In a remote corner of Uttarakhand, one community has kept alive a 5,000-year-old grudge against the Lord Hanuman
In this article The Village That Dont Worship Hanuman we will explore why is there a tradition like this and why these people dont worship Lord Hanuman
The morning mist clings to the mountainside like an old man’s beard, refusing to let go even as the sun climbs higher over the Himalayas. At 11,000 feet, breathing takes effort here in Dronagiri village – each inhale a deliberate act, each step measured against the thin air that seems to mock the lowlanders who dare venture this high.
But it’s not just the altitude that makes this place different. Walk through the narrow stone paths between houses built from local slate and timber, and you’ll notice something missing. Something that would strike any Hindu as… wrong.
There are no Hanuman temples here. No saffron flags fluttering in the mountain wind. No paintings of the mighty warrior adorning doorways. In a country where Hanuman is revered as the ultimate devotee, the symbol of strength and loyalty, Dronagiri village stands apart – defiant, unapologetic, carrying a grudge that’s older than memory.
“People think we’re crazy,” says Devki Devi, a 67-year-old grandmother whose weathered hands gesture toward the towering peak that looms over her village. “They come here from the plains, these pilgrims, and they ask us – how can you not worship Hanuman ji? How can you not love the one who saved Lakshman’s life?”
She pauses, adjusting the heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders. The afternoon sun does little to cut through the mountain chill.
“But they don’t understand. They weren’t here when he came.”
The Mountain Remembers
The story begins, as many Himalayan tales do, in the mists of the Ramayana. When Lakshman lay dying on the battlefield of Lanka, pierced by Indrajit’s arrows, only the Sanjeevani herb could save him. Hanuman, mighty and devoted, was dispatched to fetch it from the Dronagiri peak – this very mountain that towers over the village today.
But here’s where the villagers’ version diverges from the one taught in schools and sung in bhajans across India.
“My grandfather used to say that Dronagiri wasn’t just any mountain,” explains Jagdish Singh, the village headman, as we sit cross-legged on the floor of his modest home. The smell of wood smoke and brewing tea fills the small room. “It was sacred. The herbs weren’t just growing wild – they were blessed, protected by the mountain deity himself.”
According to local belief, when Hanuman couldn’t identify the specific herb in the darkness of night, he did what the scriptures say he did – he lifted the entire peak. But to the people of Dronagiri, this wasn’t an act of devotion. It was theft. Sacrilege.
“He tore away the heart of our mountain,” says Kamala Bisht, a middle-aged woman whose family has lived here for thirteen generations. “The peak that had healing powers, that our ancestors worshipped for thousands of years. He just… took it.”
She shakes her head, the weight of ancestral memory heavy in her voice.
“Would you worship someone who broke into your home and stole your most precious possession? Even if it was for a good cause?”
Living the Boycott
This isn’t just ancient history here. The rejection of Hanuman is woven into the fabric of daily life in Dronagiri. While the rest of India celebrates Hanuman Jayanti with fervor, this village observes it as a day of mourning. No sweets are prepared. No celebrations are held.
Instead, they have their own rituals.
Every year during what would typically be Hanuman Jayanti, the villagers gather at the base of what remains of their sacred peak for a ceremony that outsiders might find jarring. They offer prayers not to the monkey god, but to “Dronagiri Devta” – the mountain deity they believe was wronged all those millennia ago.
“We light oil lamps and burn incense,” explains Sunita Rawat, a young mother who moved to the village after marriage and had to learn these customs. “We ask the mountain to forgive us for not being able to protect it. We promise that we remember.”
The ceremony is simple but profound. Children as young as five participate, learning the stories that will make them different from their peers in neighboring villages. Learning to carry forward a tradition that makes visitors uncomfortable.
“My daughter came home from school once, crying,” Sunita recalls. “Her teacher had told the class about Hanuman’s bravery, how he saved Lakshman ji. When she said we don’t worship Hanuman, the other children laughed at her.”
Her expression hardens slightly. “I told her – let them laugh. We know the truth.”
The Weight of Being Different
Being the village that doesn’t worship Hanuman comes with a price. Religious tourists who venture this high up the mountains often react with shock, sometimes anger. Some leave immediately, muttering about “lost traditions” and “misguided people.”
“A few years back, some pilgrims from Delhi came,” remembers Mohan Lal, an elderly man who runs the village’s tiny tea shop. “They wanted to organize a Hanuman puja here, said they’d pay for everything. When we refused, they got angry. Started shouting that we were anti-Hindu, that we didn’t understand dharma.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “They thought they could come here and teach us about dharma. Us, whose families have been protecting these mountains for centuries.”
The incident reflects a broader challenge the village faces – how to maintain their unique tradition in an increasingly connected world. Younger villagers sometimes question why they should carry forward what seems like an ancient grudge. Why be the odd ones out?
“My son asks me this sometimes,” admits Ravi Singh, a farmer whose terraced fields cling impossibly to the mountainside. “He sees his friends in other villages celebrating Hanuman Jayanti, sees the joy, the sweets, the festivities. He wonders if we’re missing something.”
Ravi stops to adjust his traditional Himalayan cap, thinking carefully about his words. “I tell him – we’re not anti-devotion. We’re not against faith. We just remember differently.”
The Mountain Speaks
There’s something profoundly moving about standing at the base of Dronagiri peak as evening approaches. The mountain rises abruptly from the village, its summit lost in clouds, its presence dominating everything. You can almost imagine how it might have looked before Hanuman’s intervention – perhaps more majestic, more complete.
The villagers point to specific rock formations that they claim show where the peak was torn away. Geologically, it’s hard to verify such claims. But standing there, listening to the wind whistle through the crags, feeling the weight of centuries of belief, scientific verification seems almost beside the point.
“The mountain still speaks to us,” says Hira Devi, one of the village’s oldest residents at 84. Her eyes, clouded with cataracts, still seem to see things others miss. “On quiet nights, when the wind is just right, you can hear it weeping for what was lost.”
She pauses, tilting her head as if listening to something only she can hear.
“But it also tells us to remember. To never forget what happened here.”
Faith in Question
The theological implications of Dronagiri’s stance are fascinating and complex. How does a community maintain Hindu identity while rejecting one of Hinduism’s most beloved deities? How do they reconcile their local tradition with broader religious narratives?
“We’re not rejecting the Ramayana,” explains Bhuvan Chandra Joshi, a retired teacher who’s become something of a village historian. “We believe in Ram ji, in Sita ma. We understand why Lakshman had to be saved. But we also believe that there might have been another way.”
His words carry the weight of someone who’s spent years thinking about these questions, years defending his village’s position to skeptics from the outside world.
“Faith isn’t blind acceptance,” he continues. “Faith is also asking questions. Our ancestors asked – was it right to take something sacred without permission? Even for a noble cause?”
It’s a perspective that challenges comfortable narratives, that refuses the easy path of unquestioning devotion. In a way, it embodies a very Himalayan approach to spirituality – rugged, uncompromising, shaped by the harsh realities of mountain life.
The Next Generation
As globalization reaches even the most remote corners of India, Dronagiri faces the question that haunts many traditional communities – how to preserve unique practices in a homogenizing world. The village has no internet connectivity, no mobile network. The nearest road ends six kilometers away, accessible only by foot through treacherous mountain paths.
This isolation has been both a blessing and a curse. It’s helped preserve their traditions, but it’s also made life incredibly difficult. Young people leave for education and jobs in the plains. Many don’t return.
“We’re losing people,” admits village headman Jagdish Singh, and for the first time in our conversation, his voice carries worry. “My own nephew lives in Dehradun now. Works in an office. His children barely speak our dialect, forget about understanding why we don’t worship Hanuman ji.”
But there are also signs of hope. Some young villagers are finding ways to bridge tradition and modernity. They’re documenting their stories, creating written records of oral traditions that have survived purely through memory for thousands of years.
“I’m learning to write everything down,” says Pradeep Singh, a 26-year-old who splits his time between the village and a job in nearby Joshimath. “My grandmother’s stories, the exact words of our prayers to Dronagiri Devta, the way we perform our ceremonies. So that even if we all scatter to the cities, the knowledge survives.”
Beyond Belief
What strikes you most about the people of Dronagiri isn’t their rejection of Hanuman, but their profound connection to place. Every story they tell is rooted in their landscape. Every tradition is tied to the rhythm of mountain life. Their faith isn’t abstract – it’s as tangible as the rocks beneath their feet and the peaks that frame their sky.
“You can’t understand us without understanding this mountain,” says Kamala Bisht, as we watch the sun set behind the western ridges. The temperature drops noticeably as shadows creep across the valley. “We’re not just people who happen to live here. We’re part of this place. The mountain’s story is our story.”
It’s getting dark now, and the village settles into its evening routines. Smoke rises from chimneys as families gather around fires. The sound of temple bells that ring out from every other Himalayan village at this hour is notably absent here.
Instead, there’s just the wind, the rustle of prayer flags dedicated not to Hanuman but to the mountain deity, and the soft murmur of evening prayers that have been spoken in this valley for generations beyond count.
In the morning, I’ll begin the steep trek down to the motor road, carrying with me the story of a village that dared to remember differently. A place where faith isn’t about following the crowd, but about staying true to the stories that made you who you are.
As night falls over Dronagiri, the mountain stands sentinel over its people – wounded but unbroken, diminished but still sacred, still worthy of the devotion that has sustained this remarkable community for thousands of years.
The village sleeps, but the mountain remembers. And in remembering, it keeps alive one of the most unique expressions of faith in all of India – a faith that asks difficult questions and isn’t afraid of the complicated answers.
This is the India that exists beyond the headlines and tourist brochures – complex, contradictory, endlessly fascinating. In Dronagiri village, they’ve chosen to honor their mountain over conforming to expectations. It’s a choice that makes them different, sometimes isolated, but undeniably authentic to who they are and where they come from.
