In his latest work, Naaga: Discovering the Extraordinary World of Serpent Worship, writer and storyteller K. Hari Kumar plunges into a subject at once ancient and startlingly relevant.
Published by HarperCollins India in July 2025, this 392-page book straddles the lines of travelogue, memoir, and cultural study, presenting serpent worship not as a relic of the past but as a living, breathing tradition woven deeply into India’s spiritual and ecological fabric.
The book is divided into four sections, each focusing on a different region and its serpent traditions: the sacred groves of Karnataka and Kerala, the cult of Goddess Manasa in Bengal and Assam, the myths of Nagaland and the Northeast, and the Himalayan landscapes where serpents are guardians of both land and lore. This structure allows Kumar to present a mosaic of practices that, while varied in ritual, are unified by reverence for the serpent as protector, healer, and ecological sentinel.
What makes Naaga especially compelling is its blend of scholarship and personal voice. Kumar does not merely catalogue rituals or cite myths; he steps into them, often guided by his own memories and losses.
In one section, he reflects on his ancestral ties to serpent worship, allowing the narrative to move beyond the purely academic into something more intimate. The result is a book that feels both researched and lived.
The significance of Naaga lies also in its timing. The last substantial Western account of Indian serpent worship appeared in 1906. Since then, the practice has largely slipped from mainstream discussion, often reduced to superstition in popular imagination. Kumar’s work reclaims that narrative, showing how serpent worship is not only cultural but ecological.
The groves where serpents are venerated are also biodiversity hotspots, acting as ancient models of environmental preservation. At a time when conversations about climate and conservation dominate public discourse, this reminder from folklore feels both urgent and profound.
Kumar’s prose is vivid and accessible. He can describe the silence of a serpent grove with as much ease as he narrates the dramatic retelling of a myth. His language carries a cinematic quality perhaps unsurprising, given his background as a screenwriter and storyteller.
At its best, the writing immerses the reader in the rustle of leaves, the murmur of mantras, the shimmer of a snake’s movement under moonlight.
If there is a limitation, it lies in the book’s density. With its regional spread and multitude of myths, Naaga can occasionally feel like a collection of essays rather than a singular narrative arc. Yet, given the subject’s complexity, this structure is forgivable, even necessary.
Naaga is a significant contribution to contemporary writing on Indian mythology and culture. It is at once a work of preservation and a call to re-imagine serpents not as creatures of fear, but as vital symbols of balance, continuity, and survival.
Readers interested in mythology, religion, or ecological traditions will find in this book a compelling and timely exploration. Richly researched and lyrically told, Naaga ensures that the serpents of India hiss again not from the shadows, but at the centre of cultural memory.