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Yo Nhaan tamaso mat samjho, purkha ki amar nisani che! Don’t mistake Nhaan for mere entertainment; it is the legacy of our ancestors

With these words, late poet Surajmal Vijay of Sangod village, Kota, encapsulates the Nhaan festival celebrated in south-eastern Rajasthan’s Hadoti region.“No government can organise such an event even after spending crores of rupees,” says Rambabu Soni, a jeweller and resident of the village. “Not the way people of our village organise by their own will, for their own culture.” The village celebrates the festival for five days, just after Holi, in honour of the folk hero Sanga Gurjar who is believed to have lived here in the 15th century.‘Nhaan’ which means ‘to bathe’ symbolises a collective cleansing and links the festival to Holi. It is entirely managed by the people of Sangod, who shed their daily routines and step into extraordinary roles, transformed by self-applied makeup and festive clothes.

<div class="paragraph-block text-align-default content">“Around 400-500 years ago, during the rule of the Mughal emperor Shahjahan, there was a Vijayvargiya ‘Mahajan’ in Sangod,” says Rambabu Soni. “He used to work for Shahjahan. When he retired, he asked the emperor’s permission to organise Nhaan here. That’s when the festival began in Sangod.”&nbsp;Thousands from nearby villages also travel to Sangod to watch artists dazzle with dance performances, magic tricks and acrobatics. The celebration begins with the worship of Goddess Brahammani, followed by the distribution of ghoogri (boiled grains) as prasad.“Magical skills will be displayed, swords will be swallowed, and many such acts will be performed here,” announces Satyanarayan Mali, himself one of the performers. “A man will eat pieces of paper and pull out a 50 feet long thread from his mouth.”</div>

<div class="paragraph-block text-align-default content">The days of festivities lead up to the eventual badshah ki sawari where an ordinary man is crowned king for a day, his regal procession winding through the village streets. For the past 60 years the role of the king has been in Rambabu’s family. “My father held the role for 25 years and I have continued this legacy for the past 35 years,” he says. “The post of the king is important, much like the lead actor is the main attraction in a film. This too is a film.”For that day, whoever gets the role is also awarded the respect that goes with it.“Yes, only for one day every year,” says one attendee. “Yes, for today he is the king.”</div>

Nhaan

நாண்

ਨਹਾਨ

ନାଣ

నహాన్

നഹാൻ

ನ್ಹಾನ್

ન્હાન

नहान: ये ह  परंपरा आय, सिरिफ कहिनी नइ 

न्हाण: आम आदमी के एक दिन के राजा बनावे वाला उत्सव 

हाड़ौती की नहाण परंपरा

ভোজবাজীর বিরাসত নাহান পরব

হান

Kota

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Deepika Kaman’s trained eye can distinguish between the almost identical looking male and female moths. “They look alike, but one is longer than the other. That is the male,” she says, pointing to the  brown and beige creatures with a wingspan of around 13 centimetres. “The short, thicker one is the female.”Deepika is a resident of Borun Chitadar Chuk village in Assam’s Majuli district and she started rearing eri silkmoths (Samia ricini) some three years ago. She learnt it from her mother and grandmother.Eri is a silk cultivated in the Brahmaputra valley of Assam and neighbouring Arunachal Pradesh, Manipur, Meghalaya and Nagaland. The Mising (also spelt Mishing) community has traditionally reared the silkworms and woven eri cloth for their own use, but silk weaving for commercial sale is a relatively new practice in the community.“Times have changed now,” says 28-year-old Deepika. “These days even young girls learn and practice silkworm rearing.”

To start rearing silkworms, people can either procure eggs from the Department of Sericulture in Majuli – which can cost around Rs. 400 a packet for some varieties – or get them from people in the village who are already engaged in the occupation. Deepika and her husband Udai usually do the latter since they get them for free. The couple do not keep more than three pairs of moths at a time since it means acquiring more era paat (castor leaves) to feed the hatched larvae. Since they do not have an era bari (plantation), they must forage for the leaves.“It’s a lot of work. It [castor leaves] can’t be cultivated on small patches of land. We would have to build a bamboo fence and ensure that the goats don’t plunder it,” she adds. The caterpillars are hearty eaters and it soon becomes difficult to source enough era leaves for them. “We even have to wake up and feed them at night. The more they eat, the more silk they produce.” Udai also mentions that they eat keseru (Heteropanax fragrans). But it’s one or the other: “They eat only one specific leaf in their lifetime excluding all others.”When they are ready to cocoon themselves, the poka polu (caterpillars) start crawling around looking for suitable places. They are kept on banana leaves and hay to await the transformation. “Once they start making the threads, they are visible only for the next two days or so. After that they disappear within the cocoon,” says Deepika.

The process of extracting silk fibres begins around 10 days after the start of the cocooning process. “If we keep them any longer than that, the caterpillar turns into a moth and flies away,” says Deepika.There are two ways of harvesting the silk: either wait till the metamorphosis is complete and the moth flies away leaving behind the fibres, or the traditional Mising practice which involves boiling the cocoon.Deepika says it is difficult to extract the fibre by hand unless the cocoon is boiled. It is quick to rot when the moth emerges. “While boiling, we keep checking them to see if they have softened up,” adds Udai. “It takes around half an hour over a fire.”The polu poka (caterpillar) is a delicacy, eaten after its extraction from the boiled cocoon. “It tastes like meat,” says Deepika. “It can be fried or eaten as patot diya [a dish where any vegetable, meat or fish is wrapped in banana leaf and smoked in the hearth].”The extracted fibres are washed, wrapped in a cloth and dried in the shade. The threads are then spun using a takuri or popy (a spindle). “It takes three to four days to make 250 grams of eri thread,” says Deepika who spins the thread after her daily household work is done. A traditional sador-mekhela (a two-piece dress) requires almost a kilogram of yarn.

The threads are white when first spun, but later, repeated washes turn them the distinctive yellowish colour of eri.“A metre of eri silk can be woven in a day if we start working in the morning and keep at it throughout the day,” she adds. The silk threads are also woven mixed with cotton thread. Deepika says the cloth is used in making shirts, saris and traditional dresses worn by the Assamese women. Saris are also being made with eri, a new trend. Despite new trends, maintaining a silk business is a lot of hard work. “It takes a lot of time to rear silkworms and then weave clothes,” says Deepika, who has taken a break from silk cultivation. With household chores, seasonal agricultural work and raising her four-year-old son, there is simply no time for it.

Jamini Payeng is a master weaver in her forties and is recognised by the Crafts Council of India. She has been weaving eri silk cloth for about a decade and is concerned about the waning interest in the craft. “These days, there are people among us who have never touched the loom. They can’t distinguish what is real eri. It has come to this.”While in Class 10, Jamini took a course on textiles and weaving. She practised for a couple of years before quitting to join college. After graduation, she joined a non-governmental organisation and began visiting villages in Majuli to observe traditional silk weaving.

“In the households where eri is reared, the children learn from their mothers,” says Jamini who is from Majuli. “I was not taught to do taat-bati [weave] or to spin a bobbin. I learned watching my mother do it.”She says most women were still wearing silk clothes they had made on their handloom, since casual machine-made clothes were not as abundantly available as they are today. Women dressed in sador-mekhela made of eri, nooni and muga silk. “The women would carry their takuri [spindle] everywhere they went.”Jamini was inspired. “I decided then that I will rear eri silkworms and teach other people how to do the same.” Currently, she trains about 25 women from Majuli in weaving and textiles. Her work is exhibited within the country and outside, including a <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/term/BIOG236123">piece</a> in the British Museum.&quot;The demand for eri clothes is high, but we make it using traditional methods,&quot; says Jamini. Elsewhere, eri cloth is also woven on machines; and silk from Bhagalpur in Bihar floods markets in Assam.For handmade items the price depends on the kinds of threads and techniques used as well as the intricacy of design. A handwoven eri stole with traditional designs can go for more than Rs. 3,500. The market price for a handwoven sador-mekhela starts around Rs. 8,000 and can go up to Rs. 15,000 to 20,000 in the local market.“Earlier, Assamese girls used to weave gamusa, rumal and pillow covers for their lovers and our Mising girls also wove galuk,” she says. Jamini believes if people don’t revive the traditional methods and pass them on to the next generation, this rich cultural heritage will disappear. “That’s why I have been doing it more or less however I can, taking it as a responsibility.”This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Along the Majuli silk route

প্ৰত্যাহ্বানৰ সন্মুখীন মাজুলীৰ পৰম্পৰাগত ৰেচম শিল্প

માજુલીના રેશમ માર્ગ પર

माजुली के कोसा के रद्दा मं

रेसम के करघा आ जामिनी-दीपिका के सपना

মাজুলির রেশম পথ ধরে

آسام کے ماجولی میں ریشم کی پیداوار

ਮਾਜੁਲੀ ਦੇ ਸਿਲਕ ਦੀ ਗੱਲ ਕਰਦਿਆਂ

మాజులీ పట్టు మార్గం వెంబడి…

மஜுலியின் பட்டுப் பாதையில்

ಮಜುಲಿಯ ಸಿಲ್ಕ್‌ ರೂಟ್‌ ಗುಂಟ ಒಂದು ಪ್ರಯಾಣ

ମଜୁଲି ସିଲ୍‌କ ରାସ୍ତାରେ

മജുലി സിൽക്ക് റൂട്ടിലൂടെ

रेशम का करघा और बुनकर का सपना

माजुलीचा रेशीम मार्ग

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Assamese khol drums have a lower (bass) sound profile than the
Bengali khol. The dhol has a higher pitch than the negera. Giripod Badyokar knows
this well. A maker of percussion instruments, it’s the kind of knowledge that
he uses in his everyday work. 

“Young boys show me
their smartphones and tell me to adjust the tuning to a particular scale,” says
the veteran craftsman based in Majuli, Assam. “We don’t need the app.”

Giripod explains that
even with a tuner app, the process is one of trial and error. It requires the
leather membrane of the percussion instrument to be properly aligned and
tightened. “Only then will the tuner app work.”

Giripod and his son Podum come from a long
line of Badyokars (or Badyakars). Also known by the name Dhuli or Sabdakar, the
community known for making and repairing musical instruments, is recognised as
a Scheduled Caste in the state of Tripura.

Podum and Giripod primarily make dhol, khol and tabla. “Since
the satras are here, we get work all year round,”
Podum says. “We can make enough to get by.”

Earnings pick up during the festival season
beginning with the month of Fagun
(February-March) and the Ali
Aye Ligang spring festival of the Mising (or Mishing) community. Dhols are an integral component of the Gumrag dance performed
during the festival and the demand for new dhols
and the repairing of old peaks in the month of Sot (March-April). The celebration of Bohag Bihu – a major
festival in the state – during spring also raises the demand for dhols.

Negeras and khols are in high demand during the month of Bhadro. Percussion
instruments play an important role in Assamese cultural events – from Raas to
Bihu. There are an estimated six kinds of drums especially popular in Assam,
many of which are made and used here in Majuli. Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/raas-mahotsav-and-the-satras-of-majuli/">Raas Mahotsav and the satras of Majuli</a>

Sitting in the hot
April sun outside his shop, Podum scrapes the hair off the cattle hide that will
eventually become the leather membrane or taali for a tabla, negera, or khol. All of the five music shops on the island of Majuli in the
Brahmaputra are run by Badyokar families who belong to the migrant Bengali
community. 

“My father says, since
he learnt by observing, I must do the same,” the 23-year-old says. “Hatot dhori xikai nidiye [He doesn’t hold hands while
teaching]. He doesn’t even correct my mistakes. I have to correct them myself
by observing.”

The leather Podum is busy cleaning is the complete
hide of an ox which they have bought for around Rs. 2,000. The first step is
matting the hair on the hide using footsai (hearth ash)
or dry sand. It is then scraped off using a botali, a flat-edged
chisel.

Circular sheets are
cut from the cleaned hide using a curved dao blade called ektera. These will become the taali [leather membrane]. “The ropes tying the taali to the body of the instrument are also made of leather,”
explains Podum. “It comes from a younger animal and is softer and finer.”

The syahi (circular black section in the centre of the taali) is made of powdered iron or ghun mixed into a paste with boiled rice. “It [ghun] is made in a machine,” he says,
holding a small heap of it in his palm. “It’s finer than the kind you get from
the local ironsmith which is coarse, flaky and bruises your hand.”

The young craftsman
transfers some of the dark grey ghun
into this reporter’s palm. The powder is surprisingly heavy, despite the small
quantity.

Applying the ghun to the taali needs extra attention and care. The craftsmen clean the taali 3-4 times before applying a layer
of boiled rice to it and drying it under the sun. The starch in the rice makes
the taali sticky. Before the taali dries up completely, a layer of syahi is applied and the surface is
polished using a stone. This is done thrice with a 20-30 minute interval
between each layer. It is then kept under shade for about an hour.

“Until it is completely dry, we have to keep
rubbing. Traditionally, it is done 11 times. If it is cloudy, the process can
take an entire week.”

Giripod is the
youngest of four brothers and started helping out in the family business around
age 12. He lived in Kolkata then. When his parents passed away in quick
succession, he found himself all alone.

“I didn’t have the
heart to learn this craft anymore,” he recalls. When he found love a few years
later, he decided to move to Assam. Initially, he worked in a shop making dhols. Later he worked in a saw mill for
a few years and then in the logging business. In dangerous journeys of
log-filled trucks making their way downhill through muddy roads in monsoon, “I
saw many deaths in front of my eyes,” he recalls.

He returned to the
craft and worked in Jorhat for 10-12 years. All his children – three girls and
a boy – were born there. Trouble with some Assamese boys over the return of a dhol that the group had borrowed
prompted the local police to advise him to set up shop elsewhere since the
boys, known goons, could cause more trouble.

“I also thought since
we are Bengalis, if they gang up and things become communal, there will be a
risk to my life and my family,” he says. “So I decided to leave Jorhat [for
Majuli].” With several satras
(Vaishnavite monasteries) established in Majuli, he would get steady work
making and repairing khol drums
extensively used in sattriya rituals.

“These places used to be a jungle and there
weren’t many shops around.” He opened his first shop in Balichapori (or Bali Chapori) village and
four years later, moved it to Garamur. In 2021 the family opened a slightly
bigger second shop in Naya Bazar, around 30 kilometres away from the first.

A line of khols
adorns the walls of the shop. Bengali khols,
made from clay, are made in West Bengal and priced Rs. 4,000 or more based
on their size. Assamese khols, by
contrast, are made from wood. Dhols range
from Rs. 5,000 and upwards depending on the wood used. Changing the leather and
rebinding it will cost a customer around Rs. 2,500.

A doba belonging
to one of the namghars (prayer
houses) in Majuli sits on the floor of the shop. It is made from a used drum of
kerosene. Some dobas are made of
brass or aluminium. “If they ask us to source the drum and then make the doba, we do that. Otherwise, the
customer can also bring the drum and we will fix the leather,” Podum says. This
one has come in for repairs.

“Sometimes we have to
go to the satra and namghar to repair the doba,”
he explains further. “On the first day we go and do the measurements. The next
day we go with the leather and repair it in the satra itself. It takes us about an hour.”

Leatherworkers have a
long history of being discriminated against. “The people who play the dhol put saliva on their fingers to play
the dhol. The washer of the tubewell
is also made from leather,” says Giripod. “So discriminating in terms of jaat-paat is without logic. Objecting to the skin is
useless.”

Five years ago the family bought a piece of land
and built a home for themselves in Naya Bazar. They live in a mixed community
of Mising, Assamese, Deori and Bengali people. Have they ever faced
discrimination? “We are Manidas.
People from the Rabidas
community who skin the dead cattle are discriminated against a bit. The
caste-based discrimination is more in Bengal. Here it is not like that,”
Giripod answers.

The Badyokars buy the
whole hide of an ox for around Rs. 2,000, usually from Muslim traders in Kakojan, Jorhat. The
hides here are more expensive but of better quality than the ones in the nearby
Lakhimpur district. “They treat the skins with salt which reduces the
durability of leather,” says Podum.

Procuring skins has
become difficult these days due to changing laws. The <a href="https://homeandpolitical.assam.gov.in/sites/default/files/swf_utility_folder/departments/hp_assam_webcomindia_org_oid_3/menu/document/the_assam_cattle_preservation_act_2021.pdf">Assam Cattle Preservation Act, 2021</a> prohibits the slaughter of all cows. It allows the slaughter of other
cattle but only if a registered veterinary officer certifies the animal to be
over 14 years of age or permanently incapacitated. This has driven up the cost
of skins, increasing the price set for new instruments and repair work. “People
complain about the increased price but nothing can be done about it,” says
Podum.

Giripod was once
returning home from a job with his leather work equipment and dao blades
when the police stopped him at a checkpost and started asking questions. “My
father even told them I work with so and so and came here to deliver an
instrument” but the police refused to let him go.

“As you know, the
police won’t trust us. They thought he was going to slaughter some cows,” Podum
recalls. In the end, Giripod had to give the police Rs. 5,000 to let him return
home.

Transporting ghun is risky too as it is also used in
making bombs. Giripod buys a kilogram or two at a time from a big shop in
Golaghat district which has the license. A round trip to the shop by the
shortest route takes around 10 hours and involves crossing the Brahmaputra on a
ferry.

“If the police see it
or catch us carrying it, there is a risk of facing jail time,” Giripod says.
“If we can convince them by demonstrating how we use it on the tabla,
then good. Otherwise, we will go to jail.”

This
story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Badyokars of Majuli struggle to stay in tune

زندہ رہنے کی جدوجہد کرتے ماجولی کے ’بادیوکار‘

శ్రుతి తప్పకుండా ఉండేందుకు శ్రమిస్తోన్న మాజులీ వాద్యకారులు

மஜூலியின் பத்யோகர்களின் தடுமாறும் தாளம்

ਰੋਜ਼ੀ-ਰੋਟੀ ਲਈ ਸੰਘਰਸ਼ ਕਰਦੇ ਮਾਜੁਲੀ ਦੇ ਬਦਯੋਕਾਰ

ତାଳରେ ରହିବା ଲାଗି ସଂଘର୍ଷ କରୁଛନ୍ତି ମାଜୁଲିର ବାଡ୍ୟୋକର

താളപ്പിഴകളിൽ വലയുന്ന മജുലിയിലെ ബാദ്യോകാർമാർ

ತಾಳ ತಪ್ಪಿದ ಮಜುಲಿ ಬಾದ್ಯೊಕಾರರ ಬದುಕು

ज़िंदगी के सुर को बचाने के लिए संघर्षरत माजुली के बाद्यकार

સૂરને પકડી રાખવા સંઘર્ષ કરતા માજુલીના બાદ્યોકરો

धुन बनाय सेती जूझत माजुली के बद्योकर

माजुली के बाद्यकर लोगन के बिगड़ल धुन

সময়ের সঙ্গে তাল মেলাতে মরিয়া মাজুলির বাদ্যকরেরা

মাজুলীৰ বাদ্যকৰৰ অবিশ্ৰান্ত সংগ্ৰাম

Majuli

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“Every time the bhatti [furnace] is lit, I injure myself.”

Salma Lohar’s knuckles are scarred and
two on her left hand are split open. She picks a handful of ash from the
furnace and rubs it in to speed up the healing.

The 41-year-old’s family is one of six
Lohar families who call a chain of juggis
in Sonipat’s Bahalgarh market their home. On one side is the busy market
road and on the other is a municipal garbage dump. There is a government toilet
and water tanker nearby and Salma and her family rely wholly on these
facilities. 

The juggis
have no electricity and if it rains for more than 4-6 hours, the entire
settlement floods – as it did last October (2023). At such times they have to
sit on their cots with their legs drawn up, waiting for the water to recede –
it takes 2-3 days. “It stinks a lot
during those days,” Dilshad, Salma’s son, recalls.

“But where else will we go?” Salma asks.
“I know that living here next to trash makes us ill. Flies that sit there come
and sit on our food too. But where else will we go?”

The Gadia, Gadiya or Gaduliya Lohars are
listed as a Nomadic <a href="https://sje.rajasthan.gov.in/Default.aspx?PageID=68">Tribe</a> (NT) as well as a Backward <a href="https://sje.rajasthan.gov.in/Default.aspx?PageID=67">Class</a> in Rajasthan. People
belonging to this community also live in Delhi and Haryana but while they’re
recognised as a Nomadic Tribe in the former, they are termed a Backward Class
in <a href="https://www.haryanascbc.gov.in/reservation-in-haryana/list-of-backward-classes">Haryana</a>.

The market where they live is next to state
highway 11 and attracts vendors selling fresh produce, sweets, kitchen
condiments, electrical devices and much more. Many set up stalls and leave once
the market closes.

But for people like Salma, the market is
both home and workplace.

“My day starts early, around 6 a.m. When
the sun rises, I have to light the furnace, cook for my family, and then get to
work,” says the 41-year-old. Together with her husband Vijay, she works at the
furnace twice a day for long stretches, melting and hammering iron scraps into
utensils. In a day they manage to make four or five of them.

Salma’s chance for a break from work
comes in the afternoon, with a hot cup of tea which she drinks sitting on her
cot, flanked by two of her children: her only daughter Tanu is 16 and her
youngest son Dilshad is 14. Her sister-in-law’s daughters – Shivani, Kajal and
Chidiya – are also around. Only nine-year-old Chidiya goes to school.

“Will you put this on WhatsApp?” asks
Salma. “Mention my work first!”

The tools of her trade and the finished
products gleam in the afternoon sun – sieves, hammers, hoes, axe heads,
chisels, kadhais, cleavers and much
more.

“Our tools are the most precious things in this juggi,” she says, squatting before a
large metal pan. Her break over, the tea cup in her hand is replaced by a
hammer and chisel. With an ease that comes from practice, she hammers holes
into the bottom of the pan, changing the angle of the chisel after every two
strikes. “This sieve is not for the kitchen. Farmers use it to sort grain.”

Inside, Vijay is in front of the furnace
which they light twice a day – morning and evening. The iron rod he is shaping
glows red, but he appears to not be bothered by the heat. When asked about the
time it takes to prepare the furnace, he laughs, “We only know when the insides
glow. If the air is damp, it takes longer. One or two hours usually, depending
on the coal we use.” The coal costs anywhere from Rs. 15 to 70
a kilo based on the quality. Salma and Vijay travel to brick kilns in Uttar
Pradesh to buy it in bulk. 

Vijay starts hammering the glowing tip of
the iron rod flat on the anvil. The small furnace is too weak to melt the iron
sufficiently and so he applies brute force.

The Lohars claim ancestry from a <a href="https://unesdoc.unesco.org/ark:/48223/pf0000061262">weapons-making community</a> in
16th century Rajasthan who moved to different parts of north India after
Chittorgarh was captured by the Mughals. “Those were our forefathers. We live
very different lives now,” Vijay says smiling. “But we still follow the craft
they taught us. And we wear these kadhais
[thick bangles] like them.”

He is now teaching the trade to his own
children. “Dilshad is the best at it,” he says. Dilshad, Salma and Vijay’s
youngest, points out the tools: “Those are hathodas
[hammers]. The larger ones are called ghan.
Bapu [father] holds the hot metal with chimtas
[tongs] and uses the kaenchi [scissors]
to shape it into curves.”

Chidiya starts rotating the handle of the
hand-operated fan which regulates the temperature of the furnace. She giggles
as the ash flies all around.

A woman approaches wanting to buy a
knife. Salma tells her it’s worth Rs. 100. The woman responds, “I don’t want to
pay 100 rupees for this. I can get a plastic one for much cheaper.” They
bargain and settle on Rs. 50.

Salma sighs at the retreating woman. The
family cannot sell enough iron to support themselves. Plastic is a fierce
competitor. They can neither keep up with the rapid rate of manufacture, nor
match the price.

“We have started selling plastic now,”
she says. “My brother-in-law has a plastic shop in front of his juggi and my brother sells plasticware
at Tikri border near Delhi.” They buy the plastic from other vendors in the
market to sell elsewhere but have yet to turn a profit.

Tanu says that her uncles earn more in Delhi.
“City people are willing to spend on little things like this. For them, 10
rupees is not that much. For a villager, it is a lot of money and they don’t
want to spend it on us. That is why my uncles are richer.”

“I want my children to study,” says
Salma, the first time I met her in 2023. I was an undergraduate student at a
nearby university. “I want them to make something out of their lives.” She
feels this keenly since her eldest son had to drop out of secondary school
because of a lack of necessary documents. He is 20 now.

“I ran everywhere from the Sarpanch to the
district headquarters with everything they asked for – Aadhaar, ration card,
caste papers. I stamped countless papers with my thumb. Nothing came of it.”

Dilshad also dropped out of Class 6 last
year. He says, “Government schools don’t teach anything worth learning. But my
sister Tanu knows a lot. She is padhi-likhi.”
Tanu studied till Class 8 but did not want to continue. The school nearby did
not have Class 10 and she would have to walk almost an hour to attend school in
Khewara, more than three kilometres away.

“People stare at me,” says Tanu. “They
say very dirty things. I’d rather not repeat them.” So now Tanu stays home and
helps her parents with their work.

The family must bathe in the open, near
the public tankers. Tanu says softly, “Everyone can see us when we are bathing
in the open.” But a visit to a public toilet costs Rs. 10 a trip, and that adds
up to a lot for the entire family.  Their
earnings are not enough to rent a proper house with a toilet, and so must stay
on the pavement.

No one in the family is vaccinated against covid-19. If
they fall sick, they go to the Badh Khalsa primary health centre (PHC) or one
in Seoli. Private clinics are a last resort as they are expensive.

Salma is careful how their money is
spent. “When money is tight, we go to the rag pickers,” she says. “There we get
clothes for around 200 rupees.”

Sometimes the family visits other markets
in Sonipat. Tanu says, “We will go to the Ram Leela which will be held nearby
for Navratri. If there is money, we will have street food too.”

“Though my name is mussalman [Muslim], I am Hindu,” Salma says. “We worship everyone –
Hanuman, Shiv, Ganesh.”

“And we worship our ancestors through our work!”
Dilshad quickly adds, making his mother laugh.

When business in the market slows, Salma
and Vijay go around nearby villages selling their wares. This happens once or
twice a month. It is rare for them to make sales in the villages. But when they
do, they earn at best Rs. 400 to 500 from the visit. Salma says, “Sometimes we
roam so much that it feels like our legs have broken.” At times, the villagers give them cattle
– young calves which need to be separated from their milk-giving mothers. The
family does not earn enough to rent a proper house and stay on the pavement as
they have no choice.

Young Tanu laughs off the drunkards she
has had to chase away at night. Dilshad adds, “We have to hit them and shout at
them. Our mothers and sisters sleep here.”

Recently, people claiming to be from the
Nagar Nigam (Sonipat municipal corporation) have been asking them to move away.
They are told that the gate to the waste dumping grounds behind the juggis is to be built and they need to
free the government land they are occupying.

The officers who visit record data from
the family’s Aadhaar, ration and family cards yet leave behind no documentation
of their visit. So, no one here is quite sure who they are. These visits happen
about once every two months.

“They tell us we will get a plot of land,” Tanu
says. “What kind of plot? Where? Is it far from the market? They tell us
nothing of this sort.”

The family’s income certificate shows
they once earned around Rs. 50,000 a month. Now, they earn only around Rs.
10,000. When they need money, they take a loan from relatives. The closer the
relation, the lower the interest. They return the money when they sell enough
but the pace has been slow since the pandemic. “Covid was a good time for us,” says
Tanu. “The market was quiet. We received food rations from government trucks.
People would even come and distribute masks.”

Salma is more contemplative, “After the
pandemic, people are more suspicious of us. There is hatred in their gaze.”
Every time they go out, some locals verbally abuse them using caste-based
slurs.

“They won’t let us stay in their villages. I
don’t understand why they abuse our caste so much.” Salma wants the world to
think of them as equals. “Roti is roti for us and them – we all eat the
same food. What is the difference between us and the rich?”

Lohars in Sonipat: futures on the anvil

حالات کی کسوٹی پر سونی پت کے لوہاروں کا مستقبل

சோனிபட் கொல்லர்கள்: பட்டறைக்கல்லில் எதிர்காலம் தேடும் நாடோடிகள்

ਸੋਨੀਪਤ ਦੇ ਲੁਹਾਰਾਂ ਦੀ ਬੁਝਦੀ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਭੱਠੀ

ନିହାଇ ଉପରେ ନିର୍ଭର କରୁଛି ସୋନିପତ୍‌ କମାରଙ୍କ ଭବିଷ୍ୟତ

സോനിപത്തിലെ ലോഹാറുകൾ: കൂടക്കല്ലിൽ അമരുന്ന പ്രതീക്ഷകൾ

ಸುತ್ತಿಗೆಯಡಿ ಸಿಲುಕಿರುವ ಸೋನಿಪತ್‌ನ ಲೋಹರ್‌ಗಳ ಭವಿಷ್ಯ

એરણ પર ચડેલું સોનીપતના લુહારોનું ભવિષ્ય

बिपत मं परे सोनीपत के लोहार मन के भविष्य

सोनीपत के लोहारन के भविष्य पर खतरा

হাতুড়ি-নেহাইয়ের মাঝে আটকে সোনিপতের লোহার জনজাতি

সোণিপটৰ কমাৰৰ দোদুল্যমান ভৱিষ্যৎ

निहाई पर ज़िंदगी बसर करते सोनीपत के लोहार

Bahalgarh

01-IMG20240217120943-Crop-Rs_and_SS-ASHAs-women_at_the_forefront_ignored_b.jpg

It’s 9 in the morning, and Azad Maidan in Mumbai is alive with young
cricketers getting ready for a fun weekend game. There are frequent cries of
joy and anguish as the game proceeds.

Barely 50 metres away, another ‘game’ proceeds silently with 5,000
participants. This one has been going on longer, the stakes are higher and
there is no end in sight for the thousands of Accredited Social Health
Activists (ASHA) – healthcare workers – protesting last month at Mumbai&#39;s Azad Maidan.
More than 50 women participants had to be hospitalised in the first week of the
agitation, which began on February 9.

Within view of the busy road, an ASHA in her early 30s sits down on
the ground. She glances around nervously, avoiding the stares of people passing
by. A group of women gather around, covering her with dupattas and
a chadar as she quickly changes her clothes.

A few hours later, at lunchtime, under the scorching midday sun, ASHAs
gather around their colleague, Rita Chawre, each holding empty tiffin boxes, plates, and even
lids. They patiently wait their turn as the 47-year-old serves them homemade
food. &quot;I manage to feed around 80-100 ASHAs protesting here,&quot; says
Rita who travelled around two hours to Azad Maidan daily from Tisgaon in Thane
district, along with 17 other ASHAs. 

“We are taking turns
to ensure no ASHA remains hungry. But we are falling sick now. And we are
tired,” she adds, speaking to PARI at the end of February 2024.

After 21 days, the ASHAs finally went home on March 1 after the Chief
Minister announced, “ASHA chi nirasha sarkar karnar naahi.
[Government will not disappoint ASHAs].” The CM, Eknath Shinde, was
speaking during the Maharashtra State Assembly’s Budget Session earlier that
day.

ASHAs are an all-women workforce that provides more than 70 healthcare
services. However, they are categorised only as ‘volunteers’ under the
Integrated Child Development Services Program (ICDS) and National Rural Health
Mission (NRHM). Hence, the payment they receive for providing healthcare
services is referred to as an ‘honorarium’ and not wages or salary. 

Apart from the honorarium, they are entitled to receive the PBP
(performance-based payment or incentives). The NRHM states that ASHAs receive
incentives based on their performance for promoting universal immunisation,
services for Reproductive &amp; Child Health (RCH) and other programmes.  

Clearly the money
is not enough as Rama Manatkar, one of the ASHAs, says, “Bin pagari, full adhikari [No money only responsibilities]! They expect that we work like officers,
but are not willing to pay us.”

The CM’s recent assurance – one of many official ones in the last few
months –has not resulted in a government resolution (GR), at the time of this
story being published. By all appearances, the ASHAs continue to have only
promises to go on. 

The thousands of
protesting ASHAs are determined to pin the Maharashtra administration to their
assurance – first made in October 2023 – to issue a GR implementing a salary hike.

“People trust ASHAs more than their own family! The health department
is dependent on us,” says Vanashree
Fulbandhe, also pointing out that a fundamental aspect of their role is
facilitating access to healthcare services for marginalised communities.
“Whenever there is a new posting of doctors, they ask: where is ASHA? Can we
get her number?” 

Vanashree has been an ASHA for 14 years. “I started with Rs 150…is
this not like vanvaas? When Lord Shri
Ram came to Ayodhya after 14 years, he was welcomed, wasn’t he? Do not welcome
us but at least provide us a maandhan [honorarium]
that will allow us to live with respect and honesty?” she adds.

And there’s another demand: could they please get their salaries on
time every month like everyone else? And not after delays of three months each
time. 

“If we keep getting delayed payments, how will we manage?” asks ASHA, Priti Karmankar who is
the District Vice President (zilla
upadhyaksha) for Yavatmal.
“An ASHA provides a service but she also works for her own stomach. If she’s
not paid, how will she live?” 

Even their travel
reimbursements for mandatory workshops and district meetings organised by the
health department, are delayed by three to five months. “We still haven’t
received payments for programmes assigned by the health department since 2022,”
says Antakala More from Kalamb in Yavatmal. “In December 2023,” she adds,
“we were on strike. They made us end it to conduct a leprosy survey. But they
still haven’t paid us.” Priti adds, “We didn’t even get the payment for last
year’s polio, hatti rog [Lymphatic filariasis] and jant-naashak [deworming] programmes.”

Rita joined as an ASHA in 2006 at a salary of Rs. 500. “Today, I get
6,200 rupees a month, of which 3,000 comes from the central government and the
rest from the municipal corporation.”

On November 2, 2023,
the state health minister, Tanajirao
Sawant had <a href="https://twitter.com/TanajiSawant4MH/status/1719939873099096496?t=2Up4fSv2RYrwWRN8ypm2uQ&amp;s=19">announced</a> that the 80,000 ASHA
workers and 3,664 gat pravartaks (group promoters) in
Maharashtra would get increments of Rs. 7,000 and Rs. 6,200 respectively along
with a Diwali bonus of Rs 2,000 each.

A furious Mamta says, “Diwali houn aata Holi aali [Diwali has passed and it is time
for Holi now] but we have nothing in our hand.” She adds, “We did not ask for
7,000 or 10,000 increment. Our initial strike in October was against the extra
online work. We were told to get 100 villagers registered daily on the Pradhan
Mantri Matru Vandana Yojana (PMMVY).”

The scheme, as its official website says, “provides a cash incentive
for partial compensation of the wage loss during pregnancy.” A similar target
was given for the newly launched U-Win app which aims to store vaccination
records of pregnant mothers and children.

Earlier in February 2024, over 10,000 ASHAs had marched from Shahpur
to the Thane District Collector’s office – a distance of 52 kilometres. “Chalun aloy, tangdya tutlya [We walked all the way, our legs
gave out]. We spent the whole night on the streets of Thane,” recalls Mamta.

The months of protest are taking a toll on them. “Initially there were
more than 5,000 ASHAs at the Azad Maidan. Many of them were pregnant and some
also came with their newborns. It was getting difficult to live here in the
open and so we requested them to go back home,” says Ujwala Padalwar. She is the State Secretary
of the Centre of Indian Trade Unions (CITU) and one of the organisers of the
protests. Many women complained of chest and abdominal pain, others suffered
from headache and dehydration and had to be hospitalised, she adds.  

Once the ASHAs were
discharged, they came back again to the ground, calling out in unison: “Aata aamcha ekach naara, GR kaadha! [We have only one call!
Just release the GR!].&quot;

On paper, an ASHA’s role is to bring public health services to
everyone. But after years of caring for the community, they often go above and
beyond. Take ASHA Mamta, who in September 2023, managed to convince a pregnant
Adivasi woman from Sonivali
village in Badlapur
to opt for hospital delivery instead of home birth.

She recalls: “The woman’s husband refused to accompany her and said in
clear words, ‘if anything happens to my wife you will be responsible’.” When
the mother was in labour, “I took her from Badlapur to Ulhasnagar all by myself,” says Mamta. The
mother did not survive the childbirth. The baby too had died in
the womb.

Mamta explains, “I am a widow, my son was in Class 10 at that time. I
left home at 6 a.m., and the mother passed away around 8 p.m. I was asked to
wait in the hospital veranda till 1:30 a.m. After the panchnama
was done they said, ‘ASHA tai now you can go’. Deed waajta me ektee jaau? [Am I supposed to go home alone at
1:30 a.m.]?” 

The next day when she visited the village to update the records, some
people including the woman’s husband abused and blamed her for the deaths. A
month later, Mamta was called for questioning by the zilla samiti. “They asked me ‘how did the mother die and what error
did ASHA tai make?’ If everything at
the end of the day has to be dumped on our heads, then why not increase our maandhan?” she asks.  

Throughout the
pandemic, the government praised the ASHA workers and hailed them “corona
warriors” for their crucial role in distributing medicines and tracing infected
patients from the remotest villages across the state. However, they barely
received any safety gear to protect themselves from the virus.

Manda Khatan and Shraddha Ghogale, ASHA
workers from Nandivali Gaon in Kalyan recall their pandemic experience,
“Once, a pregnant mother tested positive for covid after the birth. When she
learned that she was infected with the virus, she panicked and ran away [with
the newborn child] from the hospital.”

“She thought she [and her baby] would be caught and killed,” says
Shraddha. Such was the fear and
misconception around the virus.

“Someone told us that she was hiding in her home. We rushed to her
house but she had locked the doors,” says Manda. Fearing that she would take
some wrong steps, they stood outside her house until 1:30 a.m. “We asked her,
‘Do you love your baby or not?’ We advised her that if she continued to keep
the baby close to her, she would end up infecting it and would put the infant’s
life at risk.” 

After three hours of counselling, the mother opened the doors. “The
ambulance was on standby. There were no other medical officers or gram sevaks, just the two of us.” A teary-eyed Manda
narrates, “Before departing the mother held my hand and said, ‘I am leaving my
child behind because I trust you. Please take care of my baby.’ For the next
eight days, we went to her home daily to bottle feed the newborn. We would show
her the baby over video call. Till date, the mother calls us and thanks us.

“We distanced
ourselves from our own kids for a year,” says Manda, “but we saved the children
of other people.” Her child was in Class 8 while Shraddha’s was barely 5
years old.

Shraddha remembers when people in her village would shut
their doors. “They would run away seeing us in personal protective equipment
(PPE) kits thinking that we had come to catch them.” Not only that, “We would
wear the kits for the whole day. Sometimes we had to change four in one day.
Our face had turned black wearing them for hours. We would walk with them in
the sun. It would itch and feel like a burning sensation on our skin.” 



Manda interrupts and says, “But PPEs and masks came in much later. For
most of the pandemic period, we would wrap our pallus and
dupattas while moving around.” 



“So, our lives did not have value then [during the pandemic]?” asks
Mamta, “Did you give us some different kavach [protection]
to battle corona? You [government] gave us nothing when the pandemic started.
When our ASHA tais started getting
covid, they faced the same fate as the rest of the patients. Even when the
vaccines were at the trial stage, ASHAs were the first to volunteer.”



At one point in her life, Vanashree Fulbandhe had almost decided to
quit being an ASHA. “It started to take a toll on my mental and physical
health,” she says. The 42-year-old looks after a population of more than 1,500
people in Nagpur district’s Wadoda
village. “I remember once I was in extreme pain due to kidney stones. I had
tied a cloth around my waist and was still working.”



A patient and her
husband came to Vanashree’s house, “She was a first-time mother. They were
nervous. I explained to them I was not in a condition to do anything but they
insisted that I be present during the birth. It was difficult to say ‘no’ so
I went along with them. I stayed with her for two days in the hospital until the baby was born. Her relatives would see the cloth tied around my waist and
jokingly ask me, &quot;Is it the patient&#39;s delivery or yours!”

She recalls her routine during the lockdown when she would complete
her ASHA duties and deliver food to patients in isolation. “It eventually
took a toll on my health. I had very high BP for many days and I thought maybe
I should quit.” But Vanashree’s aunt reminded her that “what I am doing is punya [good deed]. She said two lives, [of the mother and
child] depend on me. I should never leave this job.”



As she narrates the story, Vanashree briefly looks at her phone. She
says, &quot;My family keeps asking when I will return home. I came here with
Rs. 5,000. I barely have Rs. 200 now.” She hasn’t received her monthly
honorarium since December 2023.   



Purnima Wase, an ASHA from Nagpur’s Pandhurna
village recalls a critical situation. “I
had assisted an HIV positive woman in her childbirth. When people
at the hospital found out she was HIV positive,” says the 45-year-old worker, “they acted as if it was a big thing. I told them, ‘When I, being an
ASHA, delivered the baby without any equipment other than gloves and my own
scarf, why should you act like this?’”

An ASHA since 2009, Purnima looks after a population of more than
4,500.  “I am a graduate,” she says. “I
get so many job offers. But, it was my decision to become an ASHA and I will
continue to be an ASHA all my life. Whether I get money or not, agar mujhe karni hai seva to marte dum tak ASHA ka kaam karungi
[Since I wish to serve, I will continue to be an ASHA until my death].”

The game of cricket
continues at Azad Maidan. Meanwhile the ASHAs have moved their fight off the
grounds.

State reassures protesting ASHAs...once again

آشا کارکنوں کو ایک بار پھر ملی صرف ’یقین دہانی‘

నిరసన తెలుపుతోన్న ఆశాలకు మళ్ళీ ‘మరోసారి’ హామీలిచ్చిన ప్రభుత్వం...

ஆஷா பணியாளர்கள் மீண்டும் வாக்குறுதி கொடுக்கும் அரசு

ਪ੍ਰਦਰਸ਼ਨ ਹੇਠ ਆਸ਼ਾ ਵਰਕਰਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸਰਕਾਰ ਨੇ ਫਿਰ ਦਿੱਤੀ ਮਿੱਠੀ ਗੋਲ਼ੀ

ପୁଣିଥରେ ଆନ୍ଦୋଳନରତ ଆଶା କର୍ମୀଙ୍କୁ ମିଳିଲା ସରକାରୀ ପ୍ରତିଶ୍ରୁତି

സംസ്ഥാനം ആശാപ്രവർത്തകർക്ക് വാക്ക് കൊടുക്കുന്നു…വീണ്ടും

ಪ್ರತಿಭಟನಾ ನಿರತ ಆಶಾ ಕಾರ್ಯಕರ್ತೆಯರಿಗೆ ಸರ್ಕಾರದಿಂದ ಮತ್ತೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬರವಸೆ

हक़ के बदले में आशा कार्यकर्ताओं को फिर मिला सिर्फ़ ‘आश्वासन’

વિરોધ પ્રદર્શન કરતી આશાઓને સરકાર તરફથી ફરી એકવાર મળ્યા વાયદા

मितानिन दीदी: ‘फोकट मं सब्बो जिम्मेवारी’

आशा कार्यकर्ता: लड़ेली बहिनिया, लड़ेली महतरिया

ফাঁপা সরকারি আশ্বাসে নিরাশ প্রতিবাদী আশাকর্মীরা

প্ৰতিশ্ৰুতি ৰক্ষাৰ আকৌ এবাৰ প্ৰতিশ্ৰুতি আশাকৰ্মীলৈ

आंदोलक आशांना सरकारचं वचनः दिलासा का बोळवण?

Azad Maidan

01-_DSC6704-PB-The_young_gayans_and_bayans_of_Garamur.jpg

“I
don’t have much patience for studying,” Partha Pratim Baruah tells me as we stroll down
the road in Garamur,
a small town in Majuli, on a pleasant afternoon in November. “I know I will
never be able to get a job by studying,” he adds. The 16-year-old is one of the
young gayan-bayans from the district’s Garamur Saru
Satra.

An
important aspect of sattriya culture,
Gayan-Bayan is a religious folk performance primarily practiced in the satras (Vaishnavite monasteries) of Assam. The singers
performing are called gayans who also
play the taal (cymbals) whereas the instrument players,
who play khol drums and the flute, are termed bayan. In Majuli, being a gayan or bayan is not a profession but a tradition people take pride in and
consider part of their identity.

“If
I cannot secure a job after school, if it is not in my fate, then what will I
do?” asks Partha in a matter-of-fact tone. He wants to pursue music
professionally after his Class 12 exam. His older sister is already a music
teacher in a village in Uttar Pradesh.

“My
parents have also supported the idea [of enrolling in a music school in
Guwahati],” he says. “That support is main. Without it, how will I be able to
pursue music?” His father, the owner of a small business selling rice and
firewood, has agreed to the idea but his mother is not quite happy about it.
She doesn’t like the idea of Partha going far from home for his studies.

When
it’s performance time, the artiste Partha dresses in pristine white kurtas, dhotis and headgear called paag, and ties a cloth called seleng
across the body. The performers also wear a string of motamoni beads
and a tilak of sandalwood paste
adorns their foreheads.

Partha is just one of
the many young artists I’m interviewing during the run-up to one of their
performances. Backstage, they appear confident as they help one another in
tying the paag and fixing the seleng using pins.

Ten
years older, Manash Dutta
is a bayan in the group and recently
started working for a television network in Guwahati in the position of a
junior editor.

At
the age of nine he had begun learning with his uncle and other elders. “Since we are born in a sattriya environment, we learn from a young age by observing,” and
so he passed his Sangeet Visharad exam in khol
drums even before appearing for his matriculation exams. 

Gayan-Bayan
runs in his family and his uncle Indraneel Dutta is an important figure in the
cultural life of the Garamur Saru Satra. “He is about 85 now. Even now, when
someone plays the khol, he can’t stop
himself from dancing.&quot;

The
style of performing Gayan-Bayan differs across satras on the basis of the number and types of taal, maan, raga and mudra. One such variant – the Dhura – is unique to the Garamur Saru Satra and
the Garamur Bor Satra where it is performed only once a year on the day of the borxobaah, the annual community festival taking place in the
Assamese month of Ahar, usually coinciding with the
months of June-July. Other two common
variants are Barpetiya
from the Barpeta Satra and Kamalabariya
from the Kamalabari Satra in Majuli. Most of the satras in Majuli follow the Kamalabariya style. Performers come
from all walks of life.

Gayan-Bayan, followed by
the sutradhari nritya, is also performed before
beginning a Bhaona (traditional folk play). “Without these a Bhaona can never
be complete,” Manash tells me. “The sutradhar
describes the context of the Bhaona and narrates the gist of the story. These
days sutradhari is performed in our
mother tongue Assamese also. But the original language is Brajavali.”

In
the satra, the young start their
foray into the art from around the age of three. One such initiation happens
during Raas, one of the major festivals in Majuli, when children accompany
parents to the practice halls. Read:<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/raas-mahotsav-and-the-satras-of-majuli/"> </a><a id="22746" linktype="page">Raas Mahotsav and the satras
of Majuli</a>

For
19-year-old Subhashish
Borah, a bayan and another
member of the group, the journey started when he was in Class 4. Subhashish, a
relative of Manash, also learned by observing his uncles one of whom – Khirod Dutta – is a borbayan. The title is awarded by the satra to expert bayans.

Although
he had danced in the Raas festival and even performed the role of a young Lord
Krishna as a kid, Subhashish learned khol
at the music school with around 10 other young boys and girls. The school, Sri Sri Pitambardev Xangskritik
Mahavidyalaya, established in 1979 goes through periods of closure and being
active. It shut down again due to a lack of teachers in 2015.

Subhashish,
along with 19-year-old Priyabrat Hazarika and 27 other students started
attending Manash and Khirod Dutta’s Gayan-Bayan classes begun in 2021. Priyabrat had studied khol in the Mahavidyalaya for three years until it closed down.

“If I had the chance to
learn for one more year, I would have reached the last stage, the Visharad,” he
says. “I thought the school would still be there.”

He
goes on to explain what a traditional curriculum for learning to be a gayan or a bayan entails. The students are first taught the different taals which they learn to play on their
palms. Basics of nrityo and khol playing are also taught in this initial stage. Students also
learn Mati Akhora.

“Mati
Akhora is our way of physical
culture. It’s like exercise,” Manash explains. “If one does it, all 206 bones
of their body will be fit and fine.” There are several different types of
Akhoras named after the gestures made by birds and animals – morai pani khowa, kachai pani khowa, teltupi,
among others.

In
the next stage students are grouped according to the discipline they want to
learn. Some learn Nrityo, some take
up khol and others learn borgeet. Those planning on becoming gayans learn to play taal at
this stage.

“If
some other people have to learn and grasp these teachings, they will take a
long time,” says Manash. “Since we are born in this environment, we grew up
here and have observed [the art] since a very young age, we are bound to learn.
But those who are not from this environment will take years to learn properly.”

The
popularity of Gayan-Bayan has risen in recent years. The art, earlier practised
only in the satras, is also performed
in the villages of Assam today. Still, the number of people learning to be gayans and bayans continues to dwindle. The younger generation is migrating
out of Majuli looking for better livelihoods.

“The
fear that all of this will be lost does come,” Priyabrat tells me.

Most
of Sankaradeva’s musical compositions were destroyed during his lifetime. What
was inherited formed only a small part of the whole, passed on by one
generation teaching the next. Manash has strong feelings about this legacy.

“Generation after
generation will perish but the creations of Sankaradeva will remain immortal.
That is how he will continue to live within us,” he says. “It is a significant
thing to me that I was born in Majuli. [This tradition] is alive in Majuli and
will continue to live on. That, I can say with certainty.”

This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

The young gayans and bayans of Garamur

گرمور کے نوجوان گاین اور واین

கராமுரின் இளம் கயான்களும் பயான்களும்

ਗਰਮੂਰ ਦੇ ਨੌਜਵਾਨ ਗਾਯਨ ਤੇ ਵਾਯਨ

ଗଡ଼ମୁରର ତରୁଣ ଗାୟନ ଓ ବାୟନ ବୃନ୍ଦ

ഗരമൊറിലെ ചെറുപ്പക്കാരായ ഗായനുകളും ബായനുകളും

ಗರಮೂರ್‌ನ ಯುವ ಗಾಯನ್‌ ಮತ್ತು ಬಯಾನ್‌ಗಳು

गरमूर के युवा गायन व वायन

આસામના ગરમુરના યુવાન ગાયન બાયનો

गरमूर के नवा पीढ़ी के गायन अऊ वायन

माजुली रंगमंच के ‘आस के किरण’

গারামুরের তরুণ গায়েন-বায়েনদের কাঁধে লোকনাট্যের উত্তরাধিকার

গড়মূৰৰ নতুন প্ৰজন্মৰ গায়ন-বায়নসকল

01-IMG-20230706-WA0021-DB-Red_hot_Thursday_at_the_Kanubari_market.jpg

“Chutney, chutney fry!” It’s red ants that make good chutney here in Kanubari, located at the foothills of the Patkai mountains in Arunachal Pradesh. A handful of bright gleaming red ants, placed on a bed of leaves, is selling for Rs. 20 in the weekly market on this wet and rainy July morning.  “There are varieties of ants,” says Pobin Kurmi, a resident of Kanubari. “The amloi [red ants] are widely preferred as they are easier to catch than black ants. Their bite doesn’t harm much and they’re found on mango and jackfruit trees.” Arunachal Pradesh is home to Oecophylla smaragdina also called the Asian weaver ant.Ten-year-old Nayanshila and nine-year-old Sam, students from Mahabodhi School where I’m teaching for a few weeks, describe to me the process of catching ants. “After identifying the nest of ants on a branch of a tree, you cut it and then put it in boiling water. Those dead ants are then separated from the leaves and soil, and dried.” They can then be fried to make chutney which, my students inform me, tastes a little sour.It’s the Thursday weekly market held here in Kanubari block of Arunachal Pradesh’s Longding district. The other big market available to Kanubari residents lies 70 kilometres away, so the locals prefer to shop for their daily necessities here. The Assam border is also less than a kilometre away and residents from the neighbouring state also visit to buy and sell their produce.

Mr. Chitra, a teacher at the Mahabodhi School in town, remembers going to the market as a young child back in 1985. “Things sold back then would be grown on people’s farms without any chemicals, in their pure form,” he reminisces.Despite the rain, cobblers are busy repairing shoes, chappals and umbrellas, lining a small road that leads into the market area. They are seated alongside vegetable and fruit sellers, fish and meat vendors and more. Every corner of the market is marked by paan thelas [tobacco shops]. Jayato Bashin, tobacco vendor from Charaideo district in Assam points out to me the different varieties of dried tobacco, “the brown one is usually chewed with chuna [lime] and the black is eaten with paan [betel leaves] brought from Bihar.”Besides the regular produce like potatoes, tomatoes and onions, brought in from other parts of the country, many local vegetables turn up here: ferns, kacchu [taro root], bamboo shoot, banana trunks, garlic, green and black pepper, cucumber and the famous king chilli.

Vendors selling in bulk quantities are from nearby regions of Sapekhati and Sonari in Assam while the smaller sellers are local farmers. Sitting in the open spaces or in the shade of tin-roofed verandas, they line-up their wares on tarpaulins or sheets made of old fertiliser sacks sewn together. Local vegetables sell quickly.“Pork is one of the preferred meats here as it is cheap and tasty too,” says Pomsen Labram, 26, who is accompanying me to the market. Fresh as well as dried meat and fish, including pork, duck, prawns and crab can be found in plenty at the market.Catching everyone’s eye is the bright red stack of thumb-sized red chillies – king chillies or ghost pepper also known as bhut jolokia in Assamese and bongan hingbu in the language of the Wancho tribe living in Longding. The chillies, once regarded the hottest in the world and still the hottest in India, are arranged either in large piles or in small bunches of 6-8 pods.“December-January mein lagate hain aur 3-4 mahina baad usko mircha aata hai [We plant the chillies in December-January and they start giving yield in 3-4 months],” informs Basant Gogoi, a seller from Charaideo district in Assam.

A farmer, Gogoi grows king chilli in one bigha of his 11-12 bighas (or 1.5 hectares) of land. He shares that due to the plant’s pungency and hotness, animals do not harm the crop, “lekin baarish hi jyada nuksan karta hai [but the rain does].” Heavy rain washes the young flowers and affects the yield.“There are varieties of king chilli,” says Basant. “The ones from Nagaland are hotter. The spice of the ones we grow has reduced. It was more spicy in our childhood.” He picks chillies twice a week and sells them for Rs. 20 per 6-8 pods. These bring him around Rs. 300 to 500 every week.Basant also grows tea, tamul [areca nut], pears, turai [edge gourd], bhat karela [spiny gourd], kaji nemu [Assam lemon] and a few other things on his land. Every Thursday, the farmer cycles 10 kilometres from his village Boka Pothar in Assam to Kanubari. Leaving home at five in the morning, he reaches the market an hour or so later. Setting up his small shop, he waits till half-past one in the afternoon to sell all his produce before returning home.The farmer also sells his produce at the Kherbari Sunday market – a smaller market closer to his home in Charaideo. But he especially likes to come to the Kanubari market.“Jab se hume samajhne laga tab se yaha aate hai. Ek baar bhi nahi aaye toh accha nahi lagta [I have come here as long as I can remember. It feels odd if I miss even a single visit].”

Red hot! Thursday at the Kanubari market

سرخ چیونٹیوں اور شاہی مرچوں کا کنوباڑی بازار

மிளகாய் காரம்! கனுபாரியில் வாரச் சந்தை

कनुबरी बाज़ार में एक दिन

‘লাল ঝাল মরিচ! হাট বারে কানুবাড়ি’

Kanubari

01-_PRK0557-PB-Portrait_of_an_artist_in_Majuli.jpg

“I loved drawing
since I was a child. When I was in ko
shreni [Class
1] in school, the teacher would ask us to draw an orange or a pumpkin, and I
could do it quickly,” says Ramesh Dutta with a smile briefly playing on his
face. “That is how it all began.”

Today he is the
primary set designer and mask maker for theatre activities in Majuli’s Garamur Saru Satra – one
of Assam’s several Vaishnavite monasteries. Ramesh da, as the 52-year-old is fondly addressed in the community, is a man of
few words but many talents that keep local theatre, art and music thriving in
Majuli, the largest island in the Brahmaputra.

“As a child I was
fascinated by puppetry shows,” he recalls. “I used to watch other people make
puppets and picked up the art that way. I must have been in Class 2 around that
time. I would make puppets and show them off in school.”

The
art he makes these days, when not displayed on stage or around Majuli, is
stored in the open shed beside his house. When we visit him we also see an
inverted hand boat inside, propped on a platform. Brushes and cans of paint are
stored next to masks made by Ramesh da. These include a movable mask of
a crane made for the Raas Mahotsav. (Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-many-masks-of-majuli/">The many masks of Majuli</a>)

Although today he does not make many masks,
Ramesh da admires the artform and those who practise it like Padma Shri awardee
Hem Chandra Goswami. “His masks can blink and move their lips,” he says. “He has made the art of masks world famous
and popular. He has so many students now.”

During the Raas festival, Dutta undertakes
repair work for masks in addition to working on the set design and stage props
for the performances in the Garamur Saru Satra. He confidently declares, “If
tomorrow were Raas, I could make the sets today itself.” (Read: <a id="22746" linktype="page">Raas Mahotsav and the satras of Majuli</a>)

Dutta also takes part in the various Vaishnav sattriya performances conducted at the satra, such as Gayan-Bayan and Bhaonas. The former is a folk performance made of
singers (gayan) and instrument players (bayan) whereas the latter is a form of
drama. Integral parts of sattriya culture, the performances were
introduced by social reformer and saint Srimanta Sankaradeva in the 15th
century. The gayans and bayans have the responsibility of providing
musical accompaniment to the performances held in the satra.

“I started learning gayan-bayan in 1984 at the
Pitambar Dev Sanskritik Vidyalaya. I was 13 at the time,” he tells us. “I
initially learned both gayan and bayan but then the guru asked me to be a gayan.
So, that’s what I studied.”

The room in which
we sit is dimly lit. The walls are plastered over with sand and cement, painted
green. Behind Ramesh da hangs a landscape.
Anushka, his six-year-old daughter, tells us that all the paintings displayed
on the walls were made by her father.

A portion of the
cowshed at home makes up his studio. We watch him work on a pair of
commissioned sculptures all afternoon – Joy-Bijoy figures for the gates of a namghar [prayer house]. Ramesh da has been making sculptures like these for 20 years. He says it takes him
around 20 days to make one.

“First, I build the
frame using wood. Then a sand and cement mixture is poured into the frame and
left to dry,” he explains as he shapes the torsos of the Joy-Bijoy figures with
a karani [trowel]. “After a
few days, I begin shaping the sculptures. The delicate detailing comes last.”

Certain parts of
the figures, like the limbs, are given shape using casts made with pieces of
banana tree trunks. “I buy the materials to make the murti [sculpture] from local stores,” continues Ramesh da. “We mostly use plastic paints these days. Earlier we would use distemper
paints, but they fade.”

He
steps away from the figures, judging their proportions. Then, making another
batch of the concrete mixture he returns to work. “When he is working, he doesn’t
talk. Doesn’t like to be disturbed at all,” his wife Neeta, who helps him with
his work, tells us with a smile. “When he is engrossed in his work, he has a
mood.”

Dutta is especially
proud of the guru axon [guru’s seat]
he built for the namghar in the Kharjanpar area near Garamur. The axon is a tetrahedral structure placed within the inner sanctum of the prayer
house. “I made the guru axon with concrete and
painted it to look like wood. The Satradhikar [head of the satra] consecrated and inaugurated the axon. Even he mistook it to be made of wood,” he says happily.

He is also busy
building a house for his family. “It’s the rainy season so it is taking longer
to finish,” says Neeta.

Dutta is the eldest
of four siblings and the only one in the family to have taken up art as a
profession – ever since Class 8. “This is my profession. I don’t have
agricultural land,” he says. “When there is no work, we have to depend on our
savings. Life goes on. Sometimes people invite me to do Bhaona [traditional
drama]. They need help and I go.

“Some pay 1,000
rupees and others pay 1,500. Some also offer 300. What can you say? It is rajahua
kaam
[community service]. I quote my rate but people pay as
per their capacity.”

While he is
understanding of such limitations he also adds, “without artha [money] nothing can be done. It takes money to even start working on
something. And at times getting that money becomes difficult.”

One way he
navigates such problems is by renting out his work like a mask of the fish
incarnation of Vishnu – Motsyo – he
made in 2014. “At the time it cost me 400 rupees to buy the materials and
sometimes the 400 also becomes difficult to manage.” In the six years since
then, he has made around Rs. 50,000 by renting it out.

Dutta has no fixed
rate for the kind of work he does. Even if a sculpture is small, the khatoni [physical effort] required is a lot. “Sometimes, the hazira [wages earned for work] is inadequate,” he says.“It is like a game of cards. One has to find
hope in hopelessness.”

Portrait of an artist in Majuli

تھیٹر کی دنیا کو روشن کرنے والا ماجولی کا فنکار

மஜூலியின் ஓவியரை பற்றிய ஓவியம்

ਮਾਜੁਲੀ ਦਾ ਇੱਕ ਪ੍ਰਤਿਭਾਸ਼ਾਲੀ ਕਲਾਕਾਰ

ମାଜୁଲିରେ ଜଣେ କଳାକାରଙ୍କ ପ୍ରତିକୃତି

മജൂലിയിലെ ഒരു കലാകാരന്റെ കഥ

ಮಜುಲಿಯ ಕಲಾವಿದರೊಬ್ಬರ ವ್ಯಕ್ತಿಚಿತ್ರ

जिनकी कला से रौशन है माजुली के रंगमंच की दुनिया

માજુલીના એક કલાકારનું ચિત્ર

जेकर कला के उजियार बगरत हवय माजुली के रंगमंच मं

माजुली के रंगमंच आ कला के दुनिया जिनकरा से गुलजार बा

মাজুলি দ্বীপের এক শিল্পীর কথা

মাজুলীৰ প্ৰতিভাৱান এগৰাকী শিল্পী

FEATURE-IMAGE-Casting_Dokra_in_Birbhum.jpg

“When I first saw Dokra, it felt like magic”, says 41-year-old Pijush Mondal. The artisan from West Bengal’s Birbhum district has been practising the art form for around 12 years now. The process involves the lost-wax technique, one of the oldest traditional metal casting methods in India, dating back to the Indus Valley civilisation.The name Dokra (or Dhokra) refers to a group of nomadic craftsmen who travelled across eastern India.The Chota Nagpur plateau that stretches across Odisha, Jharkhand, West Bengal and Chhattisgarh has large deposits of copper. This is a primary component of the metal alloys brass and bronze of which Dokra figurines are made. Dokra art is practised in many parts of India but &#39;Bengal Dokra&#39; from Bankura, Barddhaman and Purulia districts has a <a href="https://search.ipindia.gov.in/GIRPublic/Application/Details/563">Geographical Indication</a> certificate.The first step to making a Dokra sculpture involves moulding a clay core – the foundation for the desired figure. Elaborate designs shaped and carved from beeswax, or the gum of the sal tree (Shorea robusta) are layered onto this clay core. Once in place, the wax pattern is enclosed within another layer of clay with a channel or two left open for the melted wax to come out later. Hot molten metal is poured through the same channel.“Nature is immensely important [to the process],” says Sima Pal Mondal. “If there are no sal trees, I cannot use their resin for the wax preparation. Without bees or beehives, I cannot get the wax.” Dokra casting is also heavily dependent on the availability of different varieties of soil and suitable weather conditions.Once the outer layer of clay is dry, Pijush and his assistants fire the figure in one of the two 3 to 5 feet deep brick-and-clay kilns in his studio. As the clay bakes, the wax melts away leaving behind a hollow into which the molten metal is then poured. The clay mould is ideally left for a day to cool down – 4 to 5 hours in case of a quick delivery – after which it is finally broken up to reveal the sculpture within.

Casting Dokra in Birbhum

بیر بھوم کے ڈوکرا کاریگر

బీర్‌భూమ్‌లో ఒక డోక్రా కళాకారుడి కథ

பிர்புமில் தோக்ரா வார்த்தல்

ਬੀਰਭੂਮ ਦੇ ਡੋਕਰਾ ਕਲਾਕਾਰ ਦੀ ਕਹਾਣੀ

ବୀରଭୂମର ଡୋକ୍ରା ଶିଳ୍ପୀ

ബിർഭമിൽ ഡോക്രയെ വാർത്തെടുക്കുമ്പോൾ

ಬಿರ್ಭುಮ್‌ ಡೋಕ್ರಾ ಕ್ಯಾಸ್ಟಿಂಗ್‌ ಕಲೆ

बीरभूम के डोकरा शिल्पी की कहानी

બિરભૂમમાં ડોકરા કાસ્ટિંગ

बीरभूम मं डोकरा के ढलाई

बीरभूम के एगो डोकरा कलाकार

বীড়ভূমৰ ডোক্ৰা শিল্পী

বীরভূমের এক ডোকরাশিল্পীর কথা

Bolpur-Srinikitan

01-Ghulam-Qadir-2-UF-Pattu_weaving_is_fraying_at_the_edges.jpg

It
has been 30 years since Abdul Kumar Magray last wove pattu.
He is among the last weavers of this woollen fabric known to stand up to
Kashmir’s harsh winters when temperatures drop to below -20 degrees Celsius.

“I used to weave 11 metres in a single day,”
recalls the 82-year-old who has lost most of his sight. Making his way
carefully across the room, he places a hand on the wall to guide him. “When I
was around 50, my eyesight weakened due to excessive weaving.”  

Abdul
lives within view of the Habba Khatoon peak in Dawar, a village in
Bandipore district with a population of 4,253 people (Census 2011). He tells us
that now there are no active pattu
artisans but, “until almost a decade ago, in the winter months, every household in
the village would weave garments for sale in spring and summer.” 

Some of the garments Abdul
and his family would make for sale in Srinagar and even other states included pheran
(a traditional gown-like upper garment), dupathi (blanket), socks
and gloves. 

But despite Abdul’s love for his craft,
sustaining it today is not easy as the raw material – wool, is no longer
readily available. Weavers like Abdul used to keep sheep and get the wool to weave pattu from the animals they raised.  Around 20 years ago, he says, sourcing wool
was easy and cheap since his family owned around 40 t0 45 sheep. “We used to
make a good profit,” he recalls. Currently, the family owns only six sheep.

Habibullah Sheikh and his
family, from Dangi Thal village of the Tulail valley in
Bandipore district, left the pattu business
about a decade ago. He says, “Earlier there was a culture of keeping sheep. Each
household used to have at least 15-20 sheep that lived with the family – on the
ground floor.”

But that has changed, points out 70-year-old Ghulam Qadir Lone, one of the few active weavers from the village Achura Chowrwan (also known as Shah Pora), also in Bandipora district. 
“The climate in Gurez has changed over the last decade. Winters have
become very harsh. This has affected the growth of grass which is the primary
fodder for sheep. People have given up rearing large flocks.”

Abdul Kumar was around 25 when he first started weaving pattu.
“I used to help my father, and mastered the craft over time,” he says. The art
has been passed down in his family for generations, but none of his three sons
have taken it up. “Pattu mai aaj
bhi utni hi mehnat hai jitni pehle thi, magar ab munafa na hone ke barabar hai
[Pattu requires the same amount
of effort it did before, but the profits are next to nothing],” he explains.

When Abdul initially began
weaving, a metre of pattu fabric sold
for Rs. 100. With time, the
rates have only increased. These days, a metre is priced at around Rs. 7,000. But despite the high prices of
the finished product, the profits for the weavers have become negligible as the
yearly costs of rearing sheep are consistently higher than annual sales of pattu.

“Weaving pattu is an art of precision. A wrong
placement of even a single thread can mess up the whole piece. One has to begin
afresh,” says Abdul. “[But] the hard work is worth it because the warmth of the
fabric is incomparable in a cold region like Gurez.”

Artisans
use a chakku, a wooden
spindle roughly the size of a person’s hand, to transform the wool into yarn.
The chakku is dowel-shaped with both
ends tapering into points. The yarn thus spun is woven into cloth on a loom –
known locally as waan.

Making a pattu fabric is never a one-person job.
Often the entire family contributes to the process. Generally, the men are in
charge of obtaining the wool from the sheep while the women spin the wool into
yarn.  “They do the toughest part,
besides managing household chores,” points out Anwar Lone. Working the loom or waan was usually a task undertaken by
the men in the family.

The 85-year-old Zooni Begum
belongs to the Dard-Shin community and is among the few women in
the valley who can weave pattu. “It
is the only craft I know,” she says, speaking in the local Shina language. Her
son Istiyaq
Lone, a 36-year-old farmer, translates for us. 

“The trade in pattu has stopped now but I still make a
few items like khoyeeh [a traditional
headgear for women] every few months.” With her grandson in her lap, Zooni
demonstrates the process of spinning sheep wool – called pashh
in the Shina language – into yarn using a chakku. “I inherited this art from my mother. I love the entire
process of it,” she says. “I want to continue doing it as long as my hands are
able.”

Pattu
weavers in the Gurez
valley belong to the Dard-Shin (also known as Dard) community, listed as a
Scheduled Tribe in Jammu and Kashmir. Divided across the Line of Control that
runs almost parallel to the valley, the community shares the tradition of pattu and regrets its decline caused by
falling demand, a lack of state support and migration.

Around 40 kilometres east
of Dawar in Baduab village lives weaver Anwar Lone
who is now in his nineties. Laying out a pattu
blanket he made 15 years ago he says, “I used to start my work at eight and
finish it at four in the evening. Later as I grew old, I was able to weave for
just three to four hours.” It would take Anwar roughly an entire day’s work to
weave a metre of fabric.

Anwar started selling pattu around four decades ago. “My
business thrived because of the demand at both the local level and outside of
Gurez. I have sold pattu to many
foreigners visiting Gurez.”

In Achura Chowrwan (or Shah
Pora) village, many have left the pattu business
but siblings Ghulam Qadir Lone, 70, and Abdul Qadir Lone, 71, still carry on
the practice with zeal. Even in peak winter when the valley is cut off from the
rest of Kashmir and most families migrate down, the brothers choose to stay and
weave.

“I cannot recall the exact
age I started weaving but I was very young,” says Ghulam. “We used to make a
lot of things in weaves like charkhana and chashm-e-bulbul.”

The charkhana
is a chequered pattern whereas the chashm-e-bulbul
is an intricate weave said to resemble the eye of a bulbul bird. Crafted with
care, these pattu weaves are rougher
than machine-made fabric.

“Waqt ke saath pahnaave ka hisaab bhi badal gaya [Clothing fashions
have changed over time],” says Ghulam. “But pattu
is the same as it was 30 years ago.” The brothers say they hardly make a
profit these days, selling to locals who shop maybe once a year.

Abdul Qadir says young
people lack the vigour and patience needed to learn the craft. “I believe in
the next 10 years pattu will cease to
exist,” rues Abdul. “It needs new hope and innovation which can only happen
through timely intervention by the government,” he says. 

Abdul Kumar&#39;s son Rehman, who runs a
grocery store in Dawar market, says weaving is no longer a viable option.
“The effort outstrips the profit,” he says. “People have several ways of
earning now. Pehle ya toh pattu tha ya zameendari [Earlier, it was
either pattu or land ownership].”

Gurez is a remote, border area and hardly
receives attention from the authorities. But the weavers say new ideas may
ignite new life into this dying art and make it once again a stable source of
income for the people of the region.