Kullu Dasehra’s unscripted resilience
It’s a week where chaos and cosmic order break into a gleeful tango in the valley
With every palanquin carried by young and old, every lamp, every drumbeat, resilience becomes a celebration, not a burden. Photo: ANI
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If Indian festivals were a reality show, Kullu Dasehra would be that legendary crossover episode nobody dares miss. Picture it: 300 high-maintenance deities checking into the world’s oldest, no-reservations-required Himalayan “resort”, each bringing their own fan club, dietary restrictions, and opinions on crowd control.
It’s one of those weeks where chaos and cosmic order break into a gleeful tango in the valley.
The festival’s roots date back to the 17th century, when Raja Jagat Singh — wrestling personal demons — chose a plot twist rare among royals: he put Lord Raghunath on the throne, on the advice of the mysterious Phuari Baba, who apparently had his roots in Rajasthan, with echoes of the Bhakti movement spreading to the Kullu valley.
Suddenly, every god and goddess across Kullu received a golden invitation to court. The result? An annual bash where hierarchy yielded to harmony, and humility was crowned king. Year after year, the town explodes with palanquins and percussion: gods once presumed shy are paraded with great fanfare, their tribes in tow, myths swirling like mountain mists.
For seven days, Dasehra makes mere mortals feel the gods are just neighbours: noisy, eccentric, but refreshingly democratic.
But don’t be fooled by the laughter, order is an obsession. Enter Dhumal Naag, the region’s most intimidating divine traffic regulator. Already nervous about missing your procession slot? Try facing Dhumal Naag’s legendary glare: not just strict, but unyielding. When processions inch dangerously close to gridlock in Kullu’s lanes, his invisible hand (and sharp reputation) restores discipline faster than any mortal police force could. Deity or devotee, everyone toes his line.
Another humanised deity, Jamlu Devta of Malana, is legendary for upholding protocols handed down longer than anyone can remember. While Dhumal Naag enforces, the other preserves, combining to prove Kullu can do order and ornament, grand spectacle and strict schedules.
Yet, the plotting of divine hierarchy isn’t always stern. The story of Bhagasiddh, Kullu’s littlest goddess, brings a gentle lesson wrapped in legend. The youngest among her sisters, Bhagasiddh was doted on but tested by fate: when asked to split a single sesame seed between siblings, Bhagasiddh lost her entire share as it scattered to her sisters. Left with nothing, the story goes, she piggybacked on one sister’s back during the scramble to find her own space.
Where she finally slipped down, that patch became her sacred home — making her the goddess of loss turned resilience, the overlooked one who became central to collective devotion. If Dasehra is about everyone finding a seat at the table (or on the palanquin), Bhagasiddh is its soul, proof that in Kullu, the smallest get their moment to shine, provided they’re persistent enough to catch it.
This same spirit of perseverance is alive in Yuvathon, Kullu’s new breed of festival heroes — youth volunteers in white and lavender lettering on black T-shirts, hoisting palanquins and hopes alike. The name Yuvathon may sound like a 42-km Olympic race, but in Kullu it is more about running on chai, sweat and community spirit.
After devastating floods battered the valley, Yuvathon surged into action, vowing that every family touched by disaster would see light this Diwali, be it through restored electricity or a simple lamp. For many, this gesture is proof the legacy of Dasehra grows, not fossilises. Then comes a modern marvel: on October 7, Kullu with its Yuvathon team aims to notch a state record for giving, with nearly 1,000 units of blood donated in a single day.
In a festival often defined by drums and spectacle, this quiet giving, “by Kullu, for Kullu”, may be its most enduring act of resilience.
At the heart of Yuvathon is not just youthful energy but the quiet force of coordination and selfless work of volunteers led by Zila Parishad chairman Pankaj Parmar. Volunteers dedicate themselves to organising with purpose — streamlining efforts, overcoming hurdles, and nurturing the spirit of resilience. Their contribution is often unseen, yet it is this quiet labour that keeps the movement alive.
Why does the country need Kullu Dasehra? Because under its tent, democracy is more than voting forms and slogans. Here, order and mischief sit side by side, deities and devotees swap roles, and youth invent new rituals of belonging and giving. Humour leavens the holy, discipline softens into grace. And with every palanquin carried by young and old, every lamp, every drumbeat, every unit of blood, resilience becomes a celebration, not a burden.
Kullu shows that the best traditions don’t stubbornly resist change; they outsource it, welcome it, when faced with calamity.
— The writer is founder-director of the Himalayan Institute of Cultural & Heritage Studies
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