On the first day of January 2026, as the year quietly turned its page, Lachung did something extraordinary—almost without realizing it. Nestled high in the mountains, where time usually moves at its own gentle pace, this small Himalayan village became the stage for something far larger than a festival. The Lachung Cultural Festival, conducted for the first time by the Indian Army, unfolded not merely as an event, but as an experience—one that stirred memories, revived pride, and reminded everyone present that culture is not a relic of the past, but a living, breathing force.
I was neither from Lachung nor from the Army. I came as an outsider, a civilian observer, curious to witness a New Year celebration in one of the most beautiful corners of the country. What I witnessed instead was an emotional awakening—shared equally by locals, soldiers, elders, women, children, and even those who believed they had grown immune to such moments.
The cold that morning was sharp, the kind that bites into your fingers and settles deep in your bones. Yet the village square was warm with anticipation. Colorful traditional attire stood out against the white and grey of winter. The air carried the sounds of laughter, soft conversations, and the rhythmic tuning of traditional instruments.
There was a sense that something important was about to happen, even if no one could fully articulate what that was. When the festival began, it did so without grandeur or excess. There were no flashy displays or overwhelming theatrics. Instead, there was sincerity. The Indian Army personnel, often seen in these regions as sentinels of security, stood here as facilitators—quietly enabling the people of Lachung to celebrate themselves.
It was clear from the outset that this was not an event imposed from outside, but one created with the community, for the community. One moment, in particular, has stayed with me. An elderly man—96 years old, we were told—was invited to speak. He is considered the oldest man in Lachung, someone who has lived through decades of change, hardship, and resilience.
“Culture is not a relic of the past, but a living, breathing force” As he slowly walked to the microphone, supported gently by those around him, the crowd fell silent. There was no expectation of eloquence. In fact, it was known that public speaking was not his strength and yet, when he began to speak, something remarkable happened.
His words were simple. His sentences were uneven. At times, he paused, searching for the right expression. But none of that mattered. Because what flowed effortlessly was emotion. His happiness was unmistakable. His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with feeling.
He spoke of how deeply moved he was to see such a festival being conducted in his lifetime. He spoke of the Army’s gesture, not as an act of authority, but as one of respect. Most poignantly, he spoke of culture— how, in today’s world, it is slowly fading as people become more focused on economic survival and personal gain. As he spoke, I noticed something extraordinary around me.
People were not merely listening; they were feeling. Eyes glistened. Heads nodded in silent agreement. Some smiled, others wiped away tears. The elder’s imperfect speech had, in its honesty, said more than the most polished address ever could. He spoke of joy at seeing children and youth perform traditional dances—movements passed down through generations, now carried by young bodies full of energy and hope. In those moments, the past and future seemed to meet.
The children danced with enthusiasm, perhaps not fully aware of the responsibility they were carrying, yet instinctively connected to it. The youth performed with confidence, bridging tradition with modern identity. Equally moving was the sight of the elderly women’s groups. Draped in traditional attire, they stepped onto the ground with dignity and pride.
Their movements may not have been as swift as in their younger days, but what they lacked in speed, they made up for in grace and emotion. As they danced, it felt as though they were reclaiming their youth—holding it proudly, not as a memory, but as a living presence. Their faces told stories of years gone by, of festivals celebrated long ago, of a Lachung that once was, and still is, at heart As the performances continued, something intangible began to spread through the gathering.
Memories resurfaced—uninvited yet warmly welcomed. People spoke of old times, of celebrations that had slowly faded, of songs that were once sung more often. It was as if the festival had unlocked a collective emotional vault. Laughter mingled with tears. Conversations deepened. The village seemed to breathe differently that day. What struck me most was that this emotional outpouring appeared to surprise even those who had organized the event.
The Army personnel, watching from the sidelines, seemed quietly moved. This was not just another “Sadbhavana” or goodwill project executed and completed. This was something deeper. Something human. In many parts of the country, the relationship between the Army and civilians is often defined by necessity—security, logistics, administration. In border and remote areas, this relationship can sometimes feel distant or formal.
But in Lachung that day, those boundaries softened. The Army was not seen as an institution, but as people—people who cared enough to listen, to enable, and to honour local identity. And the locals, in turn, were not seen as beneficiaries, but as custodians of a rich cultural heritage. This mutual respect was the true core of the festival. As a civilian observer, I realized that what was unfolding was a powerful reminder of what development and nation-building can truly mean.
It is not only about roads, infrastructure, or economic indicators. It is also about preserving soul, memory, and belonging. Culture gives people roots. Without it, progress can feel hollow. The festival made it evident that culture does not die because people forget it—it fades when it is not given space to be expressed. By creating that space, even for a single day, something enduring had been ignited. As the sun dipped behind the mountains and the cold returned with renewed strength, there was a lingering warmth that refused to fade. People were reluctant to leave.
Conversations stretched on. Children ran about, still humming tunes from the performances. Elders sat quietly, lost in thought, perhaps reliving moments from decades ago. Someone near me said softly, “This feels like more than a New Year.”
And they were right. It felt like a renewal. What made the day even more profound was the shared realization that this was only the beginning. There was talk—hopeful, certain talk—that this festival
would now become a tradition. That every New Year, the bells would ring again—not just in Lachung’s monasteries or homes, but in the hearts rather than merely stand guard over them, something transformative occurs. And that when culture is revived, even briefly, it has the power to heal, unite, and inspire. The Lachung Cultural of its people.
Bells of memory. Bells of pride. Bells of connection. There is, truly, no turning back from such moments. Once people rediscover the power of their culture and the beauty of being seen and respected, it becomes impossible to let go.
As I left Lachung, I carried with me more than photographs or notes. I carried a quiet conviction—that initiatives like this matter deeply. That when the Army chooses to walk alongside communities Festival of 1 January 2026 will be remembered not because it was the first, but because it reminded everyone present of something timeless: that beyond policies, projects, and borders, there exists a shared human need—to belong, to remember, and to celebrate who we are and on that cold New Year’s Day, in a small Himalayan village, that need was beautifully fulfill.
