Your early life was marked by immense hardship: you lost your father and grew up in poverty. In 1955, you found employment as a booking clerk with the Garhwal Motor Owner’s Union (GMOU). But just five years later, you made a radical choice: against your family’s wishes, you not only resigned but tore up your school certificates to ensure there was no return to salaried life. What gave you the conviction to take such a bold and irreversible step into a life in social activism? 

I joined GMOU as a temporary booking clerk, affectionately called “Booking Babu”. Soon, I was promoted to booking-in-charge. Even in those days of limited transport infrastructure, around one lakh pilgrims set out each year to Kedarnath and Badrinath. GMOU operated what was said to be the largest bus fleet in all of Asia. I was stationed in Pipalkoti, the final stop on the Badrinath pilgrimage route.

It was there, in 1956, that my life took an unexpected turn. Jayaprakash Narayan, on his way to Badrinath, held a public meeting in Pipalkoti. I still remember listening intently as he spoke of [Vinoba Bhave’s] Bhoodan movement with rare conviction. His words stirred something deep within me, planting the seed of Gandhian constructive work that would soon reshape my life’s trajectory.

Around the same time, I came in close contact with Man Singh Rawat, a Sarvodaya worker from Garhwal. His simplicity and selflessness left an enduring impression. On his encouragement, I gave up tea and beedis to which I had long been addicted—small but symbolic steps toward self-purification—and began an inner discipline that would guide me for years to come.

In 1957, I joined Rawat on a padayatra to spread Vinoba Bhave’s message of Bhoodan. Walking through the hills, villages, and forests was nothing short of transformative. Along the way, I met many Gandhians who were a living testament to service and sacrifice. Among them was Sarla Behn, a British-born follower of Gandhi who made India her home and founded Lakshmi Ashram in Kausani. Such individuals introduced me to Gandhian thought, not as abstract philosophy but as a way of life. In Pipalkoti, the Gandhi Ashram became a space where I regularly met many devoted followers of Gandhi.

In January 1959, I undertook a 15-day Bhoodan yajna padayatra, and later that [year, in] September, I had the rare opportunity to participate in Vinoba’s own padayatra. I met several stalwart Gandhians who inspired me. Around this time, I also immersed myself in Gandhian literature, including the weekly journal Bhoodan Yajna, deepening my understanding of the ideals I sought to live by.

The 1960s were a tumultuous time, with a threat from China looming large. Inspired by Vinoba’s vision of integrating remote, rural communities emotionally with the rest of India through constructive work, many prominent Gandhian organisations began working zealously in the border areas. Vinoba’s ideas had a profound impact on me, and gradually, I began toying with the thought of leaving my job to become a full-time Gandhian activist.

On September 11, 1960 (Vinoba’s birthday), I finally resolved to take the step I had been contemplating for a long time. The decision was far from easy; our financial situation was precarious, and the thought of leaving a stable job filled my mother and wife with anguish. I tried to reassure them: we earned Rs.40 each month from a house rented to schoolteachers, and a small plot of land offered modest support to the family.

Yet, family members and close friends all implored me to not abandon my job. The pull of activism, however, was stronger than the comfort of financial security, and I knew I could postpone no longer. I tore up all my school certificates, ensuring that even in the face of financial hardship, a return to salaried employment would be impossible. In December that year, I sent my resignation. From that day onwards, there was no turning back.

A bridge being built over the Rishiganga river after flash floods destroyed connectivity to villages, in Reni, Chamoli district, Uttarakhand, on February 19, 2021. | Photo Credit: V.V. Krishnan

In 1964, you founded the Dasholi Gram Swarajya Sangh (DGSS), which would become the Chipko movement’s parent organisation a decade later. Why did you establish the DGSS? What was your vision for it? 

At GMOU, I dreamt of building a labour organisation grounded in Gandhian and socialist principles, one where workers are respected and wages are fair and aligned with their needs. I shared this vision with two close friends: Chiranji Lal and Shambhu Prasad Bhatt. In January 1959, we founded the labour contract society Shram Samvida Samiti and began generating employment by securing contracts for unskilled labour from the public works department.

Later, we resolved to broaden the scope of our organisation to include skilled individuals, especially those associated with the Gramdan–Bhoodan movement. This vision culminated in the founding of the cooperative Dasholi Gram Swarajya Sangh [later renamed Dasholi Gram Swarajya Mandal] in Gopeshwar in 1964. Its core mission was twofold: provide dignified, sustainable employment and foster a society rooted in ahimsa [non-violence], the ideals of Bhoodan, and village-based industries.

Sunderlal Bahuguna, Bag Singh Aswal, Alam Singh Bisht, Murari Lal, Bali Ram, Prasadi Lal, and I were the first members. Shyama Devi of Gopeshwar generously donated land to the organisation. The DGSS trained local youth in khadi [hand spinning], carpentry, beekeeping, blacksmithing, collecting medicinal plants, and other skills. We worked tirelessly and, in a few years, emerged as the hub of Gandhian constructive programmes in Uttarakhand, nurturing both skill and self-reliance among its communities.

In October 1968, the Central Border Area Coordination Committee held a three-day conference at the DGSS, chaired by Jayaprakash Narayan and inaugurated by U.N. Dhebar, Chairperson of the Khadi & Village Industries Commission. The conference brought together around 50 prominent Gandhian organisations, including Gandhi Smarak Nidhi, Sarva Seva Sangh, Bharatiya Adimjati Sevak Sangh, Gandhi Peace Foundation, and Khadi Gramodyog.

It highlighted the pressing developmental challenges facing Himalayan border regions and sought to instil a deep sense of responsibility among people and inspire them to act as vigilant guardians of their land, culture, and communities. For the first time in our region, Dalit social workers were publicly honoured; the Sarva Dharma prayer embraced all faiths; and communal meals bridged social divisions, bringing people together cutting across caste boundaries.

Jayaprakash Narayan applauded the DGSS as Gandhism in action. His praise changed how the villagers perceived us, especially the upper-caste families who had long suspected me of stirring trouble by mobilising Dalits. When he visited my home and spoke to my mother, commending my work, he did what I could not: he eased her fears, convincing her that I was on the right path. That affirmation stayed with us, strengthening both her trust and my resolve.

Surviving members of the women in Reni who stopped contractors from felling trees, at the 30th anniversary of the Chipko movement in March 2004. | Photo Credit: Ceti/Wikimedia Commons

In 1971, you were arrested for leading a people’s movement against liquor. When brought before the magistrate, you boldly demanded that Gandhi’s portrait be removed from the courtroom before any ruling in favour of alcohol. You were subsequently sent to the Tehri Gahrwal Jail along with other satyagrahis. What inspired this movement and what was its ultimate outcome?

During our Sarvodaya yatras, women voiced deep concerns about the devastating impact of alcoholism on their families. From this arose a satyagraha in Pauri Garhwal, led predominantly by women who picketed liquor shops and urged men to give up drinking. Among the intoxicants, tinchari (a potent concoction of herbs and roots steeped in ethanol) posed a particularly serious health hazard. Its grip on the community was so entrenched that in earlier times a sanyasini had waged a courageous fight against it, earning the title “Tinchari Mai”.

Under the Uttarakhand Sarvodaya Mandal banner, we carried the campaign to all corners of the hills. Peaceful pickets sprang up outside liquor shops in Chandrapuri, Tehri, Thal, Chamoli, Badshahithaul, and Pithoragarh. Our voices in bhajans echoed through valleys, appealing to both the conscience and the hearts.

The women led the movement with extraordinary courage, with Shyama Devi at the forefront, resolute against fear and opposition. In 1966, our persistence bore fruit: the government ordered the closure of liquor shops in Chandrapuri, Badshahithaul, and Thal. The following year, Chatwapipal and Tharali joined the ban. By 1968, Chamoli district celebrated complete prohibition—a hard-won victory achieved through satyagraha and the moral strength of the people.

In 1969, our satyagraha spread to Kotdwar in [Pauri] Garhwal region, and it reached Almora district the following year. Ghanshyam Sailani—the Chipko poet—composed songs rooted in local struggles, stirring people’s hearts and drawing them closer to the cause. Women came forward in numbers never seen before; their courage and determination formed the very backbone of the movement. Soon, the campaign reached Tehri, where Sunderlal Bahuguna undertook a fast unto death. Despite arrests and intimidation, satyagrahis continued to pour in from villages, undeterred. Streets and valleys came alive with bhajans and the steady beating of drums. In that moment, ordinary people discovered extraordinary courage, daring to stand together in resolute resistance.

An arrest warrant was soon issued against Sailani and me, and we were taken into custody. As the policemen led us away, Sailani raised his voice in a final song on prohibition: “See how for the sake of liquor shops we are being imprisoned in the sacred land of Badrinath, Kedarnath, Gangotri, and Yamunotri.” Later, when we appeared before the magistrate, my eyes fell on the portrait of Gandhi behind him. I told him that if he intended to rule in favour of liquor, he should remove Gandhi’s portrait. I reminded him of the moral and ethical consequences of his decision.

On December 1, 1971, we were sent to the Tehri [Garhwal] Jail. Meanwhile, four courageous women took their demand for prohibition directly to President V.V. Giri. Their efforts bore fruit: alcohol was banned across the Uttarakhand region—seven districts of Uttar Pradesh [at the time]—from April 1, 1972, to March 31, 1991. All satyagrahis imprisoned in Tehri, Dehradun, and Saharanpur jails were released. This victory was more than the triumph of prohibition; it sparked a profound sense of empowerment among women, strengthening their voices, and secured their rightful place in public life across the hills. This movement laid the groundwork for our next struggle: the Chipko Andolan.

A foot march by Chipko and Save Forest campaign volunteers in South Kanara, Karnataka, in December 1984. | Photo Credit: The Hindu archives

The Chipko Andolan—which completed 50 years in 2023—has lent itself to a range of interpretations that sometimes compete with one another. The historians Ramachandra Guha and Shekhar Pathak situate it within a longer history of peasant struggles for forest rights; Vandana Shiva emphasises its ecofeminist dimensions; Gandhians celebrate it as satyagraha; and communists frame it as class struggle. What do these readings reveal about the meanings attached to Chipko? And how do you understand the movement, both historically and in how it is remembered today?

To understand Chipko, one must first understand the region where it arose. For generations, communities in Uttarakhand relied on forests for fuel, fodder, timber, and soil stability. Those very forests were systematically alienated from them ; first under colonial laws that transformed the commons into state property, and later through postcolonial policies that prioritised commercial exploitation by outsiders over local needs. The Chipko movement emerged from this history of dispossession and resistance.

Women—who bore the daily responsibility of collecting firewood, fodder, and water—stood at the forefront of the movement. In the hills, women’s labour extends from the hearth to the fields. Deforestation strikes directly at the foundations of subsistence agriculture, bringing floods, soil erosion, and food insecurity. Their [women’s] leadership in Chipko arose not only from deep ecological wisdom but from the heavy responsibility they shouldered for their families and communities’ survival.

Chipko embodied the Gandhian ideals of non-violence and swaraj. Villagers protected trees not with weapons but their bodies, asserting moral authority against both state and corporate power. Yet, the movement was unmistakably also a class struggle. A defining spark was when our request for ash trees—used to make tools for local needs—was denied, while the same trees were handed over to Symonds, a sports goods manufacturing company. This act of injustice revealed how state policy often favoured capital over the rural poor; it inspired in Chipko a class struggle.

The richness of Chipko lies in its refusal to be reduced to a single narrative. It was simultaneously a struggle for forest rights, an assertion of women’s agency, a Gandhian satyagraha, and a resistance to capitalist exploitation. This plurality is precisely why Chipko endures as a reminder that local struggles, rooted in specific histories and contexts, can carry universal significance and inspire movements across the world.

Chipko has become an iconic name. It is often linked to the 18th century legend of the Bishnoi people of Khejarli, wherein Amrita Devi, among others, embraced khejri (Prosopis cineraria) trees to death to stop the king’s soldiers from cutting them. To what extent, if at all, did this legend influence the movement?

Chipko was not born out of or inspired by the Khejarli legend; I had not even heard of that story then. What set the events in motion was a single incident on March 30, 1973, when I learned from Symonds’ contractors that the government had permitted them to fell the trees. Outraged, I told them plainly that the moment they begin to cut, we will embrace the trees. I used the Garhwali word angwaltha (to clasp/to hug). That is how the movement came to be Chipko. That very evening, I handed a letter to the District Collector warning him that the people would never permit the felling of the trees and that if they tried, we would cling to the trees with our bodies.

The Collector read my letter and laughed at the idea. I felt that this was the most honest and non-violent way to resist the destruction of our forests. I shared my thoughts with friends who listened intently. On April 1, 1973, we planned our strategy against the Symonds loggers. Some proposed blockading trucks; others suggested seizing axes. I felt such methods risked violence and state retaliation. I proposed a different path: we would embrace the trees, standing guard with our bodies. The simplicity and moral force of the idea struck everyone, and after a brief debate, they all agreed. In that moment, a path of non-violent resistance—the Chipko Andolan—was born.

With Ghanshyam Sailani, who came up with the name Chipko for the movement through a song he wrote. | Photo Credit: By special arrangement

What made the Chipko in Reni—where Gaura Devi, among other women, protected their forests—a defining moment?

After the devastating floods of 1970 in the Alaknanda Valley, we learned that the government was preparing to fell trees in Reni, a region of the Rishiganga Valley scarred by the disaster. Alarmed, we set out on foot in November 1973 to the Reni–Tapovan Valley villages where we spoke with local residents about the proposed felling and its grave consequences. Together, we formed men’s action committees in each village.

In January 1974, the Reni forest was auctioned to a contractor. I attended the auction and warned the contractor’s agent that any attempt to fell the forest would be met with Chipko resistance. On March 15, local residents staged a demonstration in Joshimath, and on March 24, 60 students from Gopeshwar College took out a march, giving voice to the growing movement.

Then, on March 26, the forest conservator of the Garhwal Circle invited me to Gopeshwar. I assumed it was to explore a resolution. Incidentally, that very day, the men of Reni travelled to Chamoli to collect compensation for land acquired by the state for defence purposes. The conservator kept me engaged in discussions until that evening, praising our efforts but carefully avoiding the issue in Reni. Only later did I realise that he had deceived me; labourers had been sent to the Reni forest to begin felling trees in the absence of the village men. I rushed and arrived in Reni the next morning. There, I learned that a young girl while grazing cattle had spotted the loggers and alerted the women.

Gaura Devi, the 50-year-old president of the Mahila Mangal Dal, had led 27 women to the site. They had found the workers sharpening their axes. The women had pleaded, saying that the forest was their maika [natal home], the abode of their gods, and their sources of sustenance; if its trees were cut, their lands, livelihoods, and very lives would be destroyed, so if the men attempted to fell the trees, the women would stop them by embracing the trees.

The labourers had hesitated, but the contractor’s men and the forest guard—drunk and enraged—hurled abuses and threatened to open fire. The women had stood their ground, declaring that they were ready to face bullets and axes. Confronted with such fearless resolve, the men ultimately withdrew. The Chipko of Reni, led by these brave women, became a defining moment for communities across the region and for the Andolan as a testament to courage, moral conviction, and the power of women’s non-violent resistance.

During Chipko, you worked closely with many individuals. Who stands out and what made them particularly memorable to you?

I was fortunate to have known and worked alongside many remarkable individuals, but Gaura Devi stands out. Born into the Bhutia tribal community in Lata village of Chamoli district, she embodied courage, wisdom, and an unwavering commitment to her people and forests. She did not have the opportunity to attend school; she was married at 11 and widowed by 22, left alone to care for her only son, a 1-year-old. Life demanded resilience, which she met with tireless labour and uncommon kindness.

Having witnessed the destruction of the Himalaya, Devi carried rare wisdom shaped by struggles and deep empathy for nature. As the first president of the Mahila Mangal Dal in Reni, she became a tireless force leading not only Chipko but also the Badrinath Temple Bachao Andolan. To me, she was like a mother embodying both courage and compassion. After her passing, the people of Reni honoured her memory with an idol in the village to ensure that her spirit of resistance and care continues to inspire the generations to come. Gaura Devi lives on in my heart alongside my mother. 

Sometime in the early 1980s, Richard Taylor of the BBC invited you to participate in the documentary The Axing of the Himalayas, which focussed on the Chipko movement. You declined. What concerns led to that decision?

I received a letter from Taylor expressing his desire to make a film on the Andolan, highlighting my role alongside a few others. I politely declined. Undeterred, he arrived in Gopeshwar with his crew, insisting that I take part, and citing official permission and the considerable expenses incurred in bringing his team. I refused once more. When he tried to persuade the villagers to cooperate, they too stood firm and declined.

I chose not to participate because deep inside I felt that spotlighting a few individuals alone would misrepresent the essence of the movement. Chipko was never about one person or a handful of “leaders”; it was a collective struggle, a web of courage, conviction, and commitment woven by countless women, men, students, and political and grassroots workers. To single out a few of us would have diminished that spirit.

In an era of escalating environmental disasters, climate change, and mounting costs of unsustainable development, what lessons does Chipko offer about resistance, social and environmental justice, and caring for the Himalaya?

At its core, Chipko was a non-violent yet powerful resistance—born from the struggles of ordinary people, led by their courage, and sustained by collective will. It emerged as a clarion call for justice for both people and nature whose victories were forged through the sacrifices of countless people. It is this extraordinary spirit of care, courage, and selfless collective action that gave Chipko its enduring power, and it is in this spirit that it should be remembered.

Chipko teaches that non-violent resistance is the most potent tool in the hands of ordinary people. It shows that participatory action—free of hierarchies and inclusive across genders, classes, and castes—can achieve transformative change. Above all, it reminds us that people’s movements succeed only when they centre and are truly led by the people. The recent disasters in the Himalaya underscore that in pursuit of short-term “development”, we must not ignore long-term consequences for the environment and communities.

True development must be sustainable, participatory, and equitably beneficial. My heart goes out to the Himalaya, which cradles some of the planet’s most fragile ecosystems and is home to countless rivers, streams, glaciers, deities, and flora and fauna that sustain both the land and its people. To destroy the Himalaya is to destroy the very future of the country and its people.