Lets Welcome the New Year with fresh eyes

Untarnished by skepticism, and doubt,

Like those that notice

fresh morning dewdrops dancing on wild grass

my tryst with a village

As I unwind myself, in an effort to write down about the journey to a quaint aadivaasi village, called Baliapal, in the interiors of North Orissa, I find myself on a bumpy road of mediumship, trying to ferry meanings from one language to another, from one reality to another - a process that denaturalizes and blends them.

It is a struggle to communicate this story – of the mixing up of the two cultures; bewildering because I am trying to be a person of the two worlds, trying to be at home in both of them – a difficult task at best.

Now-a-days it is fashionable to talk of preserving tribal people, their views, and their ways. But when we talk of preserving another culture, haven’t we already turned it into an endangered species? I would by no means profess this as an effort to preserve, but an effort to bring about some kind of balance between the two worlds – a sort of coexistence.

It all began during one of my countless visits to Dilli Haat, the Mecca of all crafts people, who flock here with lots of aspirations. While the whole market place bustled with eager shoppers exchanging notes with even more eager sellers, in a corner, in a dimly lit kiosk, two pairs of blank eyes looked around, as if gazing into nothing. I could hear their silence loud and clear in spite of the pandemonium in the rest of the haat. There was a deep question, a drowning fear and an uncomfortable silence in their gaze. The gaze that hypnotized me. Here I met Aarti and Subal Patra, who hail from Village Baliapal, in the interiors of North Orissa and were trying hard and desperately to help realize their dreams through their NGO, RAHAA. Patras weave bags out of sabaii grass, a traditional craft skill which has become a necessity in North Orissa, and some parts of West Bengal.

The next thing I know, I am at Howrah railway station in Kolkata, with my sister, Payal Nath, waiting anxiously to board “Puri Express”. We kick off our five hour long journey, not realizing this would be the beginning of a life long journey. The train rolls up at Basta station’s so-called platform. The halt is actually the slow down of the train for 30 seconds, in which we muster up all our courage to jump off the train along with our belongings, making it in the nick of time. From Basta, Baliapal village is 18 kms, an hour long drive on the bumpy dusty road, in the good old ambassador car of yesteryears.Aswe try to balance, almost as if sitting on an elephant, with blaring oriya music blowing out of its trumpet, we pass through villages dotted with lotus filled ponds, called pukhris. The entire three dimensional landscape is as if painted in multiple shades and hues of only two colors – blue and green.

After an hour long back breaking drive, snaking between thatched huts, the car rolls up in front of a shack, a recently opened telephone booth owned by the proud owner, “Dhruba” – our only connection to the outside world. We get off the car and walk through the dusty path where even the dust smells of fish; and reach Patra’s house which when required converts into the office for RAHAA. It is a three roomed thatched structure with mud floors and mud walls, and on a normal day accommodates eight members of Patra’s family, plus three cats, a dog, two goats and a cow. I imagine myself shrinking in size when I visualize this shack becoming the work place for twenty women with their infants during the days of work ahead. The rest of the evening, Payal and I spend acclimatizing ourselves with the surroundings of the equally decrepit Dak Bungalow that would house us during our stay.

Our first day of work, and we are very ceremoniously driven to RAHAA’s office in a thela. Aarti, popularly known as “Bo” by the villagers, which means mother in Oriya, has gathered about thirty women and girls. We need to judge their levels of skills, so we ask Aarti who is the only woman who manages to converse in broken Hindi, and each member is handed sabaii grass to weave a bag. The sample of bag to be copied too is given to Aarti. Aarti very diligently measures the bag and announces in Oriya, “Gutte Haath” – it is an arm’s length!! And lo! Everyone gets down to weaving the bag. By the end of the second day, thirty bags are presented to us amidst gleaming and proud faces. Much to our surprise, all bags are different sizes, varying from 6 inches to 10 inches! The group comprises girls in the age of twelve to women as old as fifty years, and so, the arm lengths are different too. But as far as they are concerned, the bags are the same size – “Gutte Haath”!!

First lesson therefore is to introduce them to a standard unit of measurement, and give them tape measures and scales!!

The next day we visit two nearby villages, Ujjadda and Shirodia. To welcome us, Patra have organized two chairs in the village. The girls in the village thought us “insane” to be taking such a risk of sitting on the chair, as if sitting on a camel. They fail to understand the logic of not coming down to earth instead of so uncomfortably hanging in the air.

Fourth day, and it’s hot and sunny, with the sun pouring its full fervor upon our heads. Payal sips from a bottle of Coke that we have carried all the way from Kolkata. The girls are mighty surprised. Two of them reach out to the glass of coke, which Payal offers to them. They look at the glass, highly amused, not knowing what to do next and slowly bring their ears close to the glass, in unison. The sound of tiny bubbles exploding and throwing up a sparkling shower brings a vivacious and animated look of surprise on their innocent faces. Never thought that the sound of coke could be more fascinating than the taste of it. The others join them too, to listen to the music of the Coke…

The whole night while Payal and I lay on our creaking beds in the Dak Bungalow, talking without any words, hearing without any sounds, we know this is not just one of our many adventure trips. This is the beginning of a journey which would never end.

Thus began my tryst with Baliapal.

It has been two years since then, and Patra’s Organization which now boasts of about 270 women, including Muslim women too, and backed by their men folks, have successfully sent out export shipments, conforming to all the stringent standardized quality requirements in all aspects of the foreign buyers. Every time the truck loaded with cartons leaves Baliapal, the villagers bid a misty eyed farewell, as if sending their own child to a world unknown to them…

- 2005

god's little dancers

The God fearing, somber precincts of Raghurajpur, a palm tree lined heritage village, 10 kms from Puri took me by surprise when, upon my arrival I spotted pint sized, top knotted dynamites, running riot across the village road, with their pranks. Normally, such pranks would command instant punishment by the village elders, but here was an exception. These boys are, I was told, “God’s Children” who perform Gotipua dance. Hence, everyone puts up with them. These boys are exclusively chosen by the community to please Gods. They powder their face, paint their eyes and forehead, grow their hair and dress up like girls. They are the female devotee dancers – consorts of Lord Krishna – the GOTIPUA DANCERS..

Gotipua, in Oriya means “Goti”, single and “pua”, boy. This is a dance tradition as old as 300 years old where a single boy used to dance for lord Krishna. It is the mainspring of the now famous classical Odissi dance. Raghurajpur has given birth to not only the Gotipua tradition, but also legendry dancers like Guru Kellucharan Mahapatra and Guru Maguni Charan Das. The dance is still practiced in the village in Guru Maguni Das’ gurukul ashram Dasabhuja Gotipua Odishi Nrutya Parishad. Boys are recruited at the age of about six and perform till their voice begins to crack and the first glimpse of peach fuzz appears. They live in the ashram, maintaining a very strict discipline, which starts at four o’clock every morning with oil massage, stretching, bending and twisting the limbs, followed with their abhyas. Ashram also takes care of their formal education. Once they leave the Ashram, many of the boys continue as dancers or become musicians.

There are various reasons put forth to explain the origin of Gotipua dance. All theories however date this tradition back to 16^th century. According to some, when a section of Vaishnav preachers did not approve of maharis (devadasis), women dancing in the temples as the pretext of worship, they introduced the practice of dancing by boys dressed up as girls. As narrated by Guru Maguni Das, in twenty one days long Chandan Yatra of Puri, Swami Chaitanya the great vaishnav saint wanted to perform the dance in the procession of Lord Jagannath and Lord Shiva. Priests objected to this, as the devadasis had to interrupt the dance during their menstrual period. That’s when boys of tender age were brought in to perform the devadasi’s dance. It was around this time that Orissa was also under going socio-political turmoil as its last dynasty had collapsed and mughals and Afghans were trying for a hold on the state. At this time, akhadas were made to shelter gotipua, where boys were groomed as fine dancers as well as fighters to protect the temples of Orissa. Embellished in customary feminine costumes, Gotipua dancers possessed the feminine glow and lucidity as well as the masculine valor and vigor to protect the temples from intruders.

From 17^th century onwards Gotipua dance spread as a temple culture and was performed regularly in Lord Jagannath temple in Puri. The journey of Gotipuas from the village temples to the metropolitan theatres within India and across the globe has been a long one but successfully spanned. A major credit for this goes to Guru Maguni Charan Das who has dedicated 65 years of his life not only to keep the tradition alive, but also taken it to places. Under his tutelage, this tradition has taken a theatrical form, where from one boy the dance is now performed by a group of boys, and accompanied by musicians who play mirdala, harmonium, cymbals, flute and violin. One can catch a glimpse of these little boys dancing in the ashram, early in the morning.

Gotipua truly is a great dance tradition which celebrates the reunion of man with the Divinity. Such is the beauty and allure of the dance that even Gods are said to revel in it!

music of nature

A little fragment of wind breaks off from the ocean and pulses around the stamens, hitting the leaves and the petals of the flowers, like drumsticks hitting the cymbals. While the bees strum the points of the beautiful corollas. Wind and water gurgle and vibrate through the hollows of every grain of sand and stone, all together making such a perfect song !! What a grand euphonious orchestra ! But not one note for us mortals..

living simple

Give up sainthood, renounce wisdom,
and it will be a hundred times better for everyone.
Throw away morality and justice
and people will do the right thing.
Throw away industry and profit
and there will be no thieves.

All of these are outward forms alone;
they are not sufficient in themselves.

It is more important
to see the simplicity,
to realize one's true nature,
to cast off selfishness
and temper desire.

Tao Te Ching

knowing the way

Must I fear what others fear?
Should I fear desolation
when there is abundance?
Should I fear darkness
when that light is shining everywhere?

Most people have too much;
I alone seem to be missing something.
Mine is indeed the mind of ignoramus
in its unadulterated simplicity.
While others rush about to get things done,
I accept what is offered.
I alone seem foolish,
earning little, spending less.

Others strive for fame;
I avoid the limelight,
preferring to be left alone.
Indeed, I seem like an idiot;
no mind, no worries.

I drift like a wave on the ocean.
I blow as the wind.

While all settle down in their grooves;
I alone am stubborn and remain outside.
But wherein I am different from others is
that I am Walking The Way..

Tao Te Ching