The Jenu Kuruba Way: Honouring Nature’s Gifts | Evolve Back Kabini

In the mist-filled forests of Kabini in what is today known as Nagarahole and Bandipura National Parks, the Jenu Kuruba, one of the oldest tribes of southern India, once lived by a wisdom older than words—a way of being where every act of gathering, every step into the trees, began with asking.

They were honey gatherers primarily, but depended on forest produce in other ways too. They knew their way around fruiting trees, edible roots and tubers, medicinal herbs, a hunted and half-devoured prey animal left behind by a predator, and of course, the seasons and cycles for the bees to build their hives. It would surprise most urban minds, that this knowledge and skill in foraging had a solid foundation in the tribe’s spiritual beliefs and ritual practices.

Honey gathering wasn’t just about survival; it was a gesture of respect to their ancestors. The Jenu Kuruba believe that their ancestors come back in the form of bees in the forest, collecting honey and offering it back to the creatures of the forest. Even the bees who make the honey, do not partake of everything they’ve produced. Much of it is to be shared with their neighbours.

Before touching a hive, Jenu Kurubas sought permission from the forest’s deities --
Guddappa, the tribe’s shaman, stood at the center of these ancient rituals. More than a healer, he was the one who spoke to the forest spirits on their behalf with offerings of wildflowers, chanting quietly under ancient trees. Through him, the Jenu Kuruba would ask for the forest’s blessing to gather only what they needed, to take without disturbing the balance. Each bee, each tree, held the memory of those who came before, both human and animal. Honeybees, in their belief, carried the spirits of ancestors, moving as silent guides, reminding them to walk lightly, to take only enough.

Even the finding of a dead prey animal for meat was initiated by Guddappa’s whispers, relayed by the forest spirits to the community, with the trust that they would not grab the whole animal to themselves, but leave some meat behind for other creatures to have their fill from.

But today, this way of life is slipping away, a quiet echo of what once was. The forest isn’t as accessible as it used to be, and modern pressures pull at the younger generations. Some of the elders still carry out these rituals, but for many, it’s a memory rather than a daily practice. Conservation laws, relocation, and survival demands mean that Guddappa’s role as the forest’s bridge has faded, now mostly remembered in stories.

And yet, something of this wisdom—this way of listening to the forest—isn’t just a gift for the Jenu Kuruba; it’s a gift for all of us. In a world where we often take without asking, where we are quick to see nature as ours to conquer, the Jenu Kuruba’s reverence reminds us of something precious. They understood, deeply and without question, that every act of taking comes with responsibility. It’s a lesson that feels especially urgent now, in a time when balance with nature feels more fragile than ever.

What if we learned to pause, to ask permission from the natural world, to honor it in small ways? What if we remembered that there’s a cost to everything we take? The Jenu Kuruba’s rituals, fading though they may be, carry this reminder: we are a part of nature, not above it. Their stories offer us a way back to that understanding—a gentle nudge to live as though the earth, too, has a voice. And in that voice, there’s a wisdom we’re invited to hear, even as it grows quiet.

Continue your booking