Between the Forest & the Future: A Journey Through the Fringe Villages of Manas

It was September when I arrived in Bhuyanpara — the forest still smelled of rain, the fields damp with the last sighs of the monsoon. The air was cool enough to carry a thin mist that hovered above the paddy fields, dissolving slowly as the sun climbed. The soundscape was already alive: bamboo fences creaking, hens calling, women laughing as they prepared the looms inside their taat shaals.

Bhuyanpara is one of the living edges of Manas National Park — a place where the boundary between forest and village blurs into a shared rhythm of survival. The green canopy hides a turbulent past — the shadows of the Bodo movement, the years of violence and loss, and the quiet resurgence that followed.

At Aaranyak’s Manas Conservation and Outreach Centre, I met Swapan, who has spent nearly a decade working with the people who call these edges home.

“Across the Manas landscape,” he said, “we have four SHGs in Bhuyanpara and two or three in Daodhara. Each one has its own strength — weaving, tailoring, natural dye, or pickle-making. Earlier, most families depended on forest products and firewood. That dependence has come down drastically. Now we identify the ones still going to the forest and help them shift — some into farming, some into weaving, some into tailoring.”

He leaned back, his voice calm but firm. “Our goal is to make them self-reliant. We are planning a model livelihood training centre — where people can learn beekeeping, mushroom cultivation, fisheries — so that they can earn without touching the forest.”

Outside, a few women walked by with thread bundles balanced neatly on their heads, their feet leaving soft prints on the damp earth. For them, the forest was once a pantry and a refuge. Now, it was a partner in survival — something to live with, not off.

Fire and Fear: Remembering the 1990s

The next morning, over tea, I met Chanrakanta, a local elder whose calm eyes carried the reflection of decades. Once a member of the All Bodo Students’ Union (ABSU), and later president of the Manas Maozigendri Ecotourism Society (MMES), he has lived every turn of Manas’s fate — from peace to fire to peace again.

“Manas had everything once — woodland, animals, birds,” he began softly. “In 1985, UNESCO declared it a World Heritage Site. But in 1992, during the height of the Bodo movement, law and order broke down. The forest department left. The camps were empty. Poachers and timber smugglers entered. The people who had nothing turned to the forest for survival.”

He paused, looking towards the green line in the distance. “Between 1990 and 2000, it was all destruction. Trees were cut and smuggled to Bhutan. Rhinos were wiped out. Officials were scared to stay in the camps. People were caught between police raids and militants. Those were years of fear.”

For a long moment, only the sound of the wind filled the silence between us. Then, he smiled faintly.

“In 2001, when the Bodoland Liberation Tigers began peace talks, we realised that protecting Manas was protecting ourselves. ABSU started going village to village, telling people that if we destroyed the forest, we destroyed our own roots. Slowly, the message spread.”

His voice lifted with pride. “In 2005, 120 poachers surrendered along with 27 handmade guns. Those same men became forest guards. We surrendered the weapons to the DC’s office. It was symbolic — a gesture of peace. And then, Manas began to heal. When I see elephants and rhinos again near the river, I feel like my child has returned home.”

The mist had lifted by then, revealing the shimmering green of the forest. What once symbolised rebellion was now the sound of recovery.

Daodhara: From Jungle Dependence to Self-Reliance

From Bhuyanpara, I travelled to Daodhara, one of the most active fringe villages where Aaranyak’s initiatives have taken root. The road wound through patches of sal forest and stubble fields, interrupted occasionally by the sharp scent of wild lemon and fresh thatch.

At Lwkhi Bazar, I met Bibari Bala Basumatary, who runs a small tea and pitha stall beside the market. Her stall, built of bamboo and tin, smelled of smoke and sweet rice flour.

“Before, life was very hard,” she told me, pouring tea into steel cups. “I used to go into the jungle to collect firewood. Sometimes, I worked as a daily labourer. My children grew up like that. Then, with Aaranyak’s help, I opened this stall eight months ago. Now Bhutanese traders also come to eat my pithas. I earn enough to live, and I understand now why protecting the forest matters.”

A Bhutanese woman sitting nearby smiled and said, “When we come to this market, it feels like we are among our own people.”

A few kilometres away, in Adivasi basti, I met Suman Kujur, a farmer with a patchwork of vegetables around her house — cabbage, brinjal, chillies, and pumpkin. “We grow everything ourselves,” she said. “Aaranyak gives us seeds and connects us to buyers. We don’t have to go into the forest anymore. Farming gives us food and pride.”

Her children played barefoot, their laughter rising with the hum of cicadas. Around them, the land that once drove people into the forest now seemed to be giving something back.

The Women Who Weave Tomorrow

In Gorumara village, the rhythmic clatter of looms filled the afternoon air. Inside a bamboo taat shaal, members of the Swrjyashuli Self Help Group worked on their bihuwans and gamusas. Bright yarns hung from the walls like ribbons of sunlight.

“Our group has twelve members,” said Pokhila Boro, a weaver, her fingers moving swiftly over the threads. “Aaranyak helped us build two weaving sheds. We sell our gamusas for about three hundred rupees each. The profit goes to all of us. Earlier, we depended on forest work or daily labour. Now we depend on our hands.”

The taat shaal smelled of dyed yarn and patience. A few looms were decorated with patterns inspired by the forest — elephants, birds, leaves — a quiet dialogue between craft and conservation.

For these women, weaving was no longer just tradition; it was a statement of independence. Their looms were weaving more than cloth — they were weaving a new future.

Tailoring Hope

A few villages away, a different rhythm filled the air — the soft hum of sewing machines. In a tailoring school supported by Aaranyak, I found a dozen women and girls learning to stitch blouses, frocks, and bags.

“It’s been one year since we started,” said Jupitara Das, a Class 9 student balancing schoolwork and stitching. “We’ve also learned embroidery and pickle-making. I study at night after coming home.”

Next to her, Chiramoni Rabha, a housewife, smiled shyly. “Earlier, I only knew cooking and field work. Now I can stitch and earn something small. It gives me confidence.”

The steady whirr of the machines was more than just noise. It was the sound of quiet transformation — of women learning to earn, decide, and dream.

The Homestay by the Forest

In Majrabari, at the edge of a thick patch of grassland, I met Hala Mushahary, who runs Hala Homestay with his wife. Their house stood facing the forest, surrounded by banana trees and a small kitchen garden.

“I started this in 2018–19 with help from Aaranyak,” he said proudly. “Researchers, tourists, students — they all come here. We serve local food — rice, pork, and sometimes ouw (bamboo shoot). It brings income, but more than that, it gives us identity.”

He led me to the verandah. The forest stretched endlessly ahead, the sky just beginning to turn gold. “Earlier, this silence used to mean fear,” he said softly. “Now, it means peace.”

The Forest and Its People

As I moved through these villages, I realised that conservation here is not an abstract idea — it is deeply personal. The people of Manas know what it means to lose a forest and what it takes to bring it back.

On the riverbank one evening, I saw a woman washing utensils as her children splashed nearby. Behind them, sal trees stood tall, their trunks marked by old scars — bullet holes, axe cuts — now sealed with new bark.

Nearby, a group of young men discussed a plan for guided bicycle trails through the fringe villages — an idea that could bring tourism and awareness together.

Manas, in its own quiet way, is learning to coexist — not through force, but through faith.

Healing the Past, Reclaiming the Future

When I asked Chanrakanta what he feels now, after all these years, he paused for a long time before answering.

“The condition between 1993 and 2003 — it cannot be imagined now,” he said. “Back then, Manas was finished. No trees, no animals, no trust. Now, everything is back — because people changed. We learned that protecting Manas means protecting our own lives.”

It struck me that real conservation does not happen in government offices or protected zones — it happens in kitchens, in looms, in the small choices people make every morning between firewood and self-reliance.

As dusk fell over Bhuyanpara, I watched the last light ripple across the canopy. The women had stopped weaving; children played outside the taat shaals. The air smelled of earth, tea, and rain-soaked bamboo. Somewhere in the distance, a hornbill called — a reminder that the forest, once silent, was alive again.

Manas still carries its scars, but also its strength. Between its forests and its future stand the people who have learned — patiently, painfully — that survival and conservation are not two stories, but one.

Here, the forest is not just habitat. It is history, livelihood, and home.

Why This Story Matters

The story of the fringe villages of Manas reveals something vital: conservation succeeds only when people’s lives are secure, their dignity intact, and their memories respected. The revival of Manas is not just an ecological comeback; it is a human one.

In the hands of women who weave, farmers who plant, and former poachers who now protect, Manas’s future is being stitched — thread by thread, seed by seed — into something quietly extraordinary.

(This feature has been produced as part of Aaranyak’s Media Fellowship 2025, supported by IUCN-KFW.)

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