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PARI publishes in 15 languages: English, Hindi, Urdu, Marathi, Bengali, Odia, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Kannada, Punjabi, Chhattisgarhi, Bhojpuri, Assamese and Gujarati. You can read articles in any of those. Of these, five – Hindi, Bengali, Marathi, Urdu and Odia – have ‘localised’ sites, that is, home pages where everything including the menus are in that particular language.Sure, there are giant media corporations that function in up to 40 languages, but those are not on an equal footing. For instance, their Indian language platforms carry a fraction of what you will find on their English sites.In PARI, we work on the principle: Every Indian Language is Your Language. &nbsp; And this implies parity among tongues. If a piece appears in one language, it is our mandate to see it appears in all 15 that we presently publish in. A mandate we will fulfil regardless of the number of languages we might add to PARI. We are able to do this because of a fantastic translations team. So far, we have worked with over 170 translators – with around 40 of them active in any given month. However, we publish not just translations but also original content in Indian languages.We believe the promotion of Indian languages is a must for society as a whole. The linguistic richness of this country gave rise to the old saying that, over here, if at every three or four kilometres the water tastes different, well, there’s a different tongue to be heard at every 12-15.But we cannot be complacent about that anymore. Not at a time when the People’s Linguistic Survey of India tells us that this country, with close to 800 living languages, has witnessed 225 tongues die in the past 50 years. Not at a time when the United Nations claims that 90-95 per cent of the world’s spoken languages will be extinct or seriously endangered by the end of this century. Not at a time when at least one indigenous language is dying every fortnight across the world.Welcome to PARI’s Language Universe. &nbsp;

PARI's Language Universe

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<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

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The few families in Kummari Veedhi that are still engaged with the craft buy matti (clay) from a dealer a few months ahead of Vinayak Chaturthi every year. Together they buy a truckload of mud, roughly five tonnes. They pay Rs. 15,000 for the mud and Rs. 10,000 for its transportation from specific locations in the neighbouring Vizianagaram district of Andhra Pradesh. Getting the right jinka matti – a mud with the natural presence of glue is crucial for making both clay artefacts and idols.Paradesam’s family takes nearly a tonne or 1,000 kilograms of the load. A week before Diwali some of the mud can still be seen stacked outside his house in big gunny bags. &nbsp;The dark red mud is dry and lumpy and they must slowly begin mixing it with water to bring it to the right consistency. Later it will be stamped upon to mix it up; Paradesam says it feels hard and also has small rocks that poke his feet.Once the clay has reached the right texture, the master craftsman brings out the heavy wooden wheel marked with splashes of dried up clay from a corner and places it on a stand. He then folds a cloth over an empty paint can and that becomes his seat in front of the wheel.Paradesam's wheel, like other potter's wheels in Kummari Veedhi, is a manual one. He has heard of an electrically run wheel but is unsure how he can control it. “The speed should vary for every kunda [pot] and deepam [lamp]” he points out.Throwing a handful of wet clay onto the centre of the wheel, his hands work gently but firmly, digging into the clay and gradually shaping the diya. The smell of wet mud fills the air as the almost metre-wide wheel begins rotating. To keep the momentum going, he turns it with the help of a large wooden stick. "I am getting old now. I can't always use the same force," says Paradesam. Once the diya starts taking shape and becomes sturdy, the potter uses a thread to slice it off the moving wheel.As they come off the wheel he arranges the diyas and flowerpots carefully in a row on a rectangular plank of wood. The clay items must dry for 3-4 days in the shade. After drying, the items are placed in a kiln and baked for over two days. The kiln is lit once every 2-3 weeks between July to October (for Vinayak Chaturthi, Dussehra and Diwali). During other times of the year it is lit barely once a month.

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Many Worlds, One Website

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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

MOBILE COVER IMAGE-SSH-Nhaan.jpg

01-IMG_7446-MH-In Darrang-ploughing a lonely furrow.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:center;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;">Lukor kotha nuhuniba, batot nangol nachachiba.<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:center;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;">[Do not listen to people, Do not smoothen the plough on the roadside]

<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 above figure of speech in the Assamese language is used to describe the importance of keeping one’s attention on one’s work.<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;">Hanif Ali, a wood craftsman who makes ploughs for farmers, says it applies to him, and his work of making precision tools for farming. Around two thirds of the land around him&nbsp;&nbsp;–&nbsp;in central Assam’s Darrang district, is under agriculture, and this veteran craftsman has an array of tools for agricultural work.<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 make all agricultural tools such as nangol [plough], chongo [bamboo ladder] juwal [yoke], haath naingle [hand-rake], naingle [rake], dheki [foot-operated pounding mill], itamagur [mallet], haarpaat [a semi-circular wooden tool attached to bamboo pole used to gather paddy into a pile after drying] and more,” he reels off.<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;">He prefers the wood of the jackfruit tree – called kaathol in the local Bengali dialect and kothaal in Assamese – used in making doors, windows and beds. Hanif says he cannot afford to waste any of the wood he buys and so makes as many tools as possible from each log.<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;">Ploughs are precision tools. “I must not miss the markings on the wood even by an inch or else I may end up losing a piece,” he adds and an estimated monetary loss of Rs. 250-300.

<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;">His customers are mostly marginal farmers from the district who have oxen at home. They multi-crop on their land, growing vegetables such as cauliflower, cabbage, eggplant, knol-khol, peas, chillies, bottlegourd, pumpkin carrots, bittergourd, tomatoes and cucumber, as well as crops of mustard and paddy.<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;">“Anybody who needs a plough comes to me,” says the veteran craftsman now in his sixties. "About 15-10 years ago there were only two tractors in the area, and people relied on ploughs to till their land," he tells PARI.<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;">Mukaddas Ali is a farmer in his sixties and among the few who still occasionally use a wooden plough. “I still go to Hanif to repair my plough whenever required. He is the only one who can properly adjust the damages. Like his father, he can make well finished ploughs.”<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;">Ali however says that he is not sure if he will invest in another one. “Bulls have become expensive and farm labour is not easily available, also using a plough takes much longer time than a tractor,” he adds explaining why people have shifted to tractors and power tillers to reduce the workload.

<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;">Hanif is a second-generation craftsman; he learnt the craft when he was a young child. “I went to school only for a few days. Neither my mother nor my father was interested in education, and I too didn’t want to go,” he says.<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;">He was very young when he started helping his father, Holu Sheikh, a respected and skilled craftsman. “Babaye shara bostir jonne nangol banaito. Nangol banabar ba thik korbar jonne angor barit aito shob khetiok [My father used to make ploughs for everyone in the village. Everyone would come to our house to make or repair their ploughs].”<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 he began helping out, his father would do the markings – precise marks essential to make the plough work without a hitch. “You must know at which exact point you have to make the holes. You must be sure that the beam is attached to the murikaath [body of the plough] at the correct angle,” Hanif says as he runs his right hand over a piece of wood he is working on.<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;">He explains that if the plough is too angular, nobody will buy it because then soil enters the share [cutting edge of the plough], creating a gap and slowing down work.<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;">It took a year before he gained enough confidence to tell his father, “I know where to mark. Don’t worry anymore.”

<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;">He also started to accompany his father popularly known as ‘Holu mistry’. His father would double up as shopkeeper and a huiter – a person who specialises in carpentry specifically in plough making. He recalls how they would go house to house carrying their work hung on a pole on their shoulders.<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;">After a few years of working with his father who was beginning to age, Hanif – the only son in the family of six – says the responsibility of his sisters’ marriage fell on him. “People already knew our house and as my father was unable to meet all the orders, I started to make ploughs.”<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 was four decades ago. Today, Hanif lives alone and his home and workplace are is a single room at Number 3 Baruajhar village, home to many Bengali-origin Muslims like him. The area comes under the Dalgaon legislative assembly constituency. His one-room bamboo-thatched home is sparsely furnished with a small bed, a few cooking utensils – a pot to cook rice, a pan, a couple of steel plates and a glass.<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 father's and my work are important to people in the locality," he says, speaking of the many farmers that are his neighbours. He is sitting in the courtyard shared by five families, also living in one-room homes like him. The other houses belong to his sister, his youngest son, and his nephews. His sister does wage work on people's farms and in their homes; his nephews often migrate to southern states.<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;">Hanif has nine children, but none are engaged in this craft for which demand is now declining. “The younger generation will not able to recognise what a traditional plough looks like,” says Afaj Uddin, Mukaddas Ali’s nephew. The 48-year-old is a farmer with six bighas of unirrigated land stopped using a plough 15 years ago.

<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 cycle past houses with big trees with angular branches, I ask the house owner to inform me when he plans to cut the tree. I tell them that the angular and solid branches will make good ploughs,” he says, revealing his familiarity among local people.<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;">Local timber traders also reach out to him when they have a curvy piece. He needs a seven-foot-long beam and a 3 x 2 inch wide wooden plank made of either sal (shorea robusta), shishu (Indian rosewood), titachap (Michelia champaca), shirish (albezia lebbeck) or other locally available wood.<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 tree should be 25-30 years old then the plough, yokes and rakes will last long. The logs are generally trunks or solid branches grow,” he says, showing PARI a branch he has cut into two parts.<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 PARI visited him in mid-August, he was hewing one part of the wood into the body of a plough. “If I can make two haatnaingle [wooden handrakes] apart from making the body of one plough, I may earn extra 400 -500 rupees from this log,” he says pointing towards the angular-shaped wood bought for Rs. 200.<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 must utilize as many parts as possible from each wood. Not just that, the shape has to be exactly what the farmers require,” he adds. Over the four decades and more that he has been doing this, he knows the most popular size for a plough is 18-inch shoes (to stabilise the plough) and a 33-inch body.

<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;">Once he gets the perfect piece of wood, he starts work before the sun rises, placing his tools for axing, chopping, shaping, and curving nearby. He also has a few chisels, an adze, a couple of saws, an axe, a hand plane, and a few rusting rods which he keeps on an elevated wooden platform at home.<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;">Using the plain side of the saw, he marks the lines on the wood to make precise cuts. He measures the distance with his hand. Once the markings are done, he slices the sides of the wood with his 30-year-old axe. “Then I use tessha [adze tool similar to an axe] to shave off the uneven surface,” the master woodworker says. The nangol or the shoe-part of the body has to be precisely curved in a way that makes the soil move to either side easily.<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 starting point of the shoes [the part of the body that glides on the ground] remains around six inches, it gradually decreases to 1.5 to 2 inches towards the end in width,” he says. The shoes’ thickness should be 8 or 9 inches tapering to two inches towards the end where it is nailed into the wood.<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 shoe-share is called faal or pal and is made of an iron bar around 9-12 inches in length and 1.5-2 inches wide, with sharp edges on both ends. “Both the edges are sharp, because if one end gets corroded, the farmer can switch to the other end.” Hanif sources the metal work from local blacksmiths in Bechimari market, around three kilometres from his home.<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;">It takes at least five hours of continuous pounding of axe and adze to chop and shave the sides of a log into shape. It must then be smoothened with a hand plane.<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 the body is ready, the huiter makes a precise mark to make a whole where the beam of the plough has to fit. Hanif says, “the hole has to be as close as possible to the size of the eesh [the wooden beam], because it must not loosen up while ploughing. It is generally 1.5 or 2 inches wide.”

<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;">To adjust the height of the plough Hanif makes five to six hitches near the top end of the beam. Using these hitches, the farmers used to adjust the plough to their requirement of how deep they wanted to till the soil.<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;">Cutting the wood with a saw machine is expensive and tiring says Hanif. “If I buy a log for 200 rupees, I pay another 150 to the cutting person.” Finishing the plough takes around two days and can, at best, sell one plough for Rs. 1,200.<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;">While some people approach him directly, Hanif also travels to two weekly markets in Darrang district – Lalpool bazaar and Bechimari bazaar – to sell his products. “A farmer has to pay around 3,500 to 3,700 rupees for the plough and its accessories,” he says pointing out the steep costs that have reduced his buyers to those renting out their ploughs and the odd farmer. “Tractors have replaced the traditional method of tilling.”<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 Hanif is not stopping. The next day he readies his bicycle with his work – a plough body and a kuthi (handle of the plough). “When tractors finish damaging the soil… people will come back to the plough maker,” he adds.<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;">This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

In Darrang: ploughing a lonely furrow

दरांगचे हनीफ अली आणि त्यांचे अखेरचे काही नांगर

ٹریکٹروں نے چھینا ہل بنانے والوں کا روزگار

दर्रांग के अकेल्ला नांगर बनेइय्या

ट्रैक्टर आइल, हल कारीगर के रोटी छीनाइल

ଦାରଙ୍ଗ: ନିଃସଙ୍ଗ ଜମିରେ ହଳ ବୁଲେଇବା

தனியாக உழும் பணி

ਦਰਾਂਗ: ਹਲ ਦਾ ਚਲਣ ਵਾਪਸ ਆਵੇਗਾ

ദരംഗയിൽ: ഉഴവുചാലിൽ കലപ്പയുന്തുമ്പോൾ

ದರಾಂಗ್:‌ ಒಂಟಿ ಹೊಲದ ಉಳುಮೆ

ट्रैक्टरों ने छीना हल-निर्माताओं का रोज़गार 

দারাং: একার হাতে চলছে লাঙল 

దరంగ్‌లో ఒకే ఒక నాగలి రూపకర్త

দৰঙত নাঙল-যুৱলিৰ সপোন দেখা এজন সূতাৰ 

દારંગમાં હળ બનાવવાની વિસરાતી જતી કળા

Dalgaon (Pt), Darrang District, Assam, India

01-PXL_20230916_055127077-UKR-Mundrika to the rescue .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;">The cobra lay coiled around the branch of the sturdy sagwan (teak) tree. It would not budge despite fervent attempts by the residents of Ratti Tola village.<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;">After five hours, the hapless villagers finally called Mundrika Yadav, once a guard at the nearby Valmiki Tiger Reserve. He has rescued more than 200 animals including tigers, leopards, rhinoceros, and snakes. When Mundrika arrived he first tried to get the cobra to descend, which it did. “I put a bamboo stick in its mouth and tightened the rope. Then I put it in a sack and released it back into the forest,” says the 42-year-old. “It took me just 20-25 minutes.”

<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 <a style="color:rgb(0, 103, 106);text-decoration:none;" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://valmikitigerreserve.com/">tiger reserve</a> in Bihar’s West Champaran district, covers nearly 900 square kilometres, and is home to 54 tigers, besides a host of other wildlife. “Hum spot par hi turant jugaad bana lete hain [I can innovate on the spot],” says Mundrika about his rescue tactics.<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;">Mundrika, who belongs to the Yadav community (listed as Other Backward Classes in the state) grew up in close proximity to the forest and its animals. “When I used to take the buffaloes to graze in the forest, I would often catch snakes. From that time, I developed an affection for wildlife. So, when the physical examination for a forest guard was held in 2012, I applied and got the job,” says the resident of Vijaypur village. He lives here with his wife and daughter. “The map of the entire reserve is in our eyes. You blindfold us and leave us in the forest, and you get out in a car, we will come out of the forest before you,” says the former vanrakshi (forest guard).<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;">Mundrika worked as a forest guard for the next eight years, hanging on despite his monthly salary being routinely delayed by up to a year. “Protecting forests and animals is a passion for me,” he tells PARI.

<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 2020, the Bihar government appointed a new set of forest guards through open recruitment. The earlier set of guards like Yadav were given other jobs – he now drives the vehicles of the VTR. “We have been sidelined,” he says, unhappy about his new position. Mundrika was not eligible to sit for the new examination because of his age, and his education qualifications – he has passed his matriculation – not sufficient for the post of a guard.<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 the situation is dangerous and critical, the new forest guards reach out to Mundrika. “The forest guards appointed through examinations may have a degree, but they do not have practical knowledge,” he says. “We were born in the forest and learned to rescue animals by living with them.”

Mundrika to the rescue

संकटमोचक मुंद्रिका

جنگلی جانوروں کے محافظ مُندریکا

వన్యప్రాణి రక్షకుడు ముంద్రికా

காக்க வந்த முந்த்ரிகா

ਜਿੱਥੇ ਡਿਗਰੀ ਨਹੀਂ ਤਜ਼ਰਬਾ ਕੰਮ ਆਵੇ

ଉଦ୍ଧାର କରିବାକୁ ମୁନ୍ଦ୍ରିକା

രക്ഷിക്കാൻ മുണ്ഡ്രികയെ വിളിക്കൂ

ಮುಂದ್ರಿಕಾ ಎನ್ನುವ ಆಪತ್ಬಾಂಧವ

સંકટ સમયની સાંકળ મુંદ્રિકા

जंगली जीव-जन्तु मन के तारनहार मुंद्रिका 

রেহাই দেবেন মুন্দ্রিকা

উদ্ধাৰ কৰিবলৈ মুন্দ্ৰিকা আছে নহয় 

मुंद्रिका, संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो! 

जंगली जीवों के तारणहार मुंद्रिका

01-IMG_1679-MB-The_naturalist_of_Dachigam.jpg

“When I first saw a hangul, I was so fascinated that I could not move,” recalls Shabir Husain Bhat. He kept returning to the same place again and again to get a glimpse of the deer (Cervus elaphus hanglu), native to Kashmir and <a href="https://wii.gov.in/images/hangulconference_brochure.pdf">critically</a> endangered.Almost 20 years later, Shabir says his fascination for the animals, birds, trees and flowers in the 141 square kilometer park has not diminished. “I would definitely say it was hangul that ignited the spark inside me and of course Himalayan Black Bear too.” At the park, he is fondly referred to as the ‘encyclopedia of Dachigam’. “I have so far identified 400 species of plants, more than 200 bird species and almost all the animal species in this region,” he tells PARI. Other wild animals found in this park include: musk deer, Himalayan brown bear, snow leopard and golden eagle.

Shabir didn’t start at the park as a naturalist, but in fact as driver of the battery-operated vehicles used for tourists in Dachigam National Park. As his knowledge grew, he became a guide, and is now a celebrated one; in 2006 he became an employee of the state wildlife department.Hanguls were once found across the Zanskar mountains, but a Wildlife Institute of India 2009 <a href="https://wii.gov.in/images/hangulconference_brochure.pdf">report</a> says that hunting, poaching and habitat fragmentation and degradation has shrunk their population from an estimated 2,000 individuals in 1947 to about 170-200. The report also says they are largely confined to the Dachigam National Park and a few sanctuaries in Kashmir valley. Shabir is from the Nishat area in Srinagar city, roughly 15 kilometers from the park. He lives with his family of six including his parents, wife and two sons.  He accompanies tourists and wildlife lovers, remaining in the park from morning to evening. “If you want to take a tour of Dachigam park you can come anytime in the day, but if you want to see the animals you have to either come early in the morning or before sunset,” he tells PARI.

The naturalist of Dachigam

रुख-रई, चिरई-चिरगुन, जीव-जन्तु चिन्हे मं माहिर

ଡଚିଗାମର ପ୍ରକୃତିପ୍ରେମୀ

దాచీగామ్ ప్రకృతి ప్రేమికుడు

தச்சிகமை சேர்ந்த இயற்கையிலாளர்

ਦਸ਼ੀਗਾਮ ਜੰਗਲ ਦਾ ਉਹ ਕੁਦਰਤ-ਪ੍ਰੇਮੀ

ദച്ചിഗാമിലെ പ്രകൃതിനിരീക്ഷകൻ

દચીગામના પ્રકૃતિવાદી

दाचिगमचा निसर्गवेडा

दाचीगाम का प्रकृति-प्रेमी

दाचीगाम के जीव-जंतु प्रेमी

দাছীগামৰ প্ৰকৃতিবিদজন

ڈاچی گام کے فطرت پسند

দাচিগামের প্রকৃতিবিদ শাবির সাহেব

ದಚಿಗಾಮ್‌ ಅರಣ್ಯದ ಪ್ರಕೃತಿ ತಜ್ಞ

01-Rupali_Pegu_3-AKS-Surviving_a_flood_of_problems_in_Assam.jpg

From the window of her home, as far as the eye can see, there is water – this year’s floods have not receded. Rupali Pegu lives just a kilometre from the Subansiri river – an important tributary of the Brahmaputra that annually floods vast tracts of land in Assam.Water may be all around, but ironically, finding potable water is a challenge, she says. In her village, Bordubi Maluwal in Assam’s Lakhimpur district, drinking water is contaminated. “Most hand pumps in our village and the neighbouring ones are submerged,” Rupali explains. To fetch water from the hand pump near the road, she relies on a canoe. Armed with three large steel water containers, Rupali rows towards the road, also partially submerged.  She uses a long bamboo stick to carefully navigate through the flooded village. “Moni, come along!” she calls out to her neighbour, who often joins her on these trips. The friends help each other fill the containers.

At the handpump, after a few minutes of pumping, clean water finally starts flowing. “It hasn&#39;t rained for three days, so we managed to get water,” Rupali says with a faint smile of relief. Fetching water is seen to be women’s labour, and as the river rises, it is women who bear the added burden.When the hand pump disappoints, “we boil and drink this,” says 36-year-old Rupali, pointing to the stagnant, muddy waters swirling around her house. Rupali’s bamboo house, like many others in this region, is specially designed to withstand the floods. Locally known as chang ghar – these houses are elevated on bamboo stilts to avoid flooding. Rupali’s ducks have made her porch their home, and their quacking fills the silence.  The canoe is also Rupali’s carrier when she needs to relieve herself. Her home once had a washroom, but it is now submerged. “We have to go far, towards the river,” she says. Rupali makes that journey in the dark.

Not just daily lives, but livelihoods of the largely Mising community who live here, are also impacted. “We had 12 bighas of land where we cultivated rice. But this year, all our crops are submerged and we’ve lost everything,” says Rupali. A part of her land has already been swallowed by the river. “We will only know after the flood how much land the river has taken this year,” she says.Agriculture is the traditional occupation of Mising people (listed as Scheduled Tribe in the state). Unable to farm, many are forced to migrate in search of livelihoods. According to this <a href="https://sita.assam.gov.in/sites/default/files/swf_utility_folder/departments/sita_medhassu_in_oid_4/portlet/level_1/files/study_report_on_floods_and_impacts_on_livelihood_in_rural_assam.pdf">study</a> in 2020, the out-migration in Lakhimpur is 29 per cent, more than three times the national average. Rupali’s husband Manus has gone to Hyderabad to work as a watchman, leaving Rupali in-charge of the home and their two children – a son and a daughter. Manus earns Rs. 15,000 a month and sends home Rs.8,000-10,000. Rupali says that for six months in the year when their homes are on flooded ground, finding work is tough. “Last year we received some help from the government – polythene sheets, ration. But nothing this year. If we had money, we would have left,” she adds, with a note of sadness.

Surviving a flood of problems in Assam

సమస్యల వరదను తట్టుకొని...

असम: मुश्किलों की बाढ़ में नाउम्मीदी की पतवार

ಅಸ್ಸಾಮ್: ಸಮಸ್ಯೆಗಳ ಪ್ರವಾಹದಲ್ಲಿ ಬದುಕು

அஸ்ஸாமில் நேரும் வெள்ளத்தில் பிழைத்திருத்தல்!

ଆସାମରେ ବନ୍ୟା ସମସ୍ୟା ସହ ଜୀବନ ଜୀଇଁବା

जिनगी के नइया फंसल मझधार

ਅਸਾਮ: ਹੜ੍ਹਾਂ ਨਾਲ਼ ਜਿਊਂਦਿਆਂ

آسام: مشکلوں کے سیلاب کا سامنا

അസമിൽ, പ്രശ്നങ്ങളുടെ മലവെള്ളപ്പാച്ചിൽ

पुर मं बूड़े जिनगी

এসোপা সমস্যাৰ ধল ফালি ৰূপালী আগবাঢ়ি যায়

হাজার সমস্যায় বানভাসি অসমবাসী

આસામમાં સમસ્યાઓના પૂરમાંથી બચવું શી રીતે?

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You might just miss the only post office in Satjelia. Housed in a mud hut, the metal red letter box hanging outside is the only clue.This 80-year-old sub-post office in West Bengal’s South 24 Parganas district serves seven gram panchayats. The mud structure has withstood super cyclones like Aila and Amphan which wreaked havoc in the Sunderbans. It’s a lifeline to many residents who have savings accounts at the post office; their government documents, such as various identity cards, arrive by post here. Gosaba block is surrounded by three rivers – Gomti to the north-west, Datta to the south and Gandal to the east. Jayant Mandal, a resident of Luxbagan village says, “this post office is our only hope in this island area [to get their government documents].” Niranjan Mandal, the current postmaster, has worked here for 40 years. Before him it was his father who served as the postmaster. Every morning he makes his way on foot from his home to his workplace, a journey of a few minutes. The local tea shop located near the post office has people coming and going all day, so the post office always has visitors.

Work for the 59-year-old postmaster begins around 10 a.m. and ends at 4 p.m. The source of light inside the post office is from solar panels, not very effective during monsoons. When the panels are not charged, the employees use a kerosene lamp. They get Rs. 100 a month for their upkeep – 50 rupees for rent and 50 for supplies, says Niranjan.Working with Niranjan is the peon, Babu whose work is to deliver letters to households across the gram panchayats for which he uses his bicycle. Having served the post office for almost half a century, Niranjan babu is set to retire in a few years. Before that, “my only dream is to see construction start for a pucca building,” he says. The reporter would like to thank Oorna Raut for her help with this story.

You’ve got mail!

دیورائے پٹنہ کا اکلوتا ڈاکیہ

దేవరాయపట్టణ: 'మీకో ఉత్తరం వచ్చింది'

தேவராயப்பட்னத்திலிருந்து ஒரு தபால்!

ਦੇਵਰਾਇਆਪਟਨਾ, ਚਿੱਠੀ ਆਈ ਹੈ!

ଦେବରାୟପାଟନାରେ, ‘ଆପଣଙ୍କର ଚିଠି ଆସିଛି!’

देवरायपटणात ‘डाकिया डाक लाया’

ദേവരായപട്ടണത്തിൽ, ‘നിങ്ങൾക്കൊരു കത്തുണ്ട്’

देवरायपटना का इकलौता डाकिया

દેવરાયપટનામાં, ‘તમારી ટપાલ આવી છે!’

देवरायपटना के अकेल्ला डाकिया

अकेले छव गांव चिट्ठी बांटे वाला डाक बाबू

দেভেরায়াপটনা: ‘চিঠি এসেছে!’

দেৱেৰায়পাটনাত ডাকোৱালগৰাকী

ದೇವರಾಯ ಪಟ್ಟಣ: ಕಾಗದ ಬಂದಿದೆ ನಿಮಗೆ!

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Each time I attempt to pen the deaths of my people, my mind empties out, like breath leaving the body of a corpse.The world around us has advanced so much yet our society pays no heed to the lives of manual scavengers. The government simply denies the occurrence of these deaths, but in a response to a <a href="https://sansad.in/getFile/annex/265/AU1096_V1fqD9.pdf?source=pqars">question</a> in the Lok Sabha this year, the Minister for Social Justice and Empowerment, Ramdas Athawale shared data showing that there have been more than 377 deaths from 2019-2023 &quot;due to hazardous cleaning of sewers and septic tanks&quot;.I have personally attended an innumerable number of manhole deaths in the last seven years. In Avadi, Chennai district alone, there have been 12 manhole deaths since 2022.On August 11, Hari, a 25-year-old Avadi resident and member of the Arunthathiyar community who was working as a contract labourer drowned while cleaning a sewage canal.Twelve days later I went to report on the death of Hari anna. I found his body lying inside a freezer box in his home. His wife Tamil Selvi had been asked by her family to finally carry out all the rituals a widow is expected to do. Her neighbours’ relatives smeared turmeric all over her then bathed her before cutting off her thali [symbol of a married woman]. She remained solemn and silent during these rituals.

When she moved to another room to change her clothes, the entire place was filled with silence. Their house built with just the red bricks had not been cemented. Each and every exposed brick was crumbling and eroded. The house seemed to be at the verge of collapsing.When Tamil Selvi akka came back after changing her saree, she ran towards the freezer box with a scream and began crying and wailing as she sat next to the freezer box. Her cries silenced the crowd and filled the room.“Oh dear! Wake up! Look at me, maama [term of endearment]. They are making me wear a saree. You don’t like it when I wear sarees, right? Wake up and ask them to not force me.”These words echo within me even today. Tamil Selvi akka is physically challenged having lost an arm. It is difficult for her to pin the pleats of the saree end on to her shoulder. That is why she doesn’t wear sarees. This memory stays and haunts me every day.Every such death that I’ve attended has stayed within me.Behind each and every manhole death many stories lie hidden. Deepa, aged 22, who also lost her husband Gopi in the recent manhole deaths at Avadi questioned whether 10 lakh rupees as compensation will cover the loss of her family&#39;s joy and happiness. “The 20th of August is our wedding day and 30th of August is our daughter&#39;s birthday, and he has left us in the same month as well,” she said. The monetary compensation they receive doesn’t meet all their financial needs.

Women and children of families who face manhole deaths are often not considered as victims. In Madampattu village in Villupuram district, when Anushiya akka’s husband, Maari died in a manhole, she couldn’t let out a cry as she was eight months pregnant. The couple already had three daughters; the first two daughters cried but their third daughter who couldn’t comprehend what was happening was running around the house in this eastern edge of Tamil Nadu.State compensation is seen as blood money. “I’m just unable to bring myself to spend this money. Spending this feels like gulping down my husband’s blood,” Anushiya akka said.When I followed up with the family of Balakrishnan, a manual scavenger who died in Karur district, Tamil Nadu, I observed that his wife suffers from serious depression. She said that even while working she often forgets her surroundings. It takes her time to realise her state, she said.The lives of these families get turned upside down. To us, however, these deaths are nothing more than news.

On September 11, 2023, Moses, a sanitary worker from Bheema Nagar in Avadi passed away. His is the only house with a tiled roof. Both of his daughters were able to comprehend the situation. I was at their house a day before his body arrived and his daughters were wearing tee-shirts that said ‘Dad loves me’ and ‘Dad’s little princess’. I was unsure if it was a coincidence.They spent the entire day crying incessantly, and despite others consoling them they were not pacified.Even though we may attempt to document and therefore mainstream these issues, there is a tendency to treat these deaths as merely news.

Two years ago in Kanjipattu, a hamlet in Sriperumbudur, three sanitary workers – Naveen Kumar, aged 25, Thirumalai  aged 20 and Ranganathan aged 50, passed away. Thirumalai was newly married, and Ranganathan is a father of two children. A number of workers who die are newly married and it is heart-breaking to see their widows losing hope. A few months after her husband died, others threw a baby shower for Muthulakshmi,.Manual scavenging is an <a id="4519" linktype="page">illegal act</a> in our country. Yet, we are unable to reduce the number of manhole deaths. I have no idea as to how I should take this issue further. My writing and photographs are the only way I know through which I hope to put a stop to this atrocious act.Each and every one of these deaths’ taxes me heavily. I often question whether it is okay for me to cry or not at their funerals. There is no such thing as professional grief. It is always personal. However, if not for these deaths I wouldn’t have become a photographer. To stop yet another manhole death, what more should I do? What should we all do?

‘There is no such thing as professional grief’

’پیشہ ور تکلیف جیسی کوئی چیز نہیں ہوتی‘

'ਰੋਟੀ ਕਮਾਉਂਦਿਆਂ ਮਰ ਜਾਣਾ, ਇਸ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਡੀ ਤ੍ਰਾਸਦੀ ਹੋਰ ਕੋਈ ਨਹੀਂ'

'વ્યાવસાયિક વ્યથા જેવી કોઈ વસ્તુ નથી'

‘ବୃତ୍ତିଗତ ଦୁଃଖ ବୋଲି କିଛି ନାହିଁ’

‘వృత్తిపరమైన దుఃఖమంటూ ఏదీ ఉండదు’

'തൊഴിൽപരമായ വിഷമം എന്നൊന്നില്ല'

मैनहोल में मरते सफ़ाईकर्मियों की सुध कौन लेगा?

‘ವೃತ್ತಿಪರ ನೋವೆನ್ನುವುದೇ ಇಲ್ಲʼ

‘পেচাদাৰী শোক বুলি একো নাই, যন্ত্ৰণা সদায়েই ব্যক্তিগত’

‘पेशेवर दुख जइसने कोनो जिनिस नइ होवय’

'தொழிற்பூர்வ துயரம் என எதுவும் இல்லை'

दुखवा मो का से कहूं!

‘পেশাদারি শোক বলে তো কিছু হয় না’

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Dum-dum-dum…dum-dum-dum…! The almost hypnotic sound of dholaks being made and tuned and toned to perfection follows you through every lane of Shanti Nagar basti. We are walking along with a 37-year-old dholak maker, Irfan Shaikh.  He is to introduce us to other artisans of this migrant basti in Mumbai’s northern suburb.Almost all the artisans here trace their ancestral roots to Barabanki district in Uttar Pradesh. There are about 50 of them here in the trade.  “Wherever you see, you will find our biradari [community] busy crafting these instruments,&quot; he says, proudly proclaiming that it is from here that the dholaks travel around Mumbai and other parts of the state. (Biradari literally translates as ‘brotherhood; but is more often used to denote clan, community or fraternity).

Irfan has been immersed in the trade from childhood. The craft of making these medium-sized double-headed drums passes down through generations. The process is meticulous. Irfan and his community handpick materials from Uttar Pradesh, selecting everything from the wood to ropes and paints. “We make it ourselves; we repair it…we are the engineers,” he says with some pride.Irfan is very innovative. He has expanded his production to include the djembe, a musical instrument he discovered after seeing an African play it in Goa. “What a great instrument. People hadn&#39;t seen it here,” he recalls.Innovation and craftsmanship aside, he feels the profession has not brought him the respect he deserves. Nor has it brought great profit. In today’s Mumbai, dholak-makers face stiff competition from cheaper online sales. Here on the other hand, customers often bargain and assert that they can find cheaper alternatives online.“Those who play dholak, have their traditions. But in our communities, we do not play it, we merely sell,” says Irfan. Religious restrictions do not allow this community of artisans to play the instruments they are making. Yet, they craft these dholaks for customers who play them during the Ganesha and Durga Puja festivals.

There are women in the basti who love to play the dholak and sing but none of them either make, sell, or even play the dholak professionally out of respect for religious norms.“This work is good but it’s not interesting as there is no business. There is no profit. There is nothing today. Yesterday I was on the road. Today also I am on the road,” says Irfan.

Crafting the beats: Dahisar’s karigars

दहिसरचे कारागीर आणि ढुम ढुम ढमाक

গলিয়ে গলিয়ে ঢোলৰ মাত, পিছে দহিছৰৰ কাৰুশিল্পীহে দুশ্চিন্তাত

ਸ਼ੋਰ-ਸ਼ਰਾਬੇ ਵਾਲ਼ੇ ਸ਼ਹਿਰ ਵਿੱਚ ਪਿੱਛਾ ਕਰਦੀ ਢੋਲ਼ਕੀ ਦੀ ਅਵਾਜ਼

તાલને તૈયાર કરતા દહીંસરના ઉસ્તાદો

தாளங்களை வடிவமைக்கும் தாகிசாரின் கைவினைஞர்கள்

ദഹിസാറിലെ കരകൌശലക്കാർ - താളം നിർമ്മിക്കുന്നവർ

दहिसर में थमती ढोलक की दम-दम

ಗದ್ದಲದ ನಗರದಲ್ಲೊಂದು ನಾದದ ಅಂಗಡಿ

ତାଳ କାରୁକଳା ପ୍ରସ୍ତୁତି: ଦହିସରର କାରିଗର

দাহিসারের ঢোলক কারিগরদের কথা

धुन गढ़त दहिसर के कारीगर

दहिसर के ढोलक इंजीनियर आ उनकर जेम्बे

دہیسر میں کمزور پڑتی ڈھول کی تھاپ

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“Ea beti tani ek khoda chinha le le. Marto jito me sath hoyela… Jaisan aayel hai taisan akele na ja… [Hey girl, take a mark for yourself... In life or death, it stays with you. You won’t go alone like you came…]”

Rajpati Devi is singing the above as she walks from door to door across the villages of Mandar block. A plastic sack is slung over her shoulder and she carries a few utensils and a box of needles. Rajpathi is a godna (tattoo) artist, and can ink flowers, moon, scorpions and dots for a fee. The 45-year-old is among the last few women artists who still go from village to village, practising this ancient art.“Mayi sange jat rahi ta dekhat rahi uhan godat rahan, ta hamahu dekh-dekh sikhat rahi. Karte karte hamahu sikh gayili, [I used to accompany my mother and watch her making godna. Eventually, I learned it too],” says Rajpati, a fifth generation tattoo artist. Godna is a centuries-old folk art passed down through generations in the Malar community (listed as Other Backward Classes in the state) to which Rajpati belongs. Designs are inked on various parts of the body, symbols and meanings varying across regions and communities. More women choose godna than men.

It’s three in the afternoon and Rajpati has been on the move for six hours, walking through villages in Jharkhand’s Ranchi district, she returns to her two-roomed kutcha house in Kharge Basti, a small settlement of the Malar community, on the outskirts of Mandar village. Some days she covers up to 30 kilometres, both selling utensils they make at home and urging people to get a godna.The utensils are made by her husband, 50-year-old Shivnath using a traditional metalworking technique called dokra. It is mainly the men of the household – her sons and husband – who craft the aluminium and brass items, although everyone in the household pitches in in some way. The women, Rajpati, her daughter and daughters-in-law make the moulds and dry them in the sun among other tasks. The items they make are everyday essentials – kerosene lamps, utensils used in puja, cattle bells and measuring containers among other things. “This small one sells for 150 rupees,” says Rajpati, holding up what they call paila in their Nagpuri language. “It is for measuring rice; if you fill rice into it, it will weigh exactly a quarter kilo,” she adds. The paila is considered auspicious in this region, she says, believed to prevent food scarcity at home.

Showing us a small yellow box, the tattoo artist says, “this one has needles and this one has jarjari kajar [kohl].” Pulling out a sheet of paper from a plastic bag, Rajpati points out the designs they make. “Isko pothi kehte hain, aur isko danka phool [this is called pothi, and this one is called danka phool]” Rajpati says, pointing to a design that resembles a flower blooming in a pot, which she has on her arm. “Isko hasuli kehte hain, ye gale mein banta hai [This is called hasuli, it&#39;s made around the neck],” Rajpati adds, showing a crescent-shaped design. Rajpati usually tattoos on five parts of the body: hands, feet, ankles, neck, and forehead. And there is a special design for each. The hand typically features flowers, birds and fish, while the neck has a circular pattern with curved lines and dots. The forehead tattoo is unique to each tribe. “Different tribal groups have different tattoo traditions. Oraons get mahadev jatt [local flower] and other flowers; Kharias get three straight lines and Mundas get dot godna,” Rajpati explains and adds that in the past, it was common to identify people by the tattoos on their foreheads.

Sunita Devi has a tattoo of a supali (bamboo winnowing basket) on her leg. A resident of Checheriya village in Palamu district, the 49-year-old says her tattoo symbolises purity. “Earlier, if you didn’t have this, you couldn’t work in the fields. We were considered impure, but after getting tattoos, we became pure,” says this tenant farmer from the Dalit community.“The origin of godna art can be traced back to cave paintings from the Neolithic period. From caves, it moved to homes and bodies,” explains Ansu Tirkey, a research scholar at the Department of Ancient Indian History, Culture &amp; Archaeology at Pt. Ravishankar Shukla University, Raipur. Many, like Gohamani Devi believe that godna also has healing powers. The 65-year-old is a resident of Chhipadohar village in Jharkhand’s Latehar district. She has been practising godna for over five decades and is renowned for her jahar godna (poison tattoo), said to cure ailments.“I have cured goitre for thousands of people through godna,” she proudly says, pointing to her own goitre healed by her mother&#39;s tattooing. People from other states such as Chhattisgarh, Bihar and Bengal come seeking her cure.Apart from goitre, Gohamani treated knee pain, migraines, and other chronic aches. However, she fears that this art will disappear soon. “Now, no one gets tattooed as much; when we go to the villages, there’s no earning [...] After us, no one will do this anymore,” Gohamani says.

To make a tattoo, a godna artist needs lalkori ke dudh (lactating mother’s milk), kajal (kohl), turmeric and mustard oil. The godnas are made using brass needles called petarmuhi sui which have a brass tip that resists rust and reduces the risk of infection. “We used to make our own kajal, but now we buy it,” says Rajpati.Depending on the design of the tattoo, it may require as few as two needles or as many as eleven. First, the godna artist makes a paste with the milk and kajal, adding in a bit of mustard oil. Then an outline of the design is made with either a pen or a pencil. The needles are chosen based on the design – two or three needles for a fine pattern and five or seven needles for a thicker border. “Our godna doesn’t hurt much,” Rajpati says teasingly. Based on the size of the tattoo, it takes, “a few minutes for the smaller one, larger will even take hours,” says Rajpati. After making the tattoo, it is washed, first with cow dung and then with turmeric. The cow dung is believed to ward off evil, and then turmeric and mustard oil are applied to prevent infection. “In the past, women would sing while getting godna, but now no one sings,” says Rajpati, who has even gone to Chhattisgarh and Odisha for godna.

“This three-dot tattoo costs 150 rupees and this flower pattern is 500,” Rajpati points to a godna on her wrist. “Sometimes we get money, sometimes people give rice, oil and vegetables or saree in return,” she says.The modern tattoo machines have significantly impacted the earnings of traditional godna artists. “Very few people ask for godna now, Rajpati says and adds, “girls now prefer machine-made tattoos. They show designs on their phones and ask for those,” she adds. People no longer get godna on their entire body like they used to, adds Rajpati, “now, they might get a small flower or a scorpion.” The earnings from this art is not enough to sustain the family and they depend mostly on the sale of utensils. A large portion of this income comes from what they can sell at an annual fair in Ranchi. “When we earn around 40-50 thousand [rupees] at the fair, it feels like a good earning. Otherwise, it&#39;s just 100-200 rupees a day,” says Rajpati. “Tattoos are auspicious” she continues, “they are the only thing that stays with the body after death. Everything else is left behind.” This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Godna art: stories in ink

ഗോഡ്‌ന കല: മഷിയിലെഴുതിയ കഥകൾ

கோட்னா கலை: பச்சை குத்தும் கதைகள்

ગોદના કલા: શાહીમાં લખેલી વાર્તાઓ

ಗೊದ್ನಾ ಕಲೆ: ಚರ್ಮದ ಮೇಲೆ ಕತೆಗಳ ಚಿತ್ತಾರ

సిరాతో కథలు చెప్పే గోద్నా కళ

ਗੋਦਨਾ ਕਲਾ: ਸਿਆਹੀ ਦੀ ਕਹਾਣੀ

ଗୋଦନା କଳା: କାଳି ମାଧ୍ୟମରେ କାହାଣୀ

गोदना कला: सियाही कहय कहिनी

गोदने में गुदी कहानियां

চিয়াহীৰে লিখা কাহিনী: গোদনা শিল্প

গোদনা শিল্প: সুঁই-কালির কথকতা

‘अब त गोदना के गुदाने वाला कमे लोग बचल बा’

01-IMG_5871-SB-An_interpreter_of_maladies_in_Marha.jpg

The four foot high door into the temple of Marhai Mata forces most devotees to bow their heads. But such is the reverence for the deity’s healing powers, that scores of people who come from and around Marha village, bow anyway.“If someone in your family is ill, you can come and pray to Bhagwati,” says Babu Singh. Like others seated under the spreading banyan tree, he is waiting for the puja to begin. Bhagwati is the goddess in this temple. “She will solve the problem – be it an illness or bhoot [ghost] or dayan [witch],” he adds confidently. It’s a Wednesday, and the session is extra special – today the temple-priest (locally known as panda) will be possessed by the goddess. Through him, she will answer the questions the devotees have and offer solutions to their problems, usually around health. The audience of devotees is mostly men from the villages of Gahdara, Koni, Kudan, Khamri, Majholi, Marha, Rakseha and Kathari Bilhata, but a few women are also present, veils firmly drawn over their heads. “Aat gaon ke log aate hai, [people from eight villages come here],” says Bhaiyya Lal Adivasi, local priest and interpreter of maladies, as he gets busy for the afternoon. A Gond Adivasi, his family has been serving the goddess for many generations.

Inside the temple, a group of men are playing various instruments, including a dholak and harmonium, and chanting the name of Rama and Sita.In a corner sits an inconspicuous pot with a plate on top of it. “Thaali bajegi aaj [they’ll play the thaali today],” says Neelesh Tiwari, a resident of Panna, referring to the plate, now sitting silently in its place. Bhaiyya Lal has entered and taken up his position in front of the goddess as he rocks back and forth, surrounded by roughly 20 people who are also participating. The atmosphere in the room becomes charged with the loud clamour of the thaali, the rising smoke from incense sticks, bright light of a small fire in front of the shrine, all leading up to time when the goddess appears in the person of the priest.  As the music rises to a crescendo, the panda stops, balancing himself on his feet. No one says anything, but it is understood that the goddess has taken hold of him. There is a rush among the devotees to get their questions answered. The queries are whispered into Bhaiyya Lal’s ears and he picks up a handful of grains. He throws them on the floor in front of him, the numbers dictating a happy or distressing response. The devotees collect the ash from the incense stick which they consider to be holy and swallow it – the cure for the malady which ails them. The remedial quality of Marhai Mata’s prasad remains strong. “As far as I know, it has never failed,” says the panda with a smile. People here say the healing period is eight days. After that, Bhaiyya Lal adds, “you can make whatever offering to the goddess you’d like: coconut or athvaai [small wheat pooris], kanya bhojan or bhagwat – that is up to the benefactor.”

Residents say that typhoid (known locally as babaju ki bimari, babaju being a divine spirit) is rampant. Women’s health and childbirth is neglected across the state. At 41 deaths  per 1,000 births, Madhya Pradesh has the highest infant mortality rate in the country, according to the National Family Health <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/national-family-health-survey-nfhs-5-2019-21-madhya-pradesh/&amp;sa=D&amp;source=docs&amp;ust=1730289381858531&amp;usg=AOvVaw026nZcfnmz4Rt9XAa5vEnq">Survey 5</a>, 2019-21.Villages in and around Panna Tiger Reserve are starved for functional health care facilities – the nearest government hospital is around 54 kms away in Panna town, and there is a primary health centre (PHC) around 22 kms away in Amanganj. “People here are hesitant about visiting doctors and hospitals and taking medicines prescribed by them,” says Devashree Somani of Koshika, a nongovernmental organisation that has been working in Panna for about seven years in the field of healthcare. “Our biggest challenge has been to get them to go to doctors while respecting their faith in ethno-medical practices,” she adds. “Residents of villages here believe that an illness is only a symptom, caused by an angry divine being or dead ancestor.” Even within the structures of allopathic medicine, the ‘treatment’ they receive is most often affected by their caste identity, making them even more wary of seeking such remedies, Devashree explains.

The proposed Ken-Betwa River Linking Project (KBRLP) in the area will submerge many villages in Panna and Chhatarpur. Although in the pipeline for decades, residents are unsure about where they will have to go and when. “Kheti bandh hai ab” [Farming has stopped],” the men say, explaining that the shift is imminent. (Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/adivasis-in-panna-tiger-park-dammed-futures/">Adivasis in Panna tiger park: dammed futures</a>).What they do know is “we will take our Bhagwati with us,” affirms Bhaiyya Lal. “Everyone feels bad that we’re losing our land. But I feel worse that we’ll lose this sacred place. If villagers choose to leave to find work, then who knows what will happen to our people. The village will be dispersed. If we were given some place to go, where Bhagwati could be resettled, then we all would be protected,” he says.  Santosh Kumar has come from Majhgawan, about 10 kms away. He has been regularly visiting the temple for about 40 years. “Tasalli milti hai [I feel a sense of peace],” the 58-year-old says. “Now that we have to leave, I thought maybe in a couple of years I will not get to visit the goddess, so I came,” says the farmer who cultivates masoor [legume], chana [chickpea], and gehun [wheat] on his five-six acre farmland.

Bhaiyya Lal is unsure if his son, now in his 20s, will continue the tradition of serving the goddess, “Woh toh unke upar hai,” he laughs and says. His son works on their five-acre farmland, cultivating gehun [wheat] and sarson [mustard]. They sell some of the crop and keep the rest for their own use.“Araam milti hai,” says Madhu Bai, a farmer who has come here from Amanganj. “Darshan ke liye aye hai,” says the 40-year-old, sitting on the ground with other women, the constant, rhythmic sound of singing and drum beats playing in the background. As she speaks, the faint sound of the dhol and harmonium reaches a crescendo, making it impossible to hear each other even from close quarters. “Darshan karke aate hai, [I’ll go see the goddess now]” she says, standing up and fixing her saree.