As modernity and human greed test divine patience, the angry gods are gathering for a sacred council at Jagatipat

The road to Naggar is a slow unravelling of the senses — and the nerves. Each hairpin turn is a lesson in faith: trust the driver, trust the road, trust the gods (in that order). The air is scrubbed clean by cedar and pine. Far below, the Beas river coils through terraces like a silver signature; above, rooftops huddle beneath tattered veils of mist. A modest sign, “Naggar Castle”, points upward. What stands at the end isn’t just a fort, but a dialogue — between stone and story, law and legend, gods and their ever-appealing mortals.

But the greatest verdicts are conveyed by none other than Hidimba Devi herself — on October 31, she has summoned all 365 deities from the Kullu valley to come together in council. This tradition of divine assembly gives the valley its reputation as a living court of faith.

This year, that ancient precedent has special urgency. A gathering unlike any in recent memory has been called: the gur (oracle) of Veernath has announced his fourth jagati, a ‘sacred parliament’ of deities summoned not for ceremony, but for judgment. His first jagati marked the end of the ill-fated ski village project in 2006, drowned by thunder and local will. The second, in 2018, reaffirmed the valley’s commitment to sacrifice and custom. The third came during the pandemic, a warning for humanity to mend its ways.

This fourth assembly, the gur cautions, is a stern reckoning: Veernath, embodying Mahadev, has conveyed in trance his disappointment. Human arrogance grows, heedless to warnings. Ignore this, and the valley will be answered with sudden floods and a winter of severity. The jagati, thus, has been convened to collectively determine which rituals and changes in human behaviour are necessary to prevent calamities — particularly neglect toward tradition, excessive pursuit of wealth, and unbridled development that disregards the ways and warnings of the deities.

All the regional deities, including Bijli Mahadev, will converge on the appointed day.

Across Naggar, the gur of Ugratara retreats to deep meditation, draping himself in handspun wool and custom — a living channel between mortals and gods. “Wealth above divinity is the road to ruin,” he warns, “and only renewed reverence will keep disaster at bay.”

But what is jagati, and what does Naggar Castle have to do with it? To understand this, we have to go back in time.

Locals smirk at the mention of “castle”. It’s imported vocabulary, grafted on when the British annexed Kullu in 1846 and Raja Gyan Singh exchanged the place with Major Hay —for a gun. Built in the Kath Kuni style, its alternating tiers of stone and deodar timber have outlasted quakes and empires.

Stone, myth, and evidence

High above the valley, Ghar Dek — the “watch tower” — keeps silent vigil at 3,500 metres. From the castle balcony, its profile stands sharp against the pale sky, a punctuation mark in the grammar of the mountain. Tradition says villagers formed a human chain down the slope to hoist every slab upward; others say divine subcontractors got the job done faster. Either way, devotion did the heavy lifting.

At the story’s glowing centre lies the Jagatipat, a limestone slab said to have flown here on the wings of bees — avatars of the valley’s deities themselves. Through a brass grille, the stone gleams beneath withered marigolds. As an archaeologist, I admire the workmanship; as a lawyer, I note that this myth comes well-documented in oral testimony spanning centuries — a rare case where evidence has wings.

Some tell me I must “believe to see”. After years excavating the ancient and defending the accused, I’ve come to think it’s the other way round: you see, and then you start believing. When my fingers trace chisel marks on the temple lintel, logic hums alongside reverence. Naggar lets both coexist — the sceptic and the believer making uneasy but lasting peace.

Displeasure of gods

Kullu’s gods are not passive ornaments; they are temperamental stakeholders with an eye for accountability. Their displeasure has always found earthly expression — through withheld rain, untimely storms, or landslides that conveniently target unauthorised constructions. Since time immemorial, the valley has known how to apologise: drums, incense, trance, and collective confession.

But, of late, the message feels sharper. Disasters have multiplied, forests thinned, and glaciers shrunk. Modernity, with its concrete optimism, keeps testing divine patience. The anger of the deities, traditionally appeased by ritual, now demands rectification through conduct. As the elders say, the gods aren’t vengeful — they’re exhausted.

For centuries, divine democracy has played out under cedar shade. At Jagatipat, the jagati convenes when governance from elsewhere proves inadequate. Imagine replacing Delhi’s corridors of power with a ring of palanquins and oracles. Here, verdicts begin with drumbeats and end with actions that shake ministries.

The record speaks. In 2006, when the grand Himalayan Ski Village promised five-star slopes and foreign glamour, the deities held an emergency session. Through their oracles, they declared the plan as sacrilege. The project folded soon after. Whether you call that divine intervention or excellent local activism is a matter of jurisdiction.

Earlier this year, the gods intervened again. The proposed Bijli Mahadev ropeway — a multimillion-rupee dream to whisk tourists up to the lightning temple — has been halted for now after oracular verdict pronounced it an insult to sanctity. Developers sighed; villagers nodded.

But now, the jagati has taken an even greater weight. Kullu’s deities don’t just converge for mere tradition or spectacle. They gather as a kind of emergency council summoned by calamities and restless spirits to guide the valley and its people, settle disputes, and remind us mortals that harmony and repentance are shared responsibilities. The valley’s wounds, ecological and spiritual, need healing and a timely verdict. But are we listening?

Cleansing season for soul

Every few years, Kullu valley presents another kind of verdict, the Kahika festival. It’s both theatre and therapy, staged when communal harmony begins to fray. One man, ritually “killed” and revived, carries the community’s sins on his shoulders so the valley begins anew. His wife theatrically scolds the gods, demanding her husband back, while elders laugh and strangers weep. By dawn, all are forgiven, proof perhaps that repentance can be entertaining. Anthropologists tend to overanalyse such rituals; locals just call it cleaning season for the soul. As one priest grinned, “The gods want confession, not perfection.”

Voices from the Valley

Faith here operates like common law, refined through precedent rather than proclamation.

At the teacher training college, Shruti Sharma, its managing director, explains this balance. “They call Kullu the Valley of the Gods for a reason,” she says. “With Hidimba Devi guarding us, it’s belief that binds us. When devotion becomes part of daily habit, divinity doesn’t fade — it lingers.”

In Naggar, Charanjeet Avasthi, tour operator and member of several deity committees, takes a firmer line. “Whatever the devtas decide, we follow. Naggar follows Dev Niti — god’s law. Shimla follows Raj Niti — man’s politics. Lately, too much Raj Niti has been making the gods file complaints,” he chuckles. “Let’s just say, we listen before we litigate.” And Ujjwal, 25, raises a contemporary caution. “Ego is ruining us. We’re turning sacred spaces into photo-ops. Everyone believes social media can offer enlightenment, but it barely offers connection. The gods have their own network, and it never crashes.”

Law Meets Lore

When I first studied traditional governance in Kullu, the parallels with formal law were uncanny. Evidence, witness, verdict — all present but delivered through rhythm instead of rhetoric. Having practised criminal law before archaeology claimed me, I can tell you: human courts could learn from divine procedure. The jagati never lacks a quorum, never calls recess, and hands down verdicts that come framed by cedar and flawless Himalayan views.

If divine rage still simmers in Kullu, it’s partly exasperation, partly protection. Calamities follow pride; forgiveness follows acceptance. Even humour has its place. When a road engineer once insisted a bulldozer crossing a ridge was harmless, an oracle answered dryly: “If the machine goes up, I’ll go down.” The ministry withdrew its plan within the week.

For locals, these stories form not folklore but functional ethics. Each verdict — be it from deity or district court — adds to a shared archive of lessons.

Judgment and Redemption

The rituals continue not out of fear but familiarity. Festivals like Kahika remind villagers that purity is a communal responsibility. If one man symbolically dies so others may live better, it’s less superstition and more social contract. Law codifies guilt; ritual converts it into relief.

Years of unscrolling ancient scripts have shown me that civilisations collapse not from bad fortune, but from ignored warnings. Temples crumble when reverence turns decorative. Yet Kullu still listens. Its gods scold with affection, its villagers repent with rhythm, and somewhere between thunder and laughter, equilibrium resurfaces.

Verdict of the Valley

At dawn, Naggar exhales. Smoke from hearths curls into the mist, the Beas gurgles like it knows something confidential. In a few days, the deities will assemble — their palanquins swaying, drums promising scripture, bureaucrats pretending indifference. The goddess Hidimba’s call will echo through the valley: counsel, not calamity.

Perhaps the gods are angry because we mistake faith for furniture — something to polish, not practice. Their wrath, like any good judgment, arrives with reasoning. In Kullu, justice doesn’t thunder — it arrives disguised as rain, patient and restorative. And when the verdict finally comes, whispered through cedar leaves, it will likely say what every wise court says: the case is ongoing, behave until further hearing.

— The writer is founder-director of the Himalayan Institute of Cultural & Heritage Studies