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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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<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

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“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

Kolhapur

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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?

Azad Maidan

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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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“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’

Majuli

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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.

An interpreter of maladies in Marha

ਮਰਹਾ ਦੀ ਸਮੱਸਿਆਵਾਂ ਦਾ ਤਰਜਮਾਨ

மர்ஹாவில் பிரச்சினைகளுக்கான தீர்வை வழங்குபவர்

മർഹയിൽ രോഗങ്ങൾക്കൊരു വ്യാഖ്യാതാവ്

મરહામાં વ્યાધિનો વિવેચક

ମରହାରେ ସକଳ ବ୍ୟାଧିର ଜଣେ ବ୍ୟାଖ୍ୟାକାର

मरहा के दुखों को हरने वाली माता

মারহা গ্রামে রোগ-বালাইয়ের মুশকিল-আসান

मरहा मं मरहाई देवी के सवारी

মাৰহাত দেৱীৰ হাতত ৰোগ-ব্যাধিৰ নিৰাময়

लौकिक बेमारियन के अलौकिक इलाज

Raipur

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In Class 5, Ramya, raised as a boy,
began to identify as a girl. 



“In [middle] school I had to wear
shorts and my thighs showed,” she says, “It was embarrassing to be made to sit
with the boys.” Now in her thirties, she wears a red saree and sports long hair, embracing her
identity as a woman. 



Ramya manages a small amman (goddess) temple in Thiruporur town, Chengalpattu district. Her
mother Vengamma is seated on the floor next to her. “While growing up he
[pointing to Ramya] liked to wear chudidaar
[a two-piece women’s outfit], davani
[half-sari] and kammal [ear studs].
We tried to tell him to behave like a boy. But this is who he wanted to be,”
says Ramya’s 56-year-old mother.

Since
the temple of goddess Kanniamma is closed, the quiet allows for this
conversation to flow freely. Members of the Irular community, like this
mother-daughter duo, come here during the day to worship goddess Kanniamma. 



Ramya
was one of four siblings and grew up in this Irular locality. Irulars are
listed as one of the six Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs) in Tamil
Nadu. Her parents, like most others in their community, did seasonal wage work
earning between Rs. 250 to 300 a day working on farms, in construction and
MGNREGA (Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act) sites. 



“Those days people were not aware of
thirunangais [Tamil word for a
trans woman]. So, when I stepped out of home, people in town would talk behind
my back,” Ramya says, “They’d say ‘he is dressed like a boy but behaves like a
girl, is it a boy or a girl?’ and this would hurt me.”

She dropped out of school in Class 9
and took up daily wage work like her parents. Ramya continued to express her
gender as a girl, and her mother recalls frequently pleading to Ramya, “to
behave like a boy,” worried about what other members of their community would
say about them. 



In her early twenties she suggested
leaving home to live the way she wanted. That’s when her mother and late
father, Ramachandran began to hear her out. “We had four sons. We said let him
be the girl child we never had,” says Vengamma, “Boy or girl, it was our child.
How could we let him leave home?” 



And so, Ramya was allowed to wear
women’s clothing inside their home. Vengamma, however, feared common stereotypes of trans women and told
her daughter, “Nee kadai erakoodadhu,” which meant Ramya must not go
from shop to shop seeking money as her livelihood. 



“Even though I felt like a woman
inside, outwardly others saw only a man with a beard and male features,” Ramya
says. In 2015, she spent all her savings, nearly one lakh rupees, on gender
affirmation surgery and laser hair removal.



It cost her Rs. 50,000 to pay for
gender affirmation surgery at the Mahatma Gandhi Medical College and Research
Institute in Puducherry, 120 kilometres from Thiruporur. Although far and not
free, the hospital was the preferred one as it was recommended by her friend for its gender care team. Free surgeries were offered in select Tamil Nadu
government hospitals across the state. She spent an additional Rs. 30,000 to
remove her facial hair over six sessions at a clinic in Chennai about 50 kms
away. 



Valarmathi, an Irula thirunangai, accompanied her to the
hospital. Moments before her surgery, sitting on the hospital bed, Ramya
realised the enormity of the step she was about to take. She had heard of
fellow trans women whose surgeries did not turn out well, “either the parts
were not removed fully, or they had trouble passing urine.”

Her surgery was a success, and “felt
like rebirth,” Ramya says. “My parents started calling me Ramya only after I
got this operation. Until then they called me by my panthi [dead] name.” 



She
believes that the operation changed the attitude of women around her. They now think of her as one of them and “they even accompany me to the toilet if we go out,” she
says smiling. Ramya is the head of a women’s self-help group called Kaattu malli irular pengal kuzhu with 14
members. 



A
licenced snake catcher, she and her brother supply snakes to the Irular
Snake-Catchers’ Industrial Cooperative Society for anti-venom preparations,
earning about Rs. 3,000 a month for six months a year (non-monsoon months). She
also continues to do daily wage work.



Last
year, her Irular community of 56 families relocated to Sembakkam Sunnambu
Kalvai, a new government housing layout about five kms from Thiruporur town. Ramya
met government officials and helped secure new electricity connections and
apply for identity documents.



Her
civic and political roles are only strengthening – during the last panchayat
elections in 2022, she led protests to secure her community&#39;s voting rights.
Non-Irular members of Sembakkam panchayat had objected to their voting. “Now I
am looking to get special ward status for our hamlet,” she says and hopes to
contest panchayat elections someday to serve her community. “One must live a
life that they like. I cannot lead a false life.”

Across
the state, around two lakh people are part of the Irular community (Census 2011). “For us,
whether it is a boy, girl or thirunangai,
we accept our child and provide for it. But it also depends from family to
family,” she says. Her friends Satyavani and Suresh, both Irulars in their late
twenties, have been married for 10 years. Since 2013, they have lived in a tiny
tarpaulin covered thatched hut in an Irular hamlet in Kunnapattu, 12 kms from
Thiruporur town. 



Ramya
attributes her comfort growing up trans to her community and friends like
Valarmathi. As the duo sit outside Ramya’s home, they share how festivals such
as Aadi thiruvizha, celebrated in the
Tamil month of Aadi, and Maasi magam, an annual congregation of the Irular
community along the Mamallapuram (popularly known as Mahabalipuram) coast, were
spaces where they both felt a sense of belonging. 



They
signed up for dance performances at these gatherings to “dress up like girls,”
says Valarmathi. She would eagerly await the Aadi festival and often wonder why she couldn’t dress like that every
day! 



“We
have been friends since our pant-shirt days,” says Ramya. They met in Class 6,
when Valarmathi lost her mother and moved from Kanchipuram town to
Edayankuppam, an Irular hamlet near Thiruporur town with her father and two
siblings. Both would confide in each other their feelings and worries, and
discovered how they yearned for similar things at a young age.

As
a first born ‘son’, Valarmathi’s gender identity created tension in her
relationship with her father. She dropped out of school in her early teens and ran away from home to join a thirunangai family about 35
kms away. “I lived with other thirunangais
in a house together. We were adopted by a guru or amma [mother], an
older trans woman.”  For
three years, Valarmathi’s job was to visit local shops seeking money in return
for blessings. “I went every single day. It was like going to school,” she
says. She had to turn over all her earnings, a few lakhs as per her estimates,
to her guru. During this time, she
even had to repay a loan of one lakh rupees, allegedly taken in her name by her
guru towards expenses for her gender affirmation surgery and an elaborate
ritual to celebrate it. Unable
to send home money and not allowed to meet her biological family, Valarmathi
sought another guru’s help to leave
this house. She paid a penalty of Rs. 50,000 to the guru whose trans family she left to transfer to a new thirunangai
family in Chennai. 



“I had promised my father to send
money home and support my siblings,” she says. With limited education and work
opportunities available to trans persons, especially those like her in their
late teens, she she did sex work and travelled on suburban trains blessing
people in exchange for money. It was during these train journeys that she met
Rakesh, who was in his late twenties, and working at a shipping yard then.

The couple fell in love, underwent
marital rituals and began to live together in 2021. Unable to find a suitable
house in Thiruporur town, or an owner who treated them with respect, they
initially moved into Valarmathi’s father, Nagappan’s house in Edayankuppam.
While Nagappan shared his home his acceptqnce wasn&#39;t wholehearted and the couple moved out and rented a hut adjacent to his. 



“I
stopped going for vasool [go from
shop-to-shop seeking money]. It was tempting to go clap and earn a few thousand
rupees but Rakesh did not like it,” Valarmathi says, and began to work with her
father at a nearby wedding hall, cleaning utensils and the premises for wages of
Rs. 300 a day.



“She
told me everything about herself. I liked that about her,” Rakesh told this
reporter when they met in December 2022. He supported Valarmathi financially
and emotionally, when she wanted to undergo the breast enhancement procedure
after her earlier gender affirmation surgery. They spent over a lakh of rupees
on the surgery and post-surgery recovery. “All the surgeries were my decisions.
I didn&#39;t do it because others did it. I thought of only myself and how I wanted
to be,” she says. 



During
Valarmathi’s first birthday after their wedding, she and Rakesh went to buy a
cake. On seeing her, the shopkeeper extended some coins, assuming she had come
for vasool. Embarrassed, they
explained their purpose and the shopkeeper apologised. Later that night,
Valarmathi had a memorable birthday in the company of her husband and siblings,
with cake, confetti and laughter. The couple also met her grandfather for his
blessings.



Another
time, she recalls, the police stopped them as they rode late on a bike. She
showed them her thaali (sacred thread
signifying marriage). Contrary to the couple’s fears, the police were
surprised, wished them well and let them pass.

In August 2024, Rakesh moved to
Chennai after securing a government job. “He avoided my calls and never
returned,” says Valarmathi, who travelled to the city after her father
encouraged her to look for him.



“Rakesh’s parents told me politely
to let him go so he can marry someone with whom he can have children. It never
occurred to me that I should register my marriage. I trusted him not to leave,”
she says. Valarmathi has decided not to pursue Rakesh anymore, and has moved
back with her thirunangai family in
Chennai.



Despite these setbacks, she looks
forward to mentoring two young trans girls, from low-income communities, whom
she adopted into her thirunangai
family. One of them wants to become a police officer and Valarmathi hopes to
help her realise this dream.

'I cannot lead a false life'

‘मी खोटं आयुष्य नाही जगू शकत’

'ਮੈਂ ਝੂਠ ਦਾ ਗਿਲਾਫ਼ ਚਾੜ੍ਹ ਕੇ ਨਹੀਂ ਜਿਊਣਾ ਚਾਹੁੰਦੀ'

‘ମୁଁ ମିଛ ଜୀବନ ବଞ୍ଚି ପାରିବି ନାହିଁ’

'నేను అబద్ధపు బతుకును బతకలేను'

‘വ്യാജജീവിതം നയിക്കാൻ എനിക്കാവില്ല’

‘मैं नकली ज़िंदगी नहीं जी सकती’

'ನಾನು ನಾನಾಗಿಯೇ ಬದುಕಲು ಬಯಸುತ್ತೇನೆ'

'હું નકલી જીવન જીવી શકતી નથી'

‘मंय दोहरा जिनगी गुजारे नइ सकंव’

‘हम झूठ के जिनगी ना जी सकीं’

‘பொய்யான வாழ்க்கை நான் வாழ முடியாது’

‘ভুৱা জীৱন এটা মই জীয়াব নোৱাৰোঁ’

‘ঝুটা একটা জীবন বাঁচতে পারব না’

Pomula Bheemavaram

01-Qawwal-19-PK-Amjad_Gond_sings_qawwali.jpg

“Illallah ki sharab nazar se pila diya, main ek gunahgar tha, sufi bana diya. Soorat mein mere aa gayi soorat fakir ki, yeh nazar mere pir ki, yeh nazar mere pir ki…”[My saint looked into my eyes and made me drink Allah’s divine nectar. I was a sinner until then. He made me a sufi of a kind.In my face shines the face of a mendicant. Oh that look! That look in the eyes of my saint.]

Ghungroos (dancing bells) tied to the wrist, playing a dholak (drum) that sits like a baby on his lap, a qawwal is singing at a dargah (shrine) near Pune city.In a loud and clear voice, reaching the top of the dome, without a microphone or singers to accompany, or an audience in front, a qawwal performs solo.One qawwali after the other. He rests only during zuhr and maghrib namaz (evening prayers) as it is considered improper to sing or play music during prayers. The namaz ends and he continues to sing till almost eight at night.“I am Amjad. Amjad Murad Gond. We are Rajgond. Adivasi.” He introduces himself. A Muslim in name and appearance, an Adivasi by birth, Amjad informs us: “Qawwali is our occupation!”

Eating a paan, he says, “Show me a person who does not enjoy qawwali! It is an art that everyone likes.” As the paan melts in his mouth, he goes on to talk about his passion, the qawwali adding, “public ko khush karne ka. Bass [to make the people happy, that’s all]!”‘Paon mein bedi, haathon mein kada rahne do, usko sarkar ki chaukhat pe pada rahne do…’ The tune reminds me of a popular song from a Hindi film.Devotees at this dargah do not object to him using a Bollywood tune for his qawwali and give him some money as they listen to his singing. Some pay 10, some 20 rupees. The caretakers give tilgul (sesame and jaggery) to the devotees who offer a chadar and seek blessings of the revered saint. A mujawar uses peacock feathers to pat the back and shoulders of sawaalis (devotees) aiming to ward off evil. Money is offered to the pir (saint), and a small amount is kept aside for the qawwal (singer).  The dargah is visited by many rich people, says Amjad. The road leading to the tomb has multiple small shops selling chadar and chunri that are offerings. A place of worship always feeds and employs many.Hazrat Pir Qamar Ali Durvesh does not discriminate. On the stairs of the dargah, one meets a fakir (mendicant) begging for alms and a few with impairments seeking people’s mercy and money. An old Hindu woman in a nine-yard saree is a regular and feels blessed by Hazrat Qamar Ali Durvesh. The disabled, the orphans and the qawwals all are at his mercy.Amjad is not a beggar. He is an artist. At 11 a.m. he finds a place in front of the tomb and sets up his ‘stage’. Slowly and steadily, the devotees start coming in. By noon, the white marble and granite floor around the tomb is hot. The devotees jump and run to save their feet from the blistering heat of the stone. The Hindu devotees outnumber the Muslims.Women are not allowed to go near the mazar (saint’s tomb). So, many, including Muslim women, sit in the verandah and recite the ayat from the Quran with closed eyes. Next to them a Hindu woman from a nearby village is possessed by a spirit.  “Piracha wara [spirit of the pir],” people say.

Devotees believe that the oil from the chirag, the lamp at the tomb is an antidote to the venomous snake or scorpion bite. A belief with its roots in an era when there was no cure for such poisoning. Now we have clinics and cure, but many cannot afford them still. And there are many, tormented by worries, a childless woman, a few harassed by mothers-in law or husbands. And there are some, searching for their loved ones gone missing.The shrine also has people with mental illnesses seeking a connection with the pir. They plead for blessing and Amjad’s qawwali puts a tune and rhythm to what they seek, taking us into a trance just like any other prayer.Does he ever stop singing? Does his throat get tired? His lungs seem like a pair of harmoniums. Amjad takes a break between two songs, and I approach him seeking his time for an interview. “Mere ku kuchh den padega kya? [Will I have to ‘give’ anything?]” Amjad asks, his fingers gesturing money.  I have no answer. I once again ask for his time and continue to listen to his singing.Qawwali is roohani – touches the soul. The sufi tradition connected it to the Supreme. What we hear on reality talent shows is the other kind, the roomani or romantic. And there is this third kind. We may call it khanabadoshi. One that reached likes of Amjad who wander to survive.Amjad’s voice reverberates in the air.

Tajdar-e-Haram, ho nigaah-e-karam Hum gareebon ke din bhi sanwar jayenge… Aapke dar se khaali agar jayenge

The last line carried a deeper meaning when Amjad sang it. I was more eager to talk to him now. Not wanting to disturb him I asked for time the next day and go again to the dargah. Learning the history of Pir Qamar Ali Durvesh kept me busy till the next day.

The story goes that Hazrat Qamar Ali came to Khed Shivapur, a small village at around 25 kilometres from Pune city located at the foothills of the Sinhgad fort. The villagers, tired of a devil in the village, went to Hazrat Qamar Ali and asking for his help. The holy man trapped the devil in one stone and cursed him saying: Ta qayamat, mere naam se log tujhe utha utha ke patakate rahenge, tu logon ko pareshan kiya karta tha, ab jo sawali mere darbar mein aayenge who tujhe mere naam se patakenge! [People will lift and bang you on the ground till the Day of the Judgement. You have harassed them till now, now all those who come to seek my blessings will bang you on the ground].”The stone in front of the tomb weighs more than 90 kilos and a group of roughly 11 people can lift it together with just one finger. They chant ‘Ya Qamar Ali Durvesh’ in a loud voice and bang the stone down with all their might.Many villages have dargahs but a very few are as crowded as this one at Khed Shivapur. The wonder of this heavy stone brings more people here; many like Amjad have better chance at earning a little more because of these crowds. Devotees also believe that the aulia blesses the childless with a child. “We also give herbal medicines and cure childlessness,” Amjad tells me.

There is a masjid in the same campus and a wazukhana adjacent to it. Amjad goes there, washes himself thoroughly, ties his hair in a bun, wears his orange skullcap and starts to talk. “I come and stay here at least for a week every month.” As a child, he accompanied his father who was a regular here. “I must have been 10 or 15 when my abba [father] brought me here for the first time. Now I am past 30 and I bring my son here sometimes,” he says.A few from the Darweshi community are sleeping on a mat in the basement of the dargah. Amjad too had kept his bag near a wall. He takes out a mat and spreads it on the floor. He tells me his home is in Gond basti in Pachora, district Jalgaon.Amjad does not bother to identify himself as a Hindu or Muslim. I ask about his family. “My father and two mothers. We are four brothers. I am the eldest of the boys. After me, Shahrukh, Seth and the youngest is Babar. I was born after five girls.” I ask him about their Muslim names. He answers, “We Gonds have Hindu and Muslim names. We have no religion. We do not believe in caste. Hamara dharam kuchh allagch hain [Our religion is a bit different]. We are Rajgond.”Information in public domain shows that around 300 years ago, a section of the Rajgond Adivasis converted to Islam. They were known as Musalman / Muslim Gond. One can meet a few members of this Muslim Gond community In Nagpur and Jalgaon districts of Maharashtra. But Amjad is unaware of this history.“We do not marry Muslims. Only Gonds. My wife is Chandani Gond,” he continues. “My daughters are Lajo, Aliya and Alima. All of them are Gond, isn’t it?” Amjad simply does not think that one can identify religion based on names. He goes on to tell me about his sisters. “My eldest sister is Nishori, then comes Reshma. Sousal and Didoli are younger to Reshma. See all these are Gond names. But the youngest is Mary. Yeh naam to kirishchan mein aata hain [This is a Christian name]. No problem with that. We just use what we like.” Nishori is 45, and the youngest Mary is in her thirties. All of them are married to Gond men. None of them ever went to a school.Amjad’s wife Chandani is unlettered. When asked about schooling of his daughters, he says, “My daughters attend a government school. But in our community girls are not encouraged to study much.”

“One of my sons is Nawaz and the other one is Gareeb!” Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti is referred to as ‘Gareeb Nawaz’, the saviour of the poor. Amjad has used these two words to name his sons. “Nawaz is not even one! But I will ensure that Gareeb studies well. I will not make him wander like me!” Gareeb is eight and studying in Class 3. But this child does wander with his qawwal father.All men from his family have taken up qawwali as their occupation.“You know what, we Gonds can sell anything, even a clump of clay. We clean ears. We sell dates. Ghar se nikal gaye, toh hazar-pach sau kamakech latein [Whenever we leave home for work, we return with 1,000 or 500 rupees]!” Amjad shares. But he also complains that “people splurge the money. They do not save. We don’t have a particular occupation. No one is in any kind of service.”Navigating this complete lack of a stable source of income or occupation, led Amjad’s father to qawwali. “Like my grandfather, my father too wandered around villages selling herbs and dates. He was fond of music and found the path of qawwali. I always followed my father wherever he went. Slowly he started singing at programmes. And watching him, I too learned the art.”“Did you not go to school?” I ask.Amjad takes out a sachet of chuna (slaked lime), takes out just enough to cover a fingertip, licks it with his tongue and says, “I went to school till Class 2 or 3. I didn’t go after that. But I can read and write. I also know English.” He feels he would have progressed in life had he studied further. And also laments that he didn’t. “Us ke wajah se hum peeche hain [I have lagged behind because of that],” he says. The same is true with Amjad’s brothers. All of them entered school only to learn how to read and write. That’s it. Work took them away.

“We have 50 Gond households in our village. Rest all are Hindu, Musalman and ‘Jai Bhim’ [Dalit]. All of them are there,” says Amjad. “You will find educated people in all these communities barring us. But my nephew has studied. His name is Shiva.” Shiva studied till the age of 15 or 16 and wanted to join the army but could not get through. Now he is trying for police recruitment, he says. At least one youngster in Amjad’s family is thinking of a career and education.Amjad too has a career of his own. “We have a party, the KGN Qawwali Party.” KGN stands for Khwaja Gareeb Nawaz. He has started this with his brothers. They get to perform at weddings and other functions. “How much do you earn?” I ask. “It depends upon the organiser. We get 5,000 to 10,000 rupees. The audience also gives some money. In all we make around 15,000 to 20,000 for a programme,” Amjad says. The money is divided among all the members and everybody ends up with not more than Rs. 2,000-3,000. Once the wedding season is over, there are no programmes and then Amjad comes to Pune.Here at the Hazrat Qamar Ali Durvesh dargah at Khed Shivapur he always makes some money. He spends the night in the basement. “Uparwala bhookha nahi sulata! [The God Almighty does not let you go to bed hungry]” Many people offer a feast or food if their wish comes true. He stays here for a week, performs his qawwali and heads back home with whatever he is able to make. That is his routine. When asked about his earnings here, Amjad says it is somewhere between 10,000 – 20,000. “But one should not be too greedy. And even if you earn more, where will you keep all that money? So, whatever I make, I just take it and head back home!” he tells me.“Is it enough to survive?” I ask. “Haan, chal jata hain! [Yes, one can manage] I also work when I am back in my village,” he says. I wonder what work as he does not own any land or any other asset.Amjad solves my query. “Radium work. I go to the RTO [regional transport office] and paint names and number plates of vehicles,” Amjad explains. “Qawwali programmes are far and between so I decided to search for some work. I picked up my bag and bought some radium paint. On the way, I stopped at one vehicle and decorated it like a bride.” This is his side business, one that uses art, is done on the street, and earns him a few rupees.

With very few livelihood options and his art appreciated by select few, Amjad’s community do not have much to aspire towards. But things change. Indian democracy has brought that ray of hope in their life. “My father is a sarpanch [village head],” he says. “He has done many good things for the village. Earlier we had mud all over, but he built a road.”Reservations for Adivasis at the local governance institutions has made this possible. Amjad is upset with his own people though. “Should you overstep a sarpanch? My people do it. The moment they have some money in their hands, they will buy chicken and fish. They spend all the money and have fun. Nobody thinks about the future,” he complains.“Who do you vote for?” I ask, knowing fully well that voting is confidential. “Earlier I voted for panja [symbol of the Indian National Congress]. Now the BJP is in full swing. We have to vote as per the decision of our caste panchayat. Jo chal raha hain, wahich chal raha hain! [We follow what is happening all around]. I have nothing to do with politics,” he says brushing it off.

“Do you drink?” I ask and he is quick to refute. “No, never… no beedis or liquor. Mere bhai bidya peete, pudya khate, [my brothers smoke beedis and eat tobacco/gutkha]. But I don’t. No such vices for me.” I want to know from him what is wrong about these habits.“I am in a completely different lane! If one drinks and sings a qawwali, he will surely lose his dignity. Why should one indulge in such behaviour? That’s why I never got into these habits,” says Amjad.Which qawwali do you like? “I like the one in Sanskrit. I like to sing it and also to listen to it,” he says. Sanskrit qawwali? I am intrigued. “Aslam Sabri sings, ‘kirpa karo maharaj…’ what a sweet composition. For me, what touches the soul is Sanskrit. Qawwali bhagwan ke liye gao, ya nabi ke liye, dil ko choo jaye bass [qawwalis are to be sung for god or the prophets. If it touches your heart, that’s enough]!” he elaborates.For Amjad, a qawwali praising a Hindu god is ‘Sanskrit’. It is us who keep fighting about scripts and tongues. As noon approaches, the crowd starts to swell. A group of men gather in front of the tomb. Some wear a skullcap and others cover their head with a handkerchief. A loud chant of ‘Ya…Qamar Ali Durvesh…’ and all of them lift the heavy stone with their fingers, only to bang it down with full force.Amjad Murad Gond continues to sing, for god and the prophets.

Amjad Gond sings qawwali

ಅಮ್ಜದ್‌ ಗೊಂಡ್‌ ಅವರ ಖವ್ವಾಲಿ ಗಾಯನ

কাওয়ালির সুরে বিভোর আমজাদ গোণ্ড

କବ୍ବାଲି ଗାଆନ୍ତି ଅମଜାଦ ଗୋଣ୍ଡ

కవ్వాలీ పాడే అమ్జద్ గోండ్

கவாலி பாடும் அம்ஜத் கோண்ட்

'कव्वाली भगवान बर गा, धन नबी बर, हिरदे ला छू जाए बस!'

مذہبی رواداری کے قائل امجد قوال

दरगाह से दिल तक पहुंचे वाला अमजद कव्वाल

કવ્વાલી−ગાયક અમજદ ગોંડ

ਅਮਜਦ ਗੋਂਡ ਦੀ ਕੱਵਾਲੀ

അംജദ് ഗോണ്ട് ഖവാലി പാടുന്നു

हिंदू न मुसलमान, ये हैं अमजद क़व्वाल

अमजद गोंड कव्वाल

আমজাদ গোণ্ডে কাৱালী গায়

Kagal

01-IMG20231229145412-PM-The_winter_night_with_no_end.jpg

“Mirchi mein aag lag gayi [The chillies are burning].”It was the night of December 2, 1984 when Bhopal resident, Nusrat Jahan woke up unable to breathe, her eyes stinging and watering. In a short while her six-year-old son began crying. The noise woke her husband, Muhammad Shafeeq. “Qayamat ka manzar tha” [It was an apocalyptic sight],” says the now 70-year-old Shafeeq, sitting in his home in Nawab Colony, recalling the events of of what is known as the Bhopal gas disaster (BGD) which took place 40 years to this day, in Madhya Pradesh’s capital city. A daily-wage worker at a paper mill, Shafeeq would spend the next few years desperately seeking treatment for the impact of the toxic gasses on the health of his family, made worse by 18 years of exposure to the only source of water – a contaminated well. The water irritated his eyes, he says, but there was no other source. It was only in 2012 that the Sambhavna Trust Clinic tested the water and found toxic elements. Borewells in the area were subsequently closed by the state government. That night in 1984, the toxic gas that caused distress in Shafeeq’s household came from a factory of Union Carbide India Limited (UCIL), then owned by the multinational Union Carbide Corporation (UCC). The leak occurred on the night of December 2 – the highly toxic methyl isocyanate leaked from the UCIL factory and caused what is considered to be the world’s worst industrial disaster.

“Official sources estimated the immediate human death toll to be about 2,500, but other sources (Delhi Science Forum’s Report) say the figure may have been at least twice as much,” says this report in <a href="https://theleaflet.in/environment/bhopal-gas-tragedy-forty-years-of-struggle-for-justicepart-1">The Leaflet</a>.The toxic gas spread over the city of Bhopal, and those like Shafeeq’s family who lived close to the factory, were among the worst hit. Almost <a href="https://bgtrrdmp.mp.gov.in/Facts_and_Figures.html">six lakh</a> people in 36 wards of the city were impacted. Anxious to get his child treatment, Shafeeq first made his way to the Hamidia Hospital, about a kilometre from their home. “Laashein padi hui thi wahaan pe [There were corpses everywhere],” he recalls. Hundreds of people had arrived seeking treatment, and the medical staff were overwhelmed, struggling to figure out what to do.  “Maathe pe naam likh dete the [They would write the name of the dead on the forehead],” he recalls, referring to the bodies that began to pile up.