01-1000079172_enhanced-PP-Labani Jangi and the strokes of resistance.jpg

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“I do not think I am a painter. I do not have the qualities of a painter. But I have stories. I try to write stories with my brush. I don’t claim my strokes are all perfect. It is only in the last two-three years that I am trying to study and understand the work of a lot of painters. Otherwise, I had no knowledge. I painted to tell a story. I feel happy when I can express the story. I paint as if I am writing a narrative.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Labani is an artist, a painter from Dhubulia, in the very rural Nadia district of West Bengal. The village used to station an army camp, with an airfield, during World War II. The largely Muslim village lost a lot of its agricultural land when the British established that camp. Later, when partition happened, many from the village moved to the other side of the border. “But we did not,” says Labani “as our elders did not want to. Our ancestors are buried in this land. This is where we want to live and die.”&nbsp; That connection with the land, and all that happens in its name, has shaped the sensibility of this artist from her younger days.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Her encouragement for painting came from her father who took her to a tutor for a few years when she was a child. Her father is a first-generation learner, the only one among his 10 siblings. A lawyer who worked at the grassroot level, starting cooperatives for peasants and labourers, he did not make much money. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;display:inline !important;float:none;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:2;text-align:start;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">&nbsp;“From whatever money he got he would buy me a book,” says Labani. “There used to be lot of children’s books from Moscow Press, Raduga Publishers, that made their way into our home through Bangla translations. I used to love the pictures in these books. That is where my earliest inspiration for illustration came from.”&nbsp;<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">That early age training in painting which her father introduced her to did not last long. But the love for painting returned to Labani in 2016 when language began to abandon her.&nbsp; The country was seeing a rise in mob lynching in the face of state indifference, a deliberate persecution of minorities, and the majoritarian denial of such hate crimes.&nbsp;Labani, then finishing her M.Phil. at Jadavpur University in Kolkata, was deeply troubled by the realities of this country, yet was unable to write about it.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“There was an intense feeling of unease,” she says. “I used to love writing till that time, and had written and published a few articles in Bangla. But suddenly language felt completely inadequate. I wanted to run away from everything then. That is when I started painting. I would paint the sea in all its moods, in water colours, on every little piece of paper I could find. One after the other, I did so many paintings of the sea at that time [2016-17]. To paint was my way of finding peace in an otherwise turbulent world.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Labani remains a self-taught artist to this day.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">In 2017 she enrolled into a doctoral programme at the Centre for Studies In Social Sciences, Calcutta affiliated to Jadavpur University after being awarded the prestigious UGC-Maulana Azad National Fellowship for Minority Students (2016–20). She continued with the work on migrant labour she had begun earlier, but this time getting deeper into their lived realities as part of her larger dissertation project, 'The lives and world of Bengali migrant labour'.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Labani had seen a lot of people from her village leave for Kerala in search of construction labour jobs, or to Mumbai to work in hotels. “My father’s brothers and members of their families, not women as much as men, still work as migrant labourers outside Bengal,” she says. The subject though close to her heart needed a lot of field work. “But just then the pandemic struck,” she recalls. “The worst hit were migrant workers. I did not feel like working on my research anymore then. How could I go and ask questions related to my academic work when they were struggling to reach home, to get healthcare, and for a place in the crematoria and burial grounds? It did not feel right to benefit from their situation. I could not finish the field work in time and so my PhD has dragged on.” &nbsp;<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Labani took to her brush again, this time to document the lives of migrant workers on the pages of the People’s Archives of Rural India (PARI). “Some of Sainath’s articles used to get published in the Bengali daily Ganashakti’s editorial pages. So, I was already familiar with P. Sainath’s work when Smita di got me to do a few illustrations for an article first and then a poem.” (Smita Khator is Chief Translations Editor of PARI). All through 2020 Labani Jangi was a Fellow at PARI where she painted the lives of the subjects of her thesis, as well as of farmers and rural women living out the pandemic and lockdowns. &nbsp;<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“My work with PARI focuses on both the systemic challenges, and the enduring spirit of rural life. By integrating these narratives into my art, I try to create visual expressions that resonate with the complexities of their lives. My illustrations are a medium through which I contribute to preserving and sharing the rich diversities of cultural and social realities in rural India.”

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Labani is not associated with any political party, but sees her art as political. “I saw a lot of painters – and political posters – after coming to Jadavpur to study. And the kind of illustrations I make about all that happens around us has come from my exposure to these and of course from my own sensibilities.”&nbsp; She draws inspiration from the daily realities of being a Muslim woman in a society where hatred is being normalised, and state-sponsored violence is often the harsh reality of the day.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“The world does not want to acknowledge us, our skills, our talents, our hard work,” Labani says. “Our identity plays a huge part in this erasure. This continues even today. The work, especially of a Muslim woman artist, does not even exist for a large number of people." Certainly not until she finds the right patron, if she is lucky. "One does not give it space or engage with it, not even to criticise. That is why I call it erasure. A process that manifests itself in the history of art, literature, and many other fields for that matter,” she adds. But Labani keeps trying by painting and putting her work on the walls of digital platforms like Facebook and Instagram.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">And it is through Facebook that the Chitrabhasha Art Gallery in Chattogram got in touch with her and invited her to Bangladesh for her very first solo exhibition in December 2022, Bibir Dargahs.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">The idea for the exhibition Bibir Dargahs&nbsp;came from her childhood, as well as from the present situation in Bangladesh, where she says, she once again sees the rise of conservative Islam. A Bibi ka dargah refers to dargahs memorialising women pirs (spiritual guides). “There used to be two&nbsp;dargahs for women in my village when I was growing up. We had cultural practices, beliefs in tying a thread for mannat&nbsp;[wish or vow]; we cooked together for a feast when our wishes were granted. There was a whole set of syncretic traditions around that place.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“But I also saw them disappear in front of my eyes. Then a maktab [library] comes up in their place later. Conservative Islamic people who do not believe in mazars [graves or tombs], or sufi dargahs&nbsp;&nbsp;–&nbsp;their efforts are towards either breaking these down or building a mosque in its place. There are a few dargahs left now but all of them are for male pirs. There are no Bibi ka dargahs left, their names erased from our cultural memories.”&nbsp;<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">But while the pattern of such destruction is widespread, there is also another parallel pattern that Labani points out. Something that stands against such calculated and violent erasing of memories. “When the time came for a show in Bangladesh, I thought about the destruction of mazars on one hand and the unbreakable resilience of women who fight for their lost land and rights even today. This resistance and resilience are the spirit of the mazar that survives even after the structures are destroyed. This is what I have tried to capture in this solo exhibition.” Long after that exhibition is over, she continues working on the theme.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Labani’s paintings have amplified the voices of people, given a second life to many a poem, and to articles, and books. “Artists or writers, we all are connected. I remember Keshav bhau&nbsp;[<a style="color:rgb(0, 103, 106);text-decoration:none;" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/inspired-by-ambedkar-salves-liberation-song/" data-linktype="page" data-id="17858" data-parent-id="27" data-original-title="" title="">Inspired by Ambedkar: Salve's liberation song</a>] telling me how I had painted the Shahir exactly the way he had imagined. And it is not surprising to me, because we share our imagination, our collective memories, the soul of our common stories, even when we are separated by our individual, social, cultural identities,” says Labani.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">The bold colours, powerful strokes, and raw depiction of human lives in Labani’s paintings tell stories of resistance against cultural homogenisation, stories of collective remembrance, of identities and cultures, of building connections amidst fragmentation. “I guess I am driven by the urgency for a utopia. Envisioning a new society becomes imperative in response to the surrounding violence,” says Labani. “In a world where political discourse often aligns with destruction, my paintings speak a softer but equally potent language of protest and resilience.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">A language she learnt from her grandmother with whom she lived during the first 10 years of her life. “Mother found it difficult to take care of the two of us, brother and me,” says Labani. “The house was also small. So, she sent me to my nani’s&nbsp;[maternal grandmother's] house where she and khala [mother’s sister] took care of me for a decade. There used to be a pond near her house where we spent every single afternoon doing kantha&nbsp;[embroidery] work.” Her grandmother would weave complex stories in colourful needle work, using a simple running stitch. The art of telling complex stories in simple strokes may have come to Labani from her grandmother, but the space between despair and hope that she inhabits has been created by her mother.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“When I was young, I performed very poorly in my exams. I would get a zero in maths and even science sometimes,” she says. “And all that time I do not know why but ma&nbsp;continued to believe in me, even when baba had doubts. She would assure me that I would do well next time. &nbsp;I wouldn’t have reached so far without her. Also, ma could never attend college even though she wanted to. She was married off. So, she lives her life through me. When I return from Kolkata she comes and sits next to me, eagerly absorbing the stories of a world outside her home. She sees that world through my eyes.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">But the world is a scary place, even the rapidly commercialising world of art. “I fear losing my emotional core. In the desire to become a big artist, I do not wish to be emotionally displaced, distanced from my people and from the values for which my art stands. I continue to struggle a lot, about money, about time, but my biggest struggle is to survive in this world without selling my soul.”

Labani Jangi and the strokes of resistance

Darakwadi

01-DSC_1475-JK-Adivasis_of_Jharkhand-landless_in_their_own_land.jpg

&quot;During the lockdown in 2020, some people came to set up a boundary around 1.20 acres of our land,” says Faguwa Oraon. An Adivasi farmer in his early thirties, Faguwa is pointing to a brick wall surrounding an open tract of land. We are in Dumari village of Khunti district, largely inhabited by the Oraon community. “They started measuring it saying, ‘this land belongs to someone else; it is not yours.’ We opposed them.“About 15 days after this incident, we went to the Sub-Divisional Magistrate in Khunti, 30 kilometres away from our village. Each trip costs us more than 200 rupees. We had to seek a lawyer’s help there. Now that man has already taken 2,500 rupees from us. But nothing has happened. “Before that, we had gone to the zonal office in our block. We even went to the police station to complain about this. We were receiving threats demanding that we give up our claim on the land. A district level office bearer of a far-right organisation threatened us. But there is no hearing that has taken place in the court. Now this wall stands on our land. Aur hum do saal se isi tarah daud-dhoop kar rahe hai [and we keep running around like this for the last two years]. “My grandfather Lusa Oraon had bought the land from landlord Balchand Sahu in 1930. We have been farming on the same land. We have the rent receipts issued from 1930 till 2015 for this plot. After that [in 2016] the online system was introduced. And there in the online records our plot of land appears in the name of the former landlord&#39;s descendants. We have no idea how this has happened.” Faguwa Oraon has lost his land to the union government’s Digital India Land Records Modernization programme (DILRMP), a nationwide drive to digitise all land records and create a centrally managed database for them in the country. Under the programme aimed at modernising the management of all such records, the state government in January 2016 inaugurated a <a href="https://jharbhoomi.jharkhand.gov.in/LandBank">land bank portal</a> listing district-wise information about land. Its aim was “to minimize the scope of land/property disputes and enhance transparency in the land records maintenance systems.” It has done just the opposite for Faguwa and many others like him. “We went to the Pragya Kendra to the find out the status of the land online.” The kendra is a one-stop shop for Common Service Centres in Jharkhand, created under the union government’s Digital India scheme that provides public services at the Gram Panchayat for a fee. “According to the online records there, Nagendra Singh is the present owner of the land. Prior to him Sanjay Singh was the owner. He sold the land to Bindu Devi who in turn sold it to Nagendra Singh. “The descendants of the landlord kept buying and selling the same land two to three times without our knowledge, it seems. But how is this possible when we have offline receipts for the land from 1930 to 2015? We have spent more than 20,000 rupees as of now and are still running around. We had to sell the foodgrains in the house to raise the money. Now when I see the wall on the land, I feel as if we have lost what we own. We don&#39;t know who can help us in this struggle.”

Jharkhand has had a long and complex history of land rights. Policies and political parties have notoriously violated these rights in this mineral-rich area inhabited by a large Adivasi population. This state sits on 40 per cent of India’s mineral deposits.According to the National Census 2011, the state has 29.76 per cent forest cover, spread over 23,721 square kilometres; 32 indigenous communities classified as Scheduled Tribes (STs) make up over a fourth, or about 26 per cent of the state’s population; 13 districts are fully covered and three are partially covered under the Fifth Schedule. Adivasi communities in the state have been fighting from pre-Independence times for their resource rights, which are intricately linked to their traditional socio-cultural ways of living. Their collective struggles for more than 50 years led to the first formal record of rights, the hukuk-nama in 1833. This was the official recognition of the communitarian agrarian rights and local self-governance of the Adivasis a century before Indian independence. And much before the constitutional reinstatement of Fifth Schedule areas, The Chota Nagpur Tenancy Act (CNTA) of 1908 and the Santal Parganas Tenancy Act (SPTA) 1876, had recognised the right of the Adivasi (STs) and Moolvasi (SCs, BCs and others) landholders in those special zones.

Faguwa Oraon and his family have depended on the land their ancestors bought from a zamindar for their livelihood. In addition, they hold 1.50 acres of bhuinhari land that belongs to their Oraon ancestors.The descendants of a family whose ancestors cleared the forests converting the land into paddy fields and establishing a settlement, collectively own such a land known as bhuinhari in Oraon areas and as mundari khuntkatti in Munda areas. &quot;We are three brothers,” says Faguwa. “All three of us have families. The elder brother and the middle brother both have three children each and I have two. The family members cultivate the farms and hilly land. We grow paddy, millet, and vegetables. We eat half of it and sell the other half when we need money. That is what we live on,” he adds. Farming happens only once a year in this single-crop terrain. The rest of the time they have to look for wage labour in and around their village in Karra block, or even beyond, to survive. The digitisation and its problems go beyond such family-owned lands.

About five kilometres away in Kosambi village, Bandhu Horo recounts the story of their collective land. &quot;In June 2022,” he says, “some people came and tried to fence our land. They had come with a JCB machine (J.C. Bamford excavators), when all the people of the village came out and stopped them.”&quot;About 20-25 Adivasis from the village came and sat in the fields,” 76-year-old Flora Horo of the same village joins in. “People even started ploughing the fields. The party interested in buying the land called the police. But the villagers continued to sit till the evening. And later, surguja [niger herb or guizotia abyssinica] was sown in the fields,” he says. “Kosambi village has 83 acres of land known as manjhihas,” 36-year-old gram pradhan Vikas Horo explains in detail. “It is the ‘privileged’ land in the village that was set apart by the Adivasi community as an acknowledgement of their landlord. The people of the village have been farming collectively on this land and giving a part of the crop to the landlord&#39;s family as a tribute, a salami.” The servitude did not end even when the zamindari system of land holding in the state was abolished. “Even today,” he says, “many Adivasis in the villages do not know their rights.” Seteng Horo, a 35-year-old farmer whose family, like those of his three brothers, depend on their 10 acres of jointly-owned land for subsistence, has a similar story to tell. &quot;Initially we didn’t know that with the end of the zamindari system, the manjhihas land goes back to the people who were cultivating these fields collectively. And since we did not know, we continued to give some grain to the descendants of the former zamindar after farming. It was only when they started selling such land in an illegal manner, that we organised ourselves and came out to save our holdings,” he says. &quot;The Bihar Land Reforms Act was implemented between 1950 and 1955,” explains senior advocate Rashmi Katyayan in Ranchi. “All the interest of the zamindars in the land – the right to lease out uncultivated land, right to collect rent and taxes, to settle new raiyats on wasteland, the right to collect taxes from village markets and village fairs etc. were then vested in the government, except for those lands that were being cultivated by ex-landlords themselves. “The ex-zamindars were to file returns for such land as well as their ‘privileged’ land known as manjhihas. But they considered such land as theirs and never filed any returns on those. Not only that, but they also further continued to take half-share from the villagers long after the zamindari system was abolished. In the last five years, land conflicts have increased with digitisation,” says the 72-year-old Katyayan. Discussing the rise in conflicts between the descendants of the ex-landlords and the tribes in Khunti district, advocate Anup Minj, 45, says, “The descendants of the landlords have neither the rent receipts, nor the possession of such lands, but they are identifying such lands online and selling them to someone or the other. Under the Occupancy Right section of the Chota Nagpur Tenancy Act, 1908, the person who has been cultivating the land for more than 12 years automatically gets the right over the manjhihas land. Therefore, the Adivasis who do farming here have the right over this land.”

A United Parha Committee has been active in the last few years, organizing the people who farm these lands. This is done under the aegis of the traditional democratic Parha system of Adivasi self-governance. Parhas typically consist of groups of 12 to 22 villages.“This struggle has been going on in many areas of Khunti district,” says Alfred Horo, a 45-year-old social worker with the committee. “The descendants of the landlord are trying to re-occupy 300 acres of land in Torpa block of the district, 23 acres in Tuyugutu (also known as Tiyu) village of Karra block, 40 in Pargaon, 83 in Kosambi village, 45 in Madhukama village, 23 in Mehan (also known as Meha) village, and 90 acres in Chhata village. So far, the United Parha Committee has saved close to 700 acres of Adivasi land,” he says. The United Parha Committee is working to build awareness among the Adivasis about their land rights, showing them the khatiyan – a record of community and private land tenure rights based on the 1932 land survey. It gives detailed information about who has the right over which land, and the nature of the land. When the villagers see the khatiyan, they come to know that their ancestors owned the land they were farming collectively. It does not belong to the ex-landlords and the zamindari system has also ended. “People can see all the information about the land online through Digital India and that is why the conflicts have gone up,” says Ipeel Horo of Merle village in Khunti. “On Labour Day, May 1, 2024, some people came to make a boundary around the manjhihas land near the village. They claimed that they had bought the land. Nearly 60 men and women of the village came together and stopped them. “The descendants of the ex-landlords can see manjhihas land online. They still consider such lands as their ‘privileged’ possession and are selling them in an unfair manner. We are resisting their land grab with our combined strength,” adds Ipeel Horo. A total of 36 acres of land in this Munda village is manjhihas land, on which villagers have been doing collective farming for generations. “The people of the village are not very educated,” 30-year-old Bharosi Horo says. “We do not know what rules are made and changed in this country. Educated people know a lot of things. But with that knowledge they rob the less informed people. They harass them. That is why the Adivasis resist.” The much-celebrated ‘digital revolution’ has not reached many people living in areas with sporadic power supply and patchy internet connectivity. Jharkhand has seen <a href="https://sansad.in/getFile/loksabhaquestions/annex/1711/AU2351.pdf?source=pqals">only 32 per cent</a> internet availability in rural areas. Add to this the digital divide in the country –exacerbated by the already existing divides of class, gender, caste and tribe. The  <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/key-indicators-of-household-social-consumption-on-education-in-india-nss-75th-round-july-2017-june-2018/">National Sample Survey</a> (NSS 75th Round - July 2017-June 2018) notes that in the Adivasi belt of Jharkhand, a mere 11.3 per cent have internet facility in their household and out of those only about 12 per cent of men and 2 per cent of women in rural areas know how to operate the internet. Villagers have to depend on Pragya Kendras for services, the inadequacies of which have already been discussed in a ten-district <a href="https://pkas2018.wordpress.com/">survey</a>.

Vandana Bharti, Circle Office (CO) of Karra Development block of Khunti district sounds reticent as she speaks. &quot;The descendants of the ex-landlords have the land papers but one has to see who has the possession on the land,” she says. “The tribes are in possession of the land, and they are the ones who have been cultivating it. Now that is a complicated matter. We usually direct such cases to the court. Sometimes the descendants of the ex-landlord and the people settle the matter themselves.”A <a href="https://www.epw.in/journal/2023/18/insight/jharkhands-new%C2%A0sthaniyata%C2%A0local-resident-policy.html">research paper</a> in the Economic and Political Weekly on Jharkhand’s local residence policy published in 2023 says, “… each digital land record is turning revenue land into a private property regime, overlooking the traditional/Khatiyani system of recording community land tenure rights granted under the CNTA.” The researchers acknowledge the incorrect entries for khata or plot number, the acreage, and changed names and tribes/castes of the owners of the land, along with fraudulent sale of the land that has left the villagers running from pillar to post to have the online records corrected and updated – but to no avail. And now that the land is under someone else’s name, they are not able to pay the relevant taxes. “Who are the real beneficiaries of this mission?” asks Ramesh Sharma, national coordinator of the Ekta Parishad, a peoples&#39; movement for land rights. “Is the land records digitalisation a democratic process? Undoubtedly, the state and a powerful few are the biggest beneficiaries, enjoying the gross outcomes of this mission, like the landlords, land mafias and middlemen once did.” He believes the inability of the local administration to understand and recognise the customary land practices demarcation is intentional. That they are consciously on the side of the undemocratic and powerful. The fear among the Adivasi communities that 35-year-old Basanti Devi articulates, is more widespread than one can imagine. “This village is surrounded by manjhihas land on all sides,” she says. “It is a village of 45 families. People live peacefully. The village runs that way since we cooperate with each other. Now if the land on all sides is sold in an illegal manner, boundaries are made, then where will our cows, bulls, goats graze? The village will be completely blocked. We will be forced to migrate from here to another place. All this is scary.” The author is immensely grateful for the insightful discussions and help that she has received from the senior advocate Rashmi Katyayan that have informed her writing.

Adivasis of Jharkhand — landless in their own land

ಜಾರ್ಖಂಡ್: ತಮ್ಮದೇ ನೆಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಅಸ್ತಿತ್ವ ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಆದಿವಾಸಿಗಳು

சொந்த ஊரில் நிலமற்றிருக்கும் பழங்குடிகள்

తమ సొంత భూముల్లోనే భూమిలేనివారిగా మిగిలిపోతున్న ఝార్ఖండ్ ఆదివాసులు

ਝਾਰਖੰਡ ਦੇ ਆਦਿਵਾਸੀ ਆਪਣੀ ਹੀ ਜ਼ਮੀਨ ਤੋਂ ਬੇਦਖਲ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਹੋਏ

अपनी ही ज़मीन से बेदख़ल होते झारखंड के आदिवासी

ജാർഘണ്ടിലെ ആദിവാസികൾ - സ്വന്തം ഭൂമിയിൽ മണ്ണില്ലാത്തവർ

اپنی ہی زمین سے بے دخل ہوتے جھارکھنڈ کے آدیواسی

ନିଜ ଜମି ହରାଉଥିବା ଝାଡ଼ଖଣ୍ଡର ଆଦିବାସୀ

झारखंडचे आदिवासी आपल्याच भूमीत भूमीहीन

अपन जमीन ले बेदखल होवत झारखंड के आदिवासी

आपने जमीन से बेदखल झारखंड के आदिवासी

ઝારખંડના આદિવાસીઓ: પોતાની જ ભૂમિ પર ભૂમિહીન

নিজভূমে ভূমিহারা ঝাড়খণ্ডের আদিবাসীরা

নিজৰেই ভূমিৰ পৰা উচ্ছেদিত হ’বলৈ ধৰা ঝাৰখণ্ডৰ আদিবাসীসকল

Kachchh

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“It all begins with a single thread and ends with a single thread,” says Rekha Ben Vaghela with a faint smile. She is sitting at her handloom weaving a single ikat patolu in her house in Mota Timbla village of Gujarat. “In the beginning we wind the bobbin with a single thread and in the end, we transfer the now dyed thread onto the bobbin,” Rekha Ben explains the many processes of patola making that come before the bobbins for the weft thread are ready, and the warp thread is set on the loom.Many in the Vankarvas in this village in Surendranagar district where she lives are engaged in one or the other task related to making the famous silk sarees known as patolu . But Rekha Ben, in her 40s today, is the only Dalit woman patola maker in Limbdi taluka, weaving single and double ikat patola. (Read: The warp and the weft of Rekha Ben’s life ).The patola from Surendranagar are known as ‘zalawadi’ patola , often cheaper than those made in Patan. Originally known for its single ikat patola , vankars (weavers) in Zalawad now also weave double ikat ones. “In single ikat , the design is only on the weft. In double ikat, both the warp and the weft have a design,” says Rekha Ben, explaining the difference between the two kinds of patola.It is the design that complicates the process. Rekha Ben is trying to explain it one more time. “A single ikat patolu has 3,500 warp threads and 13,750 weft threads. While a double ikat one has 2,220 warp threads and 9,870 weft threads,” she says sliding the bobbin with the weft thread into the shuttle.

The sight of the bobbin brings the image of 55-year-old Ganga Ben Parmar in front of my eyes. “We take the hank of yarn on a big wooden spool first and then from there on to a bobbin with the help of a spinning wheel. You cannot wind the bobbin without the spinning wheel,” she had said while working on one at her home in Limbdi’s Ghagharetiya village.“Where are you lost?” Rekha Ben’s voice brings me back to our discussion of the patola threads, a complex process that she has been explaining to me for the nth time that day. “Write,” she commands fixing her eyes on my notebook. She stops weaving for a while, trying to ensure that I understand the process completely.I write down the steps process, quite intricate with more than a dozen steps, that can last over weeks and will involve many more workers beyond the weaver. The process that begins with the hank of silk yarn and finishes with the last thread going into the 252-inch long patola saree, can take six months of labour.“A single mistake at any step and you are sure to ruin the patolu,” she pronounces.

Picking up the threads of patola

ହାତରେ ପଟୋଲା ବୁଣିବା

படோலாவின் நூல்களை இணைப்போம்

پٹولا کے دھاگوں کی ریشمی دنیا

પડી પટોળે ભાત, આ મહેનતની

পাটোলা সুতোর জটিল পথে জীবনের খোঁজ

eng-patola-mob.png

eng-drought-desk.png

Uttar Pradesh State Disaster Management Authority accepts that over the years, drought remains one of the major disasters affecting UP, an important food grain supplier in the country. Parts of Madhya Pradesh are equally susceptible to drought conditions. As many as 51 districts here have experienced several droughts in the last 29 years. A large number of people in these states depend on rain fed agriculture for livelihood. So, recurring heat waves, depleting ground water and deficient rainfall create havoc in the state.Only those who have experienced it know of the horrors of drought. For the city dwellers it is just a piece of news, but for the farmers who live through it year after year, it is ominous, like the coming of Yama, the god of death. Stony, dry eyes waiting for the rains, parched, cracked earth spitting fire, hungry, children with shrivelled bellies, heaps of cattle bones and women wandering in search of water – are familiar sites across the state.This poem comes from my experience of drought in the plateaus of central India.

<div class="raw-html-embed"><iframe width="100%" height="100" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1869684537%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-8X4KdEDEaUb&amp;color=%23ff5500&amp;auto_play=false&amp;hide_related=false&amp;show_comments=true&amp;show_user=true&amp;show_reposts=false&amp;show_teaser=true"></iframe></div>Listen to Syed Merajuddin reciting the poem in Hindi

<div class="raw-html-embed"><iframe width="100%" height="100" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1869702120&amp;color=%23ff5500&amp;auto_play=false&amp;hide_related=false&amp;show_comments=true&amp;show_user=true&amp;show_reposts=false&amp;show_teaser=true"></iframe></div>Listen to Prathistha Pandya reciting the poem in English

From the drought land

خشک سالی سے نبرد آزما کسانوں کی آپ بیتی

വരണ്ട ഭൂമിയിൽനിന്ന്

కరవు భూమి నుంచి…

வறண்ட நிலத்திலிருந்து

ਮੈਂ ਸੋਕੇ ਮਾਰੀ ਜ਼ਮੀਨ ਤੋਂ ਬੋਲਦਾ ਹਾਂ...

दुष्काळभूमीतून

ಬರದ ನಾಡಿನ ದನಿ

દુકાળિયા ધરતી

ମରୁଡ଼ି ଅଞ୍ଚଳର କଥା 

अंकाल के भूंइय्या ले

अकाल से हलकान प्रदेस

অনাবৃষ্টিৰ দেশৰ পৰা কৈছো

খরার মুলুক থেকে

सूखी धरती से

Mumbai

eng-drought-mob.png

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A man is travelling on foot towards Pandharpur
with his seven-year-old daughter on an annual pilgrimage, the Ashadhi Waari
– a festival where thousands of warkaris from across the state pay a
visit to the temple of Lord Vitthal. On the way they decide to camp at Mhaisgaon,
a village in Latur. As evening gathers, sounds of kirtan fill the air.
The little girl, on hearing a faint tintinnabulation of the khanjiri (tambourine),
begins pestering her father to take her to the programme.  

Her father is reluctant. “People here do not
touch Mahar and Mang like us,” he tries to explain.  “They consider us worthless. They won’t let us
in.” But she refuses to budge. Finally, the father gives in to her demand on
condition that they stand at a distance and listen to the performance. Following
the sound of the jingles they both reach the pandal. Rapt, they both watch
maharaj playing the khanjiri as he performs a kirtan. Soon,
the young girl begins to get restless, she wants to go on the stage.  Suddenly, without a warning, she runs and does
just that.  

“I want to sing one bharud [a form of
ancient poetry that deploys satire and humour in songs composed for social
enlightenment],” she tells the saint performer on the stage. The
audience is stunned. But the maharaj lets her sing. And for the next few
minutes the young girl takes the stage, striking a metal pot for rhythm, she performs
a song that happens to be the one written and composed by the same maharaj. 

माझा रहाट गं साजनी 
गावू चौघी जनी 
माझ्या रहाटाचा कणा 
मला चौघी जनी सुना

The wooden wheel on the well, my dear 
Four of us, let’s sing together The
wooden wheel and its spine, 
And four daughters-in-law of mine

Impressed by the child
singer, the saint performer gifts his khanjiri to her saying, “you have
my blessings, always. You will enlighten this world.”

That was 1975. The saint performer was Tukadoji
Maharaj, known for his verses compiled in Gram Geeta, on the ills and perils of
life in the countryside, and the way forward. The little girl, now 50 years
later, still sets the stage on fire with her performances. Dressed in a nauvari
cotton saree, a large bindi on the forehead, with a small percussion instrument
called dimadi held in her left hand, when Meera Umap sings a Bhim geet,
the fingers of her right hand dance rhythmically and energetically on the the
leather membrane; the glass bangles on her wrist keep the time with the
jingling bells tied to the rim of the instrument she is playing. Everything
comes alive. 

खातो तुपात पोळी भीमा तुझ्यामुळे डोईवरची गेली मोळी भीमा तुझ्यामुळे काल माझी माय बाजारी जाऊन जरीची घेती चोळी भीमा तुझ्यामुळे साखर दुधात टाकून काजू दुधात खातो भिकेची गेली झोळी भीमा तुझ्यामुळे



I eat my
roti dipped in ghee, just because of you, O Bhim The bundle
of wood I no longer carry, only because of you, O Bhim



My mother
went to a market yesterday And bought a
zari-blouse, all because of you, O Bhim



I have my
milk with sugar and eat cashews with it And I got rid of the
begging bowl, just because of you, O Bhim

Meerabai
does not know the day on which she was born, but tells us the year was 1965. She
was born in a poor Matang family of Antarwali village in Maharashtra. Matangs, listed
among the Scheduled Caste in the state, are historically considered ‘untouchables’
and rank lowest in the caste hierarchy. 

Her father Wamanrao and
mother Reshmabai travelled from village to village in Beed district, singing
melodious bhajan and abhangs, asking for alms. They were
respected in the community as a family belonging to ‘guru gharana’, a highly
respected group of knowers and teachers in the Dalit community who preserve the
art of singing.  So even though Meerabai
never went to school, she grew up with a rich repertoire of abhang, bhajan and
kirtan that she received from her parents.

The couple had a tough time feeding and taking
care of their eight children – five girls and three boys. By the time Meerabai,
the eldest among the children, was seven she had started accompanying her
parents when they went singing. Wamanrao played the ektari and his
younger brother, Bhaurao played the dimadi. “My father and my uncle,
both used to ask for alms together,” she says narrating to us the story of her
singing. “Once, they had a fight over sharing the proceeds of that morning. It
reached a point where they decided to part ways.”  

After that day, her uncle went off to Buldana
and her father got her to accompany him. She sang behind him, in her tender
voice and went on to learn many devotional songs. “My father always believed
that I would be a singer one day,” she says.

Later, tending to cattle for wages, she started
trying her hand at the dimadi. “When I was young, metal pots were my
instruments. While fetching water, my fingers tapped the kalshi, a metal
pot. It became a habit, rather a hobby. All that I have learnt in life is like
this, while doing other things and not in any school,” says Meerabai. 

In the neighbourhood there would be little
gatherings for regular bhajan singing and soon Meerabai joined those
groups and started performing many bhajans. 

राम नाही
सीतेच्या तोलाचा 
राम बाई
हलक्या दिलाचा

Ram does not measure up to Sita 
Ram, his heart is so shallow

“I never went to school but know 40 different
Ramayanas by heart,” she says.  “The
story of Shravan baal, stories of the Pandavas from the Mahabharata, and
hundreds of dohas by Kabir, are all etched in my brain.” She believes
that the Ramayana is not a linear tale set in stone, but is created by people based
on their culture, their worldviews and their observations. Historical
challenges and disadvantages faced by many communities have brought in changes
within these epics. The characters remain the same but the stories are
multi-coloured and multi-faceted. 

Meerabai presents it
from her position and place in the society. It differs from the way higher
caste Hindus present it. Her Ramayana has a woman, a Dalit at the centre. Why did Ram leave Sita alone
in the exile? Why did he kill Shambuka? Why did he murder Waali? She poses many
questions before her audience as she presents her stories and a logical
understanding the popular tales from the epic. “I even use humour to present
these stories,” she says.

With a deep sense of music and fine
understanding of technique and presentation Meerabai’s music is in a class of
her own. Following the footsteps and style of Tukadoji Maharaj, an influential
saint poet and reformer with a large following in Vidarbha and Marathwada,
Meerabai has also scaled many heights.

Tukadoji Maharaj played khanjiri in his
kirtan performances. His disciple Satyapal Chincholikar plays sapta-khanjiri
in which seven khanjiris produce different notes and sounds. Devanand
Mali from Sangli and Mhalari Gajabhare from Satara also played the same
instrument. But Meerabai Umap is the only woman playing the khanjiri and
that too with such skill. 

Shahir
Ratnakar Kulkarni of Latur, who wrote
the songs and played the daf (a frame drum instrument
often used by shahirs) saw her playing the khanjiri
with great skill and also noticed her melodious voice. He decided to support
and motivate her to perform shahiri (songs of social enlightenment). When
she was 20, she entered the field of shahiri and performed in government
programmes in Beed.

“I knew all the religious texts by heart. Katha,
saptah, Ramayana, Mahabharata, the story of Satyavan and Savitri, all
the songs and stories of Mahadev and puranas were on the tip of my
tongue,” she says. “I have narrated them, sung them and performed them in all
the corners of the state. But it never ever gave me a sense of fulfilment or
satisfaction. Neither did it show any new path to the people listening to those
songs.” 

It was Buddha, Phule, Shahu, Ambedkar, Tukadoji
Maharaj and Gadge baba, those who talked of social trauma and malaise of the
Bahujan communities that touched Meerabai’s heart. “Vijaykumar Gawai taught me
the first Bhim geet and that was the first song of Wamandada Kardak that
I performed,” Meerabai recalls.

पाणी वाढ गं माय, पाणी वाढ गं 
लयी नाही मागत भर माझं इवलंसं गाडगं पाणी वाढ गं माय, पाणी वाढ गं 



Serve me water, my dear, serve me water I
am not asking for much, just enough to fill my small gadaga [clay pot] Serve
me water, my dear, serve me water

“From that day I stopped
singing all the pothi puran [bookish knowledge] and started singing the Bhim
geet. From 1991, the year of Babasaheb Amedbkar’s birth centenary, she
devoted herself to Bhim geet, songs that spread the message of Babasaheb
while expressing gratitude to him. “People simply loved it and responded to it
with all the gusto,” says shahir Meerabai.

Shahir comes from a Farsi word ‘shayar’ or ‘shair’.
In the countryside of Maharashtra shahirs have written and sung songs glorifying
the rulers called powada. Shahirs like  <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/shahir-atmaram-salve-sowing-the-sparks-of-revolution/">Atmaram
Salve</a> with his khanjiri, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/dadu-salves-songs-of-wamandada-and-bhim/">Dadu
Salve</a> with his harmonium and <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/ambedkars-emissary-kadubai-and-her-ektari/">Kadubai
Kharat</a> with her ektari
(a drone lute) have raised Dalit consciousness through their songs. Meerabai
with her dimadi joins the few women shahirs in Maharashtra. Dimadi
till then was considered a war instrument, played exclusively by men. Meerabai,
with her dimadi broke one more tradition.

It is an experience to listen to her sing and
play the instrument, deftly using her fingers on different areas of the membrane
to produce different notes, creating variations needed for different kinds of
singing - kirtan, bhajan and powada. Her singing slowly picks up the pace; the sound, the performance always
deeply rooted in the soil, resonates with a carefree or a bold spirit. It is
her dedication that keeps the art of dimadi and khanjiri still
alive and thriving. 

Meerabai has been one of the few women shahirs
performing bharud, a folk form used by many saint poets of Maharashtra.
There are two kinds of bharud – bhajani bharud which revolves
around religion and spirituality, and songi bharud in which men dress as
women and perform on the stage. It is usually men who perform powadas on
historical and social themes as well as bharud. But Meerabai challenged
this division and started performing all the art forms with similar vigour and
force. In fact, her renditions have been more popular than some of the other
male performers’.  

Performances with dimadi,
songs, theatre, and a message for the audience have been much more than
entertainment for Meerabai.

Art in
this country is very closely linked to and judged on the basis of the caste of
its creator. One learns the ways of one’s caste including the music and other
arts. Will a non-Dalit, non-Bahujan be able to create and follow the notations
for these instruments and learn to play these? And, even if an outsider wants
to try his or her hand at dimadi or sambal or a zumbaruk,
there is no codified grammar.

Students of the
Department of Music at the University of Mumbai are learning how to play the khanjiri
and dimadi. Well-known artists Krushna Musale and Vijay Chavan have
created the notations for these percussion instruments. But it comes with its
own challenges, claims Ganesh Chandanshive, the Director of Lok-kala Academy at
the University.

“You cannot teach dimadi, sambal
or khanjiri in a way other classical instruments are taught,” he says. “One
can only teach or learn tabla in that manner as we can put down
notations for that instrument. People have tried using similar notations to
teach dimadi or even the sambal. But neither of these instruments
has its own musicology. No one has written down the notations or created a
‘science’ giving it a status of a classical instrument,” he explains. 

Meerabai’s mastery over dimadi and khanjiri
has come to her without knowing any science, the notation or the grammar of its
music. She never knew if it is a dha or ta when she learnt to
play. But her pace and the perfection in rhythm and notes can match that of any
artist playing a classical instrument. The instrument belongs to her. No one at the Lok-Kala Academy can match Meerabai’s
skill in playing the dimadi. 

As Bahujan castes are coming into the middle
class, there is a loss of their own traditional art and expressions. Migrating
to cities for education and work, they no longer perform their traditional
occupations and associated art forms. There is a desperate need to document
these art forms; to understand their historical and geographical contexts of
origin and practice.  To address the many
questions that confront us. For instance, are aspects of caste conflict, other struggles,
reflected in their expressions? If yes, what are the forms in which these are
expressed? The universities or educational institutions show no such vision
when looking at these forms academically.  


Each caste has a specific folk art and so the
sheer variety is overwhelming. There is a real need for a dedicated research
centre to study and archive the treasures and traditions. This, however, is not
on the agenda of any non-Brahmanical movement. But Meerabai wants to change
this picture. “I want to start an institute where youngsters can learn khanjiri,
ektari and dholaki,” she says. 

She has not found any
support for this at the state level. Has she made an appeal to the government?  “Do I know how to read and write?” she
retorts. “Whenever and wherever I go for a programme and if there is some
official from the state, I appeal to them, requesting to help me fulfil this
dream. But do you think the state values this art of poor people?”

The state did invite Meerabai,
though. When Meerabai’s shahiri and singing started captivating
large audiences effectively,  the
government of Maharashtra asked her to contribute to many awareness programmes
and drives carried out by the State. Soon, travelling the length and breadth of
the state, she was performing little skits with elements of folk music on issues
of health, de-addiction, dowry-ban and liquor-ban. 

बाई दारुड्या भेटलाय नवरा माझं नशीब फुटलंय गं चोळी अंगात नाही माझ्या लुगडं फाटलंय गं



My
husband is an addict my
fate lies derelict I
got no blouse to wear This
saree has got a tear.

Her awareness programmes
on de-addiction earned her a Vyasanmukti Seva award from the Maharashtra government.
She was also invited to perform by All India Radio and Doordarshan.

But in spite of all the good work, life has
been tough for Meerabai. “I was rendered homeless and had no one to support me,”
she narrates the story of her latest ill fortune. “During lockdown [2020] my
house caught fire due to a short circuit. We were so desperate that there was
no other option but to sell that house. We were on the streets. Many
Ambedkarite followers helped me build this house,” she says, referring to her new
house with tin walls and roof in which we are sitting.

This is the situation of an artist who has been
honoured with many prestigious awards in the name of many stalwarts such as
Annabhau Sathe, Bal Gandharva and Lakshmibai Kolhapurkar. The government of Maharashtra
also honoured her with a state award for her cultural contribution. These
awards once decorated the walls of her house. 

“They only please your eyes, I tell you,”
Meerabai says with eyes brimming with tears, “One cannot fill one’s stomach
just by looking at these. During Corona, we were starving. In those desperate
moments, I had to use these awards for firewood to cook a meal. Hunger is far
more powerful than these awards.” 

Recognition or not, Meerabai
pursues her art with unwavering devotion, walking the same path as that of the
legendary reformers to spread the message of humanity, love and compassion. She
is using her art and her performances to douse the communal and divisive fire. “I
do not want to market my art,” she says. “Sambhalali tar tee kala ahe, nahi
tar bala ahe [If one respects it, it is art. Else, it is a scourge].

I have not let my art lose its character. For
the last 40 years I have travelled to different corners of this country and spread
the message of Kabir, Tukaram, Tukadoji Maharaj and Phule-Ambedkar. I have been
singing their songs and their legacy lives on through my performances. 

“I will sing the Bhim
geet till my last breath. That will be the end of my life and that is what
gives me immense satisfaction.” This multimedia story is part of a collection titled ‘Influential Shahirs, Narratives from Marathwada’, a project implemented by India Foundation for the Arts under their Archives and Museums Programme in collaboration with People’s Archive of Rural India. This has been made possible with part support from Goethe-Institut/Max Muller Bhavan New Delhi.

Meera Umap: singing in the change

تبدیلی کے گیت گاتیں میرا اُمپ

మార్పు కోసం గళమెత్తి పాడే మీరా ఉమప్

மாற்றத்துக்கான பாடல்களை பாடும் மீரா உமாப்

ਮੀਰਾ ਉਪਾਮ: ਅਵਾਜ਼ 'ਚੋਂ ਫੁਟਦੀ ਬਦਲਾਅ ਦੀ ਚਿਣਗ

ମୀରା ଉମାପ : ପରିବର୍ତ୍ତନରେ ଗାଉଛନ୍ତି ଗୀତ

മീര ഉമാപ്: മാറ്റത്തിനായുള്ള പാട്ട്

ಮೀರಾ ಉಮಾಪ್‌: ಬದಲಾವಣೆಯ ದನಿ

बदलाव के गीत गातीं मीरा उमप

બદલાવના ગીત ગાતાં મીરા ઉમપ

मीरा उमाप: बदलाव के गायिका

मीरा उमप: बदलाव के एगो बुलंद आवाज

মীরা উমপের গানে জারিত হয় চেতনা, বদলায় দিন

পৰিৱৰ্তনৰ গীত গোৱা মীৰা উমপ

लोकसाहित्य आणि लोकसंस्कृतीची माय मीराबाई उमप

Aurangabad

01-PB-Illustration_A_pair_of_kunjal_birds.jpg

She is away from her loved one but in heart, willing to cross the seas for him, she longs to be by his side. The song is a plea:

કુંજલ ન માર વીરા કુંજલ ન માર , હી કુંજલ વેધી દરિયા પાર Do not kill the kunjal. Oh please, don’t! The kunjal will go across the seas

She does not want him to forget her. That would be equivalent of killing the kunjal, a local name for the demoiselle crane, that flies to the arid grasslands in Kutch every winter from faraway Siberia. The kunj bird that she identifies with is a familiar, much loved and revered one in Kachchhi folk culture. It effortlessly enters the world of women characters, as a friend, confidante and counsel, even a metaphor of her identity and aspirations.What he can do instead, she says, is to get her some jewellery pieces: a nose ring, a necklace, a pair of anklets, ornaments for the forehead and fingers. And get a pair of kunjal birds carved on each of them in a way celebrating their union. This song beautifully rendered by Juma Vagher of Mundra taluka is another beautiful one among the number of ‘ornithological folksongs’ found in this series.

Type of song: Traditional folk songCluster: Songs of love and longingSong: 12Title of the song: Kunjal na maar veer kunjal na maar Composer: Deval MehtaSinger: Juma Vagher from Bhadresar village of Mundra talukaInstruments used: drum, harmonium, banjoRecording year: 2012, KMVS studioEnglish translation: Pratishtha Pandya

These songs, 341 recorded by a community-run radio Soorvani, have come to PARI through the Kutch Mahila Vikas Sangathan (KMVS). For more of these songs visit this page: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/songs-of-the-rann-archive-of-kutchi-folk-songs/">Songs of the Rann: archive of Kutchi folk songs</a>A special thanks to Preeti Soni, Aruna Dholakia, secretary, KMVS, Amad Sameja, project coordinator KMVS for their support and to Bhartiben Gor for her invaluable help.

A pair of kunjal birds

کونج پرندے کا جوڑا

ஜோடி குஞ்சல் கொக்குகள்

ਕੁੰਜਲ ਦਾ ਜੋੜਾ

ଯୋଡ଼ିଏ କୁଞ୍ଜାଲ ପକ୍ଷୀ

കുഞ്ജലിണപ്പക്ഷികൾ

ಒಂದು ಜೋಡಿ ಕುಂಜಲ್‌ ಹಕ್ಕಿಗಳು

कुंजल पंछियों का जोड़ा

कुंजल चिरई के जोड़ा

কুঞ্জ যাবে সাগরপারে দূর বিদেশের ভুঁই

এহালি কুঞ্জপখী আৰু এটি ভালপোৱাৰ আকূতি

એ કુંજ પક્ષીની જોડી

01-Jitendra_Vasava_poem_on_poetry_MO-Poetry_makes_nothing_happen.jpg

It is in poetry that we live fully; in verse that we suffer the most painful divisions that we create between human beings and the society. This is the space for despair, condemnation, questioning, comparisons, memories, dreams, possibilities. It is through here that the road leads us on both sides our main door – inside as well as outside. And that is why it is when we stop listening to poetry, that we lose empathy both as an individual and as a society.We present Jitendra Vasava’s poem originally written in Dehwali Bhili, using the Devanagari script.

Translated from Dehwali Bhili and Hindi by Pratishtha Pandya

‘Poetry makes nothing happen’, not if you stop listening

کیا ہم نے شاعری سننا چھوڑ دیا ہے؟

‘కవిత్వం వల్ల ఏమీ జరగదు’, అని వినడం మానేస్తే?

‘கவிதை எதையும் செய்ய முடியாது’ நீங்கள் கேட்காமல் இருக்கும் வரை

'ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਤੂੰ ਕਵਿਤਾ ਸੁਣਨੀ ਬੰਦ ਕਰ ਦਿੱਤੀ'

‘କବିତା କିଛି ଘଟାଏ ନାହିଁ’, ନା ନୁହେଁ, ଯଦି ତୁମେ ଶୁଣିବ ନାହିଁ

‘कवितेनं काय होणार,’ तुम्ही ती ऐकणंच थांबवलंत तर?

‘കവിത ഒന്നും സംഭവിപ്പിക്കുന്നില്ല’, കേൾക്കുന്നത് നിങ്ങൾ നിർത്തിയാൽ

'ಕವಿತೆಯಿಂದ ಎಲ್ಲವೂ ಸಾಧ್ಯ', ನಾವು ಅದನ್ನು ಓದಿದಲ್ಲಿ

क्या हमने कविताओं की सुननी छोड़ दी है?

कविता ले कुछु नई होवय गर कऊनो नई सुनय

सुनल बंद कर देहम त ‘कवितो से कुच्छ ना होई’

কাব্যি-কবিতা শোনা করলি নিজেই মানা?

কবিতাই একো নকৰে, আনকি শুনিবলৈ এৰিলেও একো নহয়

‘કવિતાથી કંઈ વળે નહીં’, એમાંય જો તમે સાંભળવાનું બંધ કરો તો પૂછવું જ શું

Mahupada

01-greenparrots-PB-Green-parrot-of-evergreen-Kutch.jpg

This is another one in a series of songs addressed to birds, and through them to the lover, the beloved. Here we meet the rose-ringed parakeet (sudala), a bird commonly found in the region, who feasts on fruits like mango, java plum, and khirni or rayan. The song also mentions various types of jewellery worn by married women. The woman’s request to the lover bird to get these ornaments for her is a coded message of love, an invitation to get married to her.The song presented here by Juma Vagher of Bhadresar village is sung in Kachchh often during weddings.

Type of song: Traditional folk songCluster: Songs of the weddingSong: 11Title of the song: Kare oonare sudla pakhi gheli gujaratSinger: Juma Vagher from Bhadresar village of Mundra talukaInstruments used: drum, harmonium, banjoRecording year: 2012, KMVS studioEnglish translation: Pratishtha Pandya

Green parrot of evergreen Kutch

سدا بہار کچھّ کے سبز طوطے

रंगीले कच्छ के हरे तोते

কচ্ছের ওই পান্না-সবুজ টিয়া

રંગીલા કચ્છના લીલા સૂડલા

01-Chakasarlakefinal-PB-And-Odho-Jam-weeps.jpg

The love story of Odho Jam and Hothal Padamani, is one of the most popular ones in Kachchh and even in parts of Saurashtra, where it must have travelled like folk tales do. In the many versions, spread across times zones and geographies, we get different accounts of their ancestry. Odho is either the brave leader of a tribe, or a Kshatriya warrior from Kiyor, and Hothal is a brave woman leading a tribe; in many versions she often appears as a celestial being living on earth as the result of a curse. Odho Jam is in exile, after having rejected the sexual advances of Minavati, his sister-in-law. He is staying with a maternal relative, Visaldev of Pirana Patan, whose camels have been raided by Bambhaniya, the chief of Nagar-Samoi in Sindh. Odho decides to bring them back. Hothal Padamani, belonging to a pastoral tribe, has her own scores to settle with the Bambhaniya of Sindh. He had ravaged her father’s kingdom and stole his cattle too. She had promised her dying father to avenge him. When she meets Odho Jam, she is out on her mission, dressed as a male warrior, called “Hotho” in some versions, and “Ekkalmal” in others. Odho Jam takes her to be a brave young soldier. United in their purpose, Odho Jam and Hothal form an immediate friendship, fight Bambhaniya’s men together, and return with the camels. On returning from Nagar-Samoi, they part ways, Odho leaves for Pirana Patan and Hotho for mount Kanara. After a few days Odha Jam, unable to forget Hotho, decides to go in search of his friend. He spots the brave soldier’s male attire and his horse near a lake, and then he discovers the truth about Hothal’s identity when he sees her bathing in the water. Stricken by love, Odho wants to marry her. Hothal, also in love, agrees on one condition: she will be with Odho Jam only and as long as he keeps her identity a secret. They get married and have two brave boys. Years later in the company of friends all drunken, as some versions say, or in a public meeting explaining the exceptional brave personality of his young children, according to another version, Odho reveals Hothal’s identity. She leaves him. The song presented here in the voice of Jhuma Vagher from Bhadresar, begins at this moment in Odho Jam’s life, encapsulating the moment of separation. Odho Jam is miserable and in tears. Such grief, such tears that even the Hajasar lake overflows. Hothal Padamani is being coaxed to return with promises of luxury and hospitality.

Type of song: Traditional folk songCluster: Songs of love and longingSong: 10Title of the song: Chakasaji paar mthe dholida dhruskeComposer: Deval MehtaSinger: Juma Vagher from Bhadresar village of Mundra taluka Instruments used: drum, harmonium, banjo Recording year: 2012, KMVS studio English translation: Pratishtha Pandya

And Odho Jam weeps…

محبوب کے فراق میں تڑپتا اوڈھو جام

ஓதோ ஜாம் அழுகிறான்…

ਤੇ ਓਡੋ ਜਾਮ ਹੰਝੂ ਵਹਾਉਂਦਾ ਰਿਹਾ...

ବିରହ ବେଦନାରେ ଓଢ଼ୋ ଜାମ୍‌...

ഓഥോ ജാം തേങ്ങുന്നു

ಓಢೋ ಜಾಮ್‌ ಕಣ್ಣೀರು…

महबूब की याद में तड़पता ओढो जाम

मयारू के सुरता मं तरफत ओढो जाम

मीत के बिछोह में छटपटात ओढ़ो

ওঢোজামের দুখে হ্রদের ভাসিলা দুকূল...

বিৰহ বেদনাত উচুপি উঠে অধো জাম…

ને હાજાસર હીબકે ચડે છે…

01-IMG_20201031_111001-LJ-PARI-Mosaic-Recap.jpg

Judge: …Answer why you did not work? Brodsky: I did work. I wrote poems.Judge: It would be better, Brodsky, if you would explain to the Court why you didn’t work during the breaks between jobs. Brodsky: I wrote poems. I did work.

In the accounts of the two long hearings of the trial in 1964, meticulously recorded by journalist Frieda Vigdorova, the 23-year-old Russian poet Iosif (Joseph) Aleksandrovich Brodsky defended the usefulness of his poetry for his nation and for future generations. But the judge was not convinced and sentenced Brodsky to five years of internal exile and hard labour for malicious social parasitism.  In the year we now say goodbye to, the People’s Archive of Rural India has published more poems, brought to light more singers, started a new archive of folk songs, and added more songs to an existing one. So, why do we give so much importance to poetry? Is it really ‘work’? Or is it, as Brodsky’s tormentors claimed, social parasitism? Questioning the validity, relevance, and value of the ‘work’ of a poet has remained an age-old preoccupation among philosophers and politicians alike. Many others in the academic world and outside of it will also swiftly and conveniently push poetry aside, segregate it in favour of other more scientific, evidence-based ways of knowing. It is quite unique then to have thriving sections on poetry, music and songs on a live archive of rural journalism. PARI embraces creative expressions of all kinds, not just because they can tell us different stories, but also because they introduce newer ways of storytelling itself, of documenting the experiences and lives of people in rural India. It is here, in creative imagination charged with personal experiences and collective memory, that we find yet another way of arriving at human knowledge, beyond history, beyond journalism. Yet another way of documenting and archiving the processes of our times – political, social, cultural, economic – intertwined in the lives of people. This year PARI published poems in many tongues - Pachmahali Bhili, English, Hindi and Bangla. Placing an individual within a larger experience these poems are testimonies of our times. Some brought out the tensions and ambivalence inherent in personal experiences as in <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/an-adivasi-writes-off-the-village/">An Adivasi writes off the village</a>, some raged at the patriarchal nature of languages and created fresh spaces of resistance within, as in <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/lives-and-languages-hanging-by-a-thread/">Lives and languages hanging by a thread</a>, some more exposed the lies of the tyrant as in <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/annadata-and-sarkar-bahadur/">Annadata and Sarkar Bahadur</a>, and yet others spoke of a truth – historical and collective – without fear as in  <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/a-tale-of-a-book-and-three-neighbours/">A tale of a book and three neighbours</a>. Writing is a political act, and when one listens to songs in the<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-grindmill-songs-recording-a-national-treasure/"> Grindmill Songs Project</a>, one realises that weaving a poem, a song, an ovi is a collective act of engagement, sisterhood, and resistance. These songs have been a way of making sense of one’s world, of reifying in language all that is forever in a flux – time, culture, feelings. PARI has added more fascinating instalments this year to this thriving collection of 100,000 folk songs from rural Maharashtra and Karnataka sung by more than 3,000 women on diverse themes.  The diversity on PARI stretched further this year with a new multimedia archive of Kutchi folk songs: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/songs-of-the-rann-archive-of-kutchi-folk-songs/">Songs of the rann</a>. This growing collection that has begun with a collaboration with the Kutch Mahila Vikas Sangathan (KMVS), curates songs on themes of love, longing, loss, marriage, devotion, motherland, gender awareness, democratic rights. An archive of music as diverse as the land that it comes from, it will house a rich collection of 341 songs, presented by an informal collective of 305 percussionists, singers and instrumentalists from Gujarat playing a variety of musical forms and bringing to life the once thriving oral traditions of Kachchh here in PARI. What PARI poetry has done is to challenge the notion that poetry is the preserve of the elite and the highly educated classes, or a matter of rhetoric and linguistic flourishes. By not discriminating between poetry and folksongs, we acknowledge the true custodians and makers of this diverse tradition – ordinary people from all class, caste, gender. People like <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/ambedkars-emissary-kadubai-and-her-ektari/">Kadubai Kharat</a>, or <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/dadu-salves-songs-of-wamandada-and-bhim/">Shahir Dadu Salve</a>, who sing of the sorrows and struggles of common people as well as of equality and Ambedkar, make poetry of popular politics. <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-singing-daabdadu-of-santipur/">Sukumar Biswas</a>, an ordinary coconut seller from Lankapara in Santipur, sings beautiful songs full of mystic wisdom, undoubtedly chiselled by his experience of living in India post the Bangladesh war of 1971. Freedom fighter from Pirra village of West Bengal, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/in-puruliya-songs-of-love-and-freedom/">Lokkhikanto Mahato</a>, with a resonant voice of a singer at 97, shows how music and songs charged the freedom struggle in India with much needed hope and fire.   But who says poems or songs are only written in words? Lines of a very different kind have added colours and perspective to many of the pieces that we published on PARI. A number of artists, each with their unique style, have created evocative pieces that have now become an integral part of the published story.  Illustrations are not new to storytelling in PARI. We have published stories that used illustrations to <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/hair-collection-a-tangled-life/">untangle a story</a>. At other times we have carried them for ethical reasons as in <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/when-children-go-missing/">When children go missing…</a> In one of the stories the writer of the story, herself a painter, decides to use paintings instead of photographs to give a new force and meaning to the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/where-will-we-go-leaving-everything-behind/">story</a>. But when artists add their lines  to the lines of a poet or a singer on PARI they bring new shades of meaning to the already rich tapestry on the page.Here, come and feel the wrap and weft that make this beautiful tapestry.

<a id="24793" linktype="page">An Adivasi writes off the village</a>

<a id="21207" linktype="page">Ambedkar’s emissary: Kadubai and her ektari</a>

<a id="23307" linktype="page">The train chugs along, roaring and shouting</a>

<a id="22909" linktype="page">A tale of a book and three neighbours</a>

<a id="24333" linktype="page">In Puruliya: songs of love and freedom</a>

<a id="21033" linktype="page">Sweet waters of Kutch: songs of the Rann</a>

<a id="20826" linktype="page">Lives and languages hanging by a thread</a>

<a id="22862" linktype="page">Kachchh: minars of faith and fraternity</a>

<a id="25499" linktype="page">The singing daabdadu of Santipur</a>

<a id="22119" linktype="page">Annadata and Sarkar Bahadur</a>

The team would like to thank Rickin Sanklecha for his help in editing the images for this piece.If the work we do interests you and you would like to contribute to PARI, please write to us at <a href="mailto:contact@ruralindiaonline.org">contact@ruralindiaonline.org</a>. We welcome freelance and independent writers, reporters, photographers, film makers, translators, editors, illustrators and researchers to work with us.PARI is a not-for-profit and we rely on donations from people who appreciate our multilingual online journal and archive. If you would like to contribute to PARI please click on <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/pages/donate/">DONATE</a>.

In 2023: lines, verses and voices

سال ۲۰۲۳: نظموں کے ذریعے حقیقت گوئی

2023లో: గీతలు, కవితలు, స్వరాలు

2023-ல்: வரிகள், கவிதைகள் மற்றும் குரல்கள்

ਸਾਲ 2023: ਸਤਰਾਂ ਰਾਹੀਂ, ਆਵਾਜ਼ ਬਣ ਕੇ ਅਤੇ ਕਵਿਤਾਵਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਪਰੋ ਕੇ ਬੀਤਦਾ ਗਿਆ

2023 ରେ: ଧାଡ଼ି, ପଦ ଓ ସ୍ଵର

२०२३: कविता, चित्रं व गाण्यातला लोकांचा आवाज

2023-ൽ : വാക്യങ്ങൾ, കവിതകൾ, ശബ്ദങ്ങൾ

2023ರ ಗೆರೆಗಳು, ಗದ್ಯ ಮತ್ತು ದನಿಗಳು

साल 2023: रेखाचित्रों और कविताओं में समय की अनुगूंज

૨૦૨૩માં: લીટીઓ, પંક્તિઓ, અને અવાજો

2023 मं : कविता, छंद अऊ अवाज

विचार, गीत आउर अभिव्यक्ति के नाम रहल साल 2023

২০২৩: কথা, কাহিনি, সুর, ছন্দে সমৃদ্ধ পারি’র খাজানা

২০২৩ত ছন্দায়িত শৃংখলাৰে এক ন দৃষ্টিকোণ

01-1-US-Mohamad_the_sieve_maker_of_Ahmedabad.jpg

“Shuru shuru mein ek nang banane mein aadhi kalak lagati thi meri [Earlier
it used to take me half an hour to make a single piece].” Mohamad bhai is
stroking the cuts on his fingertips with his thumb as he speaks about sieve-making.
He may still cut his fingers while working but it has got easy for him with
time and experience. He speaks in a peculiar Hindi, a kind that is often spoken
among Muslims in Gujarat, with a generous smattering of Gujarati words. “Ek
mahina taklif padi mere ko. Ab ek nang paanch minute mein ban jaata hai [But
once I got a hang of it, I was able to do it faster. It was tough for about a
month, but now I can make one piece in five minutes],” he smiles.



We are sitting in a 10 X 10 room inside Qutbi building in
Ahmedabad, home to Mohamad Charnawala, 43, and his 76-year-old ammi (mother),
Rukaiya Maujhusaini. Theirs is one of the 24 houses in this two-storey building
in Daudi Vora’s Roza, a chawl, where working class Muslims reside, near Ahmedabad’s
Kalupur station. Step on the other side of the modern looking railway
station, and you are in the old city.



Making your way through the lanes, the food, the fights
and squabbles, occasional abusive words in the air, and slow-moving traffic,
you will hit a web of roads – one going diagonal, one winding towards the
right, one turning left into a dead end, and one meandering, then
straightening and then merging into another. That is the one that would bring
you to Qutbi building, belonging to Vora Trust in Daudi Vora’s Roza, where a
total of 110 families live.



Mohamad bhai walks from here for about 30 kilometres, pushing his wooden cart across the city, every three days a
week. He starts at six o’clock in the morning. “Where all his father used to go!” Rukaiya exclaims, remembering her
husband, wiping her face with her chunni. “He used to go beyond the river, to
the other side of the Sabarmati and return late at 9 or 10 in the night.” Abba
Moijhusaini died in February 2023. He was 79 then.

No, Mohamad bhai did not learn his craft from his fathe r. “Ho
gayi himat to kar liya [I had the courage to give it a try and I did it],”
he says. “I used to watch him make those [sieves] at home. But I never touched a piece when he was alive. I guess I learnt by watching.” His father used to work in his maternal
uncle’s tea shop but after a fight he left that work and started making sieves.
Mohamad bhai recalls that “from 1974 when we moved to Saraspur my father used
to go out with his cart,” and did the same work till he died. 



Mohamad bhai, however, is new to this work. He only
started five months after his father’s death. And he does this for three
days a week. “On other days I paint 200-250 kg valves for diesel, petrol, gas
that are used in bigger units. I go from 9 in the morning till 7.30 in the evening with a half-hour for
lunch. I get 400 rupees a day.” His sieve repair work does not bring him much
money. “Koi din sau aaye. Koi din panchaso bhi le kea aye. Koi din nahi bhi
laaye. Koi nakki nahi [Some days I bring 100 rupees, some days I may bring
500 rupees, someday there will be nothing at all. Nothing is fixed],” he says. But then why doesn’t he do the valve colouring work all days a week? “If you
are in a business you can hope to grow, make progress. The other thing is
called a job, you go in the morning you come back at night.” He looks exhausted
and hopeful at the same time. 



“I studied till Class 7. I was even admitted to Class 8, but
then the riots broke out. I never went back to school. Started working from
then. Worked in a shop repairing Primus stoves for 5 rupees a day. I even made
kerosene pumps, welding rods. Did many things,” he says. Sieve repairing and
making is his latest venture. 



There
are many sieve repairers in Ahmedabad and in other cities, but not many who
offer a door-to-door repairing service like Mohamad bhai. “First it was only
my father and now it is me. I do not know of anyone else who runs a repair
servicing cart. Have heard of no one. Have seen no one. I am the only one
walking around with this cart,” says he.



His cart is laden with iron nets of different
strength and thickness, some old sieves, a chisel, few rivets, a plier, a
rather big pair of scissors, a couple of hammers, and a piece of railway track
about three feet long. Clad sometimes in a kurta pyjamas, sometimes in a
trouser and shirt, a pair of old slippers on his feet, a napkin on his shoulder
to wipe his face, he pushes his cart, weighing a 100 kilogram, through the city
lanes.

Making one sieve means more than one visit to the market.
Mohamad bhai first buys a tin sheet from the market, then cuts the sheet
according to the desired length and width. Then he takes the cut sheets to a
press in the market to get them folded and get flat bars ready for the rim.
What he calls  &#39;a press&#39; is more like a little shop where they cut, press the iron
sheets.
At home he fixes two rivets with a link on the bars, and then off to the market
he goes again, this time to get “kor-kandoro” – a process where they get
the frame and the skirt for the sieve ready. Once home, he fixes the woven wire
mesh and the rivets to the now round frame of the sieve.



“You use a wider mesh for popcorn, puffed rice, roasted
gram, and betelnut. We call that one with bigger opening ‘No. 5’. Everything else is a ‘running item’, used
for wheat, rice, millet and all,” Mohamad bhai speaks holding a big sieve in
front of me. “I sell a new one for 70 rupees, I can repair an old one for forty or forty-five. It all depends on the quality of the mesh.” 



The quality of the mesh is another way of identifying the
sieve in addition to its size, he explains. “They can come in various sizes -
10’, 12’, 13’, 15’ or 16’ in diameter and in each one them can have different
quality of mesh as well,” he explains. 



“One 30 meter roll of woven wire mesh costs about 4000
rupees. I charge 10 to 40 rupees for running items, ordinary sieves. For No. 12
I may charge rupees 70 or 80, it all depends on the customer. There are those who are
willing to give me 90 or 100 also.” 



He spends Rs. 35,000 on the raw material every few
months. His monthly earnings come to six to seven thousand rupees. The expenses are heavy, he says with a sigh “There
are just two of us and yet we spend almost all that I bring home.” Then he smiles suddenly and says, “I don’t go
to work anywhere on a Sunday. One day I rest.”