What’s in a Name?: Mutanchi Clan Narratives and Indigenous Ecospirituality

Abstract

The Mutanchis, known by their derogatory exonymic term ‘Lepcha’, are autochthonous to Sikkim, India. The name ‘Mutanchi’ derives from the phrase ‘Mutanchi Rumkup Rongkup’, eliciting the response ‘Achulay’, meaning ‘Beloved children of It-bu-mu, who have come from the snowy peaks’. The nomenclature prompts an ontological understanding rooted in the community’s eco-geographical context. Despite possessing a well-developed script categorised within the Tibeto-Burman language family, the Mutanchis remain a largely oral community. Their diminishing, scarcely documented repository of Mutanchi clan narratives underscores this orality. As a Mutanchi, I recognise these narratives as a medium for expressing Indigenous value systems upheld by my community and specific villages. Mutanchi clan narratives embody spiritual and cultural significance, yet their fantastic rationale reveals complex epistemological tensions. Ideally, each Mutanchi clan reveres a chyu (peak), lhep (cave), and doh (lake), which are propitiated annually and on specific occasions. The transmigration of an apil (soul) is tied to these three sacred spatial geographies, unique to each clan. Additionally, clan etiological explanations, situated within natural or supernatural habitats, manifest beliefs, values, and norms rooted in a deep ecology. This article presents an ecosophical study of selected Mutanchi clan narratives from Dzongu, North Sikkim—a region that partially lies within the UNESCO Khangchendzonga Man-Biosphere Reserve. Conducted in close consultation with clan members and in adherence to the ethical protocols, this study examines clans in Dzongu governed by Indigenous knowledge systems embedded in their narratives, highlighting biocentric perspectives that shape Mutanchi lifeways.

1. Introduction: What’s in a Name?

What does a name signify for the Mutanchis—the autochthonous people of Sikkim, of whom I belong? The question reveals the tension between exonymic labels imposed by settler colonialism and the endonymic terms that embody Indigenous identity and resistance (Alfred and Corntassel 2005, pp. 597–98) through ecological stewardship. For instance, the exonym ‘Lepcha’ is officially recognised in the list of Scheduled Tribes, and using endonymic clan names can disqualify Mutanchis from accessing government benefits. This, in turn, undermines the anchoring of culture and ecological epistemology in those endonyms. Clan names and their associated narratives are equally important, serving as alternative sources of Indigenous Mutanchi identity that resist colonial erasure. Naming, then, is a contested act that shapes Mutanchi ontology, tying identity to sacred landscapes while resisting colonial impositions, a dynamic relevant to indigenous struggles globally. This article explores Mutanchi belief systems—often marginalised in mainstream discourse—and examines how they shape spiritual connections, material practices, and ecological interactions.

I establish that the Mutanchis are known by exonyms like Monpa—a term given by the Bhots, an ethnic settler community—and Lepcha, or ‘lapche’, meaning ‘vile speakers’, possibly linked to a skatefish (Risley 1894, p. 39). In contrast, the preferred endonyms ‘Mutanchi’ and ‘Rongkup’, derived from the phrase Mutanchi Rumkup-Rongkup, are followed by an exaltation, ‘Achulay!’—translated as ‘Beloved children of mother creator It-bu-debu-mu, the children of god, born from the snowy peaks’. This etiological nomenclature connects the community to the revered mountain Kongchen-chyu (popularly known by the exonym Mt Khangchendzonga), the world’s third-highest peak, forging an inseparable relationship with eco-geographies integral to our identity as Mutanchi. It reflects a linguistic and spiritual lineage that is rarely acknowledged in state discourses. Some members proudly use their clan names as surnames instead of Lepcha—a conscious act of Indigenous resistance—though this risks exclusion from constitutional benefits tied to the exonym. Naming, then, is not just a rhetorical flourish but a site of colonial imposition—one that erases ontological realities established through clan narratives and ritual observances of the Indigenous people.

Over time, Indigenous names are often reshaped by phonetic distortions—for example, Kongchen-chyu becomes Mt Khangchendzonga—colonial taxonomies, or administrative convenience. In the case of the Mutanchi, the term Lepcha became dominant in census records, school curricula, and bureaucratic identification, while community-preferred endonyms such as Mutanchi and Rongkup are only used in community circles. These shifts are not linguistically neutral. They reflect deeper patterns of epistemic violence, whereby the cosmological and spiritual embeddedness of a name—its ties to mountains, ancestors, and ritual—is severed or diluted. Such processes lead to the misrecognition of identity and the breakdown of intergenerational memory. To reclaim and speak ancestral names is, therefore, not only an act of cultural restoration but of political and spiritual resistance.

This article examines the enduring connections to nature through selected Mutanchi clan narratives and ritual practices, that embody profound belief in multispecies coexistence within shared ecosystems (Cajete 1994, pp. 15–30, 75–90; Cameron et al. 2014, pp. 19–20). These narratives urge a return to traditional lifeways as a means of restoring balance in exploitative modern systems—through eco-spiritual engagements rooted in ritual, kinship, and place (Broome et al. 2018, pp. 1–5, 62–65; Beringer 1999, p. 20; Bhatt et al. 2012, pp. 17–18; Riley-Taylor 2002, pp. 120–24; Coates et al. 2006, pp. 390–94). Each of these is attached to descriptive nomenclature—a naming practice grounded not in abstraction but in deep-ecology and land-based epistemology.

Historically, Indigenous belief systems and histories have been overlooked by institutional discourses. However, a noticeable shift in perceptions of Indigeneity is now evident (Simpson 2017, pp. 22–23; Choo et al. 2020, pp. 45–50). Global platforms like COP29 (Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change at Baku, Azerbaijan) recognise Indigenous worldviews—albeit fragmentedly—yet their philosophical depth remains underrepresented in policy frameworks (Radcliffe 2016, pp. 170–80). Indigenous peoples continue to face persistent academic straitjacketing (Smith 2008, pp. 10–15; Coates et al. 2006, pp. 395–99; Dei et al. 2000, pp. 35–40). Academia often hesitates to embrace Indigenous approaches that challenge conventional methods, theories, and writing rooted in Indigenous understandings and modes of expression (Biermann 2011, pp. 386–89; Ermine et al. 2004, pp. 20–25). It remains averse to Indigenous alliances and partnerships, perceiving them as threats, as these foster ecosystems of Indigenous knowledges grounded in principles that are both radically distinct and universally resonant. This resistance reflects a phenomenon of epistemic prioritisation, whereby Indigeneity is perceived by academia as a significant threat to dominant paradigms (Moreton-Robinson 2015, pp. 15–20). At the same time, emerging scholarship—particularly from the Himalayan Environmental Humanities Working Group (HEHWG)—has actively sought to bridge Indigenous knowledge systems and environmental sciences. Their work signals a growing commitment to inclusive academic engagement that honours relational ontologies and place-based epistemologies without appropriating or flattening their complexity. By employing multi-sited ethnography and integrating climate data, the HEHWG examines ‘ecotones’—interfaces of local and global knowledge—offering methodologies that complement this study’s autoethnographic approach to Mutanchi ecospirituality (Gergan 2014, pp. 67–70; Yü and de Maaker 2021). These efforts underscore the potential of Indigenous epistemologies to inform sustainable futures, aligning with the Mutanchi refusal of colonial erasure.

I cautiously discuss the Mutanchi belief systems, focusing on our significant philosophical underpinnings, which compel a rethinking of modern complexities. Indigenous pedagogies emerging from belief narratives resist dominant discourses without coercive imposition. Indigenous partnerships and alliances are crucial in this process (Alfred and Corntassel 2005, pp. 611–12; Whyte 2018, p. 130; Oyelude 2023, p. 3; Walter and Suina 2023, p. 209), fostering understanding without compromising Indigenous knowledge, while affirming its enduring validity. Rather than mapping this existence as a power struggle, it should be re-evaluated as co-existences—practical, applicable, and non-tokenistic culminations of efforts to overcome standing colonial representations (Alfred and Corntassel 2005, pp. 50–55). Indigenous paradigms expose colonial marginalisation embedded within colonial geographies (Wolfe 2006, pp. 387–91; Crosby and Monaghan 2016, pp. 37–35).

Indigenous scholar Charisma K. Lepcha’s (2021, pp. 49–54) drawing on what Van Dooren and Rose (2016, p. 78) term a ‘lively ethography’—dynamic, embodied storytelling—offers a compelling parallel to the ritual-performance practices of the Mutanchis. Grounded in Indigenous story-work, it challenges colonial archival methods by asserting that ritual, recollection, and storytelling are living forms of cultural preservation (Choo et al. 2020, p. 46; Corntassel 2009, pp. 151–55; Dei et al. 2000, pp. 18–35). These oral archives—whether performed by a ritual practitioner or remembered by clan elders—serve as repositories of ecological, spiritual and ethical instruction, similar to Simpson’s (2017, pp. 145–73) ‘land as pedagogy’, where knowledge is learned through relational practices with land (Smith 2019, p. 15). Lepcha’s (2021) work stands as both an ethnographic testament and a political intervention, resisting the romanticisation of Indigenous environmentalism (Wylie 2020, p. 66) while foregrounding lived spiritual accountability to sacred ecologies.

Like this article, Lepcha’s study foregrounds non-human relationality, ethical reciprocity, and the spiritual sovereignty of land and water. Similarly, Rongnyoo and Mongfing Lepcha’s (Lepcha and Lepcha 2021, pp. 99–103) co-authored article pieces together a powerful ethno-ecological articulation of the Mutanchi worldview, rooted in oral tradition, mythic geography, and environmental aesthetics (Doty 2000, pp. 41–60). Their work positions visual art and ancestral storytelling as living epistemologies: continuously performed, remembered, and reimagined, resisting colonial erasure (Dei et al. 2000, pp. 3–17). These are not mere retellings but modes of actively living the history, described by these indigenous scholars as the ‘storied world’, where rivers, animals, ancestors, and spirits all participate in narration (Choo et al. 2020, p. 48). Rongnyoo and Mongfing deliberate on the ontological unity of landscape, memory, and spirit through mytho-geographic art, ritual, and affective witnessing. Although Indigenous scholars are acutely aware of the dangers of romanticising these lived experiences, experimenting with representational styles risks perpetuating that romanticisation. The reduction of oral narratives to mere symbolism—and the use of Indigenous narratives in environmental activism and policy—reveals such contradictions. However, Indigenous scholars remain attuned to deeper cosmovisions, rooted not solely in resistance (Crosby and Monaghan 2016, pp. 51–55) but in a sacred relational ethos that precedes colonial encounters and persists in daily life.

As a community that largely favours oral transmission, the Mutanchis assert the value of living knowledge through ritual improvisations, active interactions, and intergenerational transmissions. As established by the aforementioned Indigenous scholars, this approach constitutes an act of epistemic sovereignty against colonial impositions that valorise the written word as more legitimate.

It is crucial to acknowledge that one must also remain conscious of the efforts of non-Indigenous scholars (Biermann 2011, pp. 390–93) who have worked to unlearn colonial frameworks and complement the work of Indigenous scholars in dismantling the constraints of institutional pedagogical straightjacketing. One is, of course, sensitive to these scholarly efforts and partnerships (Walter and Suina 2023, p. 214). Deeper Indigenous epistemological understandings are made ethically accessible through non-exploitative intentions—an approach that must remain a non-negotiable principle (Smith 2000, p. 215). The Mutanchi clans of Dzongu, governed by the Indigenous knowledge systems embedded in their clan narratives, underscore the imperative to understand the biocentric perspectives that shape their lifeways.

This article adopts an interdisciplinary approach, engaging with folkloristics, archival studies, digital humanities, and Indigenous Studies through a postcolonial lens (Craps 2013). Concepts of eco-geographies and eco-spiritualities (Booth 1999, pp. 89–92; Bhatt et al. 2012, pp. 17–18; Riley-Taylor 2002, pp. 97–100; Beringer 1999, p. 18; Adow et al. 2024, p. 2167), rooted in bioregionalism—living sustainably within a specific region’s natural and cultural ecosystem (Zimmerer 2006, p. 70)—enable an examination of Mutanchi belief systems through my community’s narratives. The article includes the documentation of ritualistic practices within these domains.

Eco-spirituality, a widely used term to describe Indigenous relationships with their land and environment, has been problematised by scholars like Biermann (2011, pp. 394–98) for its generalised application to Indigenous contexts. I concur with Biermann that there is a tendency to trivialise Indigenous philosophies and overgeneralise their complexities—an issue that calls for deeper and more respectful engagement. As stated earlier, external concepts will be considered non-coercively, in order to avoid branding Indigenous ecophilosophies (Booth 1999, pp. 89–92) and everyday beliefs through alien frameworks.

In the shared Himalayan region, Dan Smyer Yü—an Indigenous environmental humanist rooted in the Tibetan-Himalayan cultural matrix—offers a conceptual framing that resonates with Mutanchi eco-cosmologies. Yü’s (2021, p. 240) articulation of ‘symbiotic indigeneity’ situates Indigenous identities as dynamic, relational ontologies, shaped by centuries of inter-ethnic, spiritual, and ecological entanglements. While Yü emphasises hybridity and co-becoming as hallmarks of Himalayan identity, this article foregrounds what remains uniquely Mutanchi: the invocation of place-specific sacred geographies as untranslated, living epistemes that resist absorption into institutional taxonomies (Yü 2021, p. 245; Smith 2019, p. 46).

Yü interprets the Lepcha geomythology of Mayel Lyang through Buddhist syncretism. This analysis reclaims such spaces as enduring ecosophic sovereignties (Singh 2019, p. 2), propounding ecological harmony among all life forms through interconnectedness.

The question posed in the Mutanchi context—What is in a name?—is both simple and profound, encompassing cultural, spiritual, and ecological significance that extends far beyond nomenclature and constitutional benefits.

Herein, I situate the Mutanchi understanding of eco-geographies through etymological and belief narratives, examine clan-based ritual practices and their ecological meanings, and explore the implications for Indigenous resistance and decolonisation of environmental epistemologies.

2. Narrative as Method

This autoethnographic study centres Mutanchi clan narratives as a methodological cornerstone for exploring ecological, spiritual, and cultural practices in Dzongu, North Sikkim. As a Mutanchi, I adopt an Indigenous-led research approach, which views narratives not merely as cultural artifacts but as dynamic methods of knowledge production, and transmission, in alignment with Indigenous research paradigms (Smith 2008, p. 146; Wilson 2008, p. 56). Singh’s (2019, p. 1) ecosophy—a philosophy of ecological harmony rooted in deep ecology—frames Mutanchi narratives as a method for articulating ecological values that align with Indigenous epistemologies (Smith 2000, pp. 30–35). This ecosophical study integrates storytelling with qualitative methods to examine how narratives shape Mutanchi identity and environmental stewardship (Cajete 1994, pp. 45–65; Cameron et al. 2014, pp. 21–23). It employs an interdisciplinary framework that includes folkloristics, Indigenous studies, and eco-spirituality (Bhatt et al. 2012, p. 9, 13–18; Booth 1999, pp. 98–100) seeking to honour the community’s oral traditions while navigating academic protocols.

The narratives recounted in this article are not merely conventional ‘data’; Mutanchi narratives are sacred beliefs and orally transmitted knowledge sustained for centuries. Clan origin stories and ritual recitations serve as the primary methods for accessing ecological and spiritual knowledge in this study. Clan narratives are not only stories—they are naming practices that animate sacred geographies and personify ancestors. To name a mountain or a spirit is to enter into relation. These narratives articulate the cultural and ecological significance of sacred geographies—such as chyu (peaks), lhep (caves), and doh (lakes)—which Imarhiagbe and Ogwu (2022, pp. 441–45) identify as critical biodiversity conservation sites in the Global South. This resonates with Tungkyong Doh’s role in Dzongu (Forest and Environment Department of Sikkim n.d.).

The ‘data collection’ was not pre-planned but emerged organically and was retrospectively recognised as comprising autoethnographic moments (Kovach 2009, pp. 80–100; Te Maihāroa and Woodhouse 2024, p. 2), arising during conversations with elders and community members between 2022 and 2024. While not formally structured, the process resembled semi-structured interviews and participant observation, particularly during a clan workshop organised by the community to collectively revisit their roots. This workshop prompted discussions on ecological significance and elicited detailed recollections, while remaining attentive to cultural protocols (Te Maihāroa and Woodhouse 2024, p. 12). This study upholds community consent and data sovereignty to safeguard Mutanchi knowledge from exploitative developmental pressures.

A total of 30 participants, representing 15 clans (two participants per clan), took part in the workshop. These include elders, ritual practitioners, community leaders, and students from schools and colleges in the Hee-Gyathang and Passingdang areas of Dzongu. The workshop integrated and documented performative narrative transmission, such as Chi-Faat (a fermented millet offering to deities and ancestors), conducted on the first and the final days. Elders and ritual practitioners guided participants in engaging with the immediate environment during the rituals. Field notes recorded ritual offerings, such as harvested produce and Fuchi-nichi (any local riverine fish), elucidating ecological practices. Secondary sources—including government reports (e.g., Tungkyong Doh Biodiversity Heritage Site Documentation) and scholarly literature—supplement the primary knowledge to situate Mutanchi narratives within broader environmental and Indigenous discourses.

Ethical engagement is central to this study, guided by principles of Indigenous data sovereignty (Kukutai and Taylor 2016, pp. 1–20; Walter and Suina 2023, p. 208) and Mutanchi values. Verbal informed consent was obtained to ensure that the community members understood the scope of the research, the potential for future use, their right to withdraw, and the terms of shared knowledge usage. Community-level consent was further secured through consultations with clan elders, in accordance with Indigenous research ethics (Ermine et al. 2004, pp. 1–10). Oral histories were recorded with permission, collaboratively transcribed with participants, and verified for accuracy. When Indigenous narratives are transcribed using dominant linguistic frames, names—of spirits, ancestors, mountains, clans—often lose their phonetic, symbolic, spiritual precision. This is not merely a technical issue, but an epistemic rupture. Where recording was not permitted, detailed field notes were taken and cross-checked with community participants. Data ownership remains with the Mutanchi community. Findings were shared through community discussions, exhibitions, and forums to support cultural preservation and safeguard sacred knowledge—thereby avoiding the overgeneralisation of Indigenous philosophies (Booth 1999, pp. 98–105). Verbal consents were taken for the ethnographic details and information provided in the article. The version of the clan stories shared by the members of the community strictly belong to the clan members.

The analysis of the Mutanchi clan narratives adopted a thematic approach grounded in Mutanchi epistemologies and ontological understandings, facilitated by active community participation. Motifs such as multispecies relationships (e.g., Heemu clan’s association with fish and water-nymph), sacred geographies, and ecological stewardship were explored, preserving the interpretations offered by clan members. These analyses were situated within an eco-spiritual framework (Beringer 1999; Riley-Taylor 2002, pp. 105–10) to interpret, academically, the philosophical underpinnings of Mutanchi beliefs and their relevance to biodiversity conservation, as illustrated by the Tungkyong Doh case. A comparative analysis with other Indigenous practices—such as sacred groves (Gadgil and Vartak 1975, pp. 314–16; Ray and Ramachandra 2010, p. 1178; Imarhiagbe and Ogwu 2022, pp. 441–45)—highlighted the regional significance of such traditions. Findings were cross-verified with community members to ensure cultural accuracy and uphold the community’s perspective.

Reflexivity has its limitations. My insider perspective as a Mutanchi researcher, while enriching the cultural context, also introduces potential bias. I have mitigated this through community-member checking and transparent reporting (Kovach 2009, p. 80). The study’s scope is limited, focusing on select number of Mutanchi clans residing primarily in Dzongu. Additionally, the oral nature of narratives presented challenges in translation and transcription—which were addressed through collaborative verification processes. Future research could expand to include a broader representation of clans and examine the impact of tourism on sacred geographies.

This approach positions Mutanchi narratives as a method of knowledge generation, ensuring a culturally grounded and ethically sound study that contributes meaningfully to Indigenous and environmental scholarship (Ermine et al. 2004, pp. 11–20; Dei et al. 2000, pp. 18–35).

3. Ritual as a Living Ecosophical Archive

Clans are integral to the Mutanchi worldview. Sociological and anthropological understandings of clans emphasise relationality—not only among human beings, but also in relation to totemic existences and landscapes (Frazer 1899, pp. 835–40; Goldenweiser 1912, pp. 600–2; Morphy 1990, pp. 316–20; Layton 2020, pp. 48–52). These relationships are expressed ritual practices that embody recollections and retellings of the Indigenous value systems via performative recitations. Oral narratives are age-old relics of a community traceable to ancestral knowledge and are transformed through ritual into occasions for collective reverence and remembrance (Whyte 2018, p. 137). These practices materialise intangible cultural legacies, rendering belief systems tangible (Doty 2000, pp. 21–40; Walsham 2010, p. 13). Moreover, these community practices, such as rituals, foster community observance, providing a generative and protected space for co-sharing, co-learning, and the intergenerational transmission of knowledge—both orally and practically. In this way, these oral traditions serve as Indigenous methods of archiving culture and tradition (Iseke 2013, p. 561), contesting the fixity of colonial Western archival practices and models (Walsham 2010, p. 11; Jones 2021, pp. 10–15; Oyelude 2023, p. 4)

The liminality of Indigenous belief systems requires careful and patient engagement to reveal the philosophical insights that they offer for biodiversity conservation. Building upon the methodological foundation of clan narratives, we now turn to how these beliefs manifest through ritual as a living ecosophical archive. The sacred lakes (doh), peaks (chyu), and caves (lhep) associated with each clan are central to both community survival and ecosystem integrity (Morphy 1990, pp. 312–15). These sacred geographies, akin to the Navajo’s sacred mountains or Australian Aboriginal Songlines, anchor cultural identity in living landscapes (Corntassel 2009, pp. 146–50; Morphy 1990, pp. 326–28). Like threads in an intricate weave, the cultural practices contribute to a broader ecological design, exemplifying eco-spiritual coexistence inclusive of all beings and entities (Riley-Taylor 2002, p. 98).

Mutanchis regard natural elements—such as rivers, animals, and mountain spirits—as sacred gifts from their creator, It-bu-debu-mu (mother creator). The chyu, lhep, and doh are central to several Mutanchi ritual practices. These practices commence with a clan’s creation stories and are mapped by tracing the ancestral journey. These journeys play a significant role in after-death rites, wherein the apil or soul embarks on a spiritual passage. Death intricately weaves itself into the psyche and environment of the Indigene, not merely signifying the end of life but serving as ontological reassertion. Under the watchful guidance of the Muns (ritual practitioners), the apil visits the deceased clan members’ chyu, lhep, and doh before reaching its final resting place. The apil is believed to linger at these sites until summoned during Sunglyon, Passong tyut (Balikci-Denjongpa 2009, p. 130), the final rites of passage conducted for the deceased. These sites are not simply physical locations but liminal spaces—thresholds for becoming—where human and non-human agents, spirits, and landscapes are intertwined. Such clan geographies, often tangible geographical spaces, are visited, maintained, and revered as sacred groves (Gadgil and Vartak 1975; Ray and Ramachandra 2010, pp. 1178–80; Onyekwelu and Olusola 2014). Clan members annually congregate to celebrate their lineage and pay respects to their guardians reinforcing ecological guardianship. This praxis aligns with the ecosophy as articulated by scholars like Naess (1973), Booth (1999, pp. 98–105), and Bhatt et al. (2012, pp. 15–18), advocating for an inseparable harmony among ecological science, spiritual insight, and practical community action, as demonstrated by Mutanchi rituals and Dzongu’s sacred ceremonies (Cajete 1994, pp. 45–65, 75–90).

In Entangled Lives, Pachuau and van Schendel (2022, pp. 2–17) describe Eastern Himalayan life-worlds as shaped by non-human agents and non-linear time. They frame regional oral narratives as deep-time cosmologies co-created by animals, plants, and spirits and humans. While this framing resonates with the Mutanchi view that ritual and memory are an ecological act, inscribed in place and spirit (Lepcha 2021, pp. 43–48), the authors occasionally revert to subtle anthropocentric privileging of human adaptability. This contrasts with the Mutanchi ontological position, which regards human and non-humans as co-creators of life-worlds—agents in shared relational cosmology (Smith 2008, p. 173). Furthermore, the ethical turn in Booth’s (1999, pp. 45–47) ecosophical views similarly warns against reducing Indigenous eco-spiritual concepts to simplistic cultural tropes, which risks appropriation and oversimplification.

The ritual Pholoh-ruum-faat—or simply Pholoh—epitomises this relational worldview (Imarhiagbe and Ogwu 2022, pp. 446–50). Conducted annually by clan members at a designated site or the homes of members who take turns hosting these rituals, it honours liminal geographies and their inhabiting entities. While physical visits to these sites are not mandatory, some clans prefer conducting Pholoh at specific locales (Gadgil and Vartak 1975, pp. 316–18; Forbes 2001, pp. 288–93); however, the recollection of accurate names of clan chyu, lhep, and doh is considered essential. Ritual acts like Pholoh-ruum-faat do not simply perform knowledge—they also invoke names: of places, spirits, rivers, and ancestors. Naming here is an act of spiritual co-presence, not just representation. The ritual becomes an act of remembrance ensuring blessings, spiritual guidance, and good fortune for clan members for the year ahead. The offerings are simple, including the annual harvest, which is set aside for such rituals before family consumption. They also include hunted games and, most importantly, Fuchi-nichi—any endemic riverine fish that are offered either dried or fresh. Market-bought fish, whether riverine or oceanic, are rejected. As Kunzang Sherap, a young bongthing (ritual practitioner versed in oration) from North Sikkim, explains, ‘The Fuchi-nichi is necessary for our ancestors to reach us and return to their resting place after visiting’. Although a bongthing familiar with the clan can lead these rituals, community elders often preside, provided they recall the sacred names of the mountains, hills, lakes, deities, and progenitors. These practices reflect Guattari’s ([1989] 2000, pp. 19–30) ecosophical framework in The Three Ecologies, linking social, mental, and environmental well-being to foster sustainable and equitable futures. The Pholoh ritual fosters communal cohesion and ecological consciousness while affirming the sacred reciprocity embedded in everyday life. Additionally, a widely held belief asserts that neglecting Pholoh may bring misfortune—particularly childlessness—thus disrupting the clan belief systems and names. Whereas following Pholoh maintains ancestral names and resists linguistic decay or replacement. Such warnings function not merely as moral instructions but as ethical codes of care and ecological accountability. The clan narratives and rituals exhibit a relational ontology that transcends reduction to human rationality. They reflect a vibrant living ecosophy grounded in ancestral memory and eco-spiritual co-becoming.

4. Ecospirituality and Conservation

At this juncture, I would like to discuss the clan story of the Heemu or Heeyoungmingmu clan (Tungkyong Doh) and how the belief of one clan has driven conservation measures that currently integrate indigenous beliefs with policies—a synthesis that materialises through the co-opting of the Indigene’s deep ecology. The extent of the benefits for both the community and the co-opting parties remains to be determined.

Oral narratives help clan members recall the location of their chyu, lhep, and doh. Such is the case of the Heemu clan, for whom Tungkyong Doh is believed to be their lake of origin (Forest and Environment Department of Sikkim n.d.). The fish (Ding-gnu-Leek) found in the lake are considered endemic and are believed to represent their ancestors. There is a strong belief that, as long as the population of these endemic fish thrives, the population of the clan will continue to grow. This is viewed as a boon received from the protector of the area, Gnue Kyoung-Mu, an entity often described as a damit—a water-nymph in common parlance—who occupies and protects the water-bodies and the surrounding areas.

The narrative includes a divine priest, Kumzyer Agyen, and a being called Thing-Gogmu, who had monkey-like features and demeanour but could shapeshift between his human form and a monkey-being owing to his supernatural powers. Thing-Gogmu is considered a Dokbu or Lungzyi Lungnong, a protector spirit of specific spaces, often worshipped or silently respected when entering unfamiliar terrain.

A version of this clan narrative appears in a government document submitted as part of its Biodiversity Heritage Sites (BHS) appeal. In the narrative, Kumzyer Agyen and Thing-Gogmu conjure a lake and are startled when Gnue Kyong-Mu emerges, chiding them for disturbing the place’s peace. Subsequently, under Kumzyer Agyen’s instructions, Thing-Gogmu and Gnue Kyong-Mu marry. The couple soon had three children, who are believed to be the ancestors of the Heemu/Heeyongmingmu clan. As one can observe, the narrative blurs species boundaries, offering a glimpse into the phantasmagorical dimensions of many clan narratives.

The Heemu clan’s multispecies narrative reflects an ecosophical emphasis on the intrinsic worth of all life forms (Pachuau and van Schendel 2022, pp. 69–79). The relationship between non-human entities is foregrounded, while the emergence of humans is mentioned nonchalantly—suggesting that its significance lies not in anthropocentrism, but in reaffirming Mutanchi stewardship over indigenous sacred geographies and beliefs.

When the Pisciculture Department of Sikkim unintentionally introduced an ornamental fish species into Tungkyong Doh, it posed a threat to the endemic Ding-gnu Leek fish species. The villagers raised their concerns and continue to advocate for the removal of the invasive species (Gergan 2014, pp. 71–74). However, other uninformed developmental activities continue (Imarhiagbe and Ogwu 2022, pp. 451–56; Doty 2000, pp. 61–80), posing a threat to this ancient and sacred lake of the Heemu/Heeyoungmingmu clan. While the designation of Tungkyong Doh as a Biodiversity Heritage Site (Zimmerer 2006, p. 64; Sikkim Biodiversity Board 2023; Forest and Environment Department of Sikkim n.d.) has offered some protection, its long-term preservation remains uncertain (Cajete 1994, pp. 112–30). The recognition underscores the efficacy of Indigenous-led conservation, where Mutanchi narratives encode ecological knowledge (Forbes 2001, pp. 294–97). Ray and Ramachandra (2010, p. 1180) caution that small sacred groves require active community management to sustain their ecological function. Mutanchi practices such as Pholoh-ruum-faat are crucial in this regard, safeguarding these sites from external pressures. These insights support policy frameworks that prioritise Indigenous data sovereignty (Kukutai and Taylor 2016, pp. 61–80) and community-conserved areas (Kothari 2006, pp. 3–5). Indigenous-led initiatives like the Haida Gawaii Marine Plan (Jones et al. 2010) demonstrate how stewardship grounded in an Indigenous multispecies understanding can uphold Indigenous rights while promoting conservation measures.

Similarly, Passangkit and Dhomit—participants in the Dzongu clan workshop led by Minket Lepcha, which I co-facilitated—belong to Athing Zamyongmoo clan. They shared their clan narrative, which underscores multispecies and natural interactions. Luksom doh, the sacred lake of the Athing Zamyongmoo clan, is protected by two shapeshifting guardians: a female rat and a male eagle. These guardians protected the doh for many years. Eventually, they fell in love and had a son named Zamyongmoo, the clan’s eponymous ancestor. These beings are invoked in clan rituals such as Pholoh, reaffirming their ecological and spiritual roles. (Forbes 2001, pp. 288–93). Notably, animals are designated guardians or Dokbus of the sacred geographies, assuming stewardship over landscapes and contributing equally—if not more—to their preservation. This stems from an ecosophical worldview that privileges ecological sharing (Doty 2000, pp. 21–40; Singh 2019, p. 5).

Likewise, the Zumchung Putsoh(clan) narrative, shared by Solyop Lepcha and Soofim Lepcha, centres on Tingchim Ronghol Doh, a lake inhabited by a frog. A bird flying over the doh notices the creature below and was curiously drawn to it. The bird cautiously explores the site and approaches the frog, and the two fell in love. Their child becomes the progenitor of Zumchung clan. The clan holds the lake as sacred and pays their annual respects. Solyop, a graduate student at the time, recollected the narrative not hiding his bewilderment. When asked if he believed it, he answered ‘We have been told so and carry out our annual ritual’, conveying pride. Solyop further stated that the elders instruct the narrative be interpreted beyond its metaphorical threshold to deepen ecological connections. The ecosophical sacredness imparted by clan narratives encourages building connections that would otherwise be considered impossible. These sacred names are not merely geographic markers but invocations—oral acknowledgments of multispecies origin and ancestral custodianship.

Mutanchi clan narratives show interspecies interactions that challenge the boundaries of mere co-existence or totemism. These narratives reveal no preoccupation with anthropocentric myths; rather, they reflect animistic traditions where all beings hold agency. This paves the way for holistic engagement and reliance on faith emerging from local landscapes and species. Trans-species kinship frameworks, as seen in Bhutan, (Wouters 2021, p. 28), reflect similar beliefs. Wouters’ work on yak herders illustrates how personhood is extended to non-human beings, forming ‘knots of relatedness’. This resonates with Mutanchi cosmovision, an understanding of fish like Ding-gnu-Leek who embody ancestry and multispecies ecology continuity.

However, many Mutanchis today have forgotten their clan narratives and, with them, the location and meaning of their chyu, lhep, and doh. This loss signals a detachment from their ecological identities. Consequently, the relationship and symbiotic exchange with these places have diminished. In response, many have begun adopting pan-Mutanchi sacred sites—such as Kongchen Chyu or Mount Khangchendzonga, as their chyu and remembering Nahor Nathor Doh, a mythical lake whence all water forms emerge, as their lake, alongside any prominent cave in Sikkim, or the village as their lhep. While this practice stems from a belief that all sacred sites originated from shared sacred sources, it marks a shift from clan-specific relationalities. These narratives reveal interspecies interactions embracing origins from lakes, mountains, caves, or multispecies ancestry without hesitation.

Still, for many, these sacred spaces speak through ritual. Namgyal Lepcha, an elder who hails from Dzongu, explains the following: ‘The offering of chi (fermented millet) in a sungkyo(a hollowed-out wooden vessel) represents Tungcho Marcho Doh, the origin lake created by It-bu-debu-mu. The mound of chi peeking out of the sungkyo resembles a mountain(chyu) emerging from the lake (water-soaked chi). The butter smeared around the brim of this sungkyo—in counts of five or seven—represents the entrances of lhep into the world of our ruums (deities) and ancestors’.

These ritualistic representations anchor Mutanchi beliefs (Balikci-Denjongpa 2009, pp. 126–32) affirming that within sacred geographies of doh, chyu, and lhep, water in Dzongu is not merely a resource but a spiritual agent tied to memory, origin, and healing. Charisma K. Lepcha (2021), drawing from her fieldwork across Lepcha villages, writes of ‘streams that heal wounds’ and ‘springs that house ancestral spirits’. These reaffirm the belief that water, like mountains, is not symbolic—it is alive, with relational obligations woven into daily ritual, lore, and care. Her work reinforces a broader Himalayan Indigenous cosmology, where natural features speak through stories (Smith 2019, p. 10) and memory is retained in water’s movement and mutability (Lepcha and Lepcha 2021, pp. 104–8).

Several Mutanchi rituals centre on nature and the environment, including the worship of Kongchen-Chyu-ruum-faat, a ritual that venerates Kangchendzonga, the world’s third-highest peak. The ritual’s significance lies in its focus on the well-being of all species within nature and the betterment of the Mutanchi community and its environment. Namgyal Lepcha, sharing the aetiological narrative, stated that the mountain emerged from beneath the Tungcho-Marcho Doh (a vast expanse of water) under the instructions of It-bu-debu-mu, to oversee the region of Mayal Lyang (Paradise on Earth), a symbolic protector or elder brother for the Mutanchi community. Consequently, even settlers in the region worship the peak (Whyte 2018, p. 125). This belief has evolved into a Buddhist form of worship’, where the mountain is personified as ‘Dzenga’, a mountain deity, worshipped during the Pang Lhabsol festival in Sikkim (Rai 2021). In terms of conservation, mountaineers refrain from summiting the final few meters on the Indian side owing to this belief. The use of the kinship term ‘elder brother’ elucidates multispecies ecosophical beliefs that ensure shared responsibilities in for the local environment.

The immutable nature of environmental heritage demands attention, yet it seldom receives focus in an alarmingly disinterested society. Often, climate change—a global phenomenon—is rendered parochial or regional to evade responsibilities, despite its worldwide repercussions. Indigenous peoples are lauded as ‘warriors of nature’ (Krishnan and Naga 2017, pp. 881–85; Forbes 2001, pp. 294–97; Keyes and White 2021, pp. 349–52), which, ironically, shifts the burden onto them. The inconvenient truth is that this absolves many stakeholders of accountability (Whyte 2018, p. 134). A consumerist/capitalist society perceives nature as an inexhaustible resource, contrary to the reality.

Addressing the epistemology of environmental heritage is thus imperative (Cajete 1994). Again, we return to the following question: What’s in a name? Designations such as ‘World Heritage Sights’ and ‘Biodiversity Hotspots’ often fail to curb the devastating effects of extractive activities (Wylie 2020, pp. 60–66). It is at this epistemological juncture that Indigenous narratives, which retain their connections with the ecology, offer a glimmer of hope. Imparting ecospiritual and ecosophical knowledge transmission requires the active involvement of all stakeholders—not only the Indigenous peoples.

5. Conclusions

The Mutanchi worldview, rooted in the sanctity of nature and everything held within, is far more than a cultural artifact—it is a living archive of ecosophical and ecospiritual knowledge that guides the community’s coexistence with sacred geographies (Booth 1999, pp. 89–105; Bhatt et al. 2012, pp. 3–9). The Mutanchi belief system, much like Silko’s (2012) storytelling tradition, is a living, evolving force: ever-present, capable of healing, guiding, and renewing both the individual and the collective through ecological stewardship (Choo et al. 2020, pp. 46–47; Wylie 2020, pp. 49–52). At the core of these beliefs lies a deceptively simple question: what’s in a name? Everything. A name is a cosmological link, a ritual utterance, a refusal of colonial forgetting. In naming ourselves, our ancestors, and our landscapes, we continue to speak into existence a world of mutual responsibility, multispecies kinship, and sacred place-making. Mutanchi and Rongkup are not merely linguistic labels but epistemological anchors—resisting colonial erasure, academic neglect, and bureaucratic oversight through ritual, philosophy, and spiritual topographies (Simpson 2017, pp. 175–89; Biermann 2011, pp. 386–89; Battiste 2000, pp. xvii–xx; Wolfe 2006, p. 398; Moreton-Robinson 2015).

These sacred geographies form the nexus of complex ontologies that intertwine ecology, spirituality, and culture, aligning with the politics of community-conserved areas and their politics therein (Cajete 1994, pp. 15–30; Kothari 2006, pp. 312–13; Bhatt et al. 2012, pp. 3–9; Broome et al. 2018, pp. 1–5, 62–76; Imarhiagbe and Ogwu 2022, pp. 457–62). As we face accelerating global environmental crises, these Indigenous belief systems offer essential insights into sustainable, holistic approaches to nature (Yü 2021, p. 255). Unlike the capitalist view that commodifies nature, the Indigenous worldview regards it as a living, powerful force—demanding respect, understanding, and reciprocity for the well-being of all life forms (Beringer 1999, p. 18; Pachuau and van Schendel 2022, pp. 259–63). As global frameworks increasingly seek to integrate Indigenous knowledge, the urgency lies in ensuring that these engagements are non-extractive and reciprocal—honouring Indigenous data sovereignty (Kukutai and Taylor 2016, pp. 41–60) and amplifying voices like those of Charisma K. Lepcha (2021), who affirms water’s agency in Himalayan cosmologies.

Yet, there is an unavoidable gap in conveying these worldviews through academic discourse. Ritual embodiment and sacred experience resist full translation into analytical prose. This gap between lived, ritual knowledge and academic expression has been discussed by Indigenous scholars such as Battiste (2000, pp. 193–97), who argue that attempts to articulate Indigenous worldviews within Eurocentric academic frames often reproduce the very epistemic violence that they aim to resist. The stories and practices of the Mutanchi are not simply ‘data’; they are lived, relational acts—performed with land, spirit, and community, in specific places (Smith 2000, p. 211; 2019, p. 38). To write about them is to risk flattening their vitality into text. But perhaps acknowledging this tension is itself part of an ethical stance: to remain reflexive, to foreground the partiality of academic representation, and to recognise that what is most vital in these traditions often exceeds what can be cited or paraphrased. Dan Smyer Yü (2021), a scholar deeply engaged in Indigenous Tibetan epistemologies, reminds us that environmental humanities must move beyond textual abstraction to ‘affective human-earth relations’. This call underscores the challenge of rendering lived, ritual-based Mutanchi knowledge through academic prose. The earth, he argues, is not simply a repository of meaning but a co-agent in knowledge production—a ‘new animist earth’ that speaks through rivers, mountains, and myths.

In writing this article, I remain acutely aware of the tension between embodied knowledge and its reduction into symbolic or analytic language. This tension is not a limitation to overcome but an ethical line that I choose to walk—with humility and care.

In conclusion, only through the careful balancing of belief, ritual, and ecological practice can we hope to preserve these sacred ecosophies, the scope of which is yet to be explored to its full extent. By embracing and respecting the wisdom embedded in Indigenous knowledge systems (Radcliffe 2016, pp. 161–64) like that of the Mutanchis, one can foster deeper and more informed connections with the land—reclaiming both its spiritual and ecological health. Within the endonym Mutanchi Rumkup Rongkup, we find not only blueprints for an eco-spiritual cosmology, but also a powerful act of reclamation against epistemic erasure.

There also remain pressing questions about the role of faith conversion and hybrid spiritualities in shaping—or fragmenting—these ecosophical beliefs. This dimension will be explored in future research. Additionally, the digitisation of oral traditions (Choo et al. 2020, p. 50) through non-colonial archiving practices presents a growing area of both concern and opportunity for a deeper understanding. By foregrounding Indigenous ways of knowing (Smith 2000, p. 219) and integrating primarily non-Eurocentric ecological knowledge, the article has sought to offer insights for global environmental ethics and Indigenous-led conservation. Lastly, the Mutanchi cosmology stands not as an isolated belief system but as part of an evolving eco-philosophy of the Himalayan region—where ecology is sacred, and the sacred is ecological.