India doesn’t need new climate wisdom—It needs to remember Narmada Parikrama

This article has been co-authored by Ankita Salunke

India does not lack environmental wisdom—it has forgotten it.

At a time when climate change, river pollution, and urban excess dominate public discourse, some of the most powerful models of sustainable living already exist within India’s own civilisational practices. One such example is the Narmada Parikrama—a 2,600-kilometre pilgrimage that quietly embodies an ecological ethic modern society is struggling to rediscover.

Undertaken on foot, the Parikrama is not merely a religious journey but a disciplined way of life. Devotees circumambulate the Narmada River, revered as a living goddess, carrying only the bare essentials. In the dharmic tradition, it is said: “Ganga snan, Yamuna paan aur Narmada dhyaan.” The Narmada is so sacred that even its remembrance is believed to have purifying powers. This is not just theology—it is ecology expressed as reverence.

Contrast this with the modern approach to nature. Rivers today are treated as drains, forests as commodities, and land as real estate. The result is visible across India: polluted water bodies, degraded soil, and an increasingly fragile environment. The crisis we face is not merely environmental—it is civilisational.

Pilgrimage traditions like the Narmada Parikrama offer a radically different worldview. They teach restraint in an age of excess. Walking thousands of kilometres with minimal possessions, pilgrims detach from consumerism and reconnect with the rhythms of nature. The journey transforms not just the traveller’s landscape, but also the traveller’s inner landscape.

This is why it is often said that the environmental crisis is, at its core, a spiritual crisis. When human greed overrides ethical restraint, ecological destruction becomes inevitable. Pilgrimage, in contrast, cultivates humility. There is no domination of nature—only coexistence.

The Varkari tradition of Maharashtra reflects a similar ethos. Every year, thousands walk to Pandharpur, singing abhangs that celebrate devotion and simplicity. The 17th-century saint Tukaram captured this ecological sensibility in a single line: “Vrikshavalli Amha Soyare”—trees and forest beings are our relatives. Long before the language of sustainability emerged, such traditions articulated a worldview in which humans and nature shared a moral universe.

This sensibility is deeply embedded in rural India. Farmers often regard land as Bhu Devi, a nurturing mother. In many communities, land is not easily sold, not out of economic calculation, but out of gratitude and reverence. Nature is not an object—it is kin.

Even India’s sacred narratives reinforce this ecological ethic. Rama is said to have sought permission from rivers before crossing them, while Krishna worshipped Govardhan Hill to acknowledge its role in sustaining life. These are not merely mythological episodes—they are cultural teachings on how to relate to the natural world.

The lesson is clear: sustainability cannot be achieved through technology alone. Policies and innovations are necessary, but insufficient without a transformation in values. When nature is desacralised, exploitation follows. When it is revered, responsibility emerges naturally.

The Narmada Parikrama reminds us that ecological balance begins with a shift in consciousness. It invites us to move from ownership to stewardship, from consumption to care.

If India seeks a sustainable future, it need not look outward for solutions. It needs to look inward—into its own traditions, practices, and philosophies that have long understood what modernity is only beginning to grasp.

The path forward may well lie in walking an ancient path again.

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