The town that drowned

Development always comes at a heavy price, and Uttarakhand has had to pay it so many times. From the ambitious Char Dham project to the massive hydroelectric projects, the mountains have borne the brunt. Amid all this, homes, livelihoods, cultures, folk wisdom, stories and myths have been lost. When producer Sharad Mehra came to Yashasvi Juyal with the story of Lohari, another village to get submerged under water, he could identify the pain. That’s how ‘The Rains Don’t Make Us Happy Anymore’ was born. The 27-minute short documentary had its world premiere at the recent 56th edition of the prestigious Visions du Réel International Film Festival.

Set in the higher Himalayas, this film is a tribal boy’s letter to a lost love. It reveals the submerged myths of their village, drowned by a hydroelectric dam. Living in the remnants of his flooded village, Lohari, he recalls a time when gods roamed the mountains, labourers turned into lizards, and the land pulsed with magic. Through letters to a girl who left long ago, the boy’s tale unfolds, blurring the lines between reality and myth. Excerpts from an interview.

How did the idea of the film come about?

The idea actually came through my producer, Sharad Mehra. He introduced me to Prof Atri Nautiyal, who was researching the displacement of a village called Lohari, which was affected by the construction of the Lakhwar Vyasi Hydroelectric Project, one of the biggest dam projects on the Yamuna. We did a small visit to the area along with a local moderator, Anil Tomar, and Prof Nautiyal’s team. The moment we entered the region, there was this overwhelming sense of destruction, like an industrial takeover in the middle of what used to be a vibrant, living space. We walked all the way to where the village once stood, which was now mostly drowned. Tomar guided us through, pointing out what used to be homes, paths, temples. The water levels were low that day and we could still see patches of the old grasslands beneath the surface. It was haunting. That visit sparked something in me.

‘The Rains Don’t Make Us Happy Anymore’ — the title is unsettling. Tell us about it.

Uttarakhand has a long history of migration, especially among men who often take up government jobs and go away for work. Many women and families stay back in the villages, sometimes out of choice, sometimes because they don’t have another option. Lohari was like that too. The people who stayed were mostly farmers, completely dependent on their land and daily agricultural work. Prof Nautiyal told me that these were the ones who suffered the most from the displacement caused by the dam. During our visit, I met a family, the last one still living there, trying to continue farming on a small patch of land near the old school building. For farmers, rains are more than just weather. Rain means life, hope, crops. During one of our shoot schedules, it started to rain. And the rain that day didn’t feel joyous — it was dark, heavy, melancholic. That’s when the title came to me: ‘Rains Don’t Make Us Happy Anymore’. It carried the weight of their story.

What, for you, is the cost of displacement?

For me, the film is an observational gaze into what really happens to a region after these massive constructions. Uttarakhand is often seen through a romanticised lens, its serenity, spirituality, and stunning landscapes. But beneath that beauty lies a lot of pain, trauma, and disaster that we don’t always see or talk about. One of the biggest costs of displacement is cultural extinction. Uttarakhand is home to so many diverse cultural traditions, languages, and ways of life, each village with its own unique practices. When a place is wiped off the map for a project, it’s not just homes that are lost; identities, stories, rituals, and roots vanish too. I wanted this film to carry a haunting, ambient tone. We often look at the mountains and see peace and beauty, but I wanted to show another side — where the mountains are dark, wounded, and full of pain.

What impression did Lohari leave on you?

I never visited Lohari when it was still alive as a village. My first time there was after it had already been submerged. What struck me the most was that the villagers had been given just 48 hours to evacuate their homes. After those traumatic two days, most of the families took shelter in the local community school, which had been turned into a temporary camp. Over time, hope faded. People slowly began leaving for government-allotted housing in the nearby town of Vikas Nagar. When I finally visited the area, only one family remained; they were running a small restaurant for the labourers working on a new 320 MW project in the region. It felt like a complete industrial takeover. While shooting in the now-abandoned school, I noticed many personal belongings had been left behind. Perhaps people had left in a hurry, or couldn’t bring themselves to let go. I met a man who used to live just across from the school. Since the new settlements didn’t have electricity, he walked back every day to the school just to use the fridge and get some ice. One night, while we were filming, a man and a woman arrived unexpectedly. It was the first time we saw anyone return. The man told us that whenever he misses the village, he and his wife walk all the way back to the school and unlock the classroom they had stayed in after being displaced. He showed me a photograph of the village. It made the present reality feel even more haunting.

Like your previous film, this one too features letters as a central narrative device. Why do you choose to tell the story through letters, especially in a time when hardly anyone writes these?

To be honest, in the more remote regions of Uttarakhand, letters are still very much alive. During my travels through different villages, I came across so many of them, tucked away, cherished, exchanged. Letters, to me, are like slow cinema. They take their time, unfold gradually, and draw you in emotionally. You don’t just read a letter, you experience it. They carry a kind of storytelling power that feels aligned with the fundamentals of cinema itself. In this film, however, the narrative through letters is quite ambiguous. For some, it might feel more like a phone call, a non-linear, floating conversation. So calling them just ‘letters’ may not be fully accurate. It’s more like a quiet, introspective dialogue, unfolding slowly and peacefully. That rhythm, that meditative pace, felt right for this story.

The film was screened at Visions du Réel. What does that mean to you?

Getting a world premiere at Visions du Réel means so much, especially for the cinema of Uttarakhand. The region is still struggling with a lack of film infrastructure and support, so this kind of recognition holds deep value for independent filmmakers from here, and for the stories that often go unheard, tucked away in the silence of the Himalayas. Our world premiere on the 10th was incredibly special. The audience was left with so many questions about the region, the politics, the people of Lohari. That curiosity, that engagement meant everything. I’m so grateful to the festival programmers who believed in the film and gave it a space to begin its journey in front of such an esteemed and thoughtful audience. To be competing in the International Medium-Length and Short Film Competition and to be the only Indian film in that selection felt like a dream come true.

Interestingly, at the festival, you competed with another film on a similar subject, ‘The Town That Drove Away’, highlighting how these struggles are shared globally and makes your film immediately relevant to anyone, anywhere.

Yes, ‘The Town That Drove Away’ is a medium-length film made by two very talented filmmakers, and they even won an award at the festival which I am sure is so well-deserved. I, unfortunately, couldn’t attend any of their screenings, but I did watch the trailer, and it was incredibly compelling. Even though the film is set in a completely different region, it explores a very similar concern. It’s powerful to see that the selection committee included both our films in the same competition. That kind of programming allows for a broader dialogue around the issue and shows how deeply interconnected these struggles are. It brings more weight to the conversation and opens up space for collective reflection.

Your next is a full-length feature film. Will it be set in the Himalayas as well?

Yes, my next film is a full-length feature, and it was recently selected as a Work-in-Progress (WIP) project at the HKIFF (Hong Kong International Film Festival) Industry’s HAF 2025 WIP Lab, which has been really encouraging. The film is titled ‘The Ink-Stained Hand and the Missing Thumb’, and while it’s not set deep in the Himalayas, it does take place along the border of Uttarakhand and Uttar Pradesh, specifically in a lesser-explored belt of Uttarakhand, along the highways.

It’s a magical realism film about a toll booth worker who dies in a tragic truck accident while on duty, and then reappears 24 hours later as a ghost in the same landscape. But he returns to a slightly altered world with a subtle twist that begins to reshape everything. The form is quite playful, blending the surreal with grounded realities of the region. Right now, we’re in post-production and actively looking for funding and applying for grants. We’re hoping to complete the film by the end of this year.

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