Tipu Sultan had a guest in his court. A visitor who had come bearing gifts from Persia. The wooden toys with their fine polish, and wonderful craftsmanship impressed the ruler so much that he asked the Persian artists to teach their craft to the artisans in Channapatna town about 80 km away from his capital city of Srirangapatna.

Since that time in the late 18th century till today, the artisans in Channapatna town that borders Bengaluru still practice the craftsmanship that their forefathers had learnt from the Persians and had passed down from one generation to another.

For 200 years, Channapatna has preserved this tradition of making wooden toys that are both entertaining and educational. However, the toy makers do not enjoy the privileges or respect that was once showered upon them by the Tiger of Mysuru.

A majority of the 700-odd craftsmen and women in the Karnataka town are eking out a living from a dying art. For most, it is the passion to continue their family art so that it does not die with them.

For the other 5000+ people, who were engaged in the craft till about 2006, the prospect of earning better incomes in cities like Bengaluru were more promising than the pursuit to keep a 200-year-old art alive.

Rattles for toddlers, rocking horses for when they are older and six men’s Morris for those who love board games—the craftsmen carve out toys that are eco-friendly, nontoxic in terms of the paint used to polish them and also, the only source of income for hundreds of rural artisans. But who buys them?

In cities that are dominated by shopping malls selling branded toys and the choicest variety of board games, the centuries-old toys have been tossed out of the shelves. Sometimes, you can spot them on the roadside where vendors sit bargaining hard with the rare customer. The customer makes an offer and the artist calculates it in terms of the grains, medicines or school fees they have to pay.

For the local artisans to follow their passion for the age-old skills, they have to suffer in terms of education for their children, proper meals and the luxury of running their homes.

If they must follow in their forefathers’ footsteps, they also have to take up a better earning job, anything from an electrician to a waiter. The future seemed bleak for the artisans who were sure that their occupation will have no takers in the upcoming decade but with the advancement of technology and the rapid globalisation came the obsession to preserve the traditional and indigenous.

To give the rural artisans a welcoming, urban platform, Maya Organic, a non-profit organisation based in Bengaluru has recruited 40 women from the Channapatna town providing them with a secure, and substantial livelihood. We spoke with Subba Rao, an employee with the organisation to get a sense of what they aim to achieve.

You can buy toys by Maya Organic at The Better India Shop, here.

“This age-old craft is dying as the younger generation is getting pulled out of Channapatna and into the cities. They have realised that carving toys is not a profitable business and this has resulted in large-scale migration. Where thousands of toy-making families existed in the town, only a few hundred remain now and the numbers are diminishing by the day. Maya Organics aims at reviving this dying art by providing a substantial living to families that make quality products.

Since a large number of men have left the town in search of “better” jobs, we are training women who erstwhile, were just side-kicks in the toy making business,” he tells us.

40 women from the Gombegala Ooru (Land of dolls/toys) work with Maya Organic today. Each has their own story of struggles to tell but the common thread that binds them together is that they had resorted to rolling beedis to earn a meagre income of Rs 4,000-5,000 per month. Making toys for Maya, on the other hand, earns them their rightful minimum wage of Rs 10,500 per month.

With organisations like Maya Organic in the picture, at least the artists are getting the clientele who would cherish the age-refined art—the urban family who wishes to gift their children the gems of indigenous games and toys and connoisseurs of memorabilia.

“40 women are full-time employees with us and they are paid their set salary of Rs 10,500 per month. In addition to this, we have 11 more artisans who are engaged in woodwork and assembly of toys,” Rao explains. “When the demand goes beyond the capacity of these 51 workers, we consult more artisans on a freelance basis. Every woman working with us has undergone six months of training and ensures there is a uniformity in the products. We have had to reject the applications of many artisans from the town because they cannot deliver perfection in the products. As much as we want to revive the art, we want to keep our clients happy too.”

You can buy toys by Maya Organic at The Better India Shop, here.

Organic, non-toxic and made from cedar, pine, teak, rubber wood and rosewood, the toys guarantee safety for your child. The grown-ups, on the other hand, can enjoy a set of strategic board games like the six men’s Morris and chess.

“The toys are made of the hale trees. We do not chop down the entire tree but procure wood only according to the need. The toys are painted with food grade lac colours and are seasoned under sunlight, not with chemicals. Children are completely safe around the toys,” Rao assures.

Starting at just Rs 240, the toys and stationery products ensure that you add an eco-friendly, sustainable product to your home while also ensuring that someone else’s home too has been sustained. Bright colours, smooth surfaces and pretty designs—the Maya Organic products are exactly what you seek in toys. Whether to help an impoverished rural family, the safety of your child or just because you want to buy something sings of ages, why not give Maya Organic a try?

You can find their products online by following the link here.

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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You walk through the winding turns and twists of the narrow lanes of North Kolkata. You cross ornate buildings with red-oxide stone floors and green French windows, some persevering while others breathing their last.

And then, as the roads give way to narrow labyrinthine streets covered in sticky mud, your momentary inconvenience dissolves in awe at the sight of numerous lifelike (sometimes larger-than-life) clay sculptures. Rows of heads and arms carved into perfection lie out in the sun to dry, as the artists prepare the skeleton for the rest of the body of what they believe would soon become gods and goddesses.

Amid the buzz of the street hawkers, rickshaw pullers and the incessant camera clicks of enthusiastic tourists, the kumbhars maintain their calm, meditatively working day and night to perfect the form of the human body in pursuit of creating an image of the divine.

Kneading the clay and painstakingly carving intricate details of curves and creases, these are the kumbhars of Kolkata, who, decades ago, found their home on the banks of Hooghly river, in a settlement known as  Kumortuli or Coomartolly.

There are more than 450 workshops owned by several families of master sculptors who, for generations, have been creating idols and models for museums and galleries. However, it is the festival of Durga Puja that demands most of the hard work, as orders for idols demand new heights of challenges and creativity every year. It is estimated that each year, the kumbhars create more than 4,000 sets of Durga idols with her entire family members, and many of them are shipped abroad as well.

Origin of Potters’ Abode

Knee-deep in history and traditions, Kumortuli was born when a group of Patuas (potters) from the banks of Ganges migrated to the area which was then a small hamlet. The migration was a result of several socio-political events of the time.

The beginning came with the end of the Battle of Plassey in 1757, after which the British began to build Fort William in the erstwhile village of Govindapur. This decision eventually forced the population to move north to an area called Sutanuti, whereby, the rich decided to set up houses in nearby neighbourhoods of Jorasanko and Sutanuti Hatkhola. While these areas emerged as home to the local rich, including the Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore in his home, Jorasanko Thakurbari, several surrounding areas developed to give rise to the metropolis of Calcutta (Kolkata).

It was during this time that JZ Holwell, an employee of the East India Company, was ordered to allot separate areas as per the occupation of the communities. The residents of these settlements were to provide their services to the Company, as and when needed.

Thus, among others like Suriparah (settlement of wine sellers), Colootolla (settlement of oil merchants), Chuttarparah (quarters for carpenters), and Ahiritolla (settlement of milkmen), Kumortuli came into existence as the abode of the potters, the patuas.

According to a popular lore, in the early years of idol sculpting, Kumortuli potters did not know how to sculpt a lion (Durga’s pet), as they had never seen one before. All they knew were tigers and horses, and based on this knowledge were inspired to sculpt a horse-like creature with a stout mouth, large teeth and a ferocious look.

That early rendition of a lion is still replicated for one of the oldest Durga pujas of the region performed at the residence of Raja Nabakrishna Deb. The tradition has been in practice for the past 300 years.

Hence, from simple potters who fashioned the river-side clay into earthen pots and utensils, they gradually evolved into master sculptors, creating magnificent idols that often towered over 10 ft in height.

The art of creating gods

A 130-year old colony spread across 5-acres of land is now populated with hundreds of homes with  linear rectangular rooms with entrances facing the road. The houses have dark, high-ceilinged, tin-roofed temporary rooms, crammed with rows humongous idols of Durga and her family, on either side, that serves as the workshop of the kumbhars or karigars of Kumortuli.

However, the art involves a number of rituals prior to the actual carving.

Also Read: How Tagore’s Love For Strange Food Paved The Path For the Modern-Day Adda!

It begins in mid-April after a ritualistic worship of Ganesha and Lakshmi on the day of Rathayatra, known as Kathamo puja. This is followed by the worship of the wooden or bamboo frames on which the idols will eventually be cast. These frames that serve as the skeleton of the figures are created based on the style of the idol, for instance ‘ek-chala’ or ‘do-chala’, whereby the idols are set against one or two backdrops, respectively.

The style and frame of the idols vary according to the number of backgrounds, as they are then wrapped with straw and hay to create the muscles and curves similar to a human form. Once the rituals are in place, the tedious job begins.

First, the clay dug out from the riverbed of the Ganges River is kneaded and pounded until the right consistency is achieved. This ‘etel maati’ or sticky clay is then mixed with rice husk and applied all over the straw frame. This procedure is known as the ‘ek mete’, and is followed by thorough sun-drying.

Once dried, the idols begin to show cracks, only to be smoothed by strips of cloth and more layers of soft clay. This step is continued until the artist successfully creates a smooth base.

The next step is known as ‘do mete’, whereby another layer of fine-grained clay, known as ‘bele maati’ is carefully applied to give a smooth and rounded structure to the idol.

More intricate parts like fingers and faces of the idols are cast separately and attached later to the frames using the same sticky mud. The figure then is once again left out to dry.

The completion of the drying procedure then gives way to colouring which begins with a base coat of white water-soluble paint mixed with a thick sticky layer of tamarind seed paste. Several other steps of body colouring using vibrant shades of yellow, pearl, pink, red, etc. follow. The act of drawing the eye is one of the most crucial tasks in the process, and so the most experienced artist usually does that in the workshop.

To make the idols more lifelike, nylon hair, eye-lashes, clothes, ornaments and embellishments are meticulously attached breathing life into the clay sculptures.

Over the years, with the rise in the grandeur of Durga Puja, the art has also evolved. From shabeki idols carved in the image of a traditional Bengali bride to adhunik abstract influences that cater to themed-pujas, the art has come a long way.

Under the flickering light of a bulb, the work of these karigars goes beyond the ambit of artistic expression. While the world stands gaping at the beauty of their creation, for them the art is tradition—a matter of familial pride and survival, which nevertheless is dwindling with time.

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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What is it that brings millions of tourists from across the world to India every year? Frankly, no one can name one thing. With a diverse amalgamation of culture, faith, locales, history and food, India is one of the most unique countries in the world that has so much to offer when it comes to travel.

No wonder the tourism industry upped its game in recent years, exploiting every single platform for promoting India’s rich culture and heritage. Today, every state has its active tourism handle utilising unique ways of storytelling and creative visuals to attract more tourists to visit India.

Now, think of a time when there was no Internet, television or radio and even the newspapers reached a seldom few. What then brought people from across the world to this land known to few, in whose minds the image of India was tarnished with culturally misappropriated and fantastically exaggerated accounts?

Flashback to the 1920s and 1930s, India beckoned travellers from four corners of the world through a medium that today would seem unbelievably simple: Posters.

From natural landscapes and bustling cityscapes to ancient architectural marvels and local village belles, these vibrant and beautifully hand painted illustrations gave India a rather mystical as well as romantic appeal that no Instagram or blog post from the present times could compete with.

Don’t believe us? Then take a look at these vintage posters and experience India the way the rest of world opened its eyes to, almost a century ago.

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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What could three different films—about a doctor on a white revolution mission; an insomniac and an unemployed youngster—possibly have in common?

Well, all these movies saw the light of the day, only because they were crowdfunded.

Crowdfunding is a concept where people from society allocate funds to aid the filmmaking process and has gained popularity as the go-to method for budding and independent filmmakers who want their voices heard.

Although the Hindi film industry is known for the money it makes nationally and internationally, several films fail to see the light of the day due to the shortage of funds.

Fed up of going from one producer’s office to another, many independent movie makers are now relying on crowdfunding projects.

Here are five films in India that were financed by the aam janta:

1) Manthan: Shyam Benegal

Sisoty apni hai, apni

As an agitated Bhola (Naseeruddin Shah) reminds a group of villagers about the benefits of forming a co-operative society for milk on a 70 mm screen, audiences in Mumbai’s Regal cinema let out a huge applause.

The dialogue which translates to ‘society is ours’ is from filmmaker Shyam Benegal’s masterpiece Manthan that was released in 1976. This powerful dialogue motivates the characters in the movie to accomplish their mission.

Besides, it was Benegal’s way of thanking the farmers who turned his vision into a full-fledged movie.

Manthan was the first crowdfunded movie in India, and also demonstrated the power of “collective might” as it was entirely crowdfunded by 500,000 farmers who donated Rs 2, each.

The film is set amidst the backdrop of the White Revolution of India, pioneered by Verghese Kurien, and revolves around Dr Rao (Girish Karnad) who heads to a village in Gujarat’s Kheda district, intending to establish a Milk Co-operative society.

Other actors include Smita Patil, Amrish Puri and Kulbhushan Kharbanda.

Interestingly, its title sequence includes the line’ 500,000 farmers of Gujarat present.’

You can watch the movie here.

2) Nedunalvaadai: Selvakannan

When Selvakannan quit his well-paying engineering job to enter the world of light, camera and action, his major concern was money. Though it unleashes the creative side of people, filmmaking is a costly affair.

That was when his friends from college came forward and pitched in.

I had a script, which was very close to my heart. About thirty of us, all engineering diploma graduates based out of Nellai, knowing my passion, came together to make my dream a reality, he told The New Indian Express.

The Tamil drama revolves an unemployed youngster who is torn between his family and love. The movie, subtly, also addresses the issue of daughters who are unable to inherit property.

With a rating of 7.6 on IMDb, the movie garnered applause from both critics and audiences.

Watch the trailer here.

3) Kothanodi: Bhaskar Hazarika

A recipient of the National Award for Best Feature Film in Assamese (2016) and Asian Cinema Fund Post Production, Kothanodi set a trend of crowdfunding movies in North East.

It encouraged many independent filmmakers like Kenny Basumatary and Reema Borah to pursue their film projects.

The film, which stars stalwarts like Seema Biswas and Adil Hussain was directed by Bhaskar Hazarika. It is based on characters and events described in Burhi Aair Sadhu (Grandma’s Tales), a popular compendium of folk stories compiled by Assamese literary giant, Lakshminath Bezbaroa.

Crowdfunding is definitely a viable option for independent filmmakers. If you look at it, cheaper film technology and expanding social media have converged to create perfect conditions for indie filmmakers to get off their couch do something about their script, said Bhaskar to TOI.

Watch the trailer here.

4) Lucia: Pawan Kumar

Taking advantage of the rising popularity of social media, former IT professional Pawan Kumar started a crowdfunding blog and used Facebook to finance his film.

As per The Economic Times, the filmmaker was able to raise close to 50 lakhs within ten days from 100 investors for his psychological thriller that was released in 2013. It was remade in Tamil as ‘Enakkul Oruvan’ in 2015.

A thin line between fantasy and reality, this Kannada film with a non-linear plot, follows a man who has insomnia and is desperate for good sleep. The plotline moves forward when he consumes a unique type of pill.

The film went on to premiere at the London Indian Film Festival 2013, where it won the ‘Audience Choice Award.’

Watch the trailer here.

5) Greater Elephant

Released in 2012, this black comedy is about finding a purpose in life. It involves a mahout who has lost his elephant, a devil who has lost his teeth, a god who has lost his identity, a theatre owner who has lost her god and a constable who has lost his faith.

Ordinary people crowdfunded the distribution of the movie as director Srinivas Sunderrajan fell short of money.

Crowdfunding is a novel platform that’s just found its way into India after finding success in the western countries. It’s a process in which we involve cinephiles to invest in a film and thereby getting to be part of the film’s crew, he said in a conversation with The Hindu.

Watch the trailer here.

Also Read: This Man’s Brilliant Stories Took Him from a Meghalaya Village to Cannes Film Festival!

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

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A deep baritone erupts into thunderous laughter and out of the darkness, enters a towering figure, piercing through the mist with a pair of glowing bulbous eyes, chilling enough to stare down generations into submission.

‘Mogambo Khush Hua’- a low voice ushers the calm before the storm

This is a man who etched an eternal image of villainy in the minds of thousands of Indian cinema-lovers. With fearfully elaborate roles and spine-chilling performances, he, Amrish Puri, showed the world that he was indeed the best bad guy on celluloid.

Puri’s unique ability to intimidate was a prominent reason why directors like Shyam Benegal (Nishant, Bhumika, Zubeidaa), Subhash Ghai (Pardes, Meri Jung, Taal), Yash Chopra (Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, Mashal), or even Steven Speilberg (Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom) pursued him with memorable roles.

Also Read: Objection, My Lord: How Authentic Are the Court Dramas in Indian Cinemas?

He was a man who could garner a multitude of emotions—hate, fear and love—all at the same time, from his audience, while striking the perfect balance in art.

From Mogambo in Bollywood to Mola Ram in Hollywood, this legend became a paragon of immorality on one hand, while on the other, he emerged as a sphinx-headed custodian of virtue and integrity as Chaudhry Baldev Singh (Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge) and Brig Sarfaroz Khan (Dil Pardesi Ho Gayaa).

But we only know him as he was presented on the silver screen with a long line of landmark films that set an everlasting legacy, not how he was beyond it. On his 87th birth anniversary (he was born on 22 June 1932), we look back at the varied roles he lived while off-screen.

A life insurance agent

He led a dual life, travelling from one place to another on his motorbike, selling life insurance, and another on stage.

The latter was all that mattered—his heart and soul.

One of the most prominent actors in Satyadev Dubey’s theatre group, Theatre Unit, Puri’s tryst with cinema was yet to unfold.

He already had two brothers, who were acting in films. The eldest, Madan Puri, was successful as a character actor and had worked on several films in the 1940s to the 1970s.

Somewhere in the 1950s, he did veer into trying his luck in cinema but was rejected for the lead roles. Much like on-screen, he was uncompromising in personal life as well and did not settle for minor roles. His work in Prithvi Theatre gained him prominence as a stage actor, and he won the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1979. It was his theatre recognition that led him to more work in television ads and eventually, Hindi cinema at the age of 40.

Through the 1970s he continued to work in supporting roles mostly as the henchman of the lead villain (Prem Pujari in 1970, Aahat-Ek Ajeeb Kahani and Reshma Aur Shera in 1971).

A voice-over artist to a star

Puri’s continued work in theatre soon led him to meet Shyam Benegal, who was at the time, working on his first film, Ankur (1974).

“I had an actor I thought would be good because his physical presence was good. But he couldn’t speak a line of the dialogue properly. So I got Amrish to dub for him. After that, I felt, ‘Why am I doing this?’ So, when I made my next film Nishant, I got Amrish to act. From then on, he acted in practically everything I did,” the director shares.

This eventually grew into a strong friendship between the two, earning Amrish Puri wide appreciation in Nishant and Bhumika, and opening doors to success.

Between 1967 to 2005, Amrish worked in almost 400 films in Hindi, Kannada, Marathi, Punjabi, Telugu, Malayalam, Tamil, and as well as English.

However, it was only in 1980 that the commercial hit Hum Paanch positioned him as a promising villain in Indian cinema and the rest became history.

A sensitive mentor, thorough professional and disciplinarian

From mentoring young actors off-screen to helping out friends in need, in his personal life, Amrish is remembered as a gentle and sensitive individual with the attributes of a hero—a welcome contrast.

Much like his on-screen character, Chaudhry Baldev Singh (Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge), Amrish was known to be prepared and organised.

Recalling one such experience, Shyam Benegal adds, “The great thing about Amrish, like Om Puri also, was that when he worked on a film, he brought a lot of order into the unit. He had extremely disciplined ways. I remember, when we were doing Manthan, we were shooting in a village called Sanganva, which was about 45 kilometres from Rajkot. He would wake the unit up at 5:30 in the morning in the winter of January and take them all on a run. This was to keep everyone in good shape. He always had a wonderful presence in the unit because he maintained discipline, which flowed to other people. This also included his food habits.”

He is an actor, who for over 30 years and beyond, has shocked, frightened, and inspired generations to embrace negative roles with refreshing appreciation, setting a benchmark for the future!

(Edited by Shruti Singhal)

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The world of Bhaskar Chitrakar is a curious one, filled with characters of wonder, that find inspiration and magic in the mundane. From household chores, public transport to marital relationships, his work is a commentary on a common man’s life, more precisely, the life of a common Bengali Babu and Bibi.

But, that is an aspect borrowed from the century-old folk art that originated in the urban setting of Calcutta.

Instead, it is his approach that sets the work apart.

Plucked from the unique 19th-century art of Kalighat Patachitra, his work is a modern tribute to six generations of artists in the family, who poured themselves to flick the brush and paint history.

Started by the patuas of Kalighat temple, this Patachitra, unlike other folk arts, did not emerge in the rural parts of India, inspired by the simple life. With a spoonful of vices, it depicts the flawed and illicit lives of urban dwellers; the simple joys wrapped in semi-expensive carpets, all in the pursuit of maintaining a lifestyle of the emerging population of the Indian middle class.

Also Read: Kumortuli: Straw, Tamarind & 130-YO Tradition Brings These Kolkata Statues to Life

For centuries now, the patachitra has been a medium of satire or social commentary, where the Bengali urban-middle class is portrayed in detail under a myriad of shades. However, the raw record also comes with its own set of biases, some that Bhaskar has targeted and countered in his interpretation.

One such aspect is women empowerment.

Contrary to many patas which either depicted women as goddesses or subordinates while being critical of women’s education, and often painted strong women with a tinge of villainy, Bhaskar’s women are unapologetic, fierce, beautiful, and real.

“For far too long in Indian art, women have been depicted as goddesses or subordinates. In my artwork, I try to portray them as I see them around me. While growing up in Kolkata, I noticed these signs on the bus that said ‘Ladies First’, and the conductor would even scream this when passengers were getting on or off the bus. I guess this stayed with me. In my art, and even in my family, I always put women first,” he says.

His Kali-Kahlo series, inspired by the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo, is one among the many colourful representations of women, beyond common gender stereotypes.

Bhaskar also juggles with a prominent pata theme—a henpecked and subdued babu prioritising his wife over his bent and pitiable mother. However, this is one of the many contrasts of relationships he presents in his art.

With the critique of an unequal marital relationship, he also presents a positive alternative of egalitarianism—with altered gender roles and lovely frames where both the Babu and Bibi are equals, and relish the joy of love.

With the tides of time, Calcutta has changed to Kolkata, and so has Kalighat and its patuas. Unlike the olden days, when Bhaskar’s ancestors could openly use art to mock their superiors without incurring consequences, today, the patuas have to tread carefully.

Yet, the last of his lineage and one of the few surviving patuas, Bhaskar continues to make strides to keep the fire burning without compromising on quality.

And, owing to his efforts, the Babus and Bibis of his paintings are now travelling the world wide web and the globe, charming scores of people with a tinge of satirical mirth!

(Edited by Shruti Singhal)

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“This is our only chance to make men feel the same fear that women feel every day.”

This line of dialogue from the film ‘Tottaa Pataaka Item Maal’ is perhaps reflective of similar desires inside many a woman who faces harassment every day.

The raw need for revenge is not gender-centric, though. Fiction-based cinema is full of male-centric, blood-soaked murder fests undertaken in celebration of revenge.

However, even revenge can be shown differently. And to highlight that, The Better India (TBI) spoke to someone who still retains a unique vision in these post-‘Kabir Singh’ days.

“Whenever you hear or read about a heinous rape in the media, the standard responses one hears from people is ‘let’s beat up the assailants’, ‘hang them to death, ‘castrate them’, etc. The power of fiction is that you can depict all these things without going to jail,” says screenwriter, author and award-winning Mumbai-based independent filmmaker Aditya Kripalani.

“So, the narrative of making a man understand the fear a woman goes through is, in many ways, an extension of this creative freedom (that) fiction gives,” Kripalani says.

Kripalani’s second feature film feeds from that precise creative instinct. ‘Tottaa Pataaka Item Maal’ released on 25 June, stars Shalini Vatsa, Chitrangada Chakraborty, Sonal Joshi, Kritika Pande and Vinay Sharma and you can catch it on Netflix.

The film, set in the Delhi-NCR region, delves into the minds of four working women who live in constant trepidation when travelling in public spaces – facing constant harassment, sexual and physical, from entitled men.

One night, they take matters into their own hands, when yet another man begins another cycle of harassment against them. Thus, begins a journey of breaking the person down – physically and mentally.

It’s one thing to read a headline or ascertain gruesome details, but another thing altogether to understand what it feels like to walk in a woman’s shoes. In ‘Tottaa Pataaka Item Maal’, this is why the women feel compelled to make a man understand their fear of sexual assault, says Kripalani.

However, the movie isn’t merely a revenge fantasy film about a terrible man getting his due, but also an exploration into the similarities that exist between both genders in their engagement with power.

This movie, and such topics, are perfectly in line with Kripalani’s desire to make films centred around ordinary women.

Screenwriter, author, filmmaker & coming full circle

Graduating from the Film and Television Institute of India with a degree in screenplay writing, the early days saw Kripalani writing for mainstream cinema audiences.

However, he found no satisfaction in writing for someone else in a disorganised and chaotic Mumbai market which didn’t pay on time. Eventually, he pivoted to writing novels. Since 2008 he has written three bestselling novels, ‘Back Seat’, ‘Front Seat’ and ‘Tikli and Laxmi Bomb’.

It was his third novel ‘Tikli and Laxmi Bomb’ which became his first feature film, garnering a whole host of international awards. And it is also streaming on Netflix, a platform Kriplani relishes.

“Thanks to Netflix today, you can make whatever you want once you create some amount of buzz like winning international awards. There is no censorship, and this allows for an unabashed conversation with your audience,” he says.

But why is an author so attracted to moving pictures?

“Everything I’ve written has been a dialogue with society. But barriers stood in terms of audience reach because of literacy, language and the fact that people prefer the visual medium. While my books are in English, the films are set in their specific vernacular demographic. With cinema, it’s about reaching a larger audience,” argues Kripalani, when asked why he liked cinema as a medium.

“Once, I started engaging with cinema as a medium, I fell in love with it. There is no way I couldn’t,” he says.

Women-centric narratives

Although the push for gender equality has made real progress in India, the scales are still heavily tipped against women. This is probably why my stories take a strong feminist line. These movies target misogyny, push for equality and seek to shatter the status quo, but they are also about the human condition as well, says Kripalani.

“As an outsider in Delhi, seeing women look at their watches when the clock struck 8, 7 or even 6 pm during winters was a new thing for me. This wanted me to say something about it as a filmmaker. I made ‘Tikli And Laxmi Bomb’ for Mumbai. Something needed to be made for Delhi which would resonate with a tone that was a lot harsher,” he says when asked about this film in particular.

In ‘Tikli and Laxmi Bomb’, sex workers on the streets on Mumbai seek to take control of their ‘business’ by forming an autonomous co-operative and push their abusive male pimps out.

“For Tikli and Laxmi Bomb, the intention was to do an Indian version of the Hollywood classic Thelma and Lousie. Yes, the stories are wildly different with two sex workers in Mumbai at the heart of my film, but it was about exploring the dynamic between an older and younger woman, where women are seen having fun and wanting to make a change. In some ways, ‘Tikli and Laxmi Bomb’ is my tribute to Thelma and Louise,” says Aditya.

Their assertion of gender identity comes in the form of taking ownership of their work and the reclamation of public spaces at night, a time considered unsafe for women to venture out. In ‘Tottaa Pataaka Item Maal’, that assertion takes the form of rage.

But the film does not go down the ‘we are taking revenge, so we are the better ones,’ route so favoured by mainstream cinema.

“The protagonists in the film keep saying, ‘we’re women, and we don’t act like men’, but the consequences of their actions are the same. Yes, men have not endured the sort of institutional suffering women have, but human nature is a lot more pervasive. Irrespective of gender, our response to power is the same,” claims Kripalani, while explaining some creative decisions with the film’s unexpected plotline.

Also Read: This Man’s Stories Took Him from a Meghalaya Village to Cannes Film Festival!

From writing his first book 13 years ago, which he and his wife sold on local trains and outside restaurants in Mumbai, to raising Rs 25 lakh through crowdfunding for ‘Tikli and Laxmi Bomb’ to promoting ‘Tottaa Pataaka Item Maal’ by handing out fliers and showing the trailer to over 200 people every day, Kripalani has always been unconventional.

One hopes he has many more tales within him.

(Edited by Vinayak Hegde)

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While growing up, the majority of the movies I was exposed to, despite their different titles, actors, directors and to some extent story-lines, had a common thread running through them.

Most of them portrayed the idea of a woman being someone’s ‘dream girl’. The heroine was a girl who talks non-stop, is sanskari enough to make unrealistic compromises and is looking for someone who can rescue her from the “shackles” of the society, sometimes literally!

My fascination for the 70 mm wide high-resolution ran so high that for the longest time I tried to mould my personality according to such “filmy” notions that were far from reality.

Even now, the scripts clearly mirror the patriarchal society we continue to live in and the established roles women are supposed to lead even now.

Now imagine acting in movies that revolved around an elderly woman having an affair with a young man (Parama,1985), portraying someone who has a series of relationships and is prioritising her own happiness (Bhumika, 1977) or having an orgasm onscreen (Lipstick Under my Burkha, 2017).

Irrespective of which era they were released, what remained the same was the flak that these movies drew from the society. How can women be shown to be so flawed . . . so human, perhaps?

So how did women first charter into these male-dominated waters, to dip their toes in each and every medium that the entertainment industry has to offer, and found popularity?

Here are five women who challenged the bizarre conventions for their love of cinema:

1) First Female Director

The director is the creative force that binds the film together. Movie geeks strongly believe that it is the director’s vision that determines how well the script is transformed into a feeling on screen.

This held true for Fatima Begum back in the 1900s. Having written the script about an epic fantasy, she refused to trust anyone with its outcome and directed it herself in 1926. With ‘Bulbul-e-Paristan, the trained theatre artist became India’s first ever female director in Indian cinema. Fatima unlocked the doorway to the world of moving pictures for other female directors.

Not stopping there, she went on to direct many films like Goddess of Love (1927), Chandrawali (1928), Heer Ranjha (1928) and Shakuntala (1929). She even started her own production ‘Fatima Films’ breaking yet another stereotype.

2) First Female Actor

Did you know that India’s first feature film ‘Raja Harishchandra’ has a man playing the female lead?

The Father of Indian Cinema, Dada Saheb Phalke, did everything to convince women to act in this film. He published advertisements in several newspapers for the cast and crew and even approached the nautch girls, but to no avail. Ultimately, he had to cast a man in the role of the female lead.

In Phalke’s second film ‘Mohini Bhasmasur’, Durgabai Kamat braved the conservative society and became India’s first female actor to act on the silver screen. Interestingly, her daughter Kamlabai Gokhale became the first female child actress by acting in the same movie.

3) First Female Comedian

The reason why English comic actor Charlie Chaplin is celebrated worldwide is his ability to make people laugh without uttering a single dialogue.  Umadevi Khatri also banked on the comedy genre that does not adhere to the societal norms of how a woman should be.

Fondly known as Tun Tun, she became the first female comedian of Hindi cinema and later on, a playback singer. She worked in more than 190 films alongside renowned comedians like Johnny Walker, Bhagvan Dada and Dhumal.

While she did attain success as a comedian, unfortunately the roles that she played were mostly of an obese lady who is a nightmare for men. She was that lady who everyone despised and was considered to be the opposite of how an ‘Indian lady’ should be.

Khatri is a classic example of a talent that was underrated and to some extent even misused. Wish we had better roles and scripts back then!

Fun Fact: Her Birth Anniversary is celebrated today, i.e. 11 July.

4) First Female Music Director

Born in Allahabad, Jaddan Bai was a daughter of Daleepabai, a tawaif (courtesan). She was trained in classical music under famous singers including thumri maestro Moujjudin Khan. Genes and training, both played a huge role in perfecting Jaddan’s talent to compose music. After making her debut as an actor, she became India’s first music director and composed music for Talashe Haq (1935) and Madam Fashion (1936). Interestingly, she gave birth to a daughter who turned out to be one of the greatest gifts Indian cinema has ever got – the legendary actress, Nargis!

5) First Female Cinematographer

B R Vijaylaxmi was not only India’s but also Asia’s first woman to handle the camera and light crews in a film. She was born to B R Panthulu, a director and producer in South Indian films.

At a time when only men handled the technical side of making a movie, she donned the hat of Director of Photography in the 1980s. She worked as an assistant to cinematographer Ashok Kumar in the 1980 Tamil film ‘Nenjathai Killathe’.

Since then she has shot 22 films and in 2018 made a directorial debut ‘Abhiyude Katha Anuvinteyum’

Thanks to these fierce women who smashed stereotypes on multiple levels and challenged the status quo, the film industry is now celebrating the works of filmmakers like Zoya Akhtar and Gauri Shinde, cinematographers like Priya Seth and actresses like Vidya Balan and Alia Bhatt!

Also Read: 17 ‘Must Watch’ Bollywood Films That Were Way Ahead of Their Times!

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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Shutters are pulled down, signalling the end of the day. The shops in Pune’s Ravivar Peth were bustling with life until about an hour ago. Attendants rushed to bring customers all the items they needed as quickly as possible.

This particular area in the city is famous for its wholesale shops where you can get everything from paper items to hardware at subsidised rates—irrespective of the quantity. Localites like me swear by them as they are much more resourceful and varied than any mall.

Art can turn anything magical, whether it is the shutters of a closed shop, kitchenware or home decor. Choose from a wide range of artistic wares to support rural and differently-abled artists on The Better India Shop.

As the day ends, the area becomes quite bleak. Grey, ivory and dark-coloured shutters set the ambience for the streets from which the traffic and customers have now vanished.

Using these plain shutters as their canvas, Alefiya Kachwalla and Annushka Hardikar are brightening the streets of Pune. Alefiya, an advertising professional, knew Annushka through a common friend.

The latter is an illustrator and graphic designer who has three books under her belt—Raising Rihaan; Oh Nari, So Sanskari!; and Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad.

Read more about her work here.

So when Alefiya, the daughter of a paper shop owner in Raviwar Peth, approached Annushka for the painting project, she hopped on board.

Speaking to The Better India, Annushka shares, “Alefiya’s family has been running the shop for three generations with most members growing up in or near the shops and garnering loyal customers over several years. But as the city grows, with new students and professionals shifting here, their idea of Pune is very limited, very urban. These peths, which are the heart of the city, are not familiar to them. So we thought—why not try to attract this new crowd to the old city with bright graffiti and street art.”

They started “A Fresh Coat”, a project to beautify the shutters of Pune’s old shops and portray their stories.

For instance, the Gulamhusen Mohammed Bhai Shop, which has been here since 1937, was the first shop of Pune to offer binding services. They have, as the shopkeeper told Annushka, one of the six binding machines exported from Germany during that decade.

But it is rare for a customer to know this. For Annushka and Alefiya, it was stories like these that needed to be told.

“The first shop we worked on, of course, was a paper shop, owned by Alefiya’s father. But we also approached the neighbouring shops, speaking to the owners about why we were undertaking the project. We sat with them, discussed their legacies, and what they wanted potential customers to know about them. For about a month or so, we were doing this recce until we arrived at an understanding with them.”

Their next task was to approach artists whose styles matched the nature of the shops. The project wasn’t going to be a two-member team, and the duo was excited to work with various freelancing artists. They would also get their friends to lend a hand in the painting jobs.

On Sundays, the team would work from 5 am till late at night, perfecting their designs on the shutters. This, of course, without missing the famous Puneri afternoon breaks.

“In the first phase, we painted 20 shutters of 18 shops, charging the owners nothing but for the materials. Every design was finalised after thorough discussions with them. This was their project, their beautification, and only the execution was being done by us. In the second phase, we hope to bring some funds from sponsors and crowdfunding, so that the model becomes sustainable,” the artist adds.

You May Also Like: Want to Visit India of The 20s & 30s? Travel In Time Via These Awesome Posters!

From a balloon shop which Annushka describes as opening up into a magical world to a hardware store that sells nothing but nuts and bolts, the duo and their freelancing team encountered interesting stories. And their art brings them out and how!

These wonderful pictures have been clicked by Panchsheel Gaikwad and can be used only with permission from him. To know more about the project, contact “A Fresh Coat” on annushka3595@gmail.com or alefiya6@gmail.com.

(Edited by Shruti Singhal)

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There was a hush at The Better India office as 30-odd employees observed Madhav Sahasrabudhe, a mechanical engineer from Pune, separating fibres from a ball of cotton, and plucking out the seeds.

For the past five years, Sahasrabudhe has been travelling to various parts of India—from Gurugram to Coimbatore—and visiting schools, NGOs and corporate offices, to teach people the art of spinning a thread.

“Khadi threads are never non-usable, and as long as they are given strength, you can make them into anything—from a light kurta to a towel,” says Sahasrabudhe. Choose airy, sustainable and durable khadi items in our TBI Shop catalogue, here.

“Our primary objective is not to remove the seeds, although it is crucial to spin a yarn. Rather, it is to loosen these cotton fibres. This quality helps make this fluffy cotton into fine threads which are woven into khadi,” the spinner tells us while simultaneously setting up a bow.

For the uninitiated, like most of us in the gathering that day, a bow, a chopstick and a spindle, unattached to the charkha, were unlikely prerequisites to spinning thread.

And yet, Sahasrabudhe had them in his bag. Satisfied that all the seeds and impurities were separated from the cotton, he started refining it further, plucking the string of the bow and guiding it through the cotton bundle.

“It looks magical!” someone exclaimed even as the mechanical engineer transformed a heavy and stiff bundle of cotton into what can be best described as cirrus clouds on a bowstring.

Spreading this fine cotton on the closed peti charkha, Sahasrabudhe placed a chopstick on one end and rolled the cotton tightly around it. There it was, the perfect pooni to be spun into cotton.

When I tried my hand at it, it took me about 10 minutes to separate seeds from one bundle of cotton. Even then, I had overlooked a few tiny impurities.

While this was my first time working on raw cotton and Sahasrabudhe has been doing this for ten years now, right after he left his job as a General Manager in an MNC.

“I worked for a good 25 years or so in the corporate industry. While I started out in Pune, within a few years, I began yearning for a life away from the hustle of an urban setup.

In 2005, I accepted a transfer to Belgaum in Karnataka. Usually, people working in my sector go from town to city to metros. I decided to go against the tide,” he chuckles.

It was in Belgaum that Sahasrabuddhe was introduced to the art of spinning.

He was visiting a village where he saw Sadashivrao Bhosale making beautiful yarn in an assembly of villagers learning the art from him.

Bhosale, popularly known as Dada, is a hundred years old as of today. An active politician during British rule, he was elected as a Member of the Parliament soon after independence.

But soon, Dada got tired of the political work. He retired and gradually began to adopt a more sustainable and self-sufficient lifestyle. Until just two years ago, the then nonagenarian would work on his farm for two hours, spin his own khadi and consume only what he grew.

“The simplicity with which he worked had a deep impact on me. Without wasting any time, I told him that I want to follow in his footsteps. Initially, Dada wasn’t convinced and handed me a spindle. I was to fill it with hand-spun yarn and bring it back to him. It took me a month, but the complete spindle showed him that I was earnest in my request. So, I would go to his place every weekend or so, and spin yarn along with him. Can you believe that even at a hundred, he still spins every day, without fail,” says Sahasrabudhe.

I am also shown a video where Dada is sitting on a cot and spinning a yarn of perfect consistency.

In 2008, Sahasrabudhe had to return to Pune due to personal reasons, and although he had planned to retire from his job as soon as he turned 50, it took him extra two years to put everything in place.

Back in his hometown, the then 52-year-old searched for a job that fulfilled two conditions—first, it had to be related to sustainability and second, his employers would have to allow him to take a week off every month so that he could teach the art of spinning to other people.

“I would travel across the country in this one week, visiting schools and NGOs to check if they needed a volunteer like me to teach spinning. The art is not just fun, but for school children, it is a practical lesson in math and physics. Of course, you can connect history and geography with it too. But even without stretching the lessons so far, you can teach the young ones vital lessons in science. And once they do this with their own hands, the lesson is learned for life,” Sahasrabudhe explains.

He found employment in a company that worked in the field of sustainable energy but eventually left it to fully concentrate on conducting spinning workshops.

Today, he travels to various villages, towns, and cities in India, fascinating people with his dedication and ease.

“I urge people not to insist or even suggest a workshop to anyone. You can, of course, set up a demo and I will be happy to lead it. But I leave the enthusiasm of a workshop to the people. If they are interested, they ask me to conduct a workshop without any prompting. I have conducted workshops for about 2,000 people so far. And I know of 200 who have taken up spinning as a result.

This number is wonderful in itself. It means we have kept the art of spinning alive for yet another generation,” the 62-year-old says.

For Sahasrabudhe, spinning cotton into yarn is simply an art, which should be enjoyed thoroughly and he knows that the same technique can mean different things to different people.

For Mahatma Gandhi, it was about his labour in proportion to his consumption, and for Bhosale, it was a way to be self-sufficient.

For him, it is a dying art that needs to be revived before it goes extinct. But, he mentions, it is also a great way of understanding that everything we buy and consume involves hours of labour, by unknown and unseen people.

You may also like: Story of Shops: Pune Friends Paint Stunning ‘Legacies’ on Dull Store Shutters!

“We need to respect every cog in the wheel. Without any of these cogs, what we get, ready-made in the shops is impossible. Spinning, for me, is that realisation. I might make thread from cotton with my own hands. But there is a farmer in Gujarat growing that cotton, there is a weaver in Nagpur who weaves it into the fabric, there’s another person in say, Karnataka, dying it in beautiful colours before I can stitch it into the kurta I desire.”

He says he currently has four pair of clothes, all made of the khadi yarn he spun himself. His family members also have a few garments made in a similar manner. “I spin for at least one hour every day, which results in about 30-50 metres of yarn annually, and every piece of cloth lasts about three years which, I believe, is a good enough time as I wear these clothes regularly,” he says.

Although closely associated with Gandhi, Sahasrabudhe believes that the chakra is neither limited nor a direct connection to him. It is possible to spin even if you dissociate the act from the political figure.

“This art is not symbolic of any philosophy; you can spin because you’re a Gandhian and you can spin if you are not,” he tells us as he weaves his ready yarn onto a wheel.

It has been about 45 minutes of rapt attention, and the occasional laughter as the immense knowledge about spinning and clever anecdotes flow in the 62-year-old’s session.

Right in front of us, he has made thin thread from cotton bundles.

Effortless in his craft, curt and witty in his session and humble about his work, Sahasrabudhe has certainly inspired hundreds throughout his journey as a charkha teacher over the past five years.

He is always eager to meet new people and help them understand the foundation of their wardrobe, encouraging them to grow their own clothes.

You can learn all about where our cotton comes from, the difference between khadi, handloom, and power loom fabric, why reviving this art is necessary and of course, know how to spin from Sahasrabudhe.

Drop him an email on madhavsahasrabudhe@gmail.com for inquiries.

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

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The smoke rises from the chimney, cutting through the thick blanket of fog hung over Songsong, a sleepy little village in Manipur.

The quiet slowly breaks into spirited chatter amidst the rustling symphony of separating the husk from corncobs, a daily chore.

Neli Chachea has grown up with this sound, and she remembers it was one such morning as a child while playing in a heap of the waste husk, that she found the purpose of her life—to create simple yet pure beauty.

A treasure trove of indigenous art and handicrafts, Manipur has a lot to offer. For instance, beautiful and eco-friendly handcrafted products made by rural artisans of the region using a natural water reed called kauna, which you can purchase here.

“I never knew if I would become an artist. I just knew that I was making my own playmates so that mother would not need to get me new dolls. And, now after years, it is why I wake up every morning,” says the 38-year-old florist-and-artist, whose trash-to-treasure corn husk dolls have won hearts both in India and abroad!

Revolutionising the idea of recycling waste, she uses waste silk and husk derived from maize to make beautiful dolls.

“Beauty is in everything, including waste. You just need to know how to mould and use it. My mother inspired me to pursue this art when I was young, and I will do the same for the next generations. Although simple, this is too precious an art to die with time!” she shares with The Better India.

Talking about the procedure, she adds that although the dolls look simple, they are intricately made to perfection, using maize husk for body parts and silk for hair, in addition to dry flowers for decoration which is customised as per the needs of the customers.

Also Read: 5 Hidden Gems of Northeast India That Need to Be On Your Travel Bucketlist

Appreciating her work, a customer, Vikhweno Chale says to ANI, “She is so creative by making use of all the waste material and changing it into wealth. I encourage youngsters and entrepreneurs not to give up and keep on working hard. We have the talent, we are capable and have a lot of resources, but we have to promote them.”

#Imphal
Thanks for the revive #Dolls , making art, using Corn Musk & Corn Silk. #NeliChachea, a #Doll artist from #Songsong village in #Mao #Manipur #NorthEast https://t.co/6nCjBbSvNd

— RamNiranjan (@ramniranjan187) July 13, 2019

It takes an entire day to make 12 dolls with prices ranging from Rs 200 to Rs 500, according to the design. Neli earns about 45,000 a month by selling these dolls.

Although the idea was conceived at a young age, Neli chose it as a profession in 2000. A few years later, she also opened a workshop to teach the art to young children and women.

With the growing popularity of her innovative and eco-friendly dolls, her training sessions on the doll making, as well as flower and basket arrangements, have travelled far, to Mysore and Bhopal.

“Its both surprising and refreshing to find people so much interested in learning this art. I have taught around 20 students in Mysore and 150 in Bhopal,” she adds.

Back in 2007, she had participated in the 2nd International Flora Expo, at Pragati Maidan, New Delhi, which was organised in collaboration with Indian Flowers and Ornamental Plants Welfare Association under the Ministry of Agriculture, Government of India.

The expo not only opened up her work to the world, showering her with several invitations from exhibitions but also honoured her contribution. This led to her work being showcased at the Manipur Sangai Festival in 2017.

Now she sells her products through a store in Imphal, called the Horizon which specialises in promoting indigenous art forms of the region, and connecting small enterprises with consumers.

“I am happy with all the appreciation, but honestly more than that, it is my work that gives me real joy. When I look at the future, I see myself, sitting at the workshop in my village, spending hours making the dolls, nothing else. I am thrilled this way!” concludes the artist.

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

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Tipu Sultan had a guest in his court. A visitor who had come bearing gifts from Persia. The wooden toys with their fine polish, and wonderful craftsmanship impressed the ruler so much that he asked the Persian artists to teach their craft to the artisans in Channapatna town about 80 km away from his capital city of Srirangapatna.

Since that time in the late 18th century till today, the artisans in Channapatna town that borders Bengaluru still practice the craftsmanship that their forefathers had learnt from the Persians and had passed down from one generation to another.

For 200 years, Channapatna has preserved this tradition of making wooden toys that are both entertaining and educational. However, the toy makers do not enjoy the privileges or respect that was once showered upon them by the Tiger of Mysuru.

A majority of the 700-odd craftsmen and women in the Karnataka town are eking out a living from a dying art. For most, it is the passion to continue their family art so that it does not die with them.

For the other 5000+ people, who were engaged in the craft till about 2006, the prospect of earning better incomes in cities like Bengaluru were more promising than the pursuit to keep a 200-year-old art alive.

Rattles for toddlers, rocking horses for when they are older and six men’s Morris for those who love board games—the craftsmen carve out toys that are eco-friendly, nontoxic in terms of the paint used to polish them and also, the only source of income for hundreds of rural artisans. But who buys them?

In cities that are dominated by shopping malls selling branded toys and the choicest variety of board games, the centuries-old toys have been tossed out of the shelves. Sometimes, you can spot them on the roadside where vendors sit bargaining hard with the rare customer. The customer makes an offer and the artist calculates it in terms of the grains, medicines or school fees they have to pay.

For the local artisans to follow their passion for the age-old skills, they have to suffer in terms of education for their children, proper meals and the luxury of running their homes.

If they must follow in their forefathers’ footsteps, they also have to take up a better earning job, anything from an electrician to a waiter. The future seemed bleak for the artisans who were sure that their occupation will have no takers in the upcoming decade but with the advancement of technology and the rapid globalisation came the obsession to preserve the traditional and indigenous.

To give the rural artisans a welcoming, urban platform, Maya Organic, a non-profit organisation based in Bengaluru has recruited 40 women from the Channapatna town providing them with a secure, and substantial livelihood. We spoke with Subba Rao, an employee with the organisation to get a sense of what they aim to achieve.

You can buy toys by Maya Organic at The Better India Shop, here.

“This age-old craft is dying as the younger generation is getting pulled out of Channapatna and into the cities. They have realised that carving toys is not a profitable business and this has resulted in large-scale migration. Where thousands of toy-making families existed in the town, only a few hundred remain now and the numbers are diminishing by the day. Maya Organics aims at reviving this dying art by providing a substantial living to families that make quality products.

Since a large number of men have left the town in search of “better” jobs, we are training women who erstwhile, were just side-kicks in the toy making business,” he tells us.

40 women from the Gombegala Ooru (Land of dolls/toys) work with Maya Organic today. Each has their own story of struggles to tell but the common thread that binds them together is that they had resorted to rolling beedis to earn a meagre income of Rs 4,000-5,000 per month. Making toys for Maya, on the other hand, earns them their rightful minimum wage of Rs 10,500 per month.

With organisations like Maya Organic in the picture, at least the artists are getting the clientele who would cherish the age-refined art—the urban family who wishes to gift their children the gems of indigenous games and toys and connoisseurs of memorabilia.

“40 women are full-time employees with us and they are paid their set salary of Rs 10,500 per month. In addition to this, we have 11 more artisans who are engaged in woodwork and assembly of toys,” Rao explains. “When the demand goes beyond the capacity of these 51 workers, we consult more artisans on a freelance basis. Every woman working with us has undergone six months of training and ensures there is a uniformity in the products. We have had to reject the applications of many artisans from the town because they cannot deliver perfection in the products. As much as we want to revive the art, we want to keep our clients happy too.”

You can buy toys by Maya Organic at The Better India Shop, here.

Organic, non-toxic and made from cedar, pine, teak, rubber wood and rosewood, the toys guarantee safety for your child. The grown-ups, on the other hand, can enjoy a set of strategic board games like the six men’s Morris and chess.

“The toys are made of the hale trees. We do not chop down the entire tree but procure wood only according to the need. The toys are painted with food grade lac colours and are seasoned under sunlight, not with chemicals. Children are completely safe around the toys,” Rao assures.

Starting at just Rs 240, the toys and stationery products ensure that you add an eco-friendly, sustainable product to your home while also ensuring that someone else’s home too has been sustained. Bright colours, smooth surfaces and pretty designs—the Maya Organic products are exactly what you seek in toys. Whether to help an impoverished rural family, the safety of your child or just because you want to buy something sings of ages, why not give Maya Organic a try?

You can find their products online by following the link here.

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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The 12-year-old girl standing in the middle of the green field was oblivious to the beauty around her. Her stance upright, her face focussed on the task at hand, her shoulders too slender to bear the weight of the dhol she was playing.

But bear it, she did.

Are you a lover of history and tradition? Want to delve into forgotten ancient games of India? Check options here.

You could see it in the tilt of her chin that she would master this instrument someday. She kept beating the drum till its sound filled the field and beyond; her ustad was still not happy.

“Not loud enough! The sound should be deafening. How can you make someone want to dance when you don’t show the same energy while playing the dhol?” he admonished her.

The girl took her teacher’s words to heart for two years later, at the age of 14 she garnered recognition within India and across borders as the ‘youngest female dholi’ or ‘the Dhol girl of India’.

This is Jahan Geet Singh.

Born to Harcharan Singh, a judicial officer and Parminder Kaur in Chandigarh, Jahan has always chosen unconventional paths. No wonder that her parents changed her surname to Singh from Kaur!

“Within the Sikh community, it is common for young men to adopt ‘Singh’ which stands for lion, and women to adopt Kaur which means a princess. When I was growing up, my parents told me I was no less than a son, so instead of calling me Jahan Geet Kaur, they called me Jahan Geet Singh.”

Thanks to her parents and their progressive upbringing, Jahan was always encouraged to test her strengths, chase her dreams, and not shy away from anything traditionally considered a part of the male bastion.

This was perhaps one of the reasons when a 12-year-old Jahan walked up to her parents asking them if she could learn to play the dhol, they were neither surprised nor opposed to the idea. Instead, they told her, ‘Why not? Do it.’

The eight kg dhol that Jahan picked up at the tender age of 12 has become a part of her identity. Now at 21, the young woman, pursuing Law from the Panjab University, has given hundreds of live performances across India and abroad. She even debuted on TV channels and has won an impressive line-up of awards, including ones at the state-level.

Her videos have garnered millions of views and she has over two lakh followers on social media too!

Today, wherever her parents go, they are known as the Dhol Girl’s parents.

When asked how the inclination to play dhol began, she says, “I grew up rooted deep into Punjabi culture, where no festive celebrations were complete without a dhol. Even at a time when most of my friends preferred western instruments such as a guitar or a Casio over a sitar or a harmonium, I was inclined to the dhol. I still remember how at a family function, I was awed by one of my cousins playing the instrument. And all I could think about was—I want to learn this.”

Until then, Jahan had never thought she was breaking stereotypes. Yes, she had always seen men play the dhol. But she thought, perhaps some women played too, just that she never had the opportunity to come across them. It was only a matter of time until she realised that her request made people’s heads turn and speak in hushed whispers.

I struggled a lot to find a teacher. Every time I approached people for guidance, their initial question to me would be, ‘Kisne sikhni hai?’ (Who wants to learn it?) they would roll their eyes when I said I would be the student. They would say things like, ‘Why would a girl want to play dhol? Girls don’t play dhol? Don’t you have any shame? Do something else.”

Hope came in the form of Sardar Kartar Singh. A father of four daughters himself, when Jahan first asked him to teach her, he paused. He thought to himself, ‘If my daughters asked something of me, I would never refuse.’ So he declared me his eldest daughter and became my mentor.”

Almost two to three hours a day, after school, 12-year-old Jahan would walk on the boundaries of open fields, playing the dhol out loud.

Right from day one, Jahan, unlike other students, began with the big-sized traditional dhol.

“I continue to play the same one, and intend to use it forever,” says the determined girl.

The challenges were many. The instrument was heavy and difficult to carry for the young girl because it required immense upper body strength.

“My teacher would tell me, ‘When you play the dhol for an hour, you do double the upper body exercise that you would in the gym. Because when you have to make someone dance to your beat, you have to put in double the energy.’ So often my hands would get tired, my shoulders would ache. My hands would bleed and have bruises all over them. I started slow, where I would put the dhol on the ground and learn, then put it on a chair, eventually I decided to pick it up and play it as I moved.”

And regardless to say, the efforts have paid off.

Recollecting her first performance at a youth festival, she adds, “When I first walked on to the stage, no one in the audience expected me to actually play the dhol. They thought I would just act or dance for a bit and keep the dhol down. They were amazed and the response was phenomenal.”

Despite the media attention that the youngster has garnered, she continues to stay grounded, keeps promoting the traditional instrument and its heritage and inspire other young girls and women to break glass ceilings.

In her final message, she says, “No activity, hobby or profession is exclusively for men or women. The first step to teach our kids that is to start treating our boys and girls equally. We need to teach our boys to be just as gentle and kind as girls are, and our girls to be just as bold and outgoing as boys. If I stopped believing in myself, the dhol girl wouldn’t exist. And so, as women and young girls, we have to start considering ourselves ‘equals’ and start believing in ourselves. Then, we will be unstoppable.”

Did this story inspire you? Then get in touch with her on her Facebook page.

Watch her in action below:

You May Also Like: 68 Years Young! This Woman Owns 6 Indian Passports, Has Had Adventures in 65 Countries

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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A two-hour cotton spinning session by Madhav Sahasrabudhe was enough to show me how little I knew about fabric. The terms khadi, cotton, and handloom were used interchangeably in my home and while shopping for clothes, we would trust the seller with the expertise on the topic. However, Sahasrabudhe clarified how differences in fabrics are not just because of material but also how they are spun and woven.

This handloom day, we are bringing to you a cheat-sheet on how you can distinguish between khadi, handloom cloth, and mill-powered cloth. A highly reputed apparel brand was challenged in the court about their claim that their dresses were khadi. The Khadi and Village Industries Commission (KVIC) had alleged that this retailer brand was “illegally” selling clothes with a “khadi” tag hough their products were factory-made.

Light to wear and breathable, khadi provides absolute comfort in all seasons! Have a look at our khadi collection here and pick your favourite!

So, let us begin with what is the distinction between khadi, handloom and mill cloth.

“Traditionally, khadi cloth is that fabric which makes use of no external power for the machinery. Right from the harvest of the cotton cloth to the removal of seeds, separating the fibers to spinning, dyeing, and weaving, everything is done manually. Of course, with time, government agencies have altered the definition of the fabric but broadly, it means the cloth that is hand-spun and hand-woven,” Sahasrabudhe informs The Better India (TBI).

For the last ten years, the 62-year-old has been making khadi clothes for himself at home and also teaches the art of spinning to others. To know more about him, read our story here.

While Khadi is both handspun and handwoven, a handloom cloth is a fabric created using two steps, one manually and the other with a machine with the use of either electricity, battery or fuel. It can be handspun and mill-woven or mill-spun and handwoven. Generally, it is the latter because spinning cotton is labour intensive and time-consuming. When both the steps are powered by machines, the result is a mill cloth which is both easy to manufacture and uniform in its texture. This makes its price considerably low.

These fabrics are made of either cotton, silk or wool or a combination of any two or all three. The above definitions for the fabrics remain true with all three raw materials.

With a “Farm to Fabric” approach, the Magan Khadi centre in Wardha, Maharashtra is not just empowering spinners and weavers, but also cotton farmers. Through their NGO, they sell authentic khadi across India. “After we obtain the cotton from the farmers, it goes through various processes. Just refining the raw cotton takes one month. Spinning it into threads takes another two. It takes a total of five months to weave it into cloth,” Mukesh Lutade tells us.

After these five months comes the process of dyeing and stitching.

This example is for about 500 kg of refined cotton. Of the total raw cotton obtained, only about 33 per cent can be used for spinning. And with 60 spinners and 30 weavers, it still takes them five months which proves how labour intensive the process of making khadi is.

This is primarily the reason why many people and brands have switched to handloom instead. Since spinning machines accelerate the process, it makes matters easier.

Sharada Ganesh, a manager at the handloom brand Desi shares that hiring spinners is a very difficult task since they have diminished in numbers. Weavers too are losing out on their income and art which Desi is trying to revive. Explaining the nature of the brand, Sharada says, “Handloom weavers were in urgent need of getting a stable income from their art. So, we wanted to start our organisation by empowering them in a sustainable way. The plan was to start with handloom and then eventually go into khadi too. One reason we did not dive into khadi directly is that it is nearly impossible to find people who hand-spin fabric and secondly, their time-consuming art does not pay them well. So, we started with handloom.”

What started with a small initiative of two women working on sewing machines has now resulted in 800 weavers, workers and tailors across eight districts getting a substantial income through handloom cotton. You can check out the authentic handloom clothes here.

With the definitions out of the way, let us talk of how you check for the authenticity of the fabric in a shop?

Sahasrabudhe gives five simple tests to carry out:

• “The ends of a khadi cloth are usually soft and loose as compared to a machine-woven cloth. So you can take a part of it and twist it in the direction of the yarn. It the threads tighten, the cloth is khadi. If it comes loose, it is handloom or mill-spun,” he explains.
• If you have all three fabrics at your disposal, try this. Take each of them and look through them against a light source. If you spot a slight difference in density and considerable transparency, the cloth is most likely khadi. If the density is not uniform but the cloth is not very transparent, it is most likely handloom. If the spinning is completely uniform and the weaving opaque, the cloth is machine spun.
• Once you get familiar with these differences, you will understand that khadi is very light and soft. This touch-test will be a good measure to understand the fabric then.
• “If you have just started these exercises then it might be difficult for you to distinguish one material from the other. In such cases, you can simply ask the shopkeeper where they get their cotton threads from. If they have employed spinners and weavers, it will tell you that the fabric is definitely khadi. Or even if they can point out to the exact centre and region where they procure the raw materials from, that is a good indication of authenticity,” says Sahasrabudhe.
• Lastly, authentic khadi will have the KVIC logo. It will also have batch numbers and information that points towards a khadi material.

Our purpose is not to discriminate between the three types of materials. However, as a consumer you must be aware of what you are buying. Khadi is expensive because it demands time, labour and years of expertise of spinners, weavers and tailors. As more and more powered machines come into play, the process becomes faster and less cumbersome leading to mass production. Hence, the prices drop.

You may also like: Thanks to This Bihar Man, Flowers From Mahabodhi Temple Are Infusing Colours Into Khadi!

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

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‘The human voice is the most beautiful instrument of all, but it is the most difficult to play.’

This was an observation by Richard Strauss, the iconic German composer, who dedicated his life towards nurturing his three great loves—life, symphony orchestra and a good soprano voice.

As the first began to trail towards its end, he turned to the remaining two and created the masterpiece, Four Last Songs.

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A grand marriage of music and poetry, Four Last Songs was written as his farewell to the world, chronicling the Frühling (Spring), September, Beim Schlafengehen (When Falling Asleep) and Im Abendrot (At Sunset).

As time wrinkled away, the 84-year-old wrote to his favourite Wagnerian soprano, Kirsten Flagstad, requesting her to grace the song with her voice.

“…I also add that I have the pleasure to provide for you my Four Last Songs with orchestra, which are currently in print in London; to give their premiere performance in an orchestral concert with a first-class conductor and orchestra…,” he wrote. Unfortunately, he died soon after, with his wish still unfulfilled.

Despite his tragic end, Four Last Songs survived and was premiered exactly as Strauss had imagined. What’s surprising is that his dying wish was fulfilled by a stranger, living literally, a world away from him.

The stranger was Jayachamarajendra Wadiyar, the last ruler of Mysore.

Different Worlds Meet The Same Passion

Despite their differences, both Wadiyar and Strauss shared a similar backdrop of violence, destruction and war. And yet, both were able to emerge out of it to find solace— the former in India’s independence, and the latter in a neutral Switzerland.

However, beyond their historical and political backgrounds, it was their passion for music, that weaved their lives together, forever.

The then 31-year-old Jayachamarajendra’s identity was not only constricted to his royal lineage as the last Maharaja of Mysore. He was also an exceptional musician, and more importantly a patron of European classical music.

And, it was this passion for music that pushed him to sponsor the premiere of Four Last Songs on May 22, 1950.

With an offering of approximately $5000, Wadiyar took care of the entire performance as well as the cost of creating a live recording of the work, which eventually was added to his personal collection that adorned over 20,000 such pieces of history.

Thanks to Jayachamarajendra, Strauss’ last wish was effectuated eight months after his death, at the Royal Albert Hall, London, by none other than the soprano Kirsten Flagstad, who was conducted by the renowned Wilhelm Furtwängler along with the Philharmonia Orchestra—a fitting culmination of Strauss’ extraordinary of a life!

Wadiyar And Music

After the death of his father, Kanteerava Narasimharaja Wadiyar and his uncle Krishnaraja Wadiyar IV who was the Maharaja of Mysore, Jayachamarajendra ascended the throne at the age of 21, in 1940.

His passion, however, lay far from statecraft, meddling with musical melodies.

“Had my brother not been heir apparent, I expect he would have gone seriously into studying the piano,” said Vijaya Devi, his sister while speaking to ON Stage, the official monthly magazine of the National Centre for the Performing Arts, Mumbai.

Young Jayachamarajendra’s tryst with Western classical music began with piano lessons from a Sister Ignatius from the Good Shepherd Convent in Mysore.

His proficiency as a pianist only grew better over the years, and he soon became a licentiate of the Guildhall School of Music, London and honorary Fellow of Trinity College of Music, London, in 1945.

Following his footsteps, Vijaya also earned her qualifications from Trinity College, and continued piano studies under prominent musician and professor Edward Steuermann of the Juilliard School of Music in New York.

In 1974, encouraged by her brother, she founded the International Music & Arts Society in Bengaluru, which continues to function under the guidance of her daughter, Urmila Devi.

Forever For Music

The premier of Four Last Songs under the brilliance of Wilhelm Furtwängler and the Philharmonia Orchestra was not a mere coincidence. It was an outcome of Jayachamarajendra’s ever-growing passion and influence in the world of music. The Maharaja was, in fact, the first president of the Philharmonia Concert Society, London in 1948.

But, Richard Strauss was not the only one to be graced with Jayachamarajendra’s passionate support.

A few years before his encounter with Four Last Songs and the royal coronation, he visited the legendary pianist and composer Sergei Rachmaninoff in Switzerland, hoping to be accepted as a student.

It was during this visit that he came across the music of little-known Russian composer Nikolai Medtner, and decided to finance a large series of recordings of Nikolai’s compositions. Although the two never met, Wadiyar was instrumental in founding the Medtner Society in 1949.

Owing to his tremendous contributions, Nikolai eventually extended his gratitude by dedicating his Third Piano Concerto to him, the then Maharaja of Mysore.

According to the writings of critic Fred Smith, in Gramophone (1948), these recordings and albums commissioned by the Maharaja went on to give Medtner the due recognition, “in the autumn of his life.”

Even after more than six decades of his reign, Wadiyars’ union to music remains and has since been an integral part of their royal lineage, reiterating the fact that melodies indeed do not have any boundaries.

Also Read: How Tagore Used Rakhi in 1905 to Resist Partition of Bengal & Strengthen Unity

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

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The camera pans the sand dunes in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan, in the night’s whitish-blue light with the silhouette of Hema Malini in diaphanous pink attire in one corner. The soft silken voice of Lata Mangeshkar in her mellifluous tone, singing, “…yeh zameen chup hai..aasama chup hai…” when suddenly, the music goes completely silent.

For four beats, all the instruments and Lata’s voice stop. And then, only with soft tabla beats, her voice returns to croon, “…phir ye dhadhkan si chaasu kya hai…”

You get goosebumps. That is the song from the film Raziya Sultan (1983).

And until today, no one has been able to capture the silence of their emotions as beautifully as this song ‘Aye dil-e-naadan..’.

Recollecting that silence, I was on my way to meet the man who created this magic—composer Mohammed Zahur Hashmi—better known as Khayyam. It was after he had been bestowed with the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award for creative music in 2007.

The segment of creative music was so apt as Khayyam sahib didn’t create music; he created emotions. And with his passing earlier this month, he took away the beauty of a pause and the power of saying a lot with a melancholic quietness.

If you are not aware of his songs, a simple YouTube search will leave you flabbergasted that most of the songs that you have been humming were composed by him.

Every college boy who is a fan of Hindi film songs and in love, must have experienced the emotions in Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hai… (Kabhi Kabhie, 1976), Na jaane kya hua, jo tune choo liya (Dard, 1981), Thehriye hosh mein aa loon toh chale jaayiyega (Mohabbat Isko Kahete Hain, 1965) and many more.

Or if you are down in the dumps, you might relate with, Woh subah kabhi to aayegi…(Phir Subah Hogi, 1958) or Baharon, mera jeevan bhi savaaro… (Aakhri Khat, 1966).

Smiling his usual gentle smile as we settled down for a chat, he observed, “So you have been listening to these songs?”

Reminiscing over those days, sitting cross-legged in his comfort chair at his residence in Juhu, the legendary composer had said, “Making music then was magic. A team of more than 50 instrumentalists practiced for days, and if there were retakes, the entire song was recorded. Never did we do a cut paste or dubbing job.”

Commenting on the current scenario, the legend said, “Unfortunately, today, the system has changed so much. In a duet song, each singer sings separately, and many times, they don’t even know the other singer! People don’t have the time, nor do they have the patience to imbibe the teharaon (steadiness) of a raag (scale or pattern of notes).”

Remembering their years spent discussing music, films, and poetry, another legendary music composer, Anandji, of the famous Kalyanji-Anandji duo, told me, “Khayyam ji started as a music composer way back in 1948. And to have lasted in this industry for so long (he had last composed music for the film Bazaar-E-Husn in 2014) showed his talent, his patience, and his love for his craft.”

Singer and music composer, Suresh Wadkar, remembers Khayyam ji, telling me, “He was a perfectionist! He made us do retakes of the entire song many times and that too with his big eyes smiling, beguilingly and encouragingly saying, ‘It was a good take. But let’s just do one more take for safety,’ until he was satisfied. In fact, when we heard the finished product, we too felt happy with our work.”

Suresh Wadkar sang few songs for the legendary composer like Jab se dekha hai tumhe aise lagta hai mera from the film Dil… Aakhir Dil Hai (1982).

According to Wadkar, no other composer has composed as many songs in Raag Pahaadi as Khayyam ji. “I would say 80 per cent of his songs were based on that raag. But none of them sounded similar. Keeping the raag intact, he gave a different twist and feel to every song.”

Some of his songs based on this scale are—Parbaton ke pedon par and Tum aapna ranjo gham (Shagoon), Aaja re aaja re mera dilbar aaja (Noorie, 1979), Chhookar raat sulaye (Raziya Sultan), among others.

Anandji recalled that Khayyam was particular about his films. “The story had to suit his music. If a director came to him with the story and he realised that the story would suit us, he would call us and say, ‘Aaja yaar. Tumhari picture hai yeh. (Please come. This film is right for you.)’ My brother Kalyanji would gently chide him and ask if he had a disagreement with the director, and he would laugh in his gentle way. Khayyam was never greedy, nor would he accept a project just because it was offered to him.”

He continues to tell me that the legend never got angry or upset, that he had immense patience to make them sing the sur he wanted. “He was particular about the pronunciations of the words in the lyrics, and would gently smile with those furrows between his eyebrows and urge us to do what he wanted.”

He was awarded the National Award for his music direction for the film Umrao Jaan (1981). In fact, Asha Bhosle too was awarded the National Award for the song Dil cheez kya hai from the same film.

In a telephonic interview after the death of ghazal maestro Mehdi Hassan, Khayyam ji told me about the importance of correct pronunciation of words. He had said, “Mehdi Hassan knew every word he sang. He knew which word to emphasise and how much to do it. Aur unki gayeki mein laya-kari bhi bohot acchi thi (He would play with rhythm beautifully while singing.) It made his ghazals come alive. And he also knew who understood his music. Every concert, my wife and I attended, he would always dedicate at least one song to her.”

Also Read: Sahir Ludhianvi, The Poet of Peace Whose Lyrics Made a Home in People’s Hearts

Recognising his greatness, the Government of Maharashtra accorded him full State Honours at his funeral. Poet lyricist Javed Akhtar aptly summarised the legend of Khayyam in the following words, “In the film industry, after the death of a certain person, we normally say, ‘an era ended today’. But with Khayyam passing away, very truly, an era ended today. He belonged to the era where sur, taal, alfaaz played great importance in music. With him ended this era!”

(Edited by Shruti Singhal)

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In the summer of 1955, three men⁠—Deben Bhattacharya, Colin Glennie and Henri Anneville⁠—embarked on an iconic journey that would change their lives forever.

While Henri was a Frenchman, Colin was English and a student of architecture, and Deben, a Bengali, had been raised by on sacred ghats of Benares.

Enjoy listening to your favourite songs on light-weight and sustainable sound devices, that you can find here. 

Fate and purpose had brought them together, and one afternoon, they huddled inside a battered milk van, and planned their trip from Paris to Calcutta, while casually sipping on crimson-tinted Chianti wine with bits of cheese and olives.

After weeks of planning, they finally hit the road.

The next six months were full of surprises and adventures, as they crossed through Yugoslavia, Greece, Italy, Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Jordan, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and eventually, India.

Deben had captured the soundscapes of every village, town or city, one border after another and his audio-visual exploits finally found expression in ‘Paris to Calcutta: Men and Music on the Desert Road,’ a poetic travelogue which is an impressionistic account of the six-month-long trip.

From the lonely songs of love by strangers in Afghanistan to the desert where they stayed with the Bedouins to record the esoteric chanting, and even an illegal dervish performance, their bulky tape recorders and cameras shadowed them throughout the journey.

Although at times, they did meet prominent individuals, ambassadors and dignitaries, the trio found more comfort in the embrace of complete strangers, who opened their homes and their lives without a second thought.

This memorable experience that would continue to inspire music enthusiasts of several generations was spearheaded by Bhattacharya, a filmmaker, Bengali poet and an amateur ethnomusicologist.

The Life Before the Sound Safari

Deben was born in a Bengali Brahmin family of Hindu priests, who had lived in Benares (modern Varanasi) for over 130 years. His father practised Ayurvedic medicine, while the family ran a school.

As a child, he was actively involved in various religious rituals as the ‘little priest’ and the temple bells, sacred chants, and drum beats  imprinted his growing-up years with profound influence of auditory diversity.

A few years later, in 1949, Deben left home. As a young man, he grew into a Bengali poet highly inspired by English poet Lewis Thompson. It was this love that prompted him to move to England and dedicate the prime years of his life working as a BBC radio producer.

“He soon immersed himself in music, and that was to become his source of livelihood,” wrote Jharna Bose-Bhattacharya, his wife, in a new book featuring her husband’s notes.

As a BBC radio producer, Deben had access to a vast archive of global music. However, a tinge of detachment continued to bother him because found the music disconnected from its creators, lacking the crucial, human element.

And this restlessness further drove him back to his roots. With the support of a few Indian friends in London, he began to record Indian musicians on a Baird tape recorder. This passion soon began to call him home-ward, as he started to plan for field recordings in India.

However, this expedition met a financial roadblock as he needed £80 for the tape recorder, a transformer worth £20, £25 for 20 blank tapes, and around £60 for a one-way boat ticket to Bombay.

Coming to his rescue, Sunday Wilson, a producer for the overseas service, decided to finance and commission him for a total of 6, 5-minute programmes. It’s success lured poet Stephen Spender, founder of the magazine Encounter, to approach Deben to write an article on Indian poetry. One article soon turned to two more with advance payments.

Further, a London-based company Argo Records Ltd. which specialized in classical music stepped forward with an advance of £25 and paid for the Gaumont-British machine and the tapes against future royalties.

With all this support, Deben soon returned to London with enough materials to create almost five records. One of these was published as ‘Songs from Bombay,’ a production that marked his historic journey across the world!

12,000 miles away from his dream

His trip to Bombay was the beginning, and Deben soon decided to travel through the Middle East, capturing the music and sounds of the people.

But there was one problem in the proposition⁠—he didn’t know how to drive. So, he sought the help of ⁠Colin, an architecture student, to drive 12,000 miles with him.

Both were different, Deben loved music, while Colin loved buildings. But, they bonded on their shared wanderlust, and Colin managed to drive a converted milk van, on the condition of visiting Chandigarh, the Indian city designed by the modernist architect Le Corbusier.

Once Deben agreed, a third member Henri joined too, purely driven by his hunger for an adventure!

During this journey, Deben recorded more than 40 hours of music. Some of these were released on the 1956 LP Music on the Desert Road: A Sound Travelogue. From a music enthusiast and an amateur, he went on to become one of the world’s most renowned ethnomusicologists of all time, changing people’s approach to music forever.

While he continued to record his experiences on the tape recorder and the camera, he also maintained a travel diary which encapsulated the details of every single person he met, the music he listened along with simple stories of love, kindness and joy.

Later, although this manuscript hid under the burden of several other music projects and was forgotten for almost 60 years, his wife Jharna, continued her pursuit to get this piece published, even after his death in 2001.

Paris to Calcutta: Men and Music on the Desert Road published on Sublime Recordings in 2018, is the outcome of that resolve by Jharna and Rober Millis, a music enthusiast inspired by Deben.

Millis, who works for the Seattle-based Sublime Recordings, along with Jharna, has brought Deben’s journey back to life through his diary that gives a detailed insight into the expedition.

From the harmonious beats of the Bedouins grinding their coffee on the harsh desert to the devotional bhajans in India, every turn of the pages has a magical and musical story to tell, which thanks to them, is not forgotten anymore.

Also Read: Lost Tales: How Mysore’s Maharaja Created History in Western Classical Music

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

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He was just another boy living in a small house, tucked away in a quiet alley of Santhoshi Nagar, Siliguri. Born in a middle-class family, he grew up listening to a recurring maxim⁠—that education and only education can make a person successful in life.

For his parents, the idea of this education was a conventional one; they wanted their son to become a doctor.

But he harboured a different dream. A passionate dancer, his insatiable thirst to learn and courage to seek a different kind of education, led him down a road rarely taken.

It is important to be comfortable while dancing. Check out this range of garments made from bamboo grass, that are light, breezy, and eco-friendly, here.

“I was always a good student, and that made my parents proud. They wanted me to study medicine because that’s what good students do and my interest in dance was not seen in a positive light,” says Dipesh Verma, one of the very few male ballet dancers in India.

Today, with his hard work and a never-give-up spirit, Dipesh has received a scholarship to top ballet institutes, and has emerged to be a source of inspiration to hundreds of youngsters who seek to follow their heart and do something different!

A Road Rarely Taken

Dipesh narrates how he discovered his passion for dance when he was only four years old. He was fascinated enough to seek formal training but was too scared to ask.

But he could only wait for so long. A few years later, aged 7, he mustered up the courage to speak to his parents.

“They were not very happy, especially my father. As a kid, I would watch people dance on the TV and would try and replicate all the steps. This would upset him deeply. In our neighbourhood, dance was not seen as something worth pursuing, especially for boys. My cousin sister, however, would come to my rescue. It was with her help that I could manage to go to a dance academy when I was 9-years-old. I remember how I would lie to my parents saying that I was going for maths tuition. She would then take me to the dance classes, three days a week,” recalls Dipesh, whose father owns a grocery shop.

After some time, his father eventually found out all about the lie and put an end to it.

“I was devastated, but my resolve to dance grew stronger. I began to start learning through YouTube videos. I was around 13 years when I fell in love with ballet, after seeing Sophia Lucia perform in one such video. But I had to fight a lot of prejudice. People around me had no idea about ballet, and to add to my woes, ballet is often perceived as a feminine art form. So, as a male ballet dancer, explaining everything was hard, but I knew I was ready for it,” he says.

Unable to practice at home because of his father, he would grab the slightest of opportunities. From empty parks to midnight sessions when his parents would be asleep, Dipesh would give his heart and soul to perfect the art.

And, owing to this hard work, at the age of 15, he was finally accepted to the Imperial Fernando Ballet Company, New Delhi. However, he had to let go of the opportunity as he was still in school at the time.

But, a year later, after completing his Class 12, Dipesh moved to Mumbai, to pursue his dream. Eventually, in 2018, he was accepted to The Danceworx Performing Arts Academy, and received a full scholarship after just two days of dance sessions!

“My struggles continued. I had come to Mumbai just with Rs 7000, which got over soon, and I didn’t have the money to afford a place to stay. Also, I was underage, so there were no jobs for me. There were days when I crashed at my friends’ place, but I have also slept on railway platforms. But, I was happy because I got to do what I love⁠—dance.”

Thanks to his hard work and positive attitude, Dipesh’s star is undoubtedly on the rise. He is one of the few male ballet professionals in India and hopes to represent the country in this sphere.

Earlier this year, he won scholarships from six leading ballet institutes in the US and France. These include the Nashville Classical Ballet Academy, Ballet Academy East, Maryland Youth Ballet, CPYB Men’s Programme, Berkeley Ballet Theater and Paris Marais Ballet School.

While he plans to move to Paris, the scholarship does not cover all his expenses, and hence he is raising funds online.

“I want to learn ballet, work with the best and then eventually return to India. It’s my dream to nurture more blooming ballet talents, especially the North East,” concludes the 18-year-old.

We extend our best wishes to Dipesh. You can do your bit and help this rising star fulfil his dreams by clicking here.

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

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For us, a day before any festival was always the worst. Chaos ensued as my mother single-handedly made all the arrangements. From shopping, cleaning, decoration to food, everything seemed like a mess, waiting to blow up in our faces. But, she would not forget the tradition of Alpona—the traditional Bengali art that has been passed down through generations for many centuries now!

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My grandmother taught it to my mother, who did the same for me and my brother. Motifs of sun, lotus, fish, swastika, owl, snake, footprints of goddess Lakshmi, or even abstract designs are meant to be a symbolic welcome to the Gods and the minute creatures of nature, especially during prominent holy festivals like Saraswati Puja (also known as Vasant Panchami), Makar Sankranti, Diwali and Durga Puja.

I remember how, amid all the pandemonium, my mother would still manage to make me a white paste of rice flour and sneak it into my hands. “Go! Make something beautiful,” she would order with a slight smile smoothing away the worry lines from her tense face. I would hurry to the door and sit down to create the intricate patterns and beautiful swirls covering the expanse of a porch or verandah. The only time when I would not get punished for scribbling designs on the floor. It was the best part of the festivals for me, apart from the food, of course.

Roots of the Ritual

An ancient tradition, this laborious ritual of finger-painting geometrical or free-hand motifs, is known by various names in different parts of the country. While in Bengal and Assam, it is known as Alpona, people in Bihar call it Aripana, Jinnuti in Odisha, Rangoli in Maharashtra, Pakhamba in Manipur, Kolam in Tamil Nadu and Apna in Almora and Nainital.

In Bengal, however, we use the term ‘Alpona’ which finds roots in a Sanskrit word called ‘alimpan’, which means ‘to coat’ or ‘plaster’. A few sources also claim that the root of the term could be non-Aryan, derived from ‘ailpona’- the art of making ‘ails’ or embankment, believed to keep homes, neighbourhoods or villages safe and prosperous.

“The designs drawn on the floor have a magical power and presence. They were used as welcoming signs at the entrance of the house, for a guest must be welcomed with grace and elegance. Beauty being equated with godliness, it was also the symbol of good omen and had therefore to be associated with every phase of life,” writes Stephen Huyler in Painted Prayers, Women’s Art in Village India.

Contrary to its contemporaries, Alpona is not dry. It is a liquid paste made of the slurry of atop chaal (refined rice), and was originally drawn on a base of clay mixed with cow dung. Although, predominantly it is white in colour, artists can add hues to the design using turmeric paste for yellow and red clay with vermillion paste for crimson.

Strokes Connecting Communities and Nature

The very fact that Alpona is drawn using rice flour also means that earlier it served as bhutayajna, that is, an offering of rice flour to tiny creatures like ants and other insects as one’s good deed of the day. Further, rice powder is a cleansing element which is traditionally attributed to preventing chicken pox during the summer and is hence applied on the faces of children in several parts of India as a preventive measure.

The ritual, usually practiced by women, is also intertwined with an aspect of self expression. Alponas often associated with broto or vrat (fast) on the one hand, was practiced by married women for their husbands, but, on the other, also emerged as a symbol of expression where they could not only let their imaginations run wild, but also create a safe space of dialogue outside of their houses, in a patriarchal social setup, as observed by Madhupa Bakshi, dean of Media Science Department of Heritage Academy, Kolkata, as well as Rabi Biswas, a practitioner and researcher on the art.

Hence, sprinkled with symbology and traditional wisdom, a stroke of Alpona for generations has continued to tie together the social fabric of Bengal–something that is fading with time–against the ease of chemical paint-dripping brush strokes or worse, plastic sticker rangolis.

Abhishek Saha, is a photojournalist who has been visiting Lankamura, 10 kilometers away from Agartala, Tripura , for almost a decade, for its special Makar Sankranti celebration. Here, the women cover the streets of the village with huge Alpona designs every year.

Speaking to The Better India, about the fading tradition, he says, “It takes almost a week-long labour to create these beautiful pieces of art. And, now the new generation, always stuck to their phones on social media, is choosing to take shortcuts instead of putting much effort. Unfortunately, the art seems to be dying, as the older women told me this time. I hope with my photos, I can show and warn the world what they are about to miss in the next few years, if not preserved!”

The time-taking task of grinding the rice and making a paste for the paint is an emotional and organic testimony that needs to be protected, preserved and passed on, just not as a nostalgic memory, but a substantial social contribution.

Also Read: How a Pinch of Rice Flour, Math & Imagination Led to the Ancient Art of Kolam

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

All the photos were clicked in Lankamura, 10 km away from Agartala, Tripura by Abhisek Saha.

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There are certain stereotypes that we all ascribe to–think of a Bharatanatyam dancer, and the mind automatically conjures up images of a woman with a big bindi, beautiful kohl-lined eyes, draped in a bright Kanjivaram saree and jewellery to complement it all.

Here’s a different image.

Meet 35-year-old Charles Ma, a Bharatanatyam performer, and teacher who is a complete anti-thesis to all our stereotypes. A Bengalurean at heart, his ancestry is rather interesting. “My paternal grandfather is ethnic Chinese, and my grandmother is Nepalese, while my mother is from the North-East,” he begins.

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Born and raised in Bengaluru, Charles is fluent in Kanada and Tamil.

Charles spoke to me after a 16-hour long day, and not once during the conversation did his energy level dip. Passionate, determined, and outspoken, he talks about Bengaluru’s transition from a sleepy town to an IT hub.

When asked about his early initiation into dance and performing arts, he says, “I grew up in a conservative environment where my parents were of the view that boys don’t dance, but it was because of a few aunts in my family that I got the push and the confidence to go out and dance.”

Almost thirty years later, there is only a very slight improvement in this regard. He agrees, “There has been a change, but it’s just still just the tip of the iceberg.”

Growing up in a Tamil neighbourhood, he would walk into temples, speak, and eat, like everyone else. But he looked ‘different’ due to his mixed lineage. And he would only realise this when people around him stared at him long enough.

Exposure to Bengaluru’s pub culture and his sense of rhythm drew him to dance. He noticed that classical dancers inspired awe and reverence, emotions that he aspired to evoke in his viewers. So, he decided to learn Bharatnatyam.

Encouragement comes in all forms, but for Charles, it was inspired by a snub. “I was dancing at one of the discotheques in the city, where a theatre director saw me and chose me for one of his productions. But a senior classical dancer said that I couldn’t do it.”

He paid no heed to the comment but had to pursue the art form, just to prove to himself and the critic, that he could.

Thus began his tryst with the art form. Charles says, “Bharatanatyam is like a lover who demands generous love, constant attention, single-minded focus, commitment, hard work and most importantly, a sense of deepened spirituality.”

Two decades since he began learning this form after being told that he couldn’t, he has come to teach others. His class has 40 dance enthusiasts from different age groups, where the youngest is five-years-old while the oldest is 35.

He tells me that one of his older students will be performing her ‘Arangetram’, the debut solo-dance performance, in November.

And he continues to push boundaries, by learning the various styles the art offers–from Bollywood and contemporary to classical dance.

“Getting up every morning to teach and learn the art form is very satisfying for me,” he says.

Individuals like him help break the stereotypes that we all cherish. He concludes, “I have now begun to look at dance in its purest form. I am doing it for art’s sake and not because it brings me any accolades or awards, and that is so liberating.”

If you are in Bengaluru and would like to either learn Bharatnatyam or watch Charles perform, check out his Facebook page.

Also Read: This Photographer Is Making Learning Special for the Differently-Abled

(Edited by Shruti Singhal)

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