odds.

The film makes a careful case that ‘patriarchy’ is not only about individual men’s choices but about systems that make certain choices costly to resist. The protagonist is often labelled “wrong” simply for questioning what her community has normalised; the film powerfully conveys that in patriarchal contexts, the “wrong” frequently operates as the preserved “right,” and realignment efforts face unnameable yet insurmountable odds.

If the film has a limitation, it is the occasional opacity of its storytelling cadence. Viewers seeking a tightly plotted arc may find the film slow; Rai’s patience is deliberate, but it demands active spectatorship. Yet that slowness ultimately becomes one of the reasons the film travels well across contexts.  ‘Slow cinema’ asks viewers to inhabit rather than consume. In an era increasingly governed by acceleration and summary, Shape of Momo insists that understanding social life requires duration.

Shape of Momo does not offer easy answers; it leaves its audience with a sharper sense of how patriarchy endures, and how resistance might begin, not with grand gestures but with small, sustained acts of reimagining everyday life.

For readers of social commentary, that deliberateness is a virtue: the film is a document for study, a prompt for discussion rather than a consumption object that yields instant moral clarity. Tribeny Rai’s film will be discussed for some time as both an aesthetic achievement and a cultural milestone. Quiet and resolute, it trusts detail over declaration and seeks to convert empathy into critique by way of lived observation. Shape of Momo does not offer easy answers; it leaves its audience with a sharper sense of how patriarchy endures, and how resistance might begin, not with grand gestures but with small, sustained acts of reimagining everyday life.

For decades, Nepali-language films from northeastern India - from Sikkim to Darjeeling and beyond - have existed largely at the margins of the national film conversation. Filmmakers worked with limited budgets, localised distribution networks, and small audiences; their work rarely entered the national or international limelight dominated by mainstream Indian cinema. Shape of Momo’s  festival circuit visibility, therefore, matters as more than an individual success. It arrives at a moment when festivals and digital platforms are changing the dynamic: films with strong regional specificity and universal thematic depth are increasingly likely to travel, attracting attention from producers, mentors, and distributors who can amplify local stories. In that context, Shape of Momo exemplifies how a film from Sikkim, when backed by craft and the right network, can move beyond parochial viewing to create institutional pathways for others.

Shape of Momo exemplifies how a film from Sikkim, when backed by craft and the right network, can move beyond parochial viewing to create institutional pathways for others.

At the same time, the celebration of festival visibility should not obscure a more difficult question:  ‘Who eventually gets to watch the film?’ International recognition creates legitimacy, but legitimacy and accessibility are not identical things. A film can circulate through prestigious institutions and remain unseen by the very communities from which it emerges. This contradiction is especially visible in the case of regional cinema from mountain societies, where exhibition infrastructure has not kept pace with cultural production.

Although the movie has the backing of renowned people who possess deep networks in the world of film production, programming, and circulation, its long-term fate may depend more on platforms than on red carpets. Festival exposure generates conversation, but conversation alone does not guarantee sustained viewership. In all probability, the film may discover its widest and most enduring audience once it debuts on digital streaming platforms. The reach of digital distribution far exceeds that of brick-and-mortar theatres, especially for films that emerge from small linguistic markets and geographically dispersed communities.

This possibility should not be understood as an admission of theatrical weakness. Rather, it reflects  a structural transformation in contemporary viewing culture. Streaming has increasingly become the second life of independent cinema. Theatres create prestige and event value; digital circulation creates memory, repetition, and discovery. A viewer who misses a theatrical screening may still encounter a film months later through recommendation algorithms, social discussion, or word of mouth. Such delayed encounters often produce longer cultural afterlives than initial theatrical windows.

This possibility also illuminates a difficult reality about cinema economies in the eastern Himalayan  region. Almost the whole of Sikkim’s population may feel invested in watching the film for obvious  reasons: regional pride, linguistic familiarity, curiosity, identification, and recognition of place. Yet  interest does not automatically translate into ticket sales.

This possibility also illuminates a difficult reality about cinema economies in the eastern Himalayan  region. Almost the whole of Sikkim’s population may feel invested in watching the film for obvious  reasons: regional pride, linguistic familiarity, curiosity, identification, and recognition of place. Yet  interest does not automatically translate into ticket sales. One could plausibly imagine that only a  relatively small proportion of interested viewers would actually end up entering a theatre. The reasons are less cultural than infrastructural. Modern theatre infrastructure remains sparse outside the capital region and a few urban centres.  Distance, transport costs, scheduling constraints, and the absence of convenient exhibition spaces  quietly shape viewing behaviour. Similar limitations extend into neighbouring hill regions such as  Darjeeling and Kalimpong, where audiences often remain culturally connected but physically  distant from formal screening networks. These realities can be deeply frustrating for filmmakers  because they expose a paradox: there may be enthusiasm for regional cinema without adequate  means to consume it.

The reasons are less cultural than infrastructural. Modern theatre infrastructure remains sparse outside the capital region and a few urban centres.  Distance, transport costs, scheduling constraints, and the absence of convenient exhibition spaces  quietly shape viewing behaviour. Similar limitations extend into neighbouring hill regions such as  Darjeeling and Kalimpong...These realities can be deeply frustrating for filmmakers  because they expose a paradox: there may be enthusiasm for regional cinema without adequate  means to consume it.

That frustration became unexpectedly tangible at the screening itself. When the end credits  appeared, Tribeny Rai and a few members of the cast unexpectedly entered the theatre to thank  those of us who had come to watch the film. The gesture was warm and gracious, but it left me  conflicted. I was happy to see the filmmaker and her team receive direct acknowledgement from the  audience; at the same time, there was something faintly melancholic about seeing an artist  compelled to assume the role of marketer to sustain the life of the work.

Such limitations also reveal something larger about contemporary capitalistic market structures.  Exhibition follows expected returns. Investors build screens where populations are dense and purchasing patterns are predictable. Smaller linguistic regions become economically difficult to serve even when cultural demand exists. Under these conditions, the smallness of market size can hold the success of the artistic expressions ransom. The issue is not necessarily a lack of audience  but a lack of infrastructure capable of converting dispersed interest into measurable revenue.

And perhaps that same logic applies to the future of the film itself: not through one triumphant  opening weekend, but through accumulated encounters across festivals, theatres, classrooms,  streaming catalogues, and conversations - small, sustained acts through which a regional story  gradually becomes part of a larger cultural imagination.

And perhaps that same logic applies to the future of the film itself: not through one triumphant  opening weekend, but through accumulated encounters across festivals, theatres, classrooms,  streaming catalogues, and conversations - small, sustained acts through which a regional story  gradually becomes part of a larger cultural imagination.

Unlike cities in the plains, mountain cities operate under severe constraints—limited land, fragile ecology, and difficult mobility. Most urban planning frameworks are designed for flat and gentler terrain.As a result, places like Gangtok  grow without a model.Congestion, poor last-mile connectivity, pressure on water and services, lack of public space, and increasing vulnerability to disasters are the consequences of unplanned urbanization.

Unlike cities in the plains, mountain cities operate under severe constraints—limited land, fragile ecology, and difficult mobility. Most urban planning frameworks are designed for flat and gentler terrain.As a result, places like Gangtok  grow without a model.Congestion, poor last-mile connectivity, pressure on water and services, lack of public space, and increasing vulnerability to disasters are the consequences of unplanned urbanization.

Gangtok’s growth has been largely organic, not by design but by default. This is not due to a lack of imagination, but the lack of a shared vision—and the confidence to pursue it. If we continue this way, we risk locking ourselves into a future of compounding problems.

Mobility as the Foundation of Urban Form

Urbanisation begins with access In the mountains, where terrain makes movement difficult, mobility does not just support the city—it shapes it. The way we move determines how we build, where we live, and how communities connect.

Today, road-based mobility dominates, but roads are land-intensive and inefficient on steep terrain. As population and vehicle numbers grow, congestion inevitably worsen, leading to gridlock.If mobility is the foundation of urban form, then rethinking mobility is the key to rethinking the city itself.

Contour Urbanism: Building Along the Terrain

In the mountains, flat land is rare—but where it exists, life thrives. Instead of large plazas, what the terrain offers are linear stretches along contours. These can become car-free pedestrian pathways—“strips of life”—that form the backbone of urban habitation. [Fig.1]

Clusters of these horizontal walkways, connected vertically by lifts, escalators, and ramps, can create accessible, inclusive neighbourhoods. Such a system supports walking, encourages community interaction, and provides a structured framework for services like water, sewage, and electricity. [Fig. 2]

At a larger scale, neighbourhoods can be connected through a network of these pathways, forming a city-wide mobility layer that is human-centric rather than vehicle-dependent. [Fig. 3]

Ropeways: A Mountain Solution

For longer distances and steep gradients, ropeways offer a compelling alternative.Unlike roads, they require minimal land, traverse slopes efficiently, and operate without adding to ground congestion. They are environmentally cleaner, quieter, and less disruptive to fragile mountain ecosystems. Modern systems can carry not just passengers, but goods and emergency services as well.Of course, ropeways come with concerns—privacy, visual impact, and questions of ownership. But these are design and governance challenges, not reasons for dismissal.

Ropeways, unlike roads, demand a design approach that leverages their ability to traverse steep slopes and sharply reduce travel distances. In a ridge-based city like Gangtok, lines should run perpendicular to the ridge to enable efficient uphill and downhill movement.

Ropeways, unlike roads, demand a design approach that leverages their ability to traverse steep slopes and sharply reduce travel distances. In a ridge-based city like Gangtok, lines should run perpendicular to the ridge to enable efficient uphill and downhill movement. A linear spine from Ranipul to Bojoghari can connect these lines and facilitate longer-distance travel. [Fig. 4]

If integrated thoughtfully with pedestrian networks, ropeways can fundamentally transform how Gangtok moves—and, by extension, how it grows.

Planning Through Mobility

Mobility is not just a transport issue; it is a planning tool. Choosing the right mobility system can help address multiple urban challenges simultaneously—housing, congestion, service delivery, public space, and even disaster management.

Mobility is not just a transport issue; it is a planning tool. Choosing the right mobility system can help address multiple urban challenges simultaneously—housing, congestion, service delivery, public space, and even disaster management.

Imagine a parallel, car-free layer across the city: a network of walkways, vertical connectors, and ropeways that allows people to move without relying on vehicles. Such a system could revitalise neglected neighbourhoods, stimulate local economies, and improve quality of life where it is needed most.Even existing neighbourhoods can be retrofitted. By connecting and reorganising current paths into coherent horizontal networks, accessibility can be significantly improved. With genuine public participation, such transformations are not only possible but likely to gain support. 

Beyond Infrastructure: The Question of Ownership

How we build is as important as what we build. The prevailing development model—often driven by large, externally executed projects—prioritises infrastructure over people. It limits local participation, erodes ownership, and misses precious opportunities to build local capacity. Conventional public-private partnership (PPP) frameworks, while widely used, may not be optimal in contexts where institutional capacity is limited and socio-economic equity is a priority.

How we build is as important as what we build...Gangtok needs an approach that involves community-oriented ownership structures, where local stakeholders—including residents, landowners, professionals, and government—participate directly in the planning, financing, and operation of infrastructure systems.

Gangtok needs an approach that involves community-oriented ownership structures, where local stakeholders—including residents, landowners, professionals, and government—participate directly in the planning, financing, and operation of infrastructure systems.

Such models offer several advantages:

•  Enhanced local ownership and accountability

•  Retention of economic benefits within the region

•  Opportunities for skill development and capacity building [especially for a transformative technology for mobility in the mountains like ropeways]

•  Greater alignment with community needs and priorities

External technical expertise can be incorporated in a consultative role, ensuring quality while preserving local agency. While ownership should remain local, the benefits of a ropeway system must be widely shared to avoid monopolies. An alternative to a conventional PPP model is a community-led consortium that conceives, builds, and operates the system, supported by international technical experts as advisors.

Equity can be distributed among key local stakeholders based on agreed contributions, creating an ownership structure aligned with community interests [Fig. 5]

• Promoters (Sweat Equity): Entrepreneurs, designers, planners, contractors, and professionals who initiate and steward the project.
• Landowners: Given land scarcity in Gangtok, owners—especially at station sites—can contribute land as equity; government land can be similarly valued.
• Contractors: Construction partners can take equity in lieu of cash payments, reducing capital expenditure and debt reliance.
• Government: A key stakeholder through land and power contributions, requiring a more enabling and flexible institutional approach.
• Local Neighbourhoods: Representation in governance ensures accountability and alignment with community needs.
• Ropeway Company (Strategic Partner): A reputable international firm could come on board under aligned CSR objectives, providing expertise and potentially reducing dependence on external financing.

This model distributes ownership, lowers upfront costs, and embeds the project within the local socio-economic fabric.

External technical expertise can be incorporated in a consultative role, ensuring quality while preserving local agency.This is not just about equity; it is about long-term resilience. A city that understands and manages its own systems is better equipped to adapt and thrive.

External technical expertise can be incorporated in a consultative role, ensuring quality while preserving local agency.This is not just about equity; it is about long-term resilience. A city that understands and manages its own systems is better equipped to adapt and thrive.

The Governance Gap

None of this is possible without clarity in governance. Today, there is ambiguity over who is responsible for planning and managing the city. This  situation undermines long-term thinking and allows short-term, ad hoc decisions to prevail. Without a coherent vision and accountable leadership, even the best ideas cannot be implemented effectively.

Planning is, fundamentally, an act of governance. It requires intent, coordination, and the ability to think beyond immediate pressures. A community-based ownership model will have the inherent checks and balances to help it succeed and can possibly grow to fill the vacuum of stewarding the city.

Planning is, fundamentally, an act of governance. It requires intent, coordination, and the ability to think beyond immediate pressures. A community-based ownership model will have the inherent checks and balances to help it succeed and can possibly grow to fill the vacuum of stewarding the city.

A Choice About the Future

Gangtok stands at crossroads. It can continue on its current path—reactive, fragmented, and increasingly strained. Or it can choose to evolve deliberately, using its constraints as a framework for innovation.This is not just about infrastructure or mobility. It is about the kind of city we want to become—and the kind of society we want to be.

Development, if understood as evolution, demands direction. It requires us to define what matters, to take responsibility for our future, and to ensure that growth strengthens rather than erodes our social fabric. In the end, cities reflect their people. Their values, their governance, and their sense of collective purpose are embedded in the spaces they create. If Gangtok is to thrive, it must not only build differently—it must think differently.

In the end, cities reflect their people. Their values, their governance, and their sense of collective purpose are embedded in the spaces they create. If Gangtok is to thrive, it must not only build differently—it must think differently.

Everything happened so suddenly that she was beyond understanding the events that landed her in Gangtok.

Three weeks ago her father got a phone call from his friend from Gangtok; they were looking for a bride for their only son. Her father was elated; the same friend that he had grown up with now wanted his Amala as his daughter-in-law. His friend had left behind Jhyam Busty to work for the government; apparently, he now enjoyed quite a senior position in some Government office. “His Amala must be blessed”, he thought. All those rejections were just leading towards something good; patience did bear good results.

Everything was prepared within the span of a week. Being the only daughter, Saila Bajey (Grandfather) left no stone unturned for the wedding of his darling daughter. The fields were cleared, tents were put up, and people began flitting in and out of their three-room government-funded model house.  The courtyard was filled with sacks and crates brought in from Jorethang. The goat shed was cramped with the addition of two new goats ready to be butchered for the wedding, and the stench of poultry emanated from the backyard.  Everything appeared ready for what seemed like the wedding of the century in Jhyam busty. 

Everything appeared ready for what seemed like the wedding of the century in Jhyam busty. 

The day finally arrived. The villagers had gathered early in the morning to witness the wedding. Amala decked in a crimson sari and covered with an equally red netted scarf, waited in anticipation. She had not seen her groom-to-be, but just the fact that he was from Gangtok made him handsome in her eyes.  He was the man of her dreams; it was surreal that she would be leaving the confines of her home, her village, in a few hours to enter a completely different world. She was nervous but happy. Her father had been boasting of his good fortune to anyone who dared broach the question regarding Amala’s hasty nuptials. The perpetual smile etched on his face showed just how much this alliance would mean to his family. Neighbours who earlier refused to give them a second of their time now visited their house in flocks, even the Panchayat Sarpanch had been generous enough to extend help in the form of a sack of rice, “Your daughter, my daughter, same thing”, he had beamed at Saila Bajey. 

She had not seen her groom-to-be, but just the fact that he was from Gangtok made him handsome in her eyes.  He was the man of her dreams; it was surreal that she would be leaving the confines of her home, her village, in a few hours to enter a completely different world. She was nervous but happy.

The wedding frenzy began at the crack of dawn on that fateful day. At around 11 o’clock, the village kids began running towards the house screaming, “Ayo hai, Ayo hai” (They are here, they are here). No sooner had they reached the house than a car came in sight; it was an I10 decked in floral arrangements, followed by a rally of vehicles. The villagers watched in amazement; the only vehicles they had closely seen were Baley’s scooter and Rajmaan’s Commander. For them, this was grand, royal almost. They whispered and sneered, some were green with envy, and others were just too surprised to react. Finally, the procession halted just above the house and people began to scramble out. More surprises for the villagers were in store as they saw people clothed in brightly colored attires that sparkled in the noonday sun, sunglasses perched on their faces like it was a part of their anatomy. Saila Bajey scrambled down the newly built staircase, hands folded with respect, happiness glinting in his eyes. Spotting a familiar face, he went ahead and bowed with hands joined in respect and humility.

At around 11 o’clock, the village kids began running towards the house screaming, “Ayo hai, Ayo hai” (They are here, they are here). No sooner had they reached the house than a car came in sight; it was an I10 decked in floral arrangements, followed by a rally of vehicles. The villagers watched in amazement; the only vehicles they had closely seen were Baley’s scooter and Rajmaan’s Commander. For them, this was grand, royal almost.

“My long-lost friend”, cried the other man, enveloping Saila Bajey in a hug. This was signal enough for the rest of the family to join Saila Bajey in welcoming the guests. The janti (groom’s party) was led towards the house, refreshments were served, and in a short while, the town folk were marvelling at the rustic festivities that they had almost forgotten existed. The rest of the day went by without any glitches save for the drunken skirmishes that accompany every wedding ceremony.

Amala stole glances at her husband, blushing every time he tried to make conversation. He was a heavy-built, muscular man with brown eyes that actually reminded her of a villain in a Nepali movie that she had watched long ago during her only visit to Jorethang Mela. She tried not to make anything of it; at least he resembled someone in a movie. By evening, the bride and groom were exhausted. Rice plastered on their forehead hid their frowns, but their eyes could not lie; they were also yawning at regular intervals and looked ready to collapse. Amidst all the madness, no one had remembered to feed the pair. Finally, after the last well-wisher had done his share of congratulating the couple, they were taken into the house from their makeshift mandap (makeshift stage for wedding ceremonies) and fed with the remains of the day’s feast.

As night fell, happiness mingled with liquor brought out the ‘Mithun’ in everyone, chairs were removed, and a dance floor came up in minutes. City folks danced to the tunes of new-age Nepali music that had become a rage in recent times while the villagers looked on, transfixed, eyes gleaming with some unidentifiable emotion. The celebration continued until the wee hours of the morning. Had it not been for sheer exhaustion, lord knows if it would’ve stopped at all. The wedding party was to leave early in the morning; they weren’t staying back. They had to be back at Gangtok; apparently, everyone had a ‘tight schedule’ that could not be compromised.

Tears were shed, promises of “will visit again” were spoken. The newlywed couple was sent back with sacks full of homegrown ginger, cardamom and all kinds of vegetables straight from the in-laws’ backyard. The accompanying janti looked quite pleased with their share of organic produce, courtesy of the bride’s family.

Tears were shed, promises of “will visit again” were spoken. The newlywed couple was sent back with sacks full of homegrown ginger, cardamom and all kinds of vegetables straight from the in-laws’ backyard. The accompanying janti looked quite pleased with their share of organic produce, courtesy of the bride’s family.

They left, raising a storm of dust along the newly dug road. Amala, too tired to keep her eyes open, eventually fell asleep and woke up just when their vehicle was climbing uphill from Ranipool. She looked on with bewilderment: concrete jungle and unending train of vehicles plying up and down were the first things she noticed. Her husband had not spoken a single word to her. Too shy to start up a conversation, she buried the hundreds of questions that had begun to crowd her mind, telling herself that she had enough time for that as she was to spend her life with him.

She looked on with bewilderment: concrete jungle and unending train of vehicles plying up and down were the first things she noticed. Her husband had not spoken a single word to her. Too shy to start up a conversation, she buried the hundreds of questions that had begun to crowd her mind, telling herself that she had enough time for that as she was to spend her life with him.

The vehicle slowed down and came to a stop at Tadong, just a few meters from the College. All the other vehicles accompanying them had gone their separate ways. Her husband spoke his very first words to her, “Time to get down”. Still clad in her wedding attire, she got down with wobbly feet and stood beside him as he gave orders to his driver to get their things home. He started walking and Amala followed him down a steep staircase. He stopped in front of a tall building and said, “This is where I live”. Unlike the few movies that she had watched, no welcoming rituals were performed for their homecoming. “Things must be done differently, life is not a movie after all”, Amala thought as she entered the house.

“Where is your father?” Amala spoke, her first ever words to her husband.                                               

“I do not live with my parents”, he replied without looking at her.

She nodded at his reply. The house was a three-roomed apartment with a kitchen extended into a living room and a balcony. Apparently, the husband did quite well for himself. Amala was quite in awe about the whole scene unfolding before her. “This will be your room”, the husband broke Amala’s daydream and pointed towards what appeared to be a room next to the kitchen. Something seemed amiss, but Amala did not have the energy to figure it out. Meanwhile, the driver had brought in their luggage and the husband was instructing him to put everything in place. Amala did not have a fancy trousseau; she had two bags of clothes and sacks of vegetables and spices to last a few months. Speaking of which, the sacks now looked ill-placed and neglected in the shiny tiled kitchen with its fancy appliances and marble countertops.

She went into her room and saw that her bags were already there. It was a modest-looking room with minimum furnishings: a bed, a bedside table, a vanity mirror and a cupboard. More than a bedroom, it looked like a guest room. But Amala had no idea; she had no experience to compare it with. Just as she was wondering what was next, her husband appeared in the doorway.“Freshen up if you want, I will be out for a few hours, cook anything you want, but don’t wait up for me”, and he disappeared before she could even reply. Amala thought it was odd that he had not entered his own room. He was being a gentleman, of course, that could be the reason, or he was too shy to interact. “These things take time”, she silently scolded herself for being too quick to question his motives. She decided to take a bath.

She came out of the bathroom with hesitating steps and walked towards the living room. The house felt empty. It was almost five o’clock in the evening, and the pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows. Amala felt a sense of loneliness creeping up from within, threatening to spill out in tears. She would not ruin it; this was the beginning of a good life and she could not give in to crying, no matter how much she missed the warmth and the familiarity of Jhyam. She walked towards the kitchen and found herself staring at appliances that looked too fancy to be touched. She opened the fridge only to be greeted by more packaged stuff that she did not recognise. Overwhelmed but also too tired to cook, she decided to eat the only thing she could recognize - bread that she spotted in one corner and some fruits for dinner. Unknowingly, she was adapting to urban life after all!

The house felt empty. It was almost five o’clock in the evening, and the pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows. Amala felt a sense of loneliness creeping up from within, threatening to spill out in tears. She would not ruin it; this was the beginning of a good life and she could not give in to crying, no matter how much she missed the warmth and the familiarity of Jhyam.

After finishing her dinner, she decided to explore the rest of the house. She found there were two other rooms apart from the one where she was housed. One of the rooms looked exactly like hers, but the other room was bigger in size and looked quite lived in. It had a bigger bed and was well furnished, unlike the other two rooms; this had personal belongings with photo frames and a painting adorning an entire wall. Her naivety failed to elicit the kind of suspicion that would otherwise have rattled a person with more worldly knowledge. But Amala came from a world where master bedrooms and living rooms were alien concepts. These things were beyond her comprehension; ignorance was bliss. The house tour did not take much time; she wandered back to the hall and decided to wait for her husband.

Her naivety failed to elicit the kind of suspicion that would otherwise have rattled a person with more worldly knowledge. But Amala came from a world where master bedrooms and living rooms were alien concepts. These things were beyond her comprehension; ignorance was bliss.

The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock lulled her to sleep; Amala woke up to faint light streaming from the windows. According to the clock, it was six in the morning; she had fallen asleep waiting for him. Waking up to a completely different view, it took her a couple of seconds to realise that she was in Gangtok and not Jhyam. Just as the reality was sinking in, she heard the door to the master bedroom open, expecting to see her husband, she looked towards the door, wary of how he might react.  Her eyes were greeted by a different pair of eyes, unlike the brown of her husband’s; his were black. He gave a warm smile and walked towards the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a water bottle. His actions oozed a questionable familiarity.

“You must be Amala”, he said, but more to himself and sauntered back to the room.                 

  “Don’t forget to close the door”, the husband’s voice could be heard from within the room.

Amala looked at what had transpired before her, confusion clouding her thoughts. “He must be his best friend”, she thought as she began tying her hair up to prepare some tea for her husband and his best friend.

More than just Water Sources 

For many people in Gangtok, springs are not just an alternative. They are a necessity. A single household may require 50-100 litres of water per day for basic needs like drinking, cooking, and washing. Springs often help meet this demand where municipal supply is irregular. People collect water for drinking, washing, and other daily needs, especially in areas where access to municipal water is limited or uncertain.  In some neighbourhoods, visiting a nearby spring is still part of the daily routine. During conversations with residents, this dependence became even clearer. A shopkeeper in Burtuk shared that not only his shop but several nearby households depend on this water source.

For many people in Gangtok, springs are not just an alternative. They are a necessity...During conversations with residents, this dependence became even clearer. A shopkeeper in Burtuk shared that not only his shop but several nearby households depend on this water source.

A City Growing Around Water 

What is interesting about Gangtok is that many settlements have historically developed around these springs. Long before modern infrastructure, people chose to live close to reliable water sources. Today, even as the city expands and changes, this connection still exists.

What is interesting about Gangtok is that many settlements have historically developed around these springs. Long before modern infrastructure, people chose to live close to reliable water sources. Today, even as the city expands and changes, this connection still exists. In many areas, springs remain embedded within urban spaces, beside roads, hidden between houses, and along forested slopes. They form a quiet network that continues to support the city. This network is not made up of springs alone. In Sikkim, along with springs, there are also jhoras (small natural streams that carry water down the hills). These jhoras help feed many springs along the way. But in many places, they are being blocked, polluted, or disturbed by construction and waste. When this happens, it also affects the springs that depend on them.

Changing Patterns, Growing Concerns 

Many residents feel that some springs are not as abundant as they used to be. Changes in rainfall patterns, increasing construction are often seen as possible reasons. A homeowner in Deorali shared that since the construction of new houses began the water flow has noticeably reduced and may eventually dry up. He expressed concern that there should be stricter rules to prevent construction directly on or near natural springs.

Although many springs are perennial, residents say the flow decreases significantly during the summer months compared to earlier years. These changes are not always dramatic, but they are noticeable enough for people who depend on these sources daily. In some cases, the issue is not just natural changes but also everyday neglect.

Although many springs are perennial, residents say the flow decreases significantly during the summer months compared to earlier years. These changes are not always dramatic, but they are noticeable enough for people who depend on these sources daily. In some cases, the issue is not just natural changes but also everyday neglect. For example, leaking pipes have been observed near Amdo Golai, where water is continuously lost due to the lack of maintenance. Such carelessness adds pressure on already limited water resources.

Community Care and Shared Responsibility 

One of the most remarkable aspects of springs in Gangtok is how they are cared for. Even when there is no formal system in place, local communities often take responsibility in maintaining them. People clean the area, ensure the flow is not blocked, and share access with others. In many cases, these spaces are treated as common resources, regardless of whether they are on private or public land. This sense of shared ownership reflects a strong community connection to these water sources.

One of the most remarkable aspects of springs in Gangtok is how they are cared for. Even when there is no formal system in place, local communities often take responsibility in maintaining them. People clean the area, ensure the flow is not blocked, and share access with others. 

Some springs are also well-maintained. For example, ‘Bardang Dhara in Bardang’ and ‘Gai Dhara in Tadong’ are known to be relatively clean and well-kept, showing how community effort can make a difference. However, not all springs receive the same level of care. One spring near TNA has the potential to be a well-maintained public space, but it is dirty and with continuous water flow there is waterlogging in the surrounding area.

In Tathangchen, a house owner explained that some springs have small reservoir systems built upstream to store water. However, these are located higher up in the hills and reaching them during the rainy season becomes very difficult, and oten remains out of reach.

A Cultural Connection to Water 

Springs are not only practical, but they also carry cultural meaning. Many are considered sacred and are associated with long-standing beliefs and traditions. Some are linked to local deities, and others are used during festivals and rituals. These practices bring people together and reinforce the importance of protecting these sites. A driver shared an example of a dhara in Ranipool, which is believed to be associated with Naag deities. According to local belief, these serpent deities reside in such water sources, giving them spiritual importance and encouraging people to treat them with respect. This cultural layer adds another dimension to why springs continue to matter.

Springs are not only practical, but they also carry cultural meaning. Many are considered sacred and are associated with long-standing beliefs and traditions. Some are linked to local deities, and others are used during festivals and rituals. These practices bring people together and reinforce the importance of protecting these sites. 

Looking Ahead 

As Gangtok continues to grow, it is important not to overlook these natural systems. Springs are not outdated or temporary solutions. They are part of the city’s foundation.  Protecting them means not only ensuring water availability but also preserving community practices and local ecosystems. Certain areas, such as Deorali ward, are known to have a high concentration of springs, making them especially important from a planning and conservation perspective.

As Gangtok continues to grow, it is important not to overlook these natural systems. Springs are not outdated or temporary solutions. They are part of the city’s foundation.  Protecting them means not only ensuring water availability but also preserving community practices and local ecosystems. 

Sikkim already has initiatives like the ‘Dhara Vikas Programme’ that focus on protecting and reviving springs. However, in urban areas like Gangtok, where land use is constantly changing, springs need more focused attention, as they are more vulnerable to construction and everyday pressures. Small steps can go a long way in maintaining these vital sources. 

A Quiet but Essential System 

In many ways, springs represent a parallel water system. Deeply rooted in the landscape and culture of the region they operate alongside formal infrastructure. They may not always be visible in plans or policies, but for many people in Gangtok, they remain indispensable. In the face of growing water challenges, they are more important now than ever. As the city grows, the question is not whether these systems still matter but whether we are paying enough attention to them.

In many ways, springs represent a parallel water system...As the city grows, the question is not whether these systems still matter but whether we are paying enough attention to them.

Author's Note:

The insights presented in this article were developed during my internship at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and Environment (ATREE). I am grateful to the team for their support and to Dr. Sailendra Dewan for his guidance, supervision, and the opportunity to contribute to vital spring conservation effort.

In the verdant foothills just 1 km off Gangtok's National Highway, near the Military Police Golai (MP Golai) outpost, lies Samdur village. Nestled on the southern fringe of an army area, this collection of 5 hamlets - each averaging 50 households - shares an all-weather road with the northern Army Supply Depot.

Historical Dependence on Spring Water 

Samdur's water narrative stretches back far beyond modern infrastructure. I relocated here in 2010, but lifelong residents describe an unbroken ancestral reliance on these springs. Emerging from the army area's immediate northern slopes - topographically too rugged for barracks, depots, or any substantial buildings - these sources have reliably sustained the hamlets of Samdur village. Even during harsh winters, when flows naturally diminish, no severe drinking water crises have etched themselves into collective memory. “We've shared news of every hardship across these hamlets”, notes a neighbour whose family has tended the same spring for decades, “but water scarcity has never been among them”.

This reliability stands in stark contrast to Gangtok's recurrent monsoon predicaments. Landslides frequently disrupt the capital's primary reservoirs, such as Rateychu and Selep, plunging the city into shortages. Yet, in Samdur, household tanks continue to overflow. During the 2023 city-wide water alert, triggered by extensive slide damage, our springs gushed steadily, filling reservoirs and underscoring the quiet resilience of these rural peripheries. Community management systems enhance this bounty: in my case, five families share a single spring directly through a network of plastic pipes, bypassing intermediate storage. More distant groups channel water into harvest tanks funded by area MLAs, redistributing it equitably via gravity-fed lines. Maintenance remains a communal chore - often unblocking pipes clogged by monsoon mud twice a week - yet the water is free, a "gift of nature" requiring only collective labour and vigilance. 

Community management systems enhance this bounty: in my case, five families share a single spring directly through a network of plastic pipes, bypassing intermediate storage. More distant groups channel water into harvest tanks funded by area MLAs, redistributing it equitably via gravity-fed lines. Maintenance remains a communal chore - often unblocking pipes clogged by monsoon mud twice a week - yet the water is free, a "gift of nature" requiring only collective labour and vigilance. 

Solty, who is the caretaker of a private land, echoes these sentiments. “Repairs are a nuisance, sure, but shortages? Never crossed our path”, he remarked recently during our short conversation that we had while I was returning from dropping my son at the school bus stop. His family, like many others, including mine, has invested in plastic pipes and tanks - procured sometimes through the area MLA’s largesse but more often from personal pockets. In some hamlets, groups even split into two factions, each accessing distinct springs, blending grassroots self-help with sporadic political support. This patchwork has kept taps trickling since time immemorial, even as residents born here attest to its continuity from their grandparents' era. 

Solty, who is the caretaker of a private land, echoes these sentiments. “Repairs are a nuisance, sure, but shortages? Never crossed our path”, he remarked recently...His family, like many others, including mine, has invested in plastic pipes and tanks - procured sometimes through the area MLA’s largesse but more often from personal pockets. In some hamlets, groups even split into two factions, each accessing distinct springs, blending grassroots self-help with sporadic political support. This patchwork has kept taps trickling since time immemorial, even as residents born here attest to its continuity from their grandparents' era. 

The Army's Unintended Gift: Topography and Springs 

The army area's unique layout has fortuitously preserved these resources. Steep northern gradients, perforce dismissed as wasteland unsuitable for development, host the majority of springs untouched by construction. Had these slopes been more amenable to building, reinforced concrete (RCC) structures would likely have overtaken them, as witnessed elsewhere in the army area and across Sikkim. Instead, civilians retain access via the shared all-weather road, piping water southward across the invisible border. This default arrangement, shielded by topography rather than policy, has endured for decades, allowing hamlets like those in Samdur to thrive without formal intervention. 

Yet, irony permeates the situation. Samdur qualifies as urban under municipal boundaries, lying mere kilometres from Gangtok's bustling core, but it lacks any reliable piped supply. A few years ago, an Asian Development Bank (ADB)-sanctioned project brought hope: pipes were laid, and a harvest tank was constructed at the village's higher reaches. Lines snaked downhill toward homes, promising integration into the urban grid. But the flow? Non-existent. Homes in my hamlet and others remain unconnected; the scheme stalled amid bureaucratic snags, leaving a bitter irony - urban classification, a title without the corresponding amenities. 

Samdur qualifies as urban under municipal boundaries, lying mere kilometres from Gangtok's bustling core, but it lacks any reliable piped supply. A few years ago, an Asian Development Bank (ADB)-sanctioned project brought hope: pipes were laid, and a harvest tank was constructed at the village's higher reaches. Lines snaked downhill toward homes, promising integration into the urban grid. But the flow? Non-existent. Homes in my hamlet and others remain unconnected; the scheme stalled amid bureaucratic snags, leaving a bitter irony - urban classification, a title without the corresponding amenities. 

Emerging Threats: Diminishing Flows and Human Pressures 

Recent years have exposed troubling cracks in this system. Spring yields have noticeably waned, appearing visibly less vigorous and signalling an existential risk. “Springs are dying year by year”, has become a familiar refrain among villagers, uttered not cynically but based on empirical observation of daily flows. Multiple factors converge to exacerbate the decline. 

“Springs are dying year by year”, has become a familiar refrain among villagers, uttered not cynically but based on empirical observation of daily flows. Multiple factors converge to exacerbate the decline. 

Foremost among them are upstream army constructions. What were once temporary galvanised iron (GI) sheet sheds have given way to a frenzy of RCC buildings - complete with extensive excavations and earthworks that disrupt aquifers and subterranean flows. These activities push water tables lower, throttling natural recharge. Before 2015, spring outputs held relatively steady; since then, declines have accelerated, correlating directly with the construction boom. 

Climate change compounds these anthropogenic pressures. Sikkim's springs, primarily recharged by monsoon rains, glacial melt, and forest aquifers, now falter under erratic precipitation patterns, prolonged dry spells, and rising temperatures. State government reports document 30-50% yield drops in eastern Himalayan springs since 2000, a trend mirrored precisely in Samdur. Diminished snowpack in upstream catchments starves high-altitude feeders, while even minor deforestation - whether army-related or incidental - erodes soil moisture retention. No severe shortages have materialised yet, buffered by our small scale and conservative usage, but the trajectory alarms residents as populations inch upward and Gangtok's tourism spillover adds peripheral strain. 

Community Ingenuity Amid Government Gaps 

Where grand schemes falter, residents demonstrate remarkable ingenuity. MLA grants occasionally fund tanks and pipes, but hamlet groups shoulder the rest: rotational repair schedules, equitable distribution protocols, and emergency fixes. My five-family quintet manages its spring directly, minimising losses; harvest-dependent clusters in other hamlets rotate maintenance duties, trekking to unclog monsoon blockages through muddy paths. The reward? Pure, free water, untainted by treatment chemicals. 

One such stalwart is David - real name Dawa Tamang, but barely anyone recognises that; "David” echoes universally throughout the village, let alone our hamlet. A bulky Tamang lad, he single handedly cleared a major landslide blockage last July, spending hours knee-deep in slurry while others “sent prayers”.

Then there's Mama, actually uncle to one village boy but dubbed "Mama" by all, for all practical purposes, the vernacular “Gaonley Mama” village father figure. His real name is Chandra Bahadur Rai, but hardly anyone recalls that name. With his battered toolkit and endless yarns, he orchestrates rotas, mediating squabbles over pipe shares. Last monsoon, I joined them on a dawn repair: hacking roots from our intake pipe, we bantered through the muck, emerging triumphant with restored flow.

In Samdur, informal Dzumsa-like structures have emerged organically around figures like David and Mama, proving adaptable and scalable within our modest hamlets. Yet, as springs fade, the limits of communal effort become stark: labour-intensive repairs cannot reverse hydrological decline indefinitely. 

This approach echoes North Sikkim's venerable ‘Dzumsa’ traditions - village councils that self-govern resources through consensus and custom. In Samdur, informal Dzumsa-like structures have emerged organically around figures like David and Mama, proving adaptable and scalable within our modest hamlets. Yet, as springs fade, the limits of communal effort become stark: labour-intensive repairs cannot reverse hydrological decline indefinitely. 

Policy Ironies and Pathways Forward 

Samdur's proximity to Gangtok lays bare profound absurdities. Tagged as urban yet chronically underserved, it exemplifies peri-urban neglect in Sikkim's development narrative. The ADB project’s aborted pipes symbolise systemic failures: funds sanctioned, half-built infrastructure abandoned, and zero delivery to end-users. State water plans, overseen by the Public Health Engineering Department (PHED), prioritise Gangtok's core despite mandates for 24/7 supply across urban wards. 

There is a proverb: “There is always darkness beneath the lamp”. A lamp may illuminate the room around it, yet the small circle directly beneath its flame often remains in shadow. Samdur village, in many ways, lives within that shadow cast by the bright lamp of Gangtok.

There is a proverb: “There is always darkness beneath the lamp”. A lamp may illuminate the room around it, yet the small circle directly beneath its flame often remains in shadow. Samdur village, in many ways, lives within that shadow cast by the bright lamp of Gangtok. We are only a few kilometres from the National Highway, and our hamlets fall officially under the Ranipool Municipal Ward. On paper, we belong to the orbit of the city. In lived reality, however, Samdur occupies a quieter and more uncertain edge - close enough to witness development, yet distant enough to remain only partially touched by it. 

The story of our roads captures this contradiction most clearly. The only dependable all‑weather road in the area was built not by the state government but by the army authorities. It runs along the southern boundary of the military land, almost like a line separating two worlds. The villagers must still climb upward to reach it, for the hamlets themselves lie scattered lower down the slopes. Once one leaves that road behind, the terrain changes quickly into narrow footpaths, mud tracks, and unfinished stretches that become difficult during the monsoon. Years ago, work began on a small road project for one of the hamlets. Even today, it remains incomplete, suspended between promise and abandonment. Other hamlets continue without any direct motorable access at all. 

Electricity, too, arrives in Samdur with hesitation. The power lines are present, but during the early mornings and evenings, when demand increases, the voltage weakens so much that ordinary appliances falter into silence. Bulbs dim unexpectedly. Induction cooktops flicker. A microwave hesitates before refusing to start. In all fairness, water presents a different picture, though. For generations, the springs around Samdur have sustained the hamlets with remarkable generosity.  Even during winter, severe shortages have been rare. Because of this, the absence of a formal piped water system cannot be described only as neglect. The reliability of the springs created a kind of quiet self‑reliance among the villagers. Without the pressure of an acute crisis, demands for large‑scale intervention never gathered urgency. In this sense, nature itself softened the edge of political necessity.

Yet roads and electricity belong to a different category altogether. They depend not on the moods of springs or seasons, but on planning, sustained investment, and administrative attention. And perhaps that is why the old proverb still lingers in conversation here. The darkness beneath the lamp is not some ancient curse or irreversible condition. It exists because the light has not yet fully reached there. Samdur’s story is therefore less about grievance than about a visible imbalance. It is an emphatic affirmation of the belief that places standing closest to the glow should not remain unseen forever.

Practical pathways forward exist if pursued with resolve. While Samdur continues to face shortcomings in other essential services, such as roads and electricity, as elaborated earlier, the scope of this discussion remains with water, because water is where both the village’s vulnerabilities and possibilities become most visible. Reviving the ADB infrastructure with local oversight - empowering hamlet committees for last-mile connections - could bridge the gap swiftly. Army-civilian collaboration offers promise: joint watershed protection agreements to restrict upstream builds near critical springs. Rooftop rainwater harvesting, already mandated in Sikkim's building bylaws, remains underutilised; my own home's tank overflows unused during monsoons, a missed opportunity for supplementation. 

Practical pathways forward exist if pursued with resolve. While Samdur continues to face shortcomings in other essential services, such as roads and electricity, as elaborated earlier, the scope of this discussion remains with water, because water is where both the village’s vulnerabilities and possibilities become most visible. Reviving the ADB infrastructure with local oversight - empowering hamlet committees for last-mile connections - could bridge the gap swiftly. Army-civilian collaboration offers promise: joint watershed protection agreements to restrict upstream builds near critical springs. Rooftop rainwater harvesting, already mandated in Sikkim's building bylaws, remains underutilised; my own home's tank overflows unused during monsoons, a missed opportunity for supplementation. 

Proven interventions nearby provide blueprints. Climate-resilient recharge pits - trenches that divert surface runoff back into aquifers - have boosted yields in Rumtek village. Community micro-grids, powered by solar pumps to elevate spring water into elevated tanks, enhance reliability without grid dependence. On the policy front, reclassifying peri-urban hamlets like Samdur for priority funding and integrating them into Gangtok's master plan would align rhetoric with reality. Sikkim's ‘Jal Jeevan Mission’, targeting 100% piped coverage by 2024, has left Samdur lagging. 

A Turning Point at Golai 

Samdur's springs, once seemingly eternal, now signal urgent peril. Their decline - scarred by construction, stressed by climate - threatens a foundational lifeline for 200-250 households across our hamlets. Yet, community grit persists: from Solty's steadfast stewardship to our relentless repair rotations, it buys precious time. As Gangtok's crisis-prone taps falter annually, Samdur's hamlets quietly offer counter-lessons in nature-endowed, human-maintained resilience.  At MP Golai's symbolic turn, we stand at a hydrological crossroads. Sustain these springs through vigilant protection and innovative augmentation, or risk urban shadows engulfing rural oases. For now, water still flows - thinner, but freely. Tomorrow demands a clear vision: blending ancestral tradition, accessible technology, and unyielding tenacity to quench Samdur's thirst for the long term.

At MP Golai's symbolic turn, we stand at a hydrological crossroads. Sustain these springs through vigilant protection and innovative augmentation, or risk urban shadows engulfing rural oases. For now, water still flows - thinner, but freely. Tomorrow demands a clear vision: blending ancestral tradition, accessible technology, and unyielding tenacity to quench Samdur's thirst for the long term.