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Dayanita Singh collaborated with PARI in 2022 to institute the Dayanita Singh-PARI Documentary Photography Award. That went to <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.ruralindiaonline.org/article/the-dayanita-singh-pari-documentary-photography-award-for-palani-kumar">M. Palani Kumar</a> of the People’s Archive of Rural India.This year's Dayanita Singh- PARI Documentary Photography award of Rs. 2 lakhs goes to another upcoming, talented photographer chosen by her: Aayna of the People’s Archive of Rural India.Aayna came to photography through a personal route – as a way to keep alive in her memory realities that she would have otherwise liked to forget. She learned that what seemed like a tool of resilience-building at the innermost level could also be a political device used to tell the untold stories of many. A realisation that came to her when she encountered the works of Sebastião Salgado, Vivian Maier, Shankar Sarkar, Palani Kumar and others. That awareness was reinforced by working with PARI at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic.Her lens has captured very evocative photos of the sex workers of Kamathipura and the village migrants without healthcare support on the pavement during the Covid-19 pandemic. A total of about 23 photo stories by Aayna presents us with an astounding medley of characters living on the neglected corners of a metropolis – a Rajasthani migrant musician on the Mumbai local, city taxi drivers, gateway of India photographers, a donkey-milk seller, a Karnataka migrant dancing and whipping himself on Mumbai’s streets. The sensitivity and empathy with which she presents the rural in the urban in these stories cannot be matched by many.

A list of stories by Aayna published on PARI<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/purisai-a-village-festival-seeks-the-world-stage">Purisai: a village festival seeks the world stage</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/streets-for-stage-performance-for-passion">Streets for stage, performance for passion</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/crafting-the-beats-dahisars-karigars">Crafting the beats: Dahisar’s karigars</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/robo-says">Robo says...</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/hanging-by-strings-on-mumbai-locals">Hanging by strings on Mumbai locals</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/kangras-tea-gardens-falling-off-the-map">Kangra’s tea gardens: falling off the map</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/love-and-a-place-of-ones-own-in-a-metropolis">Love and a place of one’s own in a metropolis</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/gharapuri-island-missing-medical-care">Gharapuri island: missing medical care</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/last-student-standing-on-elephanta-island">Last student standing on Elephanta island</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/the-mumbai-guard-who-never-knew-security">The Mumbai guard who never knew security</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/in-mumbai-auctioned-cabs-anguished-drivers">In Mumbai: auctioned cabs, anguished drivers</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/out-of-focus-gateway-of-india-photographers">Out of focus: Gateway of India photographers</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/seeking-covid-care-in-kalyan-debt-unto-death">Seeking Covid-care in Kalyan: debt unto death</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/whipping-and-worship-on-mumbais-streets">Whipping and worship on Mumbai's streets</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/such-a-long-journey-over-and-over-again">Such a long journey, over and over again</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/everyone-knows-what-happens-here-to-girls">'Everyone knows what happens here to girls'</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/mumbais-homeless-our-masks-floated-away">Mumbai's homeless: 'Our masks floated away'</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/hit-with-cancer-covid-19-and-without-shelter">Hit with cancer, Covid-19 and without shelter</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/locked-down-with-cancer-on-mumbai-footpaths">Locked down with cancer on Mumbai footpaths</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/when-kajol-and-rani-move-to-a-different-beat">When Kajol and Rani move to a different beat</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/aarey-adivasis-then-we-lost-this-land-of-ours">Aarey Adivasis: ‘Then we lost this land of ours’</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/balappa-dhotres-craft-is-carved-in-stone">Balappa Dhotre's craft is carved in stone</a><a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/from-harpalas-fields-to-mumbais-forest">From Harpala's fields to Mumbai's forest</a>

The Dayanita Singh-PARI Documentary Photography Award for Aayna

आयना ला दयानिता सिंह-पारी डॉक्यूमेंट्री फोटोग्राफी पुरस्कार

ఆయినాకు దయానిత సింగ్-PARI డాక్యుమెంటరీ ఫోటోగ్రఫీ అవార్డ్

আয়নালৈ দয়ানিতা সিং-পাৰি তথ্যচিত্ৰমূলক আলোকচিত্ৰ বঁটা

দয়নিতা সিং-পারি ডকুমেন্টারি ফটোগ্রাফি খেতাব পেলেন আয়না

આયનાને ફાળે દયાનિતા સિંહ-પારી દસ્તાવેજી ફોટોગ્રાફી પુરસ્કાર

आयना को मिला दयानिता सिंह-पारी डाक्यूमेंट्री फ़ोटोग्राफ़ी अवार्ड 

ದಯಾನಿತಾ ಸಿಂಗ್-ಪರಿ ಡಾಕ್ಯುಮೆಂಟರಿ ಫೋಟೋಗ್ರಫಿ ಪ್ರಶಸ್ತಿಯನ್ನು ತನ್ನಾಗಿಸಿಕೊಂಡ ಆಯ್ನಾ

ദയാനിത സിംഗ്-പാരി ഡോക്യുമെൻ്ററി ഫോട്ടോഗ്രാഫി അവാർഡ് ആയനയ്ക്ക്

ஆய்னா பெற்றிருக்கும் தயாநிதா சிங் - பாரி ஆவண புகைப்பட விருது

ਆਇਨਾ ਦੀ ਝੋਲ਼ੀ ਪਿਆ ਦਯਾਨੀਤਾ ਸਿੰਘ-ਪਾਰੀ ਡਾਕਿਊਮੈਂਟਰੀ ਫ਼ੋਟੋਗ੍ਰਾਫ਼ੀ ਅਵਾਰਡ 

ଆଇନାଙ୍କୁ ମିଳିବ ଦୟାନିତା ସିଂ-ପରୀ ଡକୁମେଣ୍ଟାରୀ ଫଟୋଗ୍ରାଫି ପୁରସ୍କାର

आयना के मिलल दयनिता सिंह-पारी डॉक्यूमेंट्री फोटोग्राफी सम्मान 

Mumbai

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No one could imagine that a childhood game of raja-mantri-chor-sipahi would come in handy for adult men. But this age-old guessing game of king-minister-thief-police – where everyone takes turns to play these roles – managed to engage the 41 men trapped for weeks in the damaged Silkyara underground tunnel.The Silkyara-Barkot tunnel collapsed on November 12, 2023, trapping these workers inside. Luckily for them, “there was light in the tunnel [provided by the project] which saved us, otherwise we would have died due to injuries as there were rods and sharp equipment all over the place,” says Sushil Vishwakarma who had been working at the project site since it was flagged off in 2018.He recalls every detail of the 17-18 days, even though months had passed when I first met him back home with his family in Chandanpura village of Rohtas district of Bihar.Sushil recalls the end of his night shift – it was five in the morning and workers at the Silkyara underground tunnel were getting ready to pack up when an emergency message came through on the walkie-talkie: “some parts of the roof have collapsed at the entrance to the tunnel.”Familiar with tunnel work, Sushil thought it was a minor incident, like others he had witnessed – the path out of the tunnel was usually cleared up in no time. It was November, and the air in the tunnel was becoming colder at the onset of winter. Night shift workers were happy to be getting out into the sunshine.The tunnel road project from Silkyara to Barkot in Uttarakhand has required drilling through the fragile Himalayan mountains of Uttarakhand. The Rs. 1,384 crore project will link roads to Hindu religious places – it’s the Chardham Mahamarg <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://pib.gov.in/Pressreleaseshare.aspx?PRID=1521024">project</a>, approved by the union government in February 2018. Work started in September 2018 and was supposed to be completed by 2022 but kept getting delayed.Over the next over two weeks, the trapped workers had to satisfy their hunger with banana peels and peanut shells found in the dark tunnel. “We divided the peels and shells among us and ate,” Sushil told PARI.

Later, the administration found a pipeline and sent puffed rice, dry fruits and other food items. But air, water and sanitation were in short supply. “Kuch logon ko sans lene mein dikkat hone lagi, lekin jaldi hi oxygen supply diya gaya [some people found it difficult to breathe, but oxygen supply was restored soon],” he added.Staying in the tunnel with no contact to the outside world and no idea when they would be rescued was mentally stressful, so they played games to keep themselves engaged: “We had a log book. We tore the pages and made playing cards,” adds Sushil.On November 28, 2023 ‘rat’ miners and rescue personnel of the National Disaster Management Authority managed to reach the workers – ending their ordeal. The 41 workers were sent home to their villages, and were expected to return after a few months. Their medical needs after being trapped were paid for by the company, as was their travel back home.“After I returned to my village the [tunnel] company called me multiple times asking me to return to work. Given my [poor] financial condition, I thought of returning to work there, but my family didn’t let me go,” Sushil adds, unhappy about the loss of income – he was earning Rs. 26,000 a month working in the tunnel.

Large infrastructure projects such as this pull in workers from across the country. The men at Silkyara were from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal, Odisha, Jharkhand and Uttarakhand.Sushil Vishwakarma had been working at the project site since the beginning in 2018. He had travelled more than 1,300 kilometres to the mountains of Uttarakhand for this work. The 33-year- old has been routinely migrating out for work from when he was 20.The family belongs to the Barhai (carpenter) community which falls under Extremely Backward Class (EBC) in Bihar. Sushil’s parents, Rajdev Vishwakarma, 70 and Sukri Devi, 65 are small farmers, cultivating 0.7 hectare of land where they grow mostly rice, wheat and pulses. “Kheti mein to jitna punji lagta hai utna hi upaj hota hai...fayda kuch nahi hota isliye bahar jana pada humko [The yield from farming is as much as the amount of capital invested...there is no profit in farming, that is why we had to migrate],” Sushil said.

Around 55 per cent of male migrants move out for work/employment related reasons from this state, more than double the India figure says this <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://migrationaffairs.com/2011-census-snapshot-out-migration-from-bihar/">Journal</a> of Migration Affairs.“I never wanted to migrate to other states for a living but I had to migrate [due to lack of jobs in Bihar],” says Sushil, a science graduate.With good reason: Bihar has the lowest per capita income and the highest incidence of poverty; about 89 per cent of its population reside in rural areas, and are dependent on agriculture and related activities for their livelihood, says this 2018 <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/periodic-labour-force-survey-plfs-quarterly-bulletin-october-december-2024/">report</a>.So it’s not surprising that it is one of the states which sees huge out-migration, and with low skills, many find employment in construction sites like Silkyara.Initially Sushil moved to Jharkhand in 2012 where he worked as a crane operator in a private company earning Rs. 12,000 a month, a starting salary. In 2018, the company transferred him to Uttarakhand, where he began working on the Silkyara-Barkot tunnel, and where he stayed till the disaster happened and he returned home.It’s been 18 months since the Silkyara disaster, and the Union government’s investigation committee’s final report is yet to be submitted. A case study conducted by Dr. R. S. Tolia Uttarakhand Academy of Administration, Nainital attributes the disaster to “...a combination of geological and structural factors, including hidden loose patches of fractured or weak rock, water seepage, and undetectable issues during construction.”

Sushil stayed for four months at home without any work and income. Soon life became difficult for him and his family – his two sons, ages five and seven, and his wife. “Survival was challenging,” he told PARI, explaining his next step.

So, in April 2024 he opened a 25 square feet puja material shop in his village Chandanpura, investing Rs. one lakh from his savings, but it all drained away in seven months. After that he took a loan of Rs. 70,000. “Jitna Uttarakhand mein kamate the uska adha bhi kamai dukan se nahi hota tha [I could not earn from shop even half of what I would earn in Uttarakhand].”When PARI first met Sushil almost a year ago, the shop was deserted. The village of 915 people (Census 2011), is largely made up of different castes groups and most of them migrate to other states for livelihoods.But as the only person from his village to be caught in the tunnel disaster, he was used to answering questions from people curious about his experience. In March 2025 when this reporter called him, Sushil had moved on to work at a steel plant in Asansol, West Bengal as a crane operator where he was once again earning Rs. 26,000. He said his family had not allowed him to return to Uttarakhand, fearing another disaster. The Bihar Economic Survey 2024-2025 notes that 668 migrants from Bihar died working in other states.“I ran the shop for seven months but income was less than half compared to my salary in Uttarakhand, so I had to migrate,” he said. “Had I got a job in Bihar I would not have migrated to another state leaving my family in fear.”

No light at the end of the Bihar jobs tunnel

’بہار میں کام مل جاتا، تو باہر کیوں جاتے؟‘

নিবনুৱা বিহাৰৰ শ্ৰমিকৰ বাবে অন্ধকাৰাচ্ছন্ন সুৰংগই সুযোগ 

বিহার: কর্মহীনতার অনন্ত আঁধার সুড়ঙ্গ 

પેટ માટે પરદેશ: બિહારના મજૂરોની વ્યથા

‘बिहार में काम मिल जाता, तो बाहर क्यों जाते?’

ಬಿಹಾರದ ಉದ್ಯೋಗ ಸುರಂಗದ ಕೊನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆಳಕಿನ ಸುಳಿವಿಲ್ಲ

തൊഴിൽതുരങ്കത്തിൻ്റെ അറ്റത്ത് ഇരുട്ട് മാത്രം

ਬਿਹਾਰ ਦੀ ਬੇਰੁਜ਼ਗਾਰੀ ਮਜ਼ਦੂਰਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਹਨ੍ਹੇਰੀ ਸੁਰੰਗ ਤੱਕ ਲੈ ਗਈ

வெளிச்சமன்றி நீளும் பிகாரின் வேலையின்மை சுரங்கம்!

ବିହାରରେ କାମ ଅନ୍ଵେଷଣର ସୁଡ଼ଙ୍ଗ ଏବେ ବି ଅନ୍ଧାରରେ 

रोजगार के अन्हार सुरंग में फंसल बा बिहार

बिहार: नऊकरी के सुरंग मं नइ ये उजियार

Chandanpura

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Can a project’s success be judged on the basis of its never being completed?Yes, if it’s a living archive of the world’s most complex countryside. Rural India is the most diverse part of the planet. Its 833 million people include distinct communities speaking close to 800 languages. This diversity is also seen in the occupations and livelihoods, arts and crafts, culture, literature, legend, transportation, and innumerable other fields that PARI covers.With the advertising and celebrity-driven ‘mainstream’ media barely covering the countryside – PARI, 25 to 50 years hence, will be the only database, the only archive that Indians can turn to in order to learn or understand anything about how people lived and worked in the rural India of our times. At the same time, it’s a contemporary, living journal covering the everyday stories of everyday people.The People’s Linguistic Survey of India tells us the country as a whole speaks some 800 languages and uses 86 different scripts. But in terms of provision for schooling up to Class 7, just 4 per cent of those 800 are covered.The People’s Archive of Rural India presently publishes in 15 languages which are spoken by 1.2 billion Indians and identified by them as their first language.The Eighth Schedule of the Constitution of India lists 22 languages whose development the country’s government is obliged to promote. Yet, there are states whose official languages fall outside those 22, like Khasi and Garo of Meghalaya. There are eight Indian languages spoken by 50 million people or more. Three of these are spoken by 80 million or more. One, by close to 500 million. At the other end of the spectrum are unique tribal languages spoken by as few as 4,000 people, some by even less. The eastern state of Odisha alone is home to around 44 tribal languages. The Linguistic Survey reckons that close to 220 languages have died in the past 50 years. Saimar in Tripura is down to its last five speakers.As the Indian countryside rushes through an extremely painful transformation, many of its unique features disappear, leaving us poorer. There are, for instance, probably more schools and styles of weaving in India than in any other single nation. Many of these traditional weaving communities face real collapse, which will rob the world of some of its greatest gifts. Some unique occupations – professional storytellers, epic poem singers – are also in danger of extinction.Then there are professions known only to a few nations. Like toddy-tappers who climb 50 palm trees daily, each one thrice, in season. From the sap they make palm jaggery or a fermented liquor called toddy. In peak season, a toddy tapper climbs a height greater than New York’s Empire State Building – every single day. But so many occupations are in collapse. Potters, metal workers and millions of other highly skilled craftspeople are rapidly losing their livelihoods.Much of what makes the Indian countryside unique could be gone in 20-30 years. Without any systematic record, visual or oral, to educate us – let alone motivate us – to save this incredible diversity. We are losing worlds and voices within rural India of which future generations will know little or nothing. Even as the present one steadily sheds its own links with those worlds.There is surely much in rural India that should die. Much that is tyrannical, oppressive, regressive and brutal – and which must go. Untouchability, feudalism, bonded labour, extreme caste and gender oppression and exploitation, land grab and more. The tragedy though is that the nature of the transformation underway more often tends to bolster the regressive and the barbaric, while undermining the best and the diverse. Covering that too, is part of PARI’s mandate and will be documented here.

THIS IS WHERE PARI COMES INPARI is both a living journal and an archive.We generate and host reporting on the countryside that is current and contemporary, while also creating a database of already published stories, reports, videos and audios from as many sources as we can. All of PARI’s own content comes under the Creative Commons and the site is free to access. And anyone can contribute to PARI. Write for us, shoot for us, record for us – your material is welcome so long as it meets the standards of this site and falls within our mandate: the everyday lives of everyday people..The use of many libraries and museums in India has fallen, more so in the last 20 years. This was once compensated by the fact that what you could find in our museums, you could also find on our streets: the same miniature painting schools, the same traditions of sculpture. Now those too are fading. Library and museum visits amongst the young are more rare than routine. However, there is one place future generations the world over, including Indians, will visit more and more: the Net.Broadband Internet access among the millions of less privileged, is still low in India, but it is expanding. [The last dial-up connection was switched off in March 2021]. It is the right place to build – as a public resource – a living, breathing journal and an archive aimed at recording people’s lives. The People’s Archive of Rural India. Many worlds, one website. More voices and distinct languages, we hope, than have ever met on one site.It means an undertaking unprecedented in scale and scope, using myriad forms of media in audio, visual and text platforms. One where the stories, the work, the activity, the histories are narrated, as far as possible, as far as we can manage, by rural Indians themselves. By tea-pickers amidst the fields. By fishermen out at sea. By women paddy transplanters singing at work, or by traditional storytellers. By Khalasi men using centuries-old methods to launch heavy ships to sea without forklifts and cranes. In short, by everyday people speaking about themselves, their labour and their lives – talking to us about a world we mostly fail to see.On April 25, 2020, the United States Library of Congress recognised the People’s Archive of Rural India as a valuable resource and wrote to us seeking permission to record and archive PARI on their own website and database.

WHAT’S ON PARIPARI hosts and combines video, photo, audio and text archives. And a contemporary journalism website.What began as a tiny platform exclusively in English on December 20, 2014, is now a 15-language site gaining millions of page views each year – even though we are not a news site.Here are some of the unique endeavours PARI has undertaken. The list of 12 is by no means exhaustive or even fully representative of the work PARI is doing, but certainly gives you a flavour of what PARI offers.

CLIMATE CHANGEPARI’s <a href="about:blank">climate change reporting project</a> comes from multiple agro-ecological zones (and over 30 regions and sub-regions). Well over 30 stories have appeared along this theme since it formally began in late 2020 and PARI has won four awards so far for its Climate series. The difference in our approach is – all our climate stories are based on, foregrounded in the voices, and lived experience of ordinary people. Farmers, labourers, fisherfolk, nomadic pastoralists, seaweed harvesters, honey collectors, insect-trappers, and more. We’ve covered fragile mountainous ecosystems, forests, seas, coastal areas, coral islands, deserts, arid and semi-arid zones.While foregrounding ordinary voices, science and scientists are also very much there in our stories. India’s top climate scientists often concur with lessons from the lived experience of ordinary people directly in the line of climate impact. One example, the story: <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/battle-of-the-bugs-on-wings-of-climate-change">Battle of the bugs: on wings of climate change</a>.In conventional media coverage, mostly too abstract and jargonised, the process seems far removed from readers’ lives. Like, for instance, the melting of the Antarctic sheet, or the gutting of the Amazon forests, or bushfires in Australia. Or in terms of boring inter-governmental meetings. PARI’s climate reporting tries to get audiences to recognise and locate the problem as much closer to their own lives.

LIBRARYPARI’s Library is unique in that we don’t just lend you books – we give them to you free. We don’t give you links, we give you the full text of every important rural-related report, study, survey, document and book we can find in electronic form or digitise ourselves. Everything in PARI Library is free to download with due acknowledgements and credits.The Library section is PARI’s effort at building an online repository of such reports and studies. To make navigation of the library easier, each and every report, study or book is accompanied by a carefully summarised ‘Focus and Highlights.’ These are contributed by a growing team of volunteers (over 320 at present, with 40-50 active at any given point).In PARI's library one can find government surveys, independent NGO reports, historical census reports and imperial gazetteers, draft bills, laws and constitutional amendments, Supreme Court judgements, copyright-free literature (for adults and kids), scanned books and e-books, research papers, magazine issues and more.

FARMERS’ PROTESTSThere are hundreds of stories on PARI relating to the struggles of farmers, the agrarian crisis, and more. Stories on that theme went up from PARI’s very first day. We thought though, that the battles farmers in this country waged against the three farm laws introduced in 2020 deserved a full section to themselves – being the largest, peaceful, constitutional protest demanding justice organised anywhere in the world in years – that too, at the height of the pandemic.Do look at <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/protests-against-farm-laws-full-coverage/">Protests against farm laws: full coverage</a>. Please do also look at a few stories <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-march-goes-on/">from earlier protests</a> – like that of the Nashik-Mumbai long march of farmers in 2018.

FACESThis is the first and only mapping of India’s facial diversity ever undertaken in a systematic manner on a nation-wide scale. The FACES project was inspired by the tragic racial attack and beating to death of Nido Tania, a young student from Arunachal Pradesh in Delhi in 2014. His attackers told journalists they beat him because “he looked Chinese.” Which raised the question: so who looks Indian? Is there an ‘Indian look?’Our journey so far tells us there is such a thing as an ‘Indian look’ – 1.4 billion of them. PARI’s photographers are sending in pictures from every district, every block of the country, that we can access.

LIVELIHOODS UNDER LOCKDOWNPARI brought to the nation’s notice what actually happened to millions of livelihoods when the Covid-19 pandemic brought about the lockdowns across the entire country. When millions of migrants left the cities to return to their villages in what was termed as a reverse migration – the media were full of wonderment – why are they going back? The more correct question was, as PARI posed it: why did they leave their villages in the first place? And the answer to that was two words: agrarian crisis.PARI’s network of journalists did not stop with escorting the returning migrants till the borders of the cities. We visited the villages the migrants had returned to, and tried to place this greatest human exodus in living memory in a context that would help the migrants, larger society, and policy makers.The result: PARI carried well over 200 stories on just the theme of Livelihoods under Lockdown, that is central to <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/covering-the-human-cost-of-covid-19/">Covering the human cost of Covid-19</a>. Importantly, in the whole process, some of the migrants themselves tried their hand at journalism and storytelling.

STORIES ON ART, ARTISTS, ARTISANS &amp; CRAFTSThe incredible diversity and multiplicity of the cultures of India is special to PARI and we have many sections and ongoing reporting projects on these.You can look at our work on <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-singers-and-poets-of-rural-india/">The singers and poets of rural India</a>, or the many <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-potters-wheel-has-slowed-down/">brilliant forms of pottery</a> now, alas, in decline. Or enter <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/into-the-precarious-world-of-indias-weavers/">Into the precarious world of Indian Weavers</a>. We even have a special section on <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-drumbeats-of-rural-india/">The drumbeats of rural India</a> that explores the world of those who keep alive the country’s extraordinary percussion instrument traditions – while some of them also use their drums and skills to challenge the barriers of caste and gender that confront them.Whether leather workers or puppeteers, wood workers or conch artisans, PARI has built a giant repository of stories, photos and videos on these subjects.

GRINDMILL SONGS PROJECT AND KUTCHI SONGSTo give you a sense of the scale, scope and complexity of what we’re doing in these fields, we’d ask you to look at two ongoing endeavours that are perhaps unique to any journalistic website. And we plan to add many more like the two below, from different cultures and different parts of the country:<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/gsp-masterpage/">The Grindmill Songs Project</a> on PARI represents the largest ever collection in any one language of songs composed and sung by poor village women. It is a unique storehouse of over 100,000 ovi – couplets sung by women in rural Maharashtra – with recordings, videos, transcripts, translations and stories. This collection speaks to the diversity and depth of this form, through which the women sing of everyday life, patriarchy, caste, poet-saints, historical events, Babasaheb Ambedkar and more.<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/songs-of-the-rann-archive-of-kutchi-folk-songs/">Songs of the Rann: archive of Kutchi folk songs</a> is a multimedia archive on PARI and hosts a rich collection of folk music from Kachchh. The 341 songs reflect themes of love, longing, loss, marriage, devotion, motherland, gender awareness, democratic rights and present the abundant diversity of the region through their images, languages and music. An informal collective of 305 percussionists, singers and instrumentalists from Gujarat play a variety of musical forms and bring to life the once thriving oral traditions of Kachchh which are in decline. It becomes especially important to preserve them, as their sounds slowly fade across the desert sands.

THE ARCHIVE OF ADIVASI CHILDREN’S ARTThis is the first-ever archive of its kind, one that allows you to look at <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://beta.ruralindiaonline.org/childrens-paintings/1">The World Through the Art of Adivasi Children</a>. In it, PARI brings you the first ever archive of paintings by young Adivasi schoolkids. The work recorded and documented here is from students in Classes 3 to 9 in schools in Jajapur and Kendujhar districts of Odisha. The children did these paintings in response to their teachers reading aloud eight PARI stories on themes of Adivasi culture, village life and communities, environment and climate change.We have 111 paintings by 98 Adivasi schoolchildren from 57 schools in this first collection from Odisha. The children are in the age group 9 to 15 and studying in Classes 3 to 9. Within the young artists, girls outnumber boys 68 to 30. Each painting is accompanied by a 20-30 second video where the young artist introduces herself/himself and their work. Most have spoken in Odia, but a few have also recorded their videos in Adivasi languages including Ho, Munda and Birhor.The 12 tribes the children belong to are: Bathudi, Bhuiya, Bhumij, Gandia, Gond, Ho, Kolha, Mankirdia (also spelt as Mankidia – an offshoot of the Birhor tribe), Munda, Samti, Santal and Sounti. Some of these are classified as Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups.Sure, this is the first-ever, but it won’t be the last. The People’s Archive of Rural India intends to create similar archives of the art of Adivasi children from every part of the country.

PARI SERIES ON WOMEN’S HEALTHThis is the first and only journalistic survey ever, across the country, looking at the <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/pari-series-on-womens-health/">reproductive health rights of – particularly rural – Indian women</a>. And which foreground and are driven by the voices and lived experiences of women and adolescent girls in the countryside.These are 50 PARI stories from across India, a series that covers the wide arc of women’s reproductive health – the stigma around infertility, the emphasis on female sterilisation, the lack of ‘male engagement’ in family planning, inadequate rural healthcare systems which are out of reach for many, and the problem of unqualified medical practitioners. And also stories of dangerous childbirths, discrimination due to menstruation, the preference for sons – and more. Stories that speak of a wide range of health-related prejudices and practices, people and communities, gender and rights, and the everyday struggles and occasional small victories of women in rural India.

VISIBLE WORK, INVISIBLE WOMEN<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/gallery/categories/visible-work-invisible-women/">Visible Work, Invisible Women</a> is the first fully digitised, curated, still-photo exhibition of its kind, in that it takes a physical exhibition (which has quite a bit of text and very large photographs) and presents it creatively online. Each panel has its own video of between 2-3 minutes on average. The final panel that wraps up the show is around 7 minutes.All the photographs were shot by PARI Founder Editor P. Sainath across ten Indian states between 1993 and 2002, covering close to 100,000 kilometres. These roughly span the first decade of the economic reforms, and end two years before the launch of the National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme.The display venues of the original physical version of the exhibition have included bus and railway stations, factory gates, mass rallies of agricultural and other labourers, schools, colleges and universities. The entire body of work is now placed online for the first time on this site.

FREEDOM FIGHTERS’ GALLERYIn a few years, not one of those who fought for India’s freedom and independence will be left alive. Future generations of Indians will never get the chance to meet, speak to, listen to, or in any way engage with those who fought to make their nation a reality. The Freedom Fighters’ Gallery is an effort to give those generations – and indeed, our own as well, a bridge that allows them to make a connection with that Golden Generation.Here, you can not only see photos of several freedom fighters, but also watch and listen to some of them speak in videos that do not exist anywhere else. You can also see photos of their families/ descendants, homes and villages.Launched on August 15, 2022, in the 75th year of India’s Independence, this gallery is home to photos and videos of India's little-known foot soldiers of freedom. Some of their stories already appear elsewhere in PARI. But there are many that don't, and this collection could keep growing – both in terms of pictures and videos – and also in that we will add more freedom fighters to the gallery.

PARI IN CLASSROOMSIn today’s curriculum and classrooms, rural India is conspicuous only by its absence. Where it does appear, it’s wrapped in popular stereotypes. A generation of young people are growing up as foreigners in their own country. With PARI Education, we try to change this. By launching them on journeys to explore and engage with our many Indias – starting in classrooms, workshops and internships. But also by having them do stories first-hand from the field.You will find on PARI many stories done by young school, college and university students from both urban and rural areas. Also, by youngsters no longer in school but keen on recording their regions, cultures and histories. Close to 150 schools, colleges and universities have engaged with PARI Education and that number is rapidly growing. It could expand even faster if we had the resources and personnel we need.

PARI NEEDS YOUR PARTICIPATION AND HELPWhile we constantly try to build and expand our gene pool of contributors, we do exercise editorial selection and quality control. The use of experienced contributors with a credible record is important to this work, of course. Most of these will be journalists, writers and authors. But not all. Anyone who is interested can participate, write for us, or shoot even on cell phones with decent video quality – if the material falls within the mandate of the archive. You need not be a professional journalist.Remember, the narratives that make up the overwhelming share of PARI come from rural Indians themselves, not from the professional media persons who help record their story. Some of those rural Indians will shoot their own stories. And their stories will be reported — as long as there is a countryside.Public access to PARI is free. The site is run by the CounterMedia Trust. An informal network supports and funds the trust and its primary activities through volunteer work, donations and direct personal contributions. This voluntary network of reporters, professional filmmakers, film editors, photographers, documentary filmmakers and journalists (television, online and print), represents PARI's biggest asset. Besides, academics, teachers, researchers, techies and professionals from many other fields have also donated their expertise to design the site and establish PARI.PARI needs money to create content beyond what volunteers do for us, and that requires we generate the resources it takes to keep this massive endeavour growing and thriving. PARI does not seek or accept direct government grants or corporate funds. Nor do we carry any advertising as we believe young people are already the main targets of a surfeit of advertisements. You can see why and how much we need your help.Though our call for donations is titled ‘Cover your country’, rural India can never be fully 'covered' and the content on this site consists of fragments of many giant realities. We can expand our coverage of those many worlds only with the widest possible public participation. Please donate generously to PARI.

Many worlds, one website

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The air is filled with smoke from cooking fires and the aroma of roasting jowar. A hurda celebration is on! Freshly harvested jowar, known as hurda, is a popular delicacy, and farmers have brought their crop and set up stalls across villages and towns in Marathwada.“People wait eagerly for it,” says Suryakant Maind, a jowar farmer from Londhyachiwadi. He plants jowar varieties of bedri and maldandi on his five acres in Jalna district. The family harvest half the crop in December while it is still tender, and the remaining is harvested in February or March, once the grain matures.Armed with his carefully harvested tender jowar crop (hurda), Maind heads to Jalna city. The 55-year-old farmer says he sells about 40 kilograms of the tender jowar each season, at Rs. 150 a kilo.Preparing hurda at the stalls is a slow, deliberate process and women play a big role. The tender jowar stalks are roasted in a pit using dried jowar stalks from earlier harvests. Long wooden sticks are used to turn the bundles and roast them evenly. Timing is key. “Remove it too soon, and it stays raw; leave it too long, and it dries up,” explains Bhima Nana Dakhane, a 45-year-old farmer from Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar (formerly Aurangabad) district.Once roasted, women rub the kernels between their palms to remove the husk. Then begins the cooking. “From morning till late evening, I am in the kitchen with the other women,” says Savita Dakhane. “We take pride in serving something that comes directly from the fields.”

Maharashtra is the biggest cultivator of jowar – 36 per cent of India’s total jowar production of 4.8 million tonnes (2020-21), came from this state. But today, fewer farmers in the state are growing jowar – the area under the crop in the state fell from 2.8 million hectares in 2013-14 to 1.6 million hectares in 2018-19, says a PIB r<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.pib.gov.in/PressReleaseIframePage.aspx?PRID=1907194">elease.</a>Unable to rely on rain, farmers in the region use borewells and drip irrigation; there is no canal in Maind’s village. He says in recent years, low rainfall has led to borewells running dry in the summer. He also cultivates soybean, pulses and wheat on his land, and alongside he grows vegetables throughout the year.Farmers like Shewale say sales have fallen, but Aurangabad district still has many popular spots such as Nanachiwadi (Chikhalthana village), Khatod (Kachner village), Mahakal (Taherpur village), and Devgiri (Dhorkin village), that continue to draw thousands in the season.

People come from across Maharashtra and beyond – on the outskirts of Aurangabad city, near Jalna Road, farmers and their families mill around under green tent covers, chatting and catching up as young children play in the open spaces.The warm green grains are served with jaggery, curd, and chutneys. “It’s hard work, but when guests praise the food, it feels worth it,” adds Savita. The 35-year-old smiles as she describes how the hurda party also brings their extended family together: “even the younger girls in our home help out – they’re learning everything from us, just like we learned from our mothers.”Hurda is served with other traditional Maharashtrian delicacies like thalipeeth made from bhajanee flour (a mix of roasted jowar, chana dal, and hurda), kothimbir vadi (fresh coriander and split chickpea flour), and spicy groundnut chutney. “Jaggery brings out its sweetness. And chutneys with garlic or peanuts give it a kick. Curd adds richness and cools the palate,” says Urwa Amrutkar, a visitor at the Nanachiwadi party.For many people in the region, this seasonal grain is both food and remedy. “It keeps the body warm and helps with digestion,” says Suryakant Maind.

Hurda time is also good for extra wage work. Sunita Tangde saves up her winter earnings to manage expenses for the rest of the year. “I work for only these three months,” says the 26-year-old. Married at 16, the hurda season is a livelihood lifeline. She works for her father, farmer Dnyaneshwar Shewale who hosts hurda gatherings at a rented property in Chikalthana village in Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar district.Shewale says, “there are too many new hurda centers now so the crowd is getting divided.” Costs are rising too. “Hurda used to cost us 90-100 rupees a kilo, and now it’s 150-160 rupees. Even the upli [dried cow dung cakes] used as fuel for roasting are 2.50 to 3 rupees each, and we need 15 uple just to roast one kilo of hurda.”Even so, there is no sign of hurda parties slowing down. In her sixties, Alka Amrutkar says hurda celebrations connect her to her roots in Vidarbha where people roast green wheat instead of jowar. “In Marathwada, jowar is king,” she laughs. “But wherever you go, the idea is the same – a celebration of the harvest, a gathering of loved ones.”

‘Jowar is king!’

‘જુવાર તો રાજા છે!’

’مراٹھواڑہ میں تو جُوار ہی راجا ہے!‘

‘इथे ज्वारीचाच मान आहे!’

'రాజు వంటి లేత జొన్న!’

‘জোৱাৰেই ৰজা!’

'মারাঠওয়াড়ায় জোয়ারই তো রাজা!’

‘मराठवाड़ा में तो ज्वार ही राजा है!’

'ಜೋಳವೇ ರಾಜ!'

‘ചോളമാണ് രാജാവ്!’

'ਜਵਾਰ ਅਨਾਜਾਂ ਦਾ ਬਾਦਸ਼ਾਹ ਹੈ!'

‘சோளம்தான் ராஜா!’

‘ଜଓ୍ୱାର ହେଉଛି ରାଜା!’

‘मराठवाड़ा में राजा बा जवार!’

जड़कल्ला तिहार के गुरतुर कलेवा हुरडा

Aurangabad

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A hookah is always at the centre of gatherings in rural Haryana. “Hookah ke sahare panchayat chalti reya karti [The panchayat would run with the help of the hookah],” says Rohtas, recalling a common sight in the village square growing up.“Unlike tea or water, which can’t last all day, a hookah is practical — you fill it with tobacco, light it once, and it keeps going. Five to ten people can sit together, sharing a hookah comfortably for hours. It also helps pass the time,” adds Rohtas (he uses only this name).The 40-year-old hookah craftsman is smiling when he says: “now every house has become its own chaupal [village square], and every home has its own hookah.” As he speaks to PARI during a work break, he puffs on one — a habit he picked up 12 years ago, after taking up the craft.The hookah pipe is believed to have <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/hookah">originated</a> in 16th-century northern India during the Mughal Empire. According to some accounts, Akbar, the third Mughal emperor, was among the first to use it. Other historical accounts, however, suggest its origins may trace back earlier to central and western Asia.Either way, it’s a cherished tradition in the daily lives of Haryana’s people, “a part of our sanskriti [culture],” says Dharambeer. “Big decisions are made over hookah.”

In his seventies, Dharambeer Singh Jangra is a veteran hookah craftsman, one among four hookah makers left in both Bhainswal Kalan panchayats – Bhainswal Kalan Mithan and Bhainswal Kalan Bawala. These two villages in Haryana’s Sonipat district are renowned for their handmade hookahs. “Once, there were about twenty artisans in the village,” recalls Rohtas. “But only the work of two or three families was truly appreciated in the market, and their craft got established. The others eventually moved on.”Dharambeer was 15 when he finished school and started accompanying his tau (elder paternal uncle) Kali Ram, to Sonipat city to learn how to make hookahs. “My uncle was a better karigar [craftsman] than my father,” recalls Dharambeer. “That’s why I chose to learn from him.”Dharambeer’s workshop is the front room of his home in Bhainswal Kalan Mithan, about an hour north of Delhi-Haryana border. On a cold November morning, he is busy assembling a hookah using a length of copper wire. “My hands often get cut during the process,” he says, holding both up for us to see.A hookah is built of 12 primary pieces. One of these is made of wooden cylinders purchased for around Rs. 8-10 each, gathered on one high shelf of the workshop. These will form the body of the hookah and “have to be shaped carefully,” he explains.

Dharambeer’s family belongs to the Jangar (also Jhangra) community that is classified under <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://haryanascbc.gov.in/reservation-in-haryana/list-of-backward-classes">Other Backward Classes</a> in Haryana. One younger brother – Karambeer – is also a hookah craftsman while the other two joined the police force.His cousin Rohtas – Kali Ram’s grandson – also has his own workshop in Bhainswal Kalan Mithan. In the 8x8 room, which opens onto the street on one side, Rohtas too is working on a hookah.Using two sharp tools, naan and chairasi, he chisels a wooden tube held in place by two metal nails – a simple lathe which he turns using the bow-shaped kamani. The chisel on wood creates a shrill, rhythmic sound. Rohtas is carving the pori which will be connected to the kulfi.“We all belong to the same family tree,” says Rohtas about his relatives, Karambeer and Dharambeer. It was Karambeer who trained and helped Rohtas set up his shop and who often refers his own customers to him. “It makes a big difference when an established craftsman takes responsibility for someone new,” says a grateful Rohtas who has orders lined up for the next few months.

In a hookah, coal or cow dung cakes heat the tobacco placed in the chillum, releasing smoke that flows through the terua into the tanki. “Mostly in villages, burnt cow dung cakes are used instead of coal because of their low heat intensity,” says Dharambeer. “Besides, they are easily available.”The brass needed to make hookahs is typically bought in sheets of 18-20 gauge thickness purchased at a rate of around Rs. 500-700 per kilogram from Sadar Bazar in Delhi. A hookah uses around half a kilo of brass, “but when supplies run low and no one can travel to Delhi, paraats [platters used to knead dough] are bought from Sonipat, melted down and carved,” adds Preeti Devi, who has been observing the process for many years now.As in all crafts, the family usually pitches in – children and adults. Preeti’s husband, Dharambeer eldest son, Ajay Kumar knows “about 55 per cent of the craft” according to his father. “Whenever he comes home from his duty in the police force in Odisha, he starts working with me on the same day.”Of all steps that go into crafting a hookah, making dodas (brass joints connecting different parts of the structure) is the most time consuming. Artisans take four to five months making them in bulk – five for each hookah – to last an entire year. But it is the water tank or tanki, sourced from Moradabad in Uttar Pradesh, that forms the foundation of the hookah. Its weight and size determine the shape and placement of the other components, as well as the final price of the piece. The prices vary from Rs. 9,500 to over Rs. 20,000 depending on the volume of the tank.

Hookahs made in Bhainswal Kalan Mithan range from Rs. 12,000 to Rs. 23,000. Since it takes about three to five days to complete one, craftsmen charge labour costs of Rs. 2,500-3,000 per piece, netting an average monthly income of around Rs. 25,000.Rohtas says about 80 per cent of the hookahs made in the village are sold within Haryana while the remaining are purchased by buyers from Uttar Pradesh, Punjab, Rajasthan, Mumbai and Himachal Pradesh. “With many young people now moving to countries like the UK, Canada and America, about three to four are bought annually for export,” he adds.Customers visit the village to make their final purchase, ensuring the hookah is free of any leaks. “Any leakage would be detected at the terua when inhaled,” says Narendra, a villager sitting at Rohtas’ workstation. Terua is one of the two pipes connected to the water tanki. “But that never happens,” he adds, vouching for the quality. Artisans provide a two-year guarantee, and “if a customer takes good care of it, the hookah can last for 50 years,” says Rohtas.

That’s about how long Dharambeer has been crafting hookahs and he shows no signs of stopping. Although battling health issues, he pauses only to eat, sleep and puff a hookah himself. Preeti Devi, his daughter-in-law is concerned: “He doesn’t rest at all. After his heart surgery, the doctor advised him to rest for a couple of months but he resumed working just three days later.”When his youngest son Anil Kumar, who serves in the police force, takes him to his home in Sonipat to rest, Dharmabeer soon returns to the village. “Mera ji nahi lagta [My heart isn’t there],” he admits. He prefers working.Meanwhile Rohtas, a father of three school-going children wonders whether the next generation will carry on the craft. “If our children don’t succeed or face difficulties finding a job, we’ll teach them this family skill,” he says. “At the very least, it could help them manage their expenses. The rest is up to destiny – time time ki baat hai.”This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

‘Big decisions are made over hookah’

’بڑے بڑے فیصلے حقہ کے دم پر لیے جاتے ہیں‘

‘হোকা টনা মেলতে লোৱা হয় ডাঙৰ ডাঙৰ সিদ্ধান্ত’ 

‘বাঘা বাঘা সব ফয়সালা হয়ে যায় হুঁকোর দমে’

‘મોટા મોટા ફેંસલા ભેગા મળીને હુક્કો ગડગડાવતી વખતે કરવામાં આવે છે’

'हुक्का गुड़गुड़ाते हुए बड़े-बड़े फ़ैसले लिए जाते हैं'

ʼಹುಕ್ಕಾ ಸೇದುತ್ತಾ ದೊಡ್ಡ ದೊಡ್ಡ ನಿರ್ಧಾರಗಳನ್ನು ತೆಗೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳಲಾಗುತ್ತದೆʼ

‘വലിയ തീരുമാനങ്ങളെടുക്കുന്നത് ഹുക്ക വലിച്ചുകൊണ്ടാണ്’  

'ਹੁੱਕੇ ਦੇ ਸੂਟੇ ਬਗ਼ੈਰ ਹਰ ਇਕੱਠ ਤੇ ਹਰ ਫ਼ੈਸਲਾ ਅਧੂਰਾ'

‘ஹூக்காவை கொண்டுதான் பெரிய முடிவுகள் எடுக்கப்படுகின்றன’

ହୁକ୍କା ଧରି ନିଆଯାଉଛି ବଡ଼ ବଡ଼ ନିଷ୍ପତ୍ତି

अगिला पीढ़ी संभार पाई हुक्का के बिरासत?

‘हुक्का धरे बड़े-बड़े फइसला’ 

Bhainswal Kalan Mithan

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“Washing [fabrics dyed with] natural dyes requires a flowing river,” says Abdul Halim. “Yahan pe to haath dhone ka paani nahi milta [Here we don’t get enough water to wash hands]!Halim is a third generation block printing craftsman struggling to keep his workshop running in the face of steadily decreasing profits and the rise of counterfeit products. In water-scarce Indore city, he has had no choice but to use chemical dyes that hold colour quickly.Block printing starts with designing wooden blocks and Halim creates designs which he then sends to block makers in Jaipur, Farrukhabad and Fatehpur. They typically use sagwan (teak) or sheesham (Indian rosewood) to make the blocks.These blocks are dipped in dye and printed on the cloth. "It's part of our heritage,” says Halim as he bends down to print pink roses on a Chanderi dupatta, careful not to smudge the indelible colours. The dye mixture he is using has been filtered through jute, mulmul cotton and mosquito netting before being applied to the fabric. Weather conditions, particularly during monsoon, can complicate the drying process which typically takes about 72 hours.

Seated in his workshop in New Siyaganj, Halim speaks with pride of the uniqueness of his designs, many inspired by historical monuments and Mughal motifs. He recalls that at one exhibition, he was inspired by the intricate Bidri (a kind of metal handicraft) work of a craftsman from Hyderabad. He later adapted those designs for printing on a saree. “He was so happy when I forwarded him the photos of the saree,” Halim recalls with a smile.Halim’s family traces its roots to Chanderi in Madhya Pradesh – a town in Ashoknagar district and a famous handloom textile centre. His ancestors were weavers and printers working with fabrics like Maheshwari, Chanderi and Tussar silks. As competition crept in and earnings began to fall, Halim’s father, Abdul Aleem, made the difficult decision to relocate first to Mumbai in the late 1970s, and eventually to Indore.Halim says his relatives back in Chanderi have largely abandoned the craft. “Most of them are now working as manual labourers,” he adds. “There is not enough profit to be earned in this work and you need to put in a lot of effort.”Halim's household in Indore consists of his parents, his wife Nehnaz Ali, their son and himself. Nehnaz, 32, is also involved in the business having learned embroidery, hand painting and crochet from her sister when younger. After marriage, she began hand painting on Maheshwari and Chanderi silks, finding success at exhibitions. Balancing household responsibilities, Nehnaz dedicates three to four hours daily to her craft, working on intricate designs that take between three to seven days to complete depending on the complexity.

The family manages most aspects of their business, from designing blocks to printing, by themselves. Finding skilled labor is challenging, as most local craftsmen either specialize in Bagh printing or Batik work instead.Direct sales through their workshop ‘Huda Printers and Crafters’ and social media platforms like Instagram and Facebook and sales to government emporiums help sustain their art, says Halim. However, counterfeit products are wiping out their margins: “The original Chanderi fabric cannot sell for less than 400 rupees a metre,” Halim explains doing the maths for the cost of labour and raw material. “Labour costs 600 rupees a day. But customers don’t understand this. The market expects us to sell printed sarees for 1,500-2,000 rupees.”The process of printing a single saree can take anywhere from 45 minutes to 15 days, depending on the intricacy of the design. Weaving a saree takes even longer – anywhere from two days to three months.Printers like Halim and his father say that government schemes to subsidise for blocks and dyes would help. “The Madhya Pradesh government is not promoting hand block or Bagh printing, Batik dyeing or Chanderi weaving despite their global recognition,” adds Halim with frustration.Despite such obstacles, Halim and Aleem remain committed to their craft. They even conduct workshops for fashion design students and raise awareness about hand block printing through colleges in Indore.

The covid-19 pandemic severely impacted their business, halving their annual income to just Rs. 5-6 lakhs. Rising costs of custom blocks and dyes have further strained their finances.“We started selling online, but it wasn’t worth it,” says Halim. Customers returning used sarees, long complaint processes and high commission rates made it an unprofitable venture. They tried selling on sites like Amazon Karigar and Ajio only to find fake Maheshwari sarees being sold for as little as Rs. 300 alongside genuine products. “To jin logo ko asli-nakli ki parakh nahi hai, wo humara maal kyu khareedenge [Then why would the customers who can’t differentiate between real and fake products buy ours]?” asks Halim.This prompted the family to stop selling on these platforms. Instead, they occasionally upload product photos on Instagram and receive customer inquiries. Opening a physical store is not an option due to the money required and the competition from big brands. Even if they choose to work with big brands, it comes with its own challenges, as their stringent terms and conditions often do not account for the variables that small artisans face, such as weather conditions or the availability of raw materials.“Government departments exist, but they don’t work on the ground,” says Aleem, who like many other artisans, would appreciate more support from the state especially during crises like the pandemic. Instead, the police shut down their workshop and fined them Rs. 3 lakhs.Despite the setbacks, the family continues working. Halim hopes that customers will come to value the labour and artistry that go into creating each piece and that artisans like himself will be able to thrive without constantly struggling to make ends meet.“Hand block printing, like several other craft forms, deserves to be preserved," he says. “We just need the right kind of support to keep that story alive for future generations.”

In Indore: printing on thin margins

اندور میں ساڑیوں کی پرنٹنگ کی مشکلیں

ఇందౌర్‌లో స్వల్ప లాభాలతో నడుస్తోన్న బ్లాక్ ప్రింటింగ్

সুক্ষ্ম পৰিসৰত আৱদ্ধ ইন্দোৰৰ হস্তশিল্পীসকলৰ জীৱন

বাহারি ছাপায় দুশ্চিন্তার রং ধরছে ইন্দোরে

ઈન્દોરમાં: નફાની પાતળી ધાર પર ટકેલું છાપકામ

इंदौर: मामूली मुनाफ़ा और महंगी पड़ती छपाई  

ಇಂದೋರ್: ಲಾಭವಿಲ್ಲದ ಕಸುಬಾಗುತ್ತಿದೆ ಹ್ಯಾಂಡ್‌ ಬ್ಲಾಕ್‌ ಪ್ರಿಂಟಿಂಗ್

ഇൻഡോർ: പ്രിന്റിങ്‌ വ്യാപാരത്തിലെ തുച്ഛമായ ലാഭം

ਇੰਦੌਰ ਦੀ ਛਪਾਈ ਹਾਸ਼ੀਏ ‘ਤੇ ਧੱਕੀ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਹੋਈ

இந்தூர்: லாபம் மெலியும் அச்சகங்கள் / அச்சாகாத லாபங்கள்

ଇନ୍ଦୋରର ହଜି ଯାଉଥିବା ହାତ ଛପା କାମ 

इंदौर प्रिंटिंग: असली रंग के जंग

ब्लॉक प्रिंटिंग: मुनाफा कम, मिहनत जियादा 

Indore

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Sitting outside her thatched house, 48-year-old Gomathi Veerayan prepares a quick meal for her family early in the morning. It’s a familiar scene in Anna Nagar, a Dalit settlement in Thandavankulam village, located six kilometers from Pazhayar in Sirkazhi taluk, Mayiladuthurai district. Like most women in the locality, Gomathi’s day starts well before dawn, at four o’clock. The morning routine involves fetching drinking water from a nearby tap, cleaning the cramped house, and cooking in the open over a firewood stove.“Gas cylinders are available, but this is cheaper,” Gomathi explains, stirring the pot with practiced ease. By the time she’s finished preparing breakfast and lunch for her husband, mother-in-law, and son, there’s no time left for her to eat.She hurries to Pazhayar, where she works as a fish dryer at the fishing harbour. Her work, dictated by the rhythms of the rivers and the moon cycle, shapes her day from start to finish.One by one, the women finish their household chores and make their way to the riverbank in time for the low tide. If their work involves drying fish in Pazhayar, they head to the nearest bus stand by eight o’clock to catch the bus. Their timings depend on the tide.“Pazhaiyar is the lifeline for our people! It means everything to the villages around here," says Gomathi, a fish dryer at the Pazhaiyar fishing harbour.Pazhaiyar is a fishing harbour that sits at the mouth of the Kollidam river where it meets the Bay of Bengal. Located in Mayiladuthurai district (carved out of Nagapattinam district in 2020), it is one of 12 fishing harbours in Tamil Nadu, and it supports thousands of workers coming in from nearby villages who rely on the catch for their livelihood.Gomathi Veerayan, has been drying fish at the Pazhayar fishing harbour for several years. “The women’s lives are deeply intertwined with the harbour,” explains Gomathi. “We were born here, we marry here, and we live our lives here. Earlier, we worked in the fields, planting paddy, millet, and pulses. But now, there’s no place for that – either there’s too much rain, or none at all, and the crops wither.”She continues, "I've been catching shrimp [Caridea] with my hands in the river since I was 15. My mother and mother-in-law did the same,” and adds, “I've even felt for and caught shrimp while pregnant. I have supported my children's education with this income. As long as I live, I will continue to catch shrimp."More than 20 women from her area, six kilometres from the harbour, are also engaged in this work. "The women catch the 6 [a.m.] bus to work. We clean, salt, preserve, and dry shrimp, fish, and squid four or five times, each type processed and bundled separately" says Gomathi, a member of the Paraiyar community (listed as Scheduled Caste in the state).

According to the 2011 census, around 1,510 Dalits live in Thandavankulam, a village in Tamil Nadu’s Nagapatinam district."We form our groups based on the trust we have in Pazhaiyar ,” Gomathi says, referring to her female co-workers, and adds, “we marry, live, and build our lives around that trust. I was born here, and I got married here."Like 48-year-old Gomathi, many fish dryers from Thandavankulam, Puliyanthurai, Tharkas and nearby areas belong to communities dependent on natural resources. They have been harvesting shrimps, crabs, and fish for generations from the brackish waters of the Uppanar, Buckingham, and Kollidam rivers.Many women, like Gomathi, hail from traditional ecological communities that have depended on the Kollidam river and its backwaters for shrimp, crab, and fish for generations. These women have a deep understanding of the river’s rhythms, including how lunar phases influence tides and shrimp availability.Tamil Nadu ranks third in the country for marine fish production – fishing carried out in the ocean or saltwater regions – 5.95 lakh tonnes a year, says the handbook on <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/handbook-on-fisheries-statistics-2022/#section02">Fisheries Statistics 2022</a>.

In Anna Nagar, where Gomathi lives, more than 15 women engage in hand fishing. But in the monsoons, particularly in the Tamil months of Karthikai and Margazhi, a period that the locals call ‘famine’, there aren’t too many jobs available."Shrimp usually migrate during the high tide of the new moon and full moon days. That’s the start of the season. Three days after the season starts, we go shrimp fishing,” explains Gomathi. The Kollidam river is slightly elevated so the water flows and drains quickly. If they start feeling for shrimp at seven in the morning, Gomathi says, they work until 10 a.m. and return when the tide rises again.

Shrimp catchers like Gomathi are well-versed in the lunar cycle, the patterns of high and low tides, the riverbed's elevation, and tidal zones. “By 6 [a.m]. on the new moon, the high tide comes. On the third day, it will be an hour later. From then on, we count the crescent days, and the moon wanes by the thirteenth day. After the 11th day, the water flow weakens, and the tides slow, draining slowly but rising quickly. So we typically fish during the seven days of low tide, avoiding the first and last three days of the lunar cycle when tides are higher," explains Gomathi. &nbsp;Typically, they avoid shrimp catching for a total of six days—before and after both the full moon and new moon—due to the strong waves. This period is also referred to as the 'season,' as it is when sea life migrates towards the river.Villambu, Gomathi’s co-worker, says that shrimp have become scarce now. “Earlier, people used to catch shrimp worth 500-1,000 rupees.” Now, after the water recedes, there are hardly any shrimp to be found, and the women often return empty-handed. “Yesterday, those who went upstream caught silappi [African tilapia], which we sold for 50 rupees, sometimes a 100," she adds.In India’s coastal waters, 86 per cent of catch potential lies in the first 100 meters, increasing to 92 per cent in the first 200 meters. Both these zones are well within reach of the small scale fishing community. “However, these zones have been drastically affected by resource-intensive coastal development,” says a <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/occupation-of-the-coast---blue-economy-in-india/">report</a> on the blue economy of India.

Villambu Chinnakannu has been a shrimp trader for over 35 years and is now a fish dryer at Pazhaiyar port. In her late fifties, she has been in this line of work since her marriage. “People would catch shrimp, and we would buy them when they reached the shore, selling them at Pazhaiyar . After selling, we would pay them their earnings—1,000 or 2,000 rupees. But that income was never enough. We borrowed money from several places, often borrowing more to repay previous loans, just to get by. On Pongal and Deepavali, we would give money to the workers and buy them clothes. Life was good back then,” recalls Villambu.After losing her husband and daughter to illness, Villambu began drying fish as a labourer in Pazhaiyar to support her only surviving daughter and her 90-year-old mother-in-law. “I bought shrimp for 10 years after my husband's death. If you bought shrimp for 2,000 rupees, you’d still lose 100 to 200 rupees. My elder daughter told me to stop the business, warning that debt collectors would come to our home. So, I quit. If you couldn’t pay, you’d be scolded. I stopped going to that job and started working in Pazhaiyar ,” says Villambu. Transitioning from independent traditional work to wage labour added to her stress.When she is not catching shrimp or drying fish, Villambu primarily relies on MNREGA – the 100-day employment programme. During its off-season, she spends her days gathering neem (Azadirachta indica) seeds, much like the others in her community. &nbsp;

"We do all kinds of work — scaling, lifting, washing, and drying fish. We do it all," says Villambu. Her days start early when she boards a bus at eight in the morning, setting off along with other women from her village. They get on at Sirkazhi and reach the Singaravelar fishing harbour after a 15-minute journey.The work day is usually 12 hours long and they are paid Rs. 400. “They [the employers] buy us two teas and provide one meal—half a meal for the women and a full meal for the men. Sometimes, if there's an abundance of fish, we have to clean it and may not return home until 9 or 10 o'clock. If we stay longer, they pay an additional 100 rupees," says Villambu.

The rain doubles Villambu's burden. She fears the harsh words from her 70-year-old employer, Anjamma, if she fails to protect the fish from the downpour. Villambu says there has been untimely rain in the summer, making her bring in the fish laid out for drying.“It's very difficult to dry fish. Even if we sit and wait for the fish to dry in the sun, Anjamma will ask so many questions. It's tough under the sun, but even harder when it rains. We have to collect everything quickly. We have to cover it as the water pours in, apply ice, and add salt... It's so challenging! But we have no choice," says Villambu. Her family depends on her earnings."I have to look after my three grandchildren; my daughter's family is with me. Everyone at home can only eat if I earn,” she points out. Her grandchildren need to go to school and she has borrowed 5,000 rupees for their admission, but it was spent on uniforms and bags. "If I can work for four or five days, I will be able to save up for their admission fee,” she says hopefully.

Ocean acidification caused by climate change alters the migration patterns of fish due to rising surface temperatures. As a result, fishing days are reduced, putting Villambu and others like her who depend on fishing in jeopardy. Also, they suffer without any assistance from April 15 to June 14, during the fishing ban period (breeding season), for a total of 61 days for fish production.“They [the government] give relief for a month [during the ban], but after that, they won’t provide anything. It would be great if we could get work,” says Gomathi.Workers in the unorganized sector, who have relied on fishing for generations, do not receive any support from the central or state government. During cyclones and depressions, when the sea is turbulent, most women find themselves unemployed and struggling without assistance. “We need to earn to eat. They need to provide us with jobs,” she adds.This story was originally reported in Tamil.

The invisible labour of Dalit fisherwomen

دلت ماہی گیر خواتین کے لیے مصیبتوں کا پہاڑ

पानी मं बूड़े दलित मछुआरिन मन के मिहनत 

दलित मछुआरिन: मछरी ना, बेकदरी के कांटा गड़ेला 

ଦଳିତ ଧୀବର ମହିଳାମାନଙ୍କ ଦୃଷ୍ଟିଗୋଚର ହେଉନଥିବା ପରିଶ୍ରମ 

கண்ணுக்கு புலப்படாத தலித் மீனவப் பெண்களின் உழைப்பு! 

জোয়ার-ভাঁটার গতে বাঁধা দলিত মেছুনিদের অদৃশ্য মেহনত 

ਦਲਿਤ ਮਛੇਰਾ ਔਰਤਾਂ ਦੀ ਮਿਹਨਤ ਰਹੀ ਓਹਲੇ ਦੀ ਓਹਲੇ

ദളിത് മുക്കുവസ്ത്രീകളുടെ അദൃശ്യമായ അദ്ധ്വാനങ്ങൾ

ಕಾಣದೆ ಉಳಿದುಹೋಗುವ ದಲಿತ ಮೀನುಗಾರ ಮಹಿಳೆಯರ ಶ್ರಮ

मुश्किलों में उलझी दलित मछुआरिनों की ज़िंदगी

દલિત માછીમાર મહિલાઓનો અદૃશ્ય શ્રમ

দলিত মাছমৰীয়া মহিলাৰ অদৃশ্য শ্ৰম 

దళిత మత్స్యకార మహిళల కనిపించని శ్రమ

Pazhayar

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“I could have become a police officer if only my father had let me study,” she says wistfully before turning towards the sink, loaded with sticky utensils and foaming with soap. It is 9 a.m. and she will be dashing off to other apartments in the gated community. Anitha didi, as she is known in the colony where she works as a domestic labourer, still has five more homes to go to before she can begin the journey back home. From Nallagandla, the upscale suburb where she works, in north-west Hyderabad, back to her home in Patancheru in neighbouring Sangareddy district, is a 10-kilometre journey.Anitha Rathod, 25-year-old and already a mother of four, belongs to the Lambadi community, listed as a Scheduled Tribe in Telangana. She is among the many migrant workers employed within the gated communities of Hyderabad - a city that ranks among the top five in the country for attracting migrant labour. Working long hours, she needs to leave behind her extended family in Challagidda thanda, her children with her parents in native Maineli, and also give up on her dreams.Every morning, her day begins at about 4 a.m. with cooking and washing clothes, cleaning the house. At 5.30 a.m. she boards a bus to nearby Lingampally in Ranga Reddy district. And from there takes an auto for Rs. 20 to reach the gated community in Nallagandla by 6 a.m. The Telangana government’s Maha Lakshmi Scheme, introduced in 2023, offers free travel for women in state transport buses, and that helps Anitha save on some portion of the commute to her workplace.

Nine hours later, close to 3 p.m. after she has cleaned several houses in the colony, she embarks on the return journey, reaching in time to make dinner for her family and attend to other household tasks.Her husband has not had a steady job as long as she can remember. “He doesn’t help, be it paying the rent for the house, or taking care of the children when they come home, or managing the household,” she says.She is talking to us as we follow her through the twists and turns of a clean, narrow lane in Patancheru, where she lives. The lane gets wider and busier as you go, past a huge zilla parishad high school for girls, past the weekly vegetable market, past the little carts selling clothes, toys, sweets and more, past the minaret of a mosque to a quiet cluster of houses.For her single room home with pucca walls and a bathroom, Anitha pays a rent of Rs. 5,000 every month. She has to pay extra for water and electricity. Outside her room is the only tap that brings drinking water once every two days. Occasionally, her husband fills a few vessels with water and stores them. A big pile of garbage is lying right outside a small field at a little distance. “People just throw garbage here; the municipality truck comes only once in a month to collect it,” Anitha says. She pays Rs. 100 towards monthly garbage collection. Two thirds of the roughly Rs. 25,000 she makes each month goes into running the house.“I have seen nothing but hard work from childhood,” she says, recalling how her father sent her to graze buffaloes in the fields when she was in Class 5. Her younger brothers continued to study in private schools, but she was forced to drop out. “Sab chale jaate to ghar mein kaam kaun karte bolke maare mereku [My father would say if everyone were to go to school who would work in the house – and hit me while saying that],” she says with a nervous chuckle, her palm covering her mouth.

“I was nine when I started taking the buffaloes out to graze. I used to ride them.” Soon after, she was sent to work in the sugarcane fields. “Kids working in the fields earned around 10,000-12,000 rupees in a month or two, that’s it,” says Veena, Anitha’s younger brother. “Cutting sugarcane is gruelling work, and has its hazards too,” he adds.“We used to work 15 hours a day, even when it got dark, cutting cane with our sickle, tying up bunches. Then we walked with those heavy bundles from the fields to the main road to load them into trucks,” Anitha says. “My hands and legs used to be covered in gashes when I cut saanta [sugarcane stalks],” she says, pointing at her limbs.“There were no first-aid kits then. If you got a cut, they either pour the sugarcane juice on it, or quickly tear a piece from their clothing and bandage it. No injections either,” says Anitha’s brother.“I wanted to become a cricketer,” Veena says. “I was good at it and played in the leagues in Hyderabad too. My father supported me, and I even got selected, but it all came to an end when they asked me for 10 lakh rupees.” But he and brothers, however, got to pursue their studies unlike Anitha and three of her sisters.Anitha was barely 12 when her marriage was arranged. “Our children are married off early, girls by the time they are 12 or 13, and boys when they are 16 or 17,” she says. “I was keen to study more, but I had to listen to my elders. You always listen to your elders, don’t you? When I got married, I could not even understand what was happening!” She says with a laugh.For her wedding Anitha remembers her father gave Rs. 14,000 to her husband and some gold and other jewellery worth Rs. 30,000 to her. Her in-laws sold all her gold. She continued working on the fields even after marriage. “Just 20 days after giving birth to my first child. It was an operation, and I was asked to return to cutting sugarcane,” she says. “I had to have many children because if a Lambadi woman does not give birth to a son, her husband abandons her.”

Violence against women, she adds, is common in her community. She recalls her father’s violent bouts with his first wife, and then against her mother, his second wife. “My own father at times used to drink a lot. He married twice, and he used to hit his first wife so much that she fled from him. His second wife, my mother found it hard to walk because of how much my father used to hit her.”Anitha's husband is not quite different in his treatment of his wife. “He does not give me any money or anything and starts hitting me if I ask him to get something, even for the kids,” she says. Raising four children without help from her husband has proved tough for her.Some months ago, Anitha needed money to take care of her younger daughter, who has a heart problem and needed to be taken from Narayankhed to Bidar in Karnataka for scans ordered by the doctor. To cover expenses like these, she has started putting Rs. 5,000 in chit funds (a financial arrangement among a group of people in a community) every month. And she has been made to believe that after the deposit duration of two years is over, she will make Rs. 1,05,000 plus an interest of Rs. 15,000.Sugarcane work was better than domestic work, she feels. “They used to give us an advance, even more than one lakh rupees. It used to help with sudden expenses if the children fell sick,” she says. Anitha sometimes thinks of going back to that work. “Saanta kaatne mein kaam rahta, magar paisa bhi rahta [Sugarcane cutting is a lot of work, but there is also money],” she says.Until she makes that return journey to her village, perhaps some day, she continues to take that morning bus and auto to the upscale Hyderabad neighbourhood—for another long day of washing, swabbing and cleaning.

‘I could’ve become a police officer’

‘मी पोलिस अधिकारी झाले असते’ 

’میں پولیس افسر بننا چاہتی تھی‘

'నేనొక పోలీస్ అధికారిని అయ్యుండేదాన్ని’

‘মই এগৰাকী আৰক্ষী বিষয়া হ’ব পাৰিলোহেঁতেন’

‘আমি পুলিশ অফিসার হতে পারতাম’ 

‘હું પોલીસ અધિકારી બની શકી હોત’

‘मैं पुलिस अफ़सर बनना चाहती थी’

ʼನಾನು ಪೊಲೀಸ್‌ ಅಧಿಕಾರಿಯಾಗಬಹುದಿತ್ತುʼ

‘എനിക്ക് ഒരു പൊലീസ് ഓഫീസറാവാൻ സാധിക്കുമായിരുന്നു’

‘ਮੈਂ ਪੁਲਿਸ ਅਫ਼ਸਰ ਬਣ ਸਕਦੀ ਸਾਂ’

‘நான் காவல்துறை அதிகாரியாகியிருக்க முடியும்’

‘ମୁଁ ହୋଇପାରିଥାଆନ୍ତି ଜଣେ ପୁଲିସ ଅଫିସର’

काहे कइल ए बाबूजी दू रंग नीतिया

‘...त मंय पुलिस अफसर बन सकत रहंय’

Hyderabad

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The sounds of artists rehearsing their parts echo through the lanes of Purisai, the village that does not sleep in October. Eager audiences throng the village square, music fills the air, and the modest houses lining the streets transform into green rooms. Small local businesses like the tea stall run by Kupusami and Chandra serve customers through the night. There are performers from across the country— folk theatre people from Jharkhand, local <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/streets-for-stage-performance-for-passion">Therukoothu</a> artists, <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/in-tamil-nadu-playing-parai-on-lockdown-live">Parai</a> troupes from other parts of Tamil Nadu, performers from Kerala, Puducherry, and modern theatre artists from Chennai and beyond. It is October 6, 2024, and the famous Kalaimamani Kannappa Thambiran Memorial theatre festival, more popularly known as the Purisai festival, is back again.Earlier it used to be a three-day event. After the Covid-19 pandemic that disrupted many such traditions, it is now held every alternate year for a day and a half at the most. The festival’s roots go back to 1989, when it was known as Kodai Vizha (Summer festival), started by the modern dramatist N. Muthusamy along with Kannappa Thambiran and his elder son Kaasi from Purisai. Muthusamy was inspired by the raw energy of this folk form and worked with Thambiran to blend Therukoothu with modern storytelling techniques.This village has had a reputation of being a hub of Therukoothu artists. “Everyone is an artist here, be they farmers or daily wage labourers,” says Palani Murugan, 49, a resident of the village, a Therukoothu artist, and one of the organisers of the festival. After decades in city-based modern theatre and contemporary dance, Murugan has returned to Therukoothu. “Adapting to its spontaneity after years of rehearsed performances was challenging,” he admits, “but it has been a homecoming.”

Like most folk artists, Murugan balances multiple roles—working in cinema, teaching acting, and performing Therukoothu. “It’s difficult to survive as a full-time folk artist,” he admits, “but my life will always revolve around art.” He has enthusiastically embraced the raw energy of the folk form.The very first festival in the 1980s saw folk performances like <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/kali-dances-thappattam">Thappattam</a> and Karambai Koothu with modern Tamil dramas by writers like Mu. Ramasamy and Indira Parthasarathy. But the excitement did not last long. “In 1991, the festival had to stop because we encountered financial and other problems,” recalls Murugan.It was only after about a decade, when Kannappa Thambiran died in 2003, that his son Kaasi and fellow drama organizers tried to revive the then annual event in his memory. It was renamed as the Kalaimamani Kannappa Thambiran Memorial theatre festival. Then in 2021 when Kaasi passed away at the age of 75, his younger brother Sambandan and Murugan, along with other trustees, took charge of the festival.

Sambandan, 72, the younger son of Thambiran, is a reputed artist and a Sangeet Natak Akademi awardee. He had learned the art as a child along with other children in the village, but his own father did not want him to practice Therukoothu for a living, as it would not bring in enough money. He moved to the city then and temporarily worked as a postmaster and a taxi driver. But eventually he gave in to his passion for the art form and returned to his village as a full-time actor. “This is the only thing I know best and which I can keep doing,” he says. Today he also teaches in schools across the country and even overseas.The festival he handles along with Murugan has grown to be more diverse with each passing year. In 2010, the festival welcomed Sri Lankan theatre groups, Kerala’s Kathakali performers, and even <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/saraikela-chhaus-soul-lies-in-its-masks">Seraikela Chhau</a> artists from Jharkhand. The villages have also witnessed varied kind of performances by Bharatanatyam dancers, jazz musicians, and contemporary artists unfolding on the Purisai stage. “In Purisai, people watch performances in languages they don’t understand, but they connect through rhythm and emotion,” says Palani Murugan.The Ministry of Culture has come to recognise the importance of the festival and has come forward with grants to fund it in addition to the money that always came from the villages, and the artists associations and theatre supporters. “How long can we carry on as a village mela? We want to improve facilities, offer proper accommodation for artists, and enhance the stage setup,” says Murugan. “Our goal is to make Purisai festival an event that honours its roots while reaching for the world stage.”

The author would like to thank M. Palani Kumar for his guidance and help with the photographs.

Purisai: a village festival seeks the world stage

پُریسئی کو ہے عالمی اسٹیج کی تلاش

పురిసై: ప్రపంచ రంగస్థలాన్ని కోరుతోన్న ఒక గ్రామ ఉత్సవం

বিশ্ব দৰবাৰত স্থান পাব খোজা পুৰিসাই মহোৎসৱ 

পুরিসাই: গেঁয়ো নাট্যোৎসবের দর্পণে উদ্ভাসিত বিশ্বদরবার

પુરિસઈ: વૈશ્વિક મંચ ઈચ્છતો એક ગ્રામીણ ઉત્સવ

‘हम नहीं चाहते कि पुरिसई सिर्फ़ एक गांव तक सीमित रह जाए’

ಪುರಿಸೈ: ಕಲಾ ಜಗತ್ತಿಗೆ ವೇದಿಕೆಯಾಗುವ ಊರ ಹಬ್ಬ

പുരിസൈ: ലോകശ്രദ്ധ തേടുന്ന ഗ്രാമോത്സവം

ਪੁਰੀਸਈ: ਇਹ ਪੇਸ਼ਕਾਰੀ ਆਲਮੀ ਮੰਚ ਤੱਕ ਜਾਣੀ ਚਾਹੀਦੀ ਹੈ

சர்வதேச மேடையை வேண்டும் கிராம விழா

ପୁରୀସାଇ: ବିଶ୍ୱ ମଞ୍ଚ ସନ୍ଧାନରେ ଏକ ଗାଁ ମହୋତ୍ସବ

दुनिया के रंगमंच पर झंडा गाड़े के तइयार

पुरीसई: गाँव खोर ले सरी दुनिया के रंगमंच मं रंग जमाय के आस 

Purisai

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"We are not wealthy, as you can see, but we do know how to take care of our maheman [guests]. So, please come," says Karim Jat of Mori Village in Lakhpat taluka. In his mid-forties, he is among the many Fakirani Jats whose lives I have documented for PARI over the years. He was saying goodbye to me as I left Lakhpat after the <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/a-shrine-to-love-in-the-desert">Savla Pir fair</a> and was also inviting me at the same time to celebrate Eid al-Fitr with them. That was March 2024, this is March 2025. I am once again on my way to Mori in Kachchh, Gujarat. Honouring Karim Bhai’s invitation.Karim Bhai is waiting to welcome me with a hug. "I'm so happy you came,” he says, with palpable excitement and affection in his voice. “Let's take a stroll as I still have time for this year's final namaz of Ramadan.” Mori has its own beauty – a barren region where nothing but a few cacti line up at the horizon. It is evening but the sun is still up. The breeze from the Gulf of Kuchchh, however, sends a shiver down your spine.Standing at the edge of a little pond we watch the stunning sun. “I've sold the carts,” whispers Karim Bhai. “I still have about 200 camels that my younger son grazes. But the income is going down and so are the grazing grounds.” He pauses and then clearing his voice, says: "It's almost time for the evening namaz. Tomorrow is Eid. There is no point complaining. Let's enjoy everything together."

The celebrations in this remote village are peaceful and joyous. People dressed in their finest attire gather for prayers at the local mosque, meet each other with warm embraces and festive greetings. The namaz starts at 9 p.m. and lasts for an hour.In the makeshift kitchen, Karim Jat’s wife Shamaani is making a special dish, rather sweet pooris, for the guests, which appeals to my Bengali palate. The air is filled with music and laughter of children playing games around us. “You better finish the full bowl of poori. Only then you can go to other villages,” I hear Shamaani Jat’s voice. She has been keeping an eye on the plates of her guests from her kitchen.This strong sense of community and quiet festivity was perhaps unique to Mori. Because in Chirai Nani, another village in the desert over 200 kilometres away in Bhachau taluka, the mood is a little more subdued. "Earlier, Eid was enjoyable. All the family members came together to celebrate. However, things are different now,” says 60-year-old Ayub Ameen Jat. He is on his annual migration route with 80 Kharai camels, passing though the worst part in Kachchh district where the marine mangroves his herds feed on have almost run out.The National Green Tribunal took notice of the destruction of mangroves in the taluka in 2018. And even after that salt has illegally made inroads, destroying the natural ecosystem of the place. Now there’s little scope left for camel owners like Ayub Jat to graze their animals in the area. "The water in this area has become so saline that it's difficult even to find some for me to drink, forget the camels,” he says. “I would have liked to spend Eid with my family in Vondhada village, but here I am. The mangroves here are so few but I cannot abandon my herd, so we keep going farther. I hope things improve next year," he adds. “In any case, I will definitely attend namaz at a local mosque tomorrow,” says Ayub Jat.

I was in Lakhpat taluka on the final day of the holy month of Ramadan. Nasibibai Shermamad Jat, affectionately known as Nani in Dhrangavandh hamlet, is the first one I meet. "Forest officials are not allowing my camels to swim to the nearest creeks to eat mangroves,” she is telling someone on the phone, “but let me speak to you later, I have got a guest here,” she says and disconnects the call on seeing me. She owns about 40 Kharai camels. "Eid mubarak,” forgetting her own troubles for a while, she greets me with a smile and a question. “How long will you stay this time? I believe you would stay in Lakhpat for a year this time!" "Eid mubarak!” I return the greeting with a promise to come again to Lakhpat, soon.That evening, I take leave of Karim Jat and his family too. "The way Kachchh is getting industrialised, there won't be much left for my camels to graze in the years to come. But you should never forget that you will always have a home here. Do come to Lakhpat again next year," he says. I see the radiant light of the setting sun reflecting in his eyes as I leave.