The Water Remembers: The Disappearing Shorelines of Chandubi

A Journey Back to Silence

It was an early Sunday morning when I returned to Chandubi Lake after what felt like ages. The road had changed so much, I had to rely on Google Maps to find my way. It struck me how remarkable it is that we can summon directions to almost anywhere in the world with just a tap. Geography and its evolving technologies are clearly shaping the future of global dynamics—look no further than the ongoing geo-political conflicts to understand how territoriality remains central to world affairs.

Yet, ironically, as I approached Chandubi, my phone lost signal. The final stretch toward the lake lies beyond mobile connectivity, reminding me that despite all technological advancements, some corners of the earth remain beautifully untouched. I was trying to contact someone I was supposed to meet there, but without a signal and no exact address, I passed by his house unknowingly and reached the lake around 8 a.m.—early, even for the locals. But not for the birds.

Their melodies greeted me, echoing softly across the still waters. Standing at the viewpoint, I was momentarily lost in thought—staring into the void, consumed by a thousand-yard stare. After years of living in a city marred by construction, traffic, pollution, and frequent floods, this serene reunion with nature felt overwhelming. But I didn’t have the luxury to linger—I had come to meet someone.

The Boatman and a Quiet Question

As I waited for the first signs of life around the lake, I noticed a small boat cutting through the water, coming from the direction of the eco-camps. Maybe it would bring answers. A question stirred within me: Can nature and humans coexist in the same space at the same time? After all, humans today are the only species that routinely exclude themselves from nature—only to later speak of “returning” to it. It’s no wonder that true coexistence feels so rare, if not impossible.

When the boat arrived, the boatman gave me the directions I needed. I was heading to meet Pakhiraj Rabha, a well-known social worker from the area, revered for his work and passion for the lake and its surrounding communities.

Pakhiraj welcomed us warmly. Within minutes of our conversation, it became clear that his relationship with the lake wasn't merely logistical or professional—it was emotional, generational, and spiritual. It is often said that people living beside water bodies—rivers, lakes, or seas—develop a different kind of emotional intelligence. Flowing water may not retain memories, but closed water bodies like lakes do. And for the Rabhas, Chandubi holds every memory they have.

To them, the lake is not a picnic destination. It is a way of life—a source of sustenance, a cultural epicenter, and a sacred space. Their bond with nature is reciprocal. They do not claim dominance over it; they see themselves as a part of nature—not apart from it. And perhaps that’s the only path to coexistence.

Many don’t realize that Chandubi Lake wasn’t always there. It was born from a natural disaster—the devastating 1897 earthquake that reshaped the land near the Garo Hills. A vast forest area sank, giving rise to this tranquil lake. Today, it serves as a shared ecosystem between Assam and Meghalaya, uniting the border communities of both states.

That shared history is embedded in the people who live here. But over the past two decades, new challenges have emerged—ones that threaten the very balance that makes this region unique.

The Cost of Coexistence

One of the most pressing concerns is unregulated sand mining in the adjacent Kulsi River, a tributary of the Brahmaputra. Once limited to small-scale extraction by local youth, sand mining has now ballooned into a large, often illegal, enterprise.

The Kulsi is hydrologically linked to Chandubi Lake through a 2.5 km spiraling stream called lokeiyadar. This natural channel maintains lake water levels and serves as a fish migration route. But extensive sand mining has deepened the Kulsi’s riverbed and disrupted its flow. Alarmingly, lake water now reverses into the river, a clear sign of ecological imbalance.

This hydrological reversal coincides with fish spawning season, leading to plummeting fish populations. As a result, local communities are increasingly abandoning fishing—a traditional, sustainable livelihood—for sand mining, pushing them further into an unsustainable feedback loop.

Proposals have surfaced to build a dam at the lokeiyadar-Kulsi junction to retain lake water. But environmental experts warn this could backfire—blocking migratory routes, increasing flood risks, and further destabilizing the ecosystem.

Chandubi is not only a lake—it’s a cultural landmark. Around 2009-2010, the community initiated the Chandubi Festival to celebrate their heritage and promote eco-tourism. For the first few years, locals managed everything themselves—right down to using biodegradable materials.

But in recent years, there’s been a shift. Organizers now outsource logistics, bringing in materials and manpower that often disregard ecological sensitivities. Waste management is particularly poor. Post-festival waste is usually burned, causing air pollution and undermining the festival's original vision.

When I asked Rabha about this, he stressed that eco-tourism should not be reduced to local vendors selling chips and snacks to passing tourists. “Exposure is good,” he said, “but it must be meaningful—where the community’s voice leads the conversation.”

In January 2025, the Assam Government announced a new eco-tourism initiative for Chandubi—this time, in partnership with the local community. While cautiously optimistic, Rabha hopes such schemes will empower locals meaningfully, not tokenistically. Real empowerment, he believes, means letting locals be custodians—not just caretakers—of their own natural heritage.

The Elephants Know the Way

We ended our conversation with a topic that rarely enters mainstream discussion—elephant corridors. Chandubi lies along a migratory path elephants use to travel from Meghalaya to Goalpara. Unlike other regions, human-elephant conflict is remarkably low here. People respect the animals and quietly make their way. Even the elephants, Rabha believes, understand this unspoken truce. And so, the corridor remains peaceful—a quiet success story of coexistence.

The Answer Lies Within Us

As I left Chandubi, I was no longer burdened by the question that first echoed across the lake. I had found the answer in the way Rabha lives, in the way his community honors the lake, and in the way even elephants pass silently through.

Yes, humans and nature can coexist—but only if we stop seeing ourselves as separate from nature. Only if we act not as its conquerors, but as its companions.

(all photos taken by the writer)