S. Hareesh is the assistant village officer at Neendoor, a hamlet tucked away in the hills of central Kerala. He’s also the mind behind India’s latest entry to the Oscars, Jallikattu. The film is based on Hareesh’s Malayalam short story Maoist, which he adapted for the screen along with friend and writer R Jayakumar. He also recently won the JCB literary award for Moustache, the English translation of his novel Meesha.

Jallikattu refers to the traditional event of running bulls. But the film is not about the sport itself. It is about the chaos that ensues when a water buffalo escapes a butcher’s hands and the whole village tries to catch it. This main thread interwoven with snippets of the villagers’ lives reveals man’s own bestial side.

The film is set in a village very much like Hareesh’s own. There would often be news about a buffalo that had run amok, with local officials urging people to stay indoors. Hareesh built on these regular happenings to create a dramatic story.

The film was picked as India’s entry to the 93rd Academy Awards by a 14-member committee of the Film Federation of India from a shortlist of 26 films. It is the third Malayalam film after Guru (1997) and Adaminte Makan Abu (2011) to represent India at the Oscar’s.

“Of course I am elated that the film has been chosen as India’s Oscar entry!” Hareesh tells The Better India. “I know it’s going to be an impossibly tough race, but there is still the desire to win.”

Turning Words Into Moving Visuals

Hareesh never imagined that any of his fiction would be turned into a film. In 2018, three stories from his anthology, Aadam, were combined into a film called Aedan by director Sanju Surendran.

Soon after, Lijo Jose Pellissery of Ee.Ma.Yau and Angamaly Diaries fame phoned him about making a film based on another piece in the same anthology.

They became friends, developing their vision and screenplay for the movie over months. They roped in Jayakumar and the trio would meet every week to work on the script.

“We had a lot of fun writing it,” Hareesh says, enthusiastically.

The most challenging aspect of converting his short story into a screenplay was ridding it of all backstories, exposition, and thoughts. Everything that happens has to be shown visually.

Despite writing the screenplay, the author was really surprised by the end product. It’s not at all the film he had pictured in his head.

“And that’s the magic of creating something like a film. At every stage, each person adds their own transformational touch to the project,” Hareesh says.

And his favourite moment in the film (spoiler alert!) is when the beast is being lifted out of a well by a huge crowd. As it comes out, its eyes meet those of an old man who is watching the concerted yet chaotic effort from a distance.

He did not elaborate on its significance as the author prefers to leave “interpretations open to the audience.”

How Jallikattu Diverges From The Short Story

Like most literary film adaptations, Jallikattu has significant differences from Maoist. And for good reason, says Hareesh.

“Just like I used an ordinary occurrence as inspiration for my story, the director is free to use my story as fodder for his film. Ultimately, a film is the director’s work and vision,” explains the writer.

In Hareesh’s short story, two animals (a buffalo and a bull) escape from the butcher. But because buffaloes and bulls are so hard to tell apart on the screen, they decided to use just one buffalo in the film.

There are also thematic differences. While the tone of Maoist is extremely satirical, Jallikattu is less so, focusing more on mob behaviour. The initial part of the short story speaks of how the buffalo reached the village all the way from Andhra Pradesh, but the movie starts off on the day of its planned slaughter.

A Message For Aspiring Writers

“Writing is like a personal quest, so I cannot really offer any guidance or words of advice,” Hareesh says, adding, “But I will say this much: Write honestly.”

He admits to not writing much when he was in school or college, but he says he used to read a lot. He studied Malayalam literature and took up a government job. Only then, at the age of 22, did he pen his first short and send it off to a magazine. He kept working as an assistant village officer and published when he could. But thanks to his recent literary success, he is on leave from his government job and writes full-time these days.

Between short stories, novels, and screenplays, the novel is his favourite form. However, among his own works, the one he likes the most is a short story called Appan. His latest undertaking is a film titled Churuli, a Malayalam science fiction film, also directed by Lijo Jose Pellissery.

Seems like they make a winning team! We, at The Better India, wish them the very best for their Oscar run.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

Back in 2014 Rasheed Ruksha, a resident of Kerala, saw some students exercising on the Perumbavoor Asram Ground who were at risk of hurting themselves as they were doing the exercises wrong. He corrected them and offered to train them for free.

“I have seen many students aimlessly roaming Perumbavoor Asram Ground without having a job. So, I thought of training them for free, in the belief that it would help them get a decent job in state or central government,” he says, adding, “I personally feel that more than money, a student’s prayer would help me. So that is the main reason behind the free training.”

The 54-year-old, who is also president of the Asram Joggers Club that aims to help society to live a better life, informed the club members about the students and they agreed to open the ground for their practice session.

But this physical trainer initially started out as a photographer. He tells The Better India how he combines his two passions.

Balancing Profession And Passion

Since childhood, the Ernakulam native was very curious to know how photos were taken, printed and how albums were created.

“During the 1980’s there were less professional photographers in Kerala,” says Rasheed.

Recalling the first time he held a camera, Rasheed says, “Many used to bring their autofocus cameras to Kerala from abroad but very few knew how to operate it. After watching some photographers use the camera, I, too, learned how to use it when I was 21.”

He goes on to share that his very first opportunity to take pictures for an event was at a wedding when the bride and groom needed a last-minute photographer. “Without thinking twice I said yes and that’s how I got my first shot to click pictures,” he says.

While Rasheed initially provided free pictures to his patrons, due to his immense love of photography, it was only later that he started to charge them a fee to earn his livelihood. As he started to get a decent income from it he thought of opening a studio.

In 1987, with the money he earned from photography, he bought a new camera and opened a studio in Ernakulam’s Perumbavoor. In the same year, he also joined a gym and within a small period of time, Rasheed learned all the exercises. Soon, in the absence of the trainer, Rasheed started training the new students at the gym.

Impressed by his passion and love towards fitness, the gym owner offered him a job. And so, being given the chance to practice both his hobbies daily — photography and physical training, Rasheed jumped at the opportunity to be a freelance gym trainer. “It feels good when we can do what we love for a living,” he exclaims.

Constructive Criticism Makes a Great Teacher

Fast forward three decades later, Rasheed now trains the students to cover 100m in 14 sec (for boys), 17 sec (for girls), 200 m in 26 sec for girls and 1500m in 5 min for boys. He also trains them in shot put, rope climbing, pull-ups, high jump, long jump, shuttle race and skipping, among other exercises.

After watching Rasheed’s training sessions on Youtube, many girls also contacted him for training.

In the past six years since 2014, when he first began training students, he has now trained over 300 students—50 girls and 250 boys—most of whom have cleared their physical tests. Among them, around 90 students have joined Government service too.

“On all days except Sundays, from 6 am to 9 am, I train my students at Perumbavoor Asram Ground. And after training, I’m at the studio experimenting with photography to earn a living. Most of my students are aspiring for jobs with the airport authority, police, customs and other government departments,” Rasheed says.

“I came to know about Rasheed sir through one of my friends. It has been two weeks since I started taking physical training, and today, I am preparing for the Sub-Inspector (SI) test. Rasheed sir is a big motivation to all students. Seeing his passion towards physical training, we get more confidence,” says Monisha M Mohan.

Rasheed also adds that many assume that he may not train the students well as he does it for free. But he ensures that his students are provided the best training to pass the physical training exams easily.

All the equipment used for training on the ground is also bought by Rasheed for the students.

Most of Rasheed’s students are from Ernakulam district, however, he does get students coming from Kozhikode and Munnar. “Some students train for three to six months or even a year. The training period depends upon the student’s body type. If the students are ready to do hard work, they will succeed without any doubt,” says the trainer, who lives with his wife, two daughters and one son.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

Uday Shankar, the father of Indian contemporary dance who made his mark on the global stage, has a beautiful quote which in many ways encapsulates his life’s work. “I take the help of the modern to make others understand the ancient. I take the West to the East. I take the modern art of presentation to show the spirit of India. I am a selector of truth, of beauty. Whatever is beautiful to me is real art,” he once said.

(Image above: Uday Shankar and Amala Shankar in this 1948 classic film, Kalpana. Source: Wikimedia Commons)

A Padma Vibhushan and Sangeet Natak Akademi awardee, Uday Shankar, the elder brother of famed sitarist Pandit Ravi Shankar, played a pivotal role in fusing Indian and Western culture with his unique style characterised by Indian non-classical dance forms.

These performances incorporated musical “sound images” for effect from legendary musicians like Vishnu Das Shirali and Alauddin Khan Sahab. This went much beyond the standard relationship between dance and musical accompaniment.

Hugely popular in the West through the first half of the 20th century, he was a legendary figure who forged his own path without undergoing any classical training.

Today, we celebrate his 120th birth anniversary.

Early Life, Influences

Born on 8 December 1900 in Udaipur, Rajasthan, Uday’s father, Shyamashankar Choudhury, worked for the erstwhile princely state of Jhalawar. But Uday and his three younger brothers grew up in their maternal home in Nazratpur village near Varanasi.

One of his earliest memories of dancing was thanks to his mother. Speaking to Sombhu Mitra on a Kolkata-based TV network, he recalls, “My mother used to dress me as a girl, as she did not have a daughter — and would ask me to dance. I used to perform any movements that came to me. I did not know how to dance but I did, and I am thankful to my mother for that.”

Influences also came from watching members of the Chamar caste community, who were predominantly leather workers, perform during Holi festivals, besides other folk dances. However, his talents at the time predominantly lay in painting. Such was Uday’s talent that the Maharaja of Jhalawar convinced his father to enroll him into the Sir JJ School of Art.

After finishing his diploma course there, he left for London in August 1920 to enroll into the Royal College of Art for his higher studies. Thanks to his prodigious talent in painting, he finished the five-year course in three. It was his college principal, Sir William Rothstein, who convinced Uday to immerse himself into Indian culture.

It was those innumerable hours spent at the British Museum reading about Indian painting and sculptures that finally brought him back to dancing. He was particularly fascinated by the pictures of sculptures depicting Indian gods and goddesses in a series of dance poses.

“Thus began his fascination with pictures of Indian sculptures—gods and goddesses in various dancing poses. Noting their communicative powers, he began imitating the poses. Although not a trained dancer, he did not hold himself back, as for him the images were inspiration enough to translate them into movements,” notes Ashish Mohan Khokar, a well-known art historian, biographer, art critic and scholar for Sahapedia.

When he was in college, he presented his first dance performance on 20 June 1922 organised by the League of Mercy, a British foundation founded by the Royal Charter of Queen Victoria. Titled ‘Sword Dance’, it even evoked adulation from King George V. More importantly, the legendary Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova was also in the audience.

In search of composers and choreographers for miniature ballets she was planning on producing based on Indian themes, she found Uday. After further impressing her during a private audience where Uday reproduced poses from Indian sculpture he had seen, Pavlova took him in despite not undergoing any classical training in ballet.

As Uday told Sombhu Mitra, “I did not know ballet. Anna Pavlova saw me dancing and liked my style. She later gave me the responsibility to create something Indian — and I gave her ‘Radha Krishna’ and ‘Hindu Marriage’ which she really liked.” Both these ballets became hugely popular in the West since people there had never seen anything like this before.

Dancing with Anna and helping her choreograph multiple pieces for a year changed Uday’s life forever. It was Anna who pushed Uday into improving his Indian technique and style even though he was quite fascinated by western dance forms.

In another interview, he said, “Anna opened my eyes when she told me not to imitate the Western style as people in the West would much like to see all that was Indian in dances, characteristically connected with the Indian art.”

After a one-year stint with Anna, Uday started his own dance troupe in 1924 in Paris. But the transition away from Pavlova’s patronage proved difficult.

“Whereas the success and public acclaim during his association with Pavlova had provided assured financial and professional stability, his departure from her company left him unemployed. Without patronage for the first time in his life, Shankar was in extreme circumstances. The freedom to create was no longer a given, but a scarcely affordable luxury as the daily needs of survival encroached on his productive time,” notes scholar Ruth K. Abrahams in the journal Dance Chronicle. To make ends meet, Ruth notes that Uday danced wherever he could including the “small, noisy” and smokey cabarets.

Success beckons

But these are the spaces where he established a raw connect with the audience. After the early struggles, things began to turn around for him in 1926. After working with two sisters, Adelaide and Sokie, former members of Pavlova’s troupe, he teamed up with Simonoe Bardier, a Paris-based pianist, who took up dance taking the stage name of ‘Simkie’.

“With Simkie, a new era began. Uday started choreographing newer dance pieces, both solos and duets. The partnership of Uday and Simkie​ soon became immensely popular and the duo was soon being invited to present numerous shows. In 1926, while touring Europe, he met Alice Boner, a Swiss painter and sculptress. Fascinated and deeply impressed by Uday’s dance, she did a series of clay models and drawings of Uday in various dance poses. They met again in 1929 in Paris and grew close. When he decided to travel back to India to seek out trained dancers and musicians for his troupe, she volunteered to accompany him. They set sail for India on 4 January 1930,” notes Ashish Mohan Khokar.

For months, Uday travelled across the length and breadth of India, covering “the Ajanta-Ellora cave paintings; the architecture of South Indian temples; the Madras art scene, apart from finding out about the Bengal masters, Odisha crafts and more,” notes Ashish.

Through his later performances, he would portray themes depicted on the Ajanta and Ellora caves, besides miniature paintings of the Rajputs and Mughals as well.

“His adaptation of European theatrical techniques to Indian dance made his art hugely popular both in India and abroad, and he is rightly credited for ushering in a new era for traditional Indian temple dances, which until then had been known for their strict interpretations, and which were also going through their own revival,” notes this profile.

After spending years in the West, he set up base back home in 1938, opening the Uday Shankar India Culture Centre in Almora to popularise classical Indian dance forms based on the recommendation of Rabindranath Tagore. Some of his early trainees here included the actor Zohra Sehgal, a young Guru Dutt and this is where he also met his future wife, Amala Shankar, a legendary dancer in her own right.

Sadly, due to a lack of funds, the centre had to shut down. Despite his disappointment, he would go onto work on his magnum opus and India’s first dance-centric film — Kalpana, in Chennai. Released in 1948, the film bombed commercially, but it was critically acclaimed. Kalpana became a reference point for many filmmakers, including Satyajit Ray.

After Kalpana, Uday once again toured the world with his troupe. Although some of the youthful energy had dissipated, the magic remained.

One such performance was ‘The Great Renunciation’ inspired by the story of Buddha in New York. Performed sometime in the 1950s towards the latter half of his career, here is what one journalist covering it had to say: “Frequently, when the curtain goes down on this ballet, one notices many members of the audience taking out their handkerchiefs to wipe away their tears. It may seem strange that in a country where the Buddha is little known, the story of his renunciation should produce a deep and moving effect and of course, the credit for the emotional expression goes to Mr. Shankar.”

The following decades saw him settle in Kolkata, training his own children Ananda and Mamata, alongside other dancers as well. He passed away on 26 September 1977, leaving behind a remarkable legacy.

“Uday Shankar’s legacy is both rich and varied. A whole new approach to dance, which was Indian without being based on any one classical style. A rare achievement at a time when most works were based on classical dances. He also gave mega productions a huge platform, on the lines of Bolshoi or Broadway,” notes Ashish Mohan Khokar for The Hindu.

As Uday once said, “More than anything else, art has no boundaries of nationality, race or creed. To create more understanding through dance as an art is the whole basis of my international performances.”

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

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W hen you step into Farmer’s Share, Ambrose Kooliyath’s organic farm and craft centre on the outskirts of Shornur, you immediately feel a sense of calm. A few women are occupied with working the looms at the Khadi weaving unit, while the heady aroma of butter emanates from the kitchen and warehouse.

Here, cookies are being baked – unconventional flavours like curry leaf and moringa leaf, which taste heavenly.

The centre’s pottery unit’s talents are displayed via terracotta pots with different kinds of hanging and flowering plants. Hibiscus bushes surround the area, with carpets of red flowers laid out in the sun to dry. A worker gathers a batch of colourful sun-dried leaves and flowers, which will be used to make dye. Adorable indie dogs run around – their occasional barking and the splashing of fish in the irrigation pond are the only sounds that break the silence in this part of the farm. Walk further, and you enter the woods, and finally the Nila River.

Ambrose’s wife Mini Elizabeth, their two sons Amal and Akhil, and a few teenagers staying on the farm to learn and help, go about their duties quietly. Twenty-year-old Amal designs the orders at the handweaving unit with his friend Rashid, while 18-year-old Akhil designs the terracotta cookware and planters.

On his philosophy in life, Ambrose says, “The essence of it all is the Gandhian concept of self-sufficiency and self-reliance. His idea of a just society is one where the basic needs of a person – food, clothing and shelter – are met with products sourced from within one’s locality, and not imported from outside. The farm is an attempt at that.”

“There was a time when families survived on the produce from their compound and made houses using locally available material. Now, for every morsel of food, every household item or piece of clothing, we’re dependent completely on the market and international brands. Kerala currently imports more than 80 per cent of the rice it needs from other states,” he adds.

Farmer’s Share is also a centre for learning, where children and adults can learn practical life skills like farming, weaving, construction, pottery and associated crafts.

“There is no school or that teaches children such farm skills.”

One may wonder why the youngsters on the farm are not in school on a weekday morning. However, Ambrose’s two sons have never attended school, or been homeschooled. “We might be 100 per cent literate in Kerala, but how many know how to grow their own food or build a house for themselves? There is no school or education system that teaches children such basic life skills either,” Ambrose says. That, he adds, is precisely why he decided to teach his children such skills instead of sending them to conventional schools.

Read More: Maharashtra Man Quits Steady Job To Farm Figs, Has Turnover of Rs 1.5 Crore/Year

“I’m continuously bombarded with queries about my children’s future. But this is not an alternative education model. I just moved my kids away from a system which churns out education aimed at a particular “respectable” set of professions that consider all else below their dignity,” he says.
He quickly adds that he is well aware that total self-sufficiency and self-reliance is impossible in the current circumstances, and he only does what he can. “I’m not saying everyone should grow their own rice and weave their own clothes. But we should try and see why a farmer doesn’t want his son to follow in his steps. Because he is not given a fair price for his produce, neither is he allowed to set one. In our farm, we sell our own produce, and associate with neighbourhood farmers and help them sell their products at a fair price.”

“It’s their right, not charity.”

The focus of the food section is hibiscus products – tea, concentrate, jame, infuse, honey and dye. The reason behind this, Ambrose says, is because hibiscus is native to their state. “It grows easily, with least chances of pest attacks. The same goes for tulsi. These are rich in Vitamin C and have plenty of other health benefits. Also, corporates have taken over our mountains for tea estates. Why depend on a market for a cup of tea when you can grow your own in your garden?” he asks.

The property also has plenty of jackfruits, mango and plantain trees, the produce of which are used to make daily meals for the residents. “The idea is that nothing should go to waste. Everything is available in plenty in the markets, which is why people throw away anything which looks less than perfect. We utilise each and every edible part of the vegetables, fruits and plants, and preserve the rest by pickling, drying and powdering them – even tomato and onion,” Ambrose says.

The hibiscus and trees are planted randomly, and farming is done in such a way that birds and squirrels are allowed to eat first. “It’s their right, not charity. The moment one stops expecting a particular amount of yield, things become easy. I make sure to harvest the hibiscus flowers in the evening so the bees can get their share of honey in the morning,” he adds.

While the weaving unit is associated with Khadi, the colouring of the textiles using natural dyes was developed by Ambrose.

“We use flowers and leaves of hibiscus, rose, turmeric, and also weeds considered useless, like communist pacha, for the dyes.”

Ambrose himself is the engineer and architect of all the buildings in the property. Materials used include earth, sawdust, stones and bamboo sourced from the neighbourhood.

An entire cabin for visitors has been made with left-over wood from a guitar manufacturing unit, while the roof of an outdoor hut is thatched with dried river grass from the nearby area of Bharathappuzha.

“Why I left it all to launch Farmer’s Share Farm three years ago.”

“I am basically a stonemason. I had to leave school to work in construction at the age of 15, to support my family,” Ambrose, who is a native of Vypin in Kochi, says. However, those seven years working as a mason helped him with all his craft ventures, he says. “Technically, I’m a school dropout. But my confidence comes from my knowledge and ability to build a house for myself.”

The turning point in his life came when he joined a Gandhian movement named Swashraya Vypin at the age of 22, “I learnt about the possibilities of organic farming and food in camps held as part of the movement. Later, I improvised on it and started a minimal investment organic eatery named Grasshopper in Kochi with a few friends. It was part of a tourist home where all kinds of art and culture programmes were held. I met all kinds of people.”

It was the first time Malayalis felt organic food could be tasty as well, and a regular visitor named Manjunath suggested that he and Ambrose collaborate. Together, they started a full-fledged organic restaurant named Lumiere, which ran for 14 years, first in Kochi and later in Bangalore. “It was very fulfilling, but I always wanted to focus on the concept of self-sufficiency; permaculture farming is just one part of such a lifestyle. I wanted to expand the concept of self-sufficiency to all aspects of life, which is why I left it all to launch Farmer’s Share three years ago. I included handweaving and pottery because both are dying fields,” says Ambrose.

The farm is owned by a trust comprising Ambrose, Mini and their friend Manoj Kumar IB, an IT engineer cum organic food enthusiast.

People often ask him about his alternative way of life, but Ambrose can’t understand why he is considered different. “Shouldn’t self-reliance be the norm? During the lockdown, we minimised shopping and treasured every bit of food, because we feared scarcity. Isn’t that how things should be all our lives? I don’t wish to find fault with society, I have immense faith in the power of human beings to change and adapt. But I’m a small man with no great power of influence. I can only send a message through my own life, which is what I’m doing,” he signs off.

(Edited by Divya Sethu)

“Just as in a jungle one senses the presence of an animal one cannot see, I could sense, as I entered the weavers’ world, something important just out of sight, that might transform that world, or be the key to a golden future for Indian cotton hand weaving.”

The words of the mononymous Uzramma—who has been attempting to restore the 3000-year-old legacy of India’s cotton handloom tradition for the last 20 years—hit hard. She has been pushing to reinstate the autonomy of the country’s small growers, ginners, spinners, dyers and weavers. To do this, she’s using malkha (amalgamation of mulmul and khadi), a fabric that is all-encompassing in the sense of generating livelihood, promoting a sustainable way of life, and pushing for environment-friendly living.

In the early 19th century, India was the largest producer of cotton, and dominated the world’s textile export market. But today, the story reads differently. The big spinning mills that the country uses now were introduced by the British. Since these mills were located in England, the Brits would have to carry cotton yarn from India to England. For this, they would compress the cotton to a block, also known as baling, and the material would attain a rigidity that was almost wood-like. After the shipments would reach England, this cotton block would be decompressed (unbaling). This entire process would take away from the elasticity, strength and colour retention of the cotton. India has since followed the same process.

This is where 76-year-old Uzramma stepped in. “Now, India grows mostly American cotton, having lost sight of the incredible varieties we had been growing for centuries,” she says, adding, “History records the fine Dhakai muslin and the chintz exported to Europe, but India’s real strength lay in the coarse cotton cloth woven by ordinary people for their own use. The small weavers who sold laterally to visiting traders within local markets thrived for at least two millennia, till the British decided, after the industrial revolution, that this polished, home-grown system was inimical to their manufacturing interests.”

‘What of the cotton farmer?’

“Indian agriculture is a vast patchwork of small farms, spread over a diverse countryside that varies in climate, soils and access to water,” says Uzramma. “The way cotton is grown and the way it is treated are integral parts of their [the weavers’] way of life, which is essentially small-scale and diverse in nature.”

She adds, “The introduction of spinning machinery designed to suit mass production is an anomaly. The farmer suffers by being forced to grow cotton for this machinery, a single variety that has taken over the cotton fields of India, that needs irrigation and attracts pests, that can’t stand up to the floods and droughts that are endemic to the Indian climate. The hand weaver gets only the one kind of yarn the machines can make, losing the diversity of yarn that underpins regional specialization of fabrics. We have become dependent on a technology that calls the shots, that dominates both farmers and weaver.”

The making of…

Uzramma was born in Hyderabad. Raised in a family that had a strong footing in politics, she grew up aware of the fact that privilege and social consciousness move together. Her uncle was an early leader of the Communist Party of India, and her grandmother fought against the purdah system, and was also a member of the legislative assembly. Despite her family’s progressiveness, Uzramma was engaged to be married against her will at the age of 19, and had her first child at 21. She never got to complete her college education.

During her 10-year stay in England with her businessman husband from 1979-89, Uzramma developed an interest in artisanal crafts. “Learning goldsmithing, engraving, and the coordination of the hand, eye and brain changed my way of thinking,” she recalls. When she returned to India, she began volunteering at the Andhra Pradesh Handicrafts Development Corporation Ltd, wherein she would help in developing stronger colour palettes for Kondapalli toys and Etikoppaka lacquerware. After she got in touch with Dastkar (a Delhi-based crafts organisation), one of the founders suggested she launch the organisation’s Andhra chapter, which Uzramma set up in 1996. This catapulted her journey towards malkha fabric, with which she is now synonymous.

In the ’80s, a few scientists who had set up the Patriotic and People-Oriented Science and Technology (PPST) Foundation supported Uzramma’s research into cotton. Together, they began looking into the development of a cotton yarn based on the idea that cotton textiles were central to the people’s economy. While she was still working with Dastkar’s Andhra chapter, she started experimenting with the idea of growing cotton and weaving cloth not based on revivalist ideology, but as a movement that would be contemporary and economically sustainable. In 2005, Uzramma founded the Decentralised Cotton Yarn Trust (DCYT). The idea was to make yarn specifically for the handloom, revive the farmer-spinner-ginner-dyer-weaver chain, and transfer the ownership of the means of production to the people in the chain. This is how malkha was born.

Behind the spindles

Malkha, also known as the ‘freedom fabric’ has many attributes that stand out. Because Uzramma has removed the baling-unbaling process from its manufacturing, the final product has bounce, tenacity and brilliant colour retention, and is also breathable. Moreover, the fabric uses only natural dyes. Malkha’s blog states, “Blue is natural indigo dyed in traditional cold fermentation vats; the yellow is pomegranate rind with harda; a touch of kasimi turns it grey-green. Catechu heartwood is brown. All of the above are natural plant dyes, while red, the only exception, is non-toxic alizarin.”

The fabric has two spinning units in Ellanthakunta and Thangallapally, and the cotton delivered to these is only ginned, and never baled. Four weaving units exist in Ellanthakunta, Thangallapally and Pachnuru in Telangana, and Kaza in Andhra Pradesh. Uzramma’s initiative supports both weavers working in both loom sheds as well as at their homes. Fabric is sent to Machilipatnam and Gujarat to be traditionally printed with seasoned teakwood blocks. According to Malkha’s website, the idea is to enable each unit, no matter at what step it is in the cotton-making process, to become financially independent.

The fabric has forayed into men’s, women’s and children’s garments, and is vied for by renowned designers including Sabyasachi and Wendell Rodericks. A malkha store has also been set up in Finland and Japan.

“In the beginning, weavers were a little hesitant in taking up malkha,” Uzramma recalls, adding, “Now, we have a waiting list of weavers who want to sign up with the fabric. They’re paid good waves, the best of them earn Rs 15,000 per month, which is also why malkha doesn’t come too cheap.”

In five years, the fabric grew from 2,500 metres a month to 8,000-10,000 metres. The Malkha Trust works with over 120 artisans in cotton yarn spinning. During the lockdown, these artisans were supported from the Trust’s own pocket. They work democratically, six days a week, and get three weeks of paid leaves. This way of working is unheard of in the current cotton-industry, which is riddled with debt and suicide.

“Where I want to ultimately see the Indian handloom industry is a 10-mile walk. I want to work with organic cotton, I want to produce different varieties of cotton, train artisans to be the owners of their local economy, and have more stores. But as of now, I’ve managed to walk only an inch,” Uzramma says.

The way forward

Uzramma is practical, and aware that she may not be able to see the results she wants in her lifetime. The septuagenarian says, “You must have the vision to walk the long road, where you might not see the results, but a road that leaves results for the coming generations.”

India has over four million weavers. “Every civilisation has its own identity and ours was a handloom. When you lose your identity, there is a sense of loss,” she says.

This is the same loss Uzramma feels India can recover from. In her bid to go local, in many ways, she is on a path to revive the country’s lost legacy.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

The authorities at the Port Blair International Airport in Andamans looked at Vijayanand Shembekar with suspicion. They pulled him aside to inquire about his bag, which was full of waste coconuts. It took Vijayanand a few minutes to explain his passion for making artefacts out of the shell of the fruit.

The intervention soon turned into a full-fledged conversation, in which the 59-year-old traveller ended up showing hundreds of images of his unique hand-made artwork made from coconuts, which are all displayed at his art gallery — ‘Ashirwad Kaladalan’, in Alibaug.

“Oh don’t worry, I am used to weird stares and questions from people,” Vijayanand says, recalling the incident from 2018. “My family also called me crazy when I started this 12 years ago. But my childhood passion for making the best out of waste and the inner satisfaction keeps me going,” he tells The Better India.

Vijayanand goes to office during the day, and creates breathtaking masterpieces by night. He claims to have made around 400 artworks — from miniature vehicles to temples, animal figures and home decor items. He uses waste, broken and damaged coconuts, coconut husks, leaves and stems to carve the pieces.

“Alibaug is a Konkan area and has thousands of coconut trees. You will find used coconut shells in abundance at the dump yard. Choosing coconuts as my main raw material not only saves my money, but it’s also eco-friendly,” Vijaynand says.

Though an artist at heart, Vijaynand also works at a fertiliser company and teaches yoga in his free time.

‘Nothing Is Waste’

Inspired by one of his artist friends, Vijaynand tried his hands at carving a small lotus out of a coconut shell. This one-hour experiment served as a trigger to what would one day be a full-fledged art gallery.

He made a few pieces and kept it at his house. At first, his family was more than happy to have showpieces around that added beauty to their home. But then, when he refused to stop, they became concerned. “A few months later, I had some 35 pieces lying around the house and there was no space to keep them. Naturally, my wife was upset with all the mess. So, I dumped everything in our first-floor room. That room sort of became my ‘art house’. A year later, I threw open the gallery for visitors,” he recalls.

Since every piece is hand-made, Vijayanand spends days at end to perfect it. The process begins with collecting coconuts from his friends’ farms. Some neighbours also readily keep their waste coconuts outside his doorstep.

He spends nearly a day observing the shape of the coconut shell, “Others may see just a round or oval shape, but I try to see an artefact in it. For instance, there was a weirdly shaped coconut with a lot of husk on it. The top was rectangular and the bottom had two small circles. So that took the shape of a miniature car,” he says.

Once he finishes capturing the outcome in his mind, the coconut is cleaned, cut, ground and glued together. All his artefacts are detailed to perfection, due to the intricate patterns on the object.

He has compartmentalised all the objects in his room. One corner boasts of vehicles like a tractor, car, auto-rickshaw, cycle and bike. Another dedicated space is for idols of Ganesha and Krishna, temples, and other elements one may find at a religious place. Parrots, crocodiles and cockroaches are also part of his collection.

Meanwhile, home decor items include lamps, wall hangings, instruments and miniature pots, and the list goes on.

When asked why he doesn’t sell the pieces, Vijayanand replies, “You can’t put a price on my objects, they are invaluable. The moment I commercialise them, they will lose their charm. I have a full-time job that takes care of our financial needs. So, there is no reason for me to sell.”

That being said, Vijayanand does not shy away from hosting school children and adults interested in learning the process. He keeps spare coconuts just for visitors and gives them demos. At times, he even encourages them to try carving.

Here are a few pictures from his marvellous repository:

All images are sourced from Vijayanand Shembekar

(Edited by Divya Sethu)

At a time when the youth of Mumbai’s Govandi slum were either doing odd jobs for money or were struggling to cope, Afzal Razvi was striving for something that people around him hardly dared to dream of – becoming a scriptwriter for Bollywood. Afzal, who is now 32-year-old and married, is the author of a novel and a writer for television shows. He’s doing all this from a one bedroom-kitchen house built by his father.

Afzal was studying in the seventh grade in an English-medium school in his neighbourhood when his first story, titled ‘Curfew’, was published in a Hindi newspaper. His story was so interesting that he was paid Rs 250 for it. He was about 10 years old at the time. “I did not expect the story to fetch me money. I was only interested in writing, and found out how to send articles to newspapers and magazines. So I sent my piece to a Hindi newspaper,” he says.

On how his interest in writing came to be, Afzal says, “My father would write stories in Urdu whenever he found time. Writing stories is in my blood.” Afzal’s father died ten years ago.

He then began writing more poems and stories in Hindi and tried to send them to as many publications as possible. “I was not consistent enough, as I was a child and wanted to play outside, watch movies, and prank people,” he explains.

Govandi CID

After he finished 12th grade in 2000, Afzal began working at a call centre. This was not to support his family financially, but because he wanted to do something they were initially against. “As I was so interested in writing, especially crime stories, I couldn’t focus on my studies much. I wanted to become a writer for movies. To hone my story writing and scriptwriting skills, I decided to enroll in Zee Institute of Media Arts (ZIMA), which has courses on how to write for films, direct, and act. The fees was Rs 25,000. I took the call centre job to accumulate money for the course,” he says.

Afzal’s father was not willing to pay the fees for the course, as he believed the profession was not good for his child. Eventually, his parents acknowledged his interest. “Parents are always concerned about you, which is why they stop you if they think something isn’t good for you. But when they see your determination, they help. This happened to me too, and my father eventually gave me the fees for the course,” he says.

While doing the course, Afzal started making a YouTube series called Govandi CID, based on the existing popular series CID. He wrote stories and then picked young people from the slum to act in the episodes. He says he wanted to show the slums’ reality through the show. “Through Govandi CID, I wanted to show people that crimes took place in the area, and the youth were falling prey to drugs. I was also practising what I was learning from the course,” he says.

A gradual climb up the ladder

After his course, Afzal busied himself in finding work. However, he struggled due to lack of money and connections within the film industry. “I was trying to make connections, but they weren’t consistent. To meet directors and writers in Bollywood, you have to have money and wear dashing clothes. My family did not have the money to afford that. I tried as much as I could, and managed to get work that would cover my expenses,” Afzal says.

He adds, “I became a ghostwriter and also wrote for free for some time. Ghostwriting work would give me money, and writing for free gave me some credit for my contribution to story and scriptwriting. I worked for Kasautii Zindagi Kay, Crime Patrol, Shhhhh…Koi Hai, and a few other TV serials as a ghostwriter, assistant writer, or for free.”

After struggling for two to three years and living hand-to-mouth, Afzal began receiving projects to write for DD’s Urdu serials, Abaya and Akhlaq Gumshuda Hai. “While I was struggling to make a name in the industry, I met many who used my skills but didn’t let me climb even a single ladder in the industry. Because of a few good people, I was part of Kabuli Pathan as a dialogue writer,” he says. Kabuli Pathan was directed by Hridesh Kamble and released in 2016.

A writer’s journey

In an effort to narrate his struggles, Afzal wrote Falak Talak at the end of 2019. “The book is a crime thriller, but also narrates the journey of a writer. It talks about the struggles and reality of the film industry. Although the book is fiction, a lot of things said in it are real,” he says. The book is self-published through Notion Press.

So far, the book has sold 1,500 copies, and Afzal has earned around Rs 40,000. An English version of the book came out in November this year. “This book has helped me fetch more writing projects. Now, I am an exclusive writer for a 3 Wings Production web series, which pays me more than Rs 30,000 a month. Moreover, I am also writing a web series for Cinemobs Original among other projects, which gives me about Rs 50,000 a month. All this started once the lockdown was lifted in Mumbai,” Afzal says.

Hoping for a brighter tomorrow

On why he doesn’t shift to a better place, now that he has the means to support a better lifestyle, he says, “I’m not ashamed of living in a slum. We can make small changes to change the area one by one. Now, many of my neighbours, especially the youth, are inspired by me and seek my help to become writers. They want to do better in life, and I try my best to help them. This is how we can change society.”

Afzal says he is happy with the decisions he made in life. “Now I work from my home, and whenever i feel like it. I don’t have a boss to dictate my actions. I’m happy with my life,” he says.

(Edited by Divya Sethu) 

Seventy-seven-year-old Savithri Rao is a Yakshagana performer, who started learning the art form when she was 66 years of age. “It was a passion I had nurtured for very long, but with many other things happening in life, I never had the opportunity to pursue it,” she tells The Better India.

Yakshagana is a traditional theatre form from Karnataka, which can be described as a temple art form that depicts mythological stories and Puranas. It is often performed with massive headgears, elaborate facial make-up and vibrant costumes and ornaments.

Growing up, the one thing Savithri enjoyed indulging in most was role play, which translated into her love for this dance form. “I would often pick up sticks and pretend to be at war, and jump around from one corner to the other.”

“I’d smear my face with charcoal and almost magically become someone else,” she recalls with childlike enthusiasm.

While she wanted to be a Yakshagana performer from a young age, unfortunately, at the time Savithri was growing up, being part of a performance troupe was not considered appropriate for girls.

Her ‘loudest cheerleader’

So she went on to become a teacher, and excelled at that. In 1987, she received an award from the Indian Council for Child Education under the ‘Best Teacher’ category. She retired in 1990, and continued to ably support her husband in managing and running Makkala Sahithya Sangama, an organisation dedicated to encouraging children to cultivate their literary talents in Kannada.

Speaking about her husband, Srinivas Rao, also one of her loudest cheerleaders, she Savithri says, “Most women feel that once married, pursuing dreams should be forgotten. For me, the opposite happened. My husband is a huge fan of Yakshagana himself and encouraged me to take it up.” She recalls often visiting the town hall in Mangalore with her husband to watch performances.

“Those visits just helped me make my decision,” she adds.

It was only in 2009 that Savithri approached Sumangala Rathnakar, Director, Yaksharadhana Kala Kendra, Mangalore, who also happened to be Savithri’s neighbour. “I remember feeling very shy to go ask her to teach me. Again, my husband was the one to encourage me. I am glad I took that decision, because it has been one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life,” she says. Yakshagana has always been a male bastion and it is only off late that women have started to partake in its performance. Savthiri tells me that there are about 60 women performers now, and she is perhaps one of the oldest.

In May 2018, Savithri took the stage for her 100th Yakshagana performance as Duryodhana in the mythological story ‘Narakasura Vadhe.’

A dance form with many intricacies

When I ask about her practise schedule, she says, “When we have a show coming up, we practise almost every day for a few hours at a stretch. Other times, it’s once a week for anywhere between one and two hours.” Some of the roles she has portrayed include Valmiki, Duryodhana, Sugreeva, Bheesma, and Dharmaraya. “I enjoyed the fight scenes I was able to perform when I essayed the role of Dharmaraya,” she says.

Aside from the intricacies of the performance, the make-up is also time consuming. For a show that begins at 6 pm, artists have to start with their make-up and costume at least three to four hours prior to the show. “Just getting into the costume and jewellery itself takes us close to half an hour. It is all very heavy, but there is much happiness in doing all this,” she says.

The sheer physical transformation that this dance requires one to go through is tough, to say the least. Someone like Savithri, who has a petite body type, not only wears a costume that is almost double her own body weight, but also needs to carry and perform complex dance movements, while being graceful. It’s not just the physical strength, but also one’s mental strength that is put to test.

“Yakshagana energises me,” she says and continues, “Everyone asks me how I do this at my age, but I say age is just a number. How can it define what I can and cannot do? I enjoy the dance form and am blessed to be able to partake in it.” Her message to girls and women is to never let go of their dreams.“Maybe not immediately, but you will always have a chance to live your dreams, so stay alert and when the moment comes by, grab it,” she says.

As we end our conversation, Savithri leaves me with a few wise words, “Never let your gender or age be the reason you do not achieve your dreams.”

(Edited by Divya Sethu)

Holding her less-than-a-day old son in her arms, a teary-eyed Manjulata vowed to raise him with high self-esteem and dignity on a chilly February morning in 1990 in a Cuttack hospital, Odisha. She promised him to be a supportive mother and friend, who would protect him at all costs.

True to her word, the feisty mother has braved the odds and shattered conventional norms to ensure her, Prem Sahoo, pursued his passion for dance. For her, it didn’t matter if he wanted to excel at Odissi, a dance form quintessentially laced with feminine grace.

Way before our heightened awareness of gender fluidity came in, this mother tucked away in a Tier-II city was taking a brave leap of faith. She encouraged Prem, who had discontinued dancing because of societal pressure, to get back to it.

If today, Prem is an accomplished classical dancer, known for his curvaceous, graceful movements and swaying torso, it is because a mother undid century-old patriarchy.

“The only thing that matters for a mother is her child’s happiness so I didn’t do anything extraordinary for my son,” Manjulata, who is filled with humility and grace, tells The Better India.

“As far as dance is concerned, why should anyone’s talent be dominated by gender? If it’s about preserving our pristine glory and customs, then it’s important to note that this sacred dance was brought to the public by Gotipuas (boys dressed in female attire) in the 2nd Century BCE. Gurus like Kelucharan Mohapatra and Deb Prasad Das are the conservators of Odissi so it’s a little ridiculous when the so-called protectors of our culture raise gender-related concerns,” she adds.

While Manjulata tried her best to ensure her son wasn’t reduced to a lone warrior, Prem had his own share of challenges. Hailing from a conservative background didn’t help as everyone’s mentality, including his relatives’, acted as an invisible prison. They made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin to an extent that Prem attempted suicide and it took nearly six years to bring him out of his shell.

In a country that frowns every time someone goes beyond their assigned gender roles, here’s how this mother-son duo set an inspiring example in multiple arenas including right parenting.

‘You Will Grow Up To Be A Chakka’

‘Chakka, mitha, nachanya’ and more were common words casually thrown at Prem in a demeaning way every time he went on stage to perform during his school days. This would be often followed by threats and physical abuse from classmates.

Even the school teachers didn’t spare the boy, “I loved performing at our annual day functions and if I went for practice in between lectures, teachers mockingly said, ‘nachayanya, go dance’. This gave a free pass to students to elicit laughter at a boy in a dance costume,” recalls Prem.

Meanwhile, at home, the same dance moves invited applause. Impressed by his effortless steps, Manjulata enrolled him for Kathak classes when he turned 13. Manjulata presented examples of established male dancers like Pandit Birju Maharaj.

Despite the nervous stares from female students and taunts from people around him, Prem went for the classes and loved it too. Dancing became synonymous to peace until an incident that led him to quit.

“After finishing a semi-classical performance at a social gathering, I was inside my green room when an elderly uncle approached me. He started touching and groping me. I froze for a second before pushing him and running away. I ran till I found an isolated corner and cried incessantly. That was a triggering point and I decided to end my troubles with my life,” says Prem.

A 14-year-old failed to understand how a beautiful dance form could be villainous. He refrained from sharing the bullying and such unpleasant incidents with his parents. He didn’t want them to worry.

So, one day he shut his room, tied a handkerchief around his neck and pulled it hard. However, he couldn’t go through with it because he knew he was the only son to his parents. He took the “next best step”, according to him, and quit dancing.

The next six years were not easy. Prem kept to himself, socialised less and preferred staying in his room and only danced when no one was watching.

“I couldn’t see my baby in misery. I knew I was losing my son and I had to do something about it. I made him believe society didn’t have the power to decide his destiny,” says Manjulata.

“Mom told me people are going to talk irrespective of what I do. Instead of succumbing to their pressure, I should focus on perfecting my dance form and let that speak. Not paying heed to people and focussing on my own thing was the most liberating and life-changing advice,” adds Prem.

‘Your Performance Made Me Cry’

At 21, Prem finally joined Odissi dance classes and even bagged a two-year scholarship at the Sahitya Kala Parishad in Delhi.

Prem was mesmerised by the sublime medley of movements, gestures and expressions that Odissi offered. With sun motif costumes, swaying of torso, languorous music and worshipping Lord Jagannatha, the dance opened doors to a magical world. He says, “The dance is an amalgamation of vigorous and graceful movements. The intrinsic footwork, soulful expressions and spins made me respect the form.”

That said, the dance form also gave him reality checks, “Learning Pallavi, which has an elaborated raga, is very demanding. It took me almost a decade to master the sync between my footwork and my facial expressions. Initially, my taal sense was also into the doldrums. I love lasya and abhinaya, which are on the softer side. It involves storytelling that helps me connect with audiences emotionally.”

His hard work and dedication towards the dance bore fruit. Within no time, he started doing stage shows and presently is honing the craft under Padmashri Madhavi Mudgal at Gandharva Mahvidyalaya.

Even after so many years and tangible success, the nasty comments and taunts have not ended. However, the only difference is Prem consciously focusses on praises and constructive criticisms.

Sharing one of his most memorable performances at Odisha Society United Kingdom Festival in London he says, “After the performance, an old lady walked up to me and said she cried at my soulful dance on a bhajan. She said she experienced a divine feeling and that for me remains to be my biggest achievement. Evoking people’s emotions through dance is the highest honour for any dancer.”

Looking back at his journey, Prem credits his lion-hearted mother who never imposed any unrealistic restrictions and inspired him to do better each day.

“She is the bravest and most kind woman I will ever know,” Prem concludes.

Watch Prem’s soulful dance here:

Follow Prem’s dancing journey here

Edited by Yoshita Rao

Before I knew what music meant to me, I had heard the timeless voice of Sripathi Panditaradhyula Balasubrahmanyam, popularly known as SPB. It was on AR Rahman’s debut soundtrack album, Roja (1992), and the song was Rukkumani Rukkumani. Interestingly enough, as an impressionable four-year-old, I had first heard the song in Tamil during a winter dinner party hosted by my father’s work colleague in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.

(Image above courtesy Facebook/92.7 BIG FM)

Although I didn’t understand a word of the song or what it meant, I distinctly remember smiling to myself and constantly repeating SPB’s opening line “Rukkumani Rukkumani, Akkam Pakkam Enna Satham” much to the amusement of the guests there.

It’s a voice that I have since heard for more than half my life, which I spent studying in different institutions across South India. Whether it was on a school trip to the holy city of Tirupathi or a tea shop on the streets of Taramani, Chennai, at five in the morning after an all-nighter preparing for a college exam — it’s a ubiquitous voice I couldn’t escape.

However, it was only after his sad demise on 25 September 2020 due to cardio-respiratory arrest, when I bothered to deep dive into the life and career of this once in a generation talent.

‘The definitive introduction to music’

With a career spanning over 50 years and an eye-popping 40,000 recorded songs across films, TV serials and private albums and in 16 languages including Telugu, Tamil, Malayalam, Kannada and Hindi, SPB has worked alongside the greatest geniuses of Indian film music. From MS Viswanathan, KV Mahadevan, Naushad Ali, Laxmikant-Pyarelal and AR Rahman to the maestro Ilaiyaraaja with whom he shared a legendary partnership that influenced generations of music listeners in South India, he has worked with them all.

He was the voice of choice to provide ‘playback’ to some of the biggest stars of Indian cinema, including MG Ramachandran, Sivaji Ganesan, Gemini Ganesan, Rajinikanth and even Salman Khan. Such was the magnetic quality of his incredible voice that it would be very difficult to imagine anyone else filling those shoes. And, of course, there are countless highly skilled playback singers with whom he shared the booth with, including Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhonsle, KS Chitra, S Janaki, Kavita Krishnamurthy and so on.

What’s particularly astounding about SPB’s career is that his contributions don’t end at just being a singer of the highest quality. He also made his mark as a voice-over artist—for actors like Rajinikanth, Salman Khan, Anil Kapoor, Kamal Haasan and Girish Karnad—music director and actor. By any measure, it’s an astounding body of work, where he has probably sung more blockbuster hits in South Indian cinema than everyone else combined.

The first of his six National Awards as Best Male Playback Singer came for his work in the 1979 Telugu-language musical drama film written and directed by K. Viswanath, Sankarabharanam. Two years later, he won the National Award for his first project in the Hindi film industry through Ek Duuje Ke Liye (1981), which starred Kamal Haasan and Rati Agnihotri and was directed by the legendary K Balachander.

“To anyone growing up in the South of India in the 1970s, ’80s, ’90s and even the 2000s, the voice of SPB is the definitive introduction to music and singing. It becomes the crucible on which everyone else’s vocalisation is then placed, compared and sometimes found wanting. His voice is internal to us, and deeply customised,” wrote Anil Srinivasan, a pianist, music educator and writer, in a column for Scroll.in following SPB’s demise.

Not a Classically Trained Singer

Born into a Telugu family in Nellore, Andhra Pradesh, on 4 June 1946, SPB had developed a keen interest in music at an early age studying musical notations. After finishing school, he enrolled at the JNTU College of Engineering Anantapur and was all set on becoming an engineer. Although typhoid had brought a halt to his studies, he joined as the Associate Member of the Institution of Engineers, Chennai, and began participating in amateur singing competitions across the city winning a whole host of awards. SPB was a little over 20 years old when he made his debut as a playback singer in Sri Sri Sri Maryada Ramanna, a Telugu film scored by his mentor and music director SP Kodandapani.

“He was musically inclined as a child but did not receive extensive formal instruction. Though he often expressed regret over not being a ‘trained’ singer, it is interesting to imagine what formal training might have done to his vocal adventurism, which often flirted with the limits of a raga, and was a perfect fit for film music. Not unlike Kishore Kumar,” wrote Anand Venkateswaran, a former journalist, in a column for The Wire.

“He burst into the scene fully formed in 1966. There was no learning curve or tentative beginnings. The virtuosity was undeniable. And the emotional intelligence – the part of the voice that clicks with the words and not just the music – was precocious,” Anand further added.

Besides his undeniable skill and talent, his work ethic was off the charts. According to The Hindu, he recorded an astounding 21 songs in Kannada for composer Upendra Kumar from 9 am to 9 pm on 8 February 1981. There are other accounts of how he recorded 16 songs in Hindi in a day and 19 songs in Tamil for a similar duration.

On a more human level, however, he was also a mentor and father figure to several musicians, independent and up and coming artists as well.

As Anil Srinivasan noted, “Unerringly generous, supportive and humble to a fault – he would set the standard for collaborative ventures and the art of mentoring. He had the ability to give advice without ever enforcing his opinion and that gentlemanly composure that seems to be a relic of a bygone age. To have been able to work with him on and off the stage is perhaps a singular honor in the lives of many, including me.”

His legacy doesn’t end with music. From the award-winning Keladi Kanmani in 1990, where he played the role of a widower with an impressive voice opposite Raadhika to the heist comedy Thiruda Thiruda (1993), where he plays a CBI officer, SPB also made his mark as an actor. Of course, many also remember the 1994 film Kadhalan, where SPB plays the role of an easy-going police constable and a doting father to Prabhu Deva.

But his legacy will always be bound by his precocious singing talent, which the country recognised once again this year as the Government of India posthumously awarded him the Padma Vibhushan, the second-highest civilian honour. He already has a Padma Shri (2001), Padma Bhushan (2011) and multiple State level awards to his name.

Awards, however, don’t capture the essence of what SPB meant to generations of music listeners and aficionados from around the world. It’s about what his voice made us feel.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

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Rising from the ashes and breaking barriers is her forte.

Madhya Pradesh-based Bhuri Bai has experienced acute poverty first hand and has also worked as a child labourer just to be able to afford one square meal. When she was 10, her house was burnt down in a fire, so her family built a makeshift house from hay and lived there for years.

She was a child bride and post-marriage survived on a meagre income of Rs 6 per day. When Bhuri finally found a breakthrough with Pithora painting, an enriched folk art, her Bhil tribe condemned her for it as women weren’t allowed to indulge in art forms. They even played the patriarchal card by suggesting her husband was not man enough to earn as much as Bhuri was earning through her paintings.

However, the feisty Bhuri never let these adversities triumph over her innate talent and continued to move forward, using the skills of the ancient art.

On 25 January, she reached the height of validation after receiving the prestigious Padma Shri for her contributions in preserving the traditional art form and taking it to the world stage. From Lucknow to London, Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad to the United States and the United Kingdom, her paintings have travelled far and wide.

The 52-year-old, who now lives in Bhopal with her husband and children, speaks to The Better India and couldn’t contain her excitement on receiving India’s fourth-highest civilian award.

“On 25 January I received a call from a government ministry informing me about the award. At first, I thought it was just another award until journalists started lining up outside my house. I am very honoured and proud to receive the award and I want to dedicate this to all the girls in rural areas who dare to dream and not let the circumstances define their life,” says an ecstatic Bhuri.

Staying true to her roots, Bhuri has not let the award get to her head as she continues to follow her daily routine and go to work at Madhya Pradesh Tribal Museum in Bhopal. Her innocence and humility are intact, something that is mirrored in all her artworks.

Bhuri’s tale is worthy of a biopic and it begins in Jabhua’s rural landscape in the late 1960s.

An Accidental Discovery

The Jhabua district is home to the Bhil tribe, also referred to as the ‘brave bowmen of India’, who predominantly survived on forest resources in the 1800s. With time, agriculture became their main occupation. Surrounded by the Mahi river in the north and the Narmada in the south, this region is also the hub of ‘Pithora’, a spectacular ancient art form that is created on walls.

The Pithora paintings are soaked with religious and cultural significance. The paintings mainly use three lucky mascots of Bhilalala mythological stories — sun, moon and horses to creatively portray daily activities of rural life like hunting, ploughing and farming. The process of this indigenous painting begins with Lipai meaning covering the background of walls with cow dung, water and chuna. The walls are then embellished with birds, animals, trees in vivid colours. The selling point of Pithora is that no two paintings will ever be the same. Each artist uses their own creativity, imagination, patterns and colour combinations.

Bhuri Bai was born in Pitol village of ​​Jhabua. Her parents worked as farm and wage labourers to feed Bhuri and her siblings. Like everyone in the village, paintings were an integral part of Bhuri’s family as well.

“In their spare time, my parents would extract natural colours from flowers, leaves and spices to paint on house walls. Since this was our only source of entertainment I learnt it from my parents and became obsessed with it. I found every excuse to draw a peacock, bird or sun on stones and leaves with twigs. Back then, we didn’t have brushes or paper,” recalls Bhuri.

Her skills improved over time and she would often be invited to other houses in the village to draw. Bhuri spent her teenage years juggling as a construction labourer and painter.

At 16, Bhuri got married and moved to Bhopal with her husband, Johar Singh who was also a wage labourer. Since this was Bhuri’s first time outside her village, she experienced a culture shock.

“I felt like a lost lamb in the gigantic city that peddled without brakes. Everyone, including my husband, was a stranger at first and I barely had the time to adjust. I joined my husband who was working as a labourer at the Bharat Bhavan,” she adds.

Bhuri found a sense of familiarity in her paintings and used her breaks to draw on stones, something that would eventually change her life.

A few months later, renowned artist Jagdish Swaminathan was on the construction site. He saw Bhuri’s painted stones and asked her to replicate the same on paper. Impressed by her effortless transition from stone to paper, he asked her to draw more. For each painting she made, Jagdish paid her Rs 50, an amount that was much higher than her daily wage of Rs 6.

This is how Bhuri stepped into the world of art and started her life as a professional artist in the 80s.

Being An Inspiration

Bhuri is credited for being one of the pioneering women from her community who took forward the rich tribal lineage of Pithora paintings while creating livelihood opportunities in an otherwise region marred by infrastructural constraints. She has the distinction of seeing her art travelling to several art galleries in India and abroad.

Accolades like Shikhar Samman, Devi Ahilya Bai Samman and Rani Durgavati Samman from the Madhya Pradesh government landed her a job at the Adivasi Lok Kala Academy followed by the Tribal Museum where she conducts workshops to preserve the art form.

It is while working at the museum where Bhuri got an opportunity to master her craft and also simultaneously teach art students. She worked at the museum during the day and reserved the nights to create masterpieces that are worth millions. If in Jhabua she picked up the skills, here in Bhopal she refined and modified them to suit contemporary themes and ideas. Her extensive visits to other parts of the country also became a point of learning.

“It was being in the right place, at the right time that worked for me. I networked with a plethora of artists and agents who helped me fetch the right price for my work. Of course, the recognition encouraged me to do better, and my husband and children supported me unconditionally,” says Bhuri.

Forming an identity of her own in an era where lives are cemented in patriarchal norms and women are expected to remain within the limits of their house, was not a cakewalk.

On multiple occasions, the elderly from her village taunted her husband for letting her work outside their region and earning more than Johar. Initially, these translated into discords but eventually, Johar came around and even learnt the art from her.

Bhuri, who was once looked down upon by her community, now serves as an inspiration. Several women and girls have taken after her and are now earning their livelihood from paintings. Against all her personal losses, Bhuri made sure that her life blossomed through Pithora.

“I never thought that my passion for painting would become my identity. It feels surreal for a person like me to visit other countries like the United Kingdom and the United States and be recognised for my talent,” she says.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

In 2016, when Ravi Bala’s husband, Mukul Gopal Sharma encouraged her to pursue her long-lost passion for dancing, she obliged in a heartbeat. It had been six years since he was diagnosed with cancer and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to watch her perform. So, she enrolled for a dance competition at the Punjab Kesari Club. 

Ravi is not a professional dancer and the last time she did a stage performance was in a college festival in the late ’80s. She began her dance routines and as she improved her stamina and moves, Mukul’s health deteriorated further. 

Just a few months before the competition, Mukul succumbed to cancer. Ravi felt lost, unable to accept what had happened. She couldn’t cope with the loss of her partner, with whom she had spent 31 years of her life. She closed herself off from everyone around her and saw no point in going ahead with the competition. 

“My sister and children realised that my husband’s death was affecting me mentally and emotionally. They intervened and pushed me to continue dancing and fulfil his last wish. That’s how I ended up performing on ‘Murli Manohar’ song,” Ravi tells The Better India.

Ravi had little idea that this performance was only the starting point of her second innings where she would go on to defy age-related stereotypes to become a social media sensation. 

In June last year, the 62-year-old became one among several ‘internet dadis’ to join social media to showcase her skills. Her simple yet graceful dance videos shot on phone have garnered thousands of compliments and views on Instagram and Facebook. 

Among the thousand fans who were bowled by Ravi’s dance were celebrities like actor and singer Diljit Dosanjh and director Imtiaz Ali. “By doing Bhangra, you made my day,” Diljit wrote while sharing the video of her dancing on G.O.A.T on his Instagram account. 

 

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Ravi shares with us what keeps her going at this age, learning social media operations and how her life has changed since her first video was uploaded on June 25.

How Dance Entered Her Life

Based in Moradabad, Uttar Pradesh, Ravi’s father was a music teacher and a tabla player. Among all his students, there were Kathak dancers who visited the house to practice for live sessions. Seeing them twirl and tap on the fast-paced beats, Ravi would be mesmerised by it. 

Once they would leave, she would go to her room and innocently imitate the moves. A self-taught dancer, Ravi gradually started participating in school annual day functions and subsequently college festivals. Her innate passion for dancing made her keep the stage performances a secret from her family as they were against it. 

She completed her B.Ed and got married in 1989 after which she moved to Delhi and in 1993 started teaching at a government school. The school was the only place where she got a chance to reconnect with dance. She would prepare the students for inter-school cultural events. 

“I never really got any chance to pursue my dancing after marriage. I was so swamped with work and family, that I forgot to live for myself. I felt more empty after Mukul passed away and I retired in 2019. But life is full of surprises,” she says, adding, “I had no idea my decision to move to Mumbai at my son’s place would bring back dance.” 

Social Media Frenzy 

“Lockdown is the catalyst for change,” says Ravi, “I had recorded a dance sequence on ‘Bhor aayi gaya andhiyara’ from Bawarchi (1972) for a competition. I happened to upload it on Facebook and people loved it. Many users said they were interested in seeing more such videos. My son suggested I create an Instagram account and the rest is history.” 

 

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Whether it is an old classic number like ‘Piya tose naina lage’ (Guide; 1965), or upbeat like ‘Ghagra’ (Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani; 2013) or soulful like ‘Moh moh ke dhaage’ (Dum Laga Ke Haisha; 2015), Ravi has not shied away from experimenting with different kinds of songs. This is probably the reason her users instantly connect with her gorgeous expressions and marvellous dance moves. Besides dance, she also uploads videos of herself singing and playing the tabla.

Her day begins and ends with rehearsals as she has committed herself to upload at least one video every week. For steps, she draws inspiration from other dancers and some she choreographs on her own. After rigorous practise, her son shoots the video and uploads them.

 

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After each upload, Ravi patiently sits with the phone in her hand and tries to reply to each comment. She even recently did an Instagram live and interacted with her followers. 

“I am loving social media. I can connect with people from different parts of the country at my fingertips. Even though I get age-related ailments like joint pains, these comments make me happy. When people say I have inspired them, it makes me work harder to hone my skills,” says Ravi. 

Interestingly her infectious smile and equally stunning videos impressed ace Bollywood choreographer Terrance Lewis who offered her to teach Bollywood dance form and Navras for a month via online classes for free. She says, “I enjoyed the one-month course and learnt so much. I didn’t mind being a student for it was my first ever professional class.” 

Ravi’s enthusiasm and penchant for learning at this age truly make her special. Many people like Ravi from our parents’ generation have spent their entire lives between office and home, paying very little attention to their desires. So for those who feel they are too old to resume their hobbies, Ravi says, “Ageism may stop you from doing what you want but in this last leg of your life, wouldn’t you want to do something for yourself? Go prove that age is really just a number.”

Edited by Yoshita Rao

What would you do with a few bottle caps? Discard them, I presume. But 39-year-old Harminder Singh Boparai uses such discarded pieces to create stunning works of art.

His latest work, titled Life, consists of discarded bottle caps which he has used to make a fish sculpture.

What’s unique is how each piece of art he has created has an inspiration and story behind it. His sculptures seamlessly integrate modern and traditional ideas.

Harminder crafts his works of art from scrap metal and discarded materials, and has won many national and international accolades and awards for his work both nationally and internationally. Being left partially paralysed at the age of 11 did not deter his artistic creativity in any way. If anything, he only worked harder to carve a niche for himself.

Is academic excellence the be all and end all?

Born in Ghudani Kalan, a village in Punjab, Harminder says that while he was always inclined towards the arts, he was never a very bright student. “In hindsight, I can say that it does not matter, but it was tough when I was in school and was a below average performer,” he says. He describes himself as a “backbencher” when it concerned academics but was always the one to grab the first spot when it came to any art competition.

Despite being really good at art, not being academically sound attracted the ire of many and Harminder speaks about how he was often referred to as “trash”.

Recalling one such competition, he says, “When I was in class 7 there was a sculpture making competition and we were asked to make a sculpture from home and present it. I made a sculpture of Mahatma Buddha and that was the first time I saw my parents being proud of me.” Not being academically sound almost always invited the wrath of his family and teachers at school. It was looked upon as a sign of non-competency.

It was also around this time that Harminder had a paralytic attack, which left his right side completely paralysed and immobile.

“It took me close to three years to regain some of the strength in my right side and because of that I further deteriorated in my academics,” he says. Harminder would often hear people taunt and speak about what he would do in life given his physical condition. “The situation is so different today, schools are willing to look for aspects that children are good at other than academics. When I was growing up, I had no such luck,” he says.

Harminder speaks of the undue pressure put on him to excel in academics, and says, “It was not like I did not want to do well, but I could not study. That was not what I was meant to excel in. Looking back, I can say that it was difficult.”

“For all the hardships I encountered, my life now is filled with contentment.”

Despite having to live a rather difficult and turbulent childhood, there is not an ounce of anger or sense of defeat in Harminder’s voice. Instead he says, “I grew up in a time when academics was important. No one even thought that I could make a name for myself in the arts. I cannot blame anyone, all they were doing was look out for me.” He compares his life to that of an unpolished diamond, how it goes through severe hardships before actually being recognised as a worthy stone.

There are far too many hardships that Harminder says he encountered while growing up. From losing his older brother in the 90’s to having to work very hard to make ends meet as a family. “My parents had to worry about marrying off my five older sisters. I understand why they were sometimes hard and harsh on me,” he says.

It was during one of the classes that his teacher noticed Harminder sitting and drawing. It was his teacher, Manoneet Kalsi, who saw some potential in it and pushed him to participate in the college cultural festival. “That was the starting point for me. She took me to the arts department and literally started me off on my journey,” he says.

From Punjab to Michigan

From being unsure of participating in competition to winning the Gold Medal at the Zonal Clay Modelling Competition for three consecutive times from 2002, Harminder found his true calling in a Punjab college. From there he enrolled at TAC Academy of Fine Arts, Ludhiana in 2003 and pursued a two-year diploma in sculpture making. With time, his work started getting recognition and in 2007, his work was displayed at the India Academy of Fine Arts.

Yet another turning point in his life came in 2015 when he visited the US where his sisters were living. “I encountered a completely different way of life and learning in the US, and that has also contributed to shaping the person I am today,” he shares. In Punjab, where his initiation into the world of art started, he says, no one even knew what sculpting and clay modelling were. Whatever he learnt was on his own there.

A solo exhibition sponsored by the Holland Arts Council further helped Harminder grow as an artist.

Being at the centre he was able to display his work in countries like Germany, United Kingdom, Italy, and Brazil. He is also known for working with what is conventionally called ‘trash’ and turning them into pieces of art.

“I started by just picking up some discarded wooden golf clubs from a local scrap dealer, and found ways to turn them into art.

Scouting for scrap and visiting local garage sales became my thing,” he says with a hearty laugh.

From showcasing his work at the Van Singel Fine Arts Center in December 2016 to being selected in the Top 100 ArtPrize 2016 — which attracts more than 1500 artists from across the globe — he has done it all. Closer home, Harminder bagged the Lalit Kala Punjab award in 2012 and the National Art Ikon Award from HammerArt in 2013, Harminder says he feels immense gratitude for all that has come his way.

While he is an artist par excellence, his grit and never-say-die attitude is also worthy of commendation.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

A few years ago, a 25-year-old Shreya Katuri was strolling through a labyrinth of narrow alleys in Varanasi when she spotted a bright yellow matchbox at a paan shop. Excitedly, she handed over a Rs 10 note to buy it. But this seemed like an outrageous request to the conservative village man who refused to do so, assuming the lady wanted to smoke. She told him about her matchbox collection project and assured him multiple times but it was all in vain.

Finally, Shreya took her mother to the shop who convinced the shopkeeper to give her the box that had a picture of a farmer with his cows. And with the addition of that box Shreya’s matchbox collection touched 3,500 — a feat that seems both strange and intriguing.

Shreya’s fascination with matchboxes began in 2013 during her dissertation project. She had to use a visual medium to analyse gender, religion and India as a nation. “I decided to study matchbox labels as a form of popular culture in my final undergraduate year. To get a deeper understanding of the contemporary boxes, I started collecting more recent ones. That’s how my collection started. During that time I assembled some of the most interesting, quirky and heartwarming matchboxes. After a point, I was hooked,” the 28-year-old from Delhi tells The Better India.

She started her collection in Boston in 2013 where she was studying for her Masters. Shreya has picked discarded boxes off the streets, shops and even tapris. In the beginning, her friends and family pitched in, and eventually, seeing her Instagram posts, even strangers contributed to her unique collection. She tells me she often finds a parcel of matchboxes awaiting her when she returns home from work.

In the last eight odd years, Shreya has managed to collect around 5,000 matchboxes not just from India but from other countries such as Australia, the United States, Russia, China, Sri Lanka.

 

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Every matchbox she collects has a story to tell. With the help of timelines and regions, she tries to analyse the cultural evolution of society. For instance, she has boxes that have cars from the classic Maruti 800, Santro to the latest Tata Nano. Depiction of women was another intriguing subject that reiterated the concept of objectifying women by showing their cleavage on matchboxes.

Other interesting illustrations include Mickey Mouse, the vintage Ship (symbolising Mumbai ports), Saint Tulsidas, animals, cars, soldiers, Sherlock’s Home Museum (London), Howrah Bridge (Kolkata), freedom fighters, Mahabharata, flowers, facebook and films like Mother India and Coolie. This is but a small drop in the vast ocean of her matchbox collection.

While her collection hobby is a never-ending one, she hopes to archive all of them in a museum or exhibit them someplace they can be appreciated. Till then, she is working to digitise the boxes so that they can be displayed on an online platform for everyone to access.

 

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Here are a few images of her collection:

All images are sourced from Shreya Katuri

Edited by Yoshita Rao

The year is 1977. Prabir Kumar Das, a ventriloquist (vent) is on a high. He has just wrapped up a 30-minute set with his talking doll, Michael, providing his audience at the Doordarshan studio in Kolkata an evening filled with riotous laughter.

It has been two years since he was given his own show, Michael-er-ashor, and by now, he has successfully shattered the perception that dummies are “creepy”. After thunderous applause and shaking hands with children who have come to see his show, Das heads to his green room. He slides the dummy in a bag and locks it. On seeing this, a few children present at the studio begin crying incessantly, for they believe Michael is human.

“They thought he would choke and die without any oxygen inside the bag. It was only after Michael himself assured the kids that it was his sleeping bag, did they stop crying. Since then, I have been carrying around the doll on my motorcycle,” Das, now 69, recalls in a conversation with The Better India. He says the incident became the yardstick to measure his popularity and acceptance among his Bengali audience, particularly the children. This was further affirmed by the show’s uninterrupted run for two decades.

It was probably the first time that a ventriloquist had bagged a prestigious and massive platform such as Doordarshan to showcase an extraordinarily artful and technically masterful craft.

The term ‘ventriloquism’ is derived from the Latin words ventri (meaning belly) and loqui (meaning speaking) — so, it’s the art of speaking from the belly. The person performing the show is required to speak with the tip of his tongue without moving his mouth. The voices of a ventriloquist and the puppeteer prop have to sound different, to create the illusion that the conversation is between two people.

Over the years, Das has been able to produce extraordinary inflexions of voice using his clever and funny writing. This has left millions impressed, including Satyajit Ray. Inspired by Das’s act, the legendary filmmaker wrote a short story of a ventriloquist titled Bhuto, and later adapted it into a tele-series for Doordarshan. Das provided training to the actor playing a vent and even assisted Ray. It was remade in Hindi (Bhoothnath) starring Utpal Dutt and Pankaj Kapoor.

Das talks about what drew him to this unusual art, and how he used it to spread social awareness and bring joy.

A rising talent

His father was a manager at a film production house in Kolkata, so Das grew up watching many film shootings. Fascinated by the performances, he secretly wished he had the talent to captivate people’s attention at once. Magic was another medium that caught his attention.

“As a young boy, I would keenly observe magicians and try to replicate their tricks at home. By the time I turned 15, I was showing these tricks in school,” says Das.

In school, he was also an active member of the scout team and got a chance to visit the Soviet Union (now Russia) in 1966. There, the team attended a circus one evening, where Das first saw a talking doll.

“I was mesmerised by the performer, who was on roller skates. I thought there was a machine inside the doll, only to learn later that it was the performer himself talking using different voices. With the help of a translator, I asked the performer several questions about his process and voice modulation. He patiently answered my questions, and on seeing my interest, even gifted me a doll and a ventriloquist book with guidelines,” he adds.

Once he returned to India, there was no stopping Das.

Since the book was in the Russian language, he joined a one-year language course to translate the book. His dedication was such that he would perform in public to experiment with his content and creativity. He befriended a bus conductor, who allowed him to perform for the commuters.

It was during one such performance that he was spotted by his father’s friend, who gave him a chance to perform at an exhibition in 1972. That helped Das bag other gigs and three years later, he was performing at Doordarshan.

Ventriloquism: How it works

In simple words, ventriloquism involves a conversation between the performer and the doll. Das creates a visual illusion, wherein he makes people believe the sound is not coming from his mouth, by moving the doll’s mouth.

“A person can usually tell where the sound is coming from, but if he sees something else moving at exactly the same time, he gets an impression that the moving object is making the sound. It is important to keep your lips still throughout the act, and synchronize your voice with the puppet’s mouth. The audience has to be at a distance of at least 10 feet to create this illusion,” Das explains.

The process is hardly easy, considering letters such as B, F, M, V and W, which require the performer to move their lips. Das has addressed this issue by coming up with alternative pronunciations. For example, he replaces B with D. So, bread and butter become “dread” and “dutter”. Mahabharat becomes “Ahabharat”. In some cases, he also tries to speak quickly before the spectator notices. Another requirement is for the teeth to touch at all times. Das has developed his art to a point where he is capable of having a three-way conversation. The audience can talk to Michael, Das, or both.

While many vents boast of creating multiple characters, Das has stuck with Michael, who became popular in 1975. His character is goofy and perpetually clueless. This not only makes the audience laugh, but also engages them. For instance, Das will explain the reasons for water pollution and towards the end, will question Michael, who will either not answer, or give an incorrect one. This will prompt spectators to list the reasons.

The stint with Doordarshan paved way for more opportunities. Banks, corporates and government departments invited him to organise shows and workshops on various themes. So apart from shooting his weekly show at Doordarshan, Das was now travelling to different parts of the country to raise social and civic awareness. With Michael, he explored various issues, from air pollution to AIDS and women empowerment. Michael, too, won many hearts. Children from across the country sent him letters and gifts.

Saving a dying art

In current times, with a plethora of entertainment options to choose from, ancient artforms like ventriloquism are gradually dying. Das happens to be one of the last few artists in this field, and is strenuously trying to keep the art alive and pass it onto future generations. He conducts both online and offline classes for people of all ages —— children as young as 10, or 60 year olds.

“The DD show came to an end in the early 90’s, post which I focussed on workshops and physical performances. During the COVID-19 lockdown period, I conducted the classes online. Most of my students are keen on learning this art form as a hobby. Since 2013, I have taught nearly 800 people,” Das says.

Raj Sony, one of his students and a professional vent in Bihar, says, “I was an amateur vent when I met Prabir sir. Under his guidance, I improved on multiple aspects like zero lip-synching, pronunciations and dialogue delivery. I have always been astonished beyond measure by his impressive performances.”

Das perfected his craft with the rigorous practice that would sometimes last for 12 hours. Sitting in one place and keeping the audience enthralled show after show is no mean feat. What stands out are the underlying messages that his humorous performances convey.

Edited by Divya Sethu 

Barely a year after India’s Independence, the iconic Bombay Talkies Studios released a film called Ziddi (1948), which gave the legendary actor Dev Anand his first big break in the Hindi Film Industry. More importantly for aficionados of Hindi film music, Ziddi also launched arguably the two most famous names associated with it — Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar. There is a famous story of how Mangeshkar thought she was being stalked by Kumar while they were on their way to the studio to record their first-ever duet, ‘Ye Kaun Aaya Re’, only to realise later that they were called there at the same time. The film also saw Kumar’s debut with his solo track, ‘Marne Ki Duayen Kyon Mangu’. What’s often missed in this story is the prodigiously gifted music director who brought the two together — Khemchand Prakash.

In addition to launching these legends of Hindi film music, Prakash mentored quite literally the who’s who of the scene including Naushad, Manna Dey, Mukesh and Mohammed Rafi, besides working top stars of the day like KL Saigal, Ashok Kumar, Kamini Kaushal, Shamshad Begum and Noorjehan to name a few.

It’s a tragedy that Hindi film music industry lost him to liver cirrhosis at the age of 41 on 10 August 1949, which was two months before the release of Mahal starring Ashoke Kumar and Madhubala. Sadly, the film industry did little to honour his memory. In a Rajya Sabha speech, where he argued for amendments to the Copyright Bill 2010, lyricist and poet Javed Akhtar spoke of how Prakash’s wife was found begging at Malad station in Mumbai even though she was owed royalties from the superhit song ‘Aayega Aanewala’ featured in Mahal.

A Prodigious Talent

Born on 12 December 1907 in Jaipur, Prakash grew up in a household replete with culture. His father, Pandit Goverdhan Prasad, was a well known exponent of the Dhrupad style of Hindustani classical music and a Kathak dancer.

As a child, Prakash was considered a singer with prodigious talent, performing in the royal courts of Rajasthan before the then King of Nepal became his patron. During one of his performances in his late teens, the King of Nepal was so enamoured by his style of singing that he took him to Nepal. For the next seven years, Prakash spent his time performing at the royal court there before taking his talents to Calcutta to pursue a career as a music director. However, his early life as an independent music director was rife with challenges and money was hard to come by.

Despite his association with the Calcutta (Kolkata) station of the All India Radio, it was only in 1935 when Timir Baran, the music director of the first Devdas film (1935), gave a talented Prakash his first break as an assistant music director. According to some accounts, Prakash composed two classic compositions from the film—‘Dukh ke din ab’ and ‘Baalam aan baso’—but received no credit for them. However, Prakash was not happy in Calcutta (Kolkata), where he thought his talents weren’t receiving proper remuneration or importance. On the advice of actor and friend Prithviraj Kappor, he moved to Bombay (Mumbai) and it was a decision that changed his life.

Bombay Calling

In Bombay, Prakash got his first big break as an independent music director with the film Ghazi Salauudin (1939) released by Supreme Pictures. Assisting him on this project was a young Naushad sa’ab, who spoke of how Prakash’s use of classical Hindustani music ragas and his impeccable sense of rhythm, which came from his training as a classical Kathak dancer, influenced his own career moving forward.

Both these elements came to the fore in Tansen (1943), a landmark musical starring KL Saigal and Khursheed Bano, and featuring 13 hit songs including the iconic ‘Jagmag jagmag diya jalao’ and ‘Barso re kare badarwa piya par barso’. Tansen quite literally paved the way for other musicals that followed in the Hindi Film Industry.

“Prakash who influenced the history of film music used classical ragas to perfection, bringing to the songs of ‘Tansen’ a melodic grandeur that was his trademark. He employed a small orchestra but paid much greater attention to the words of a lyric and the singer’s diction,” Pran Neville noted in an article for The Hindu in August 2018.

There is no questioning his unparalleled contribution. In barely a decade, he worked on close to 40 films and was immensely successful.

“Towards the end, he was working on three films and it is believed that Manna Dey who was closely working with the music director then eventually found a way to complete the films,” noted this profile in Sahapedia. But his early demise presents one of the greatest ‘what ifs’ of the Hindi music film industry. We can only speculate how he would have gone on to shape Bollywood music, if he lived longer. Prakash, in this writer’s opinion, should definitely be considered a titan.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

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Owing to the exodus post the Indo-Pakistan wars of 1965 and 1971, several members of the Meghwal community settled in India in parts of Rajasthan, Maharashtra, Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh. In particular, some of those who came after 1971 settled in Rajasthan’s Barmer district, including Chohtan, a town in the area. The community was reeling from the displacement and facing financial difficulties due to limited work opportunities. The women, in particular, suffered owing to these pre-existing conditions, as well as societal norms which did not allow them to step out of their homes and left them solely dependent on their husbands.

The conditions in Barmer were equally despicable at the time. Lata Kachhawaha, a social worker with Society to Uplift Rural Economy (SURE), recalls, “The district’s climatic conditions left it riddled with droughts and limited farming choices. It’s also very remote, so transportation and communication were a challenge as well. The biggest issue was water shortage. The women were suffering the most.”

Preserve and protect

Lata had arrived in Barmer in 1985, when she was only 22, shortly after her mother’s demise. “My elder brother brought me here because I was looking for a change,” she tells The Better India, “I’m originally from Jodhpur, and had always been involved in social work. I met Shree Magraj Jain, who was the founder of Sure and was instantly inspired by the work he was doing.”

The women of Rajasthan’s Meghwal community are pioneers of kashidakari, a kind of embroidery used to decorate shawls, handkerchiefs, bed covers, cushions, and bags, among a host of other items. The work would earlier remain within the families, and be used to give as dowry, decorate their homes or as gifts to other family members.

When the community settled here after the war, raising the next generation became increasingly hard, owing to the deplorable conditions of the district. A few merchants acted as middlemen to sell kashidakari items in the market, but the families would receive very little income in return, often not more than Rs 200. That’s when, through Sure, Lata came to the village. “We saw how men would have to leave the town to find work in other cities or states, leaving the women and elderly behind. The women would become burdened by the responsibilities of caring for the house by themselves, and were left with little agency,” Lata says.

She wanted to preserve and promote kashidakari, while ensuring that these women attain financial emancipation. The detailed and intricate designs that they were making had been passed down from grandmothers and even great-grandmothers, and the women needed to be compensated for the heavy work they were putting in recreating them. The programme began with 224 Pak-oustee women in the town. In 1994, Lata joined hands with designers from National Institute of Design, National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT) and Dastkar to hold workshops and develop over 250 designs in accordance with the fashion trends of the time.

“We made a group with the women wherein they could track the number of pieces they were making and how much they were earning in return. It was to familiarise them with being able to tell how many hours they were putting in and assessing if the compensation they were receiving was adequate. They would price the products themselves based on the cost of raw material, shipping, storage, etc,” Lata says. Partnerships were made with NABARD and SIDBI to further the reach of these artisans.

Respite for war-hit women

The women were taught about entrepreneurship, told about concepts including breaking even, how to tally balance sheets, what are profits and losses, among others. “We had to explain how they should make quality products. We taught them by giving examples of cooking halwa, and how the tastier it is, the better the quality,” she says. In 1995, Sure tied up with the Ministry of Textile to further market and promote the women’s kashidakari work.

Over the years, exhibitions have been held in various parts of India, as well as in countries such as Germany, Japan, Singapore and Sri Lanka. Over 15,000 such women have been helped through embroidery. Brands such as Fabindia, Ikea, and Rangsutra get much of their material from the women of the Meghwal community in Barmer. In addition, around 40,000 Pakistani refugee women have been enabled through animal husbandry and agriculture. “Generations of women are involved in this work, and today the daughters of these households are both earning as well as being able to study,” she says, adding that the women earn up to Rs 5,000 a month.

One such woman is 21-year-old Leela. She lives in Barmer with her grandmother and mother, while her father works in the handicraft business in Jodhpur. Her dadi settled in Barmer after the war in 1971. “Dadi tells me things have really changed since Lata ji came. She was always skilled in kashidakari, but was never earning from it. After Lata ji started working with us, things improved, and all three of us are now involved in the art. Our family’s sustenance has become a lot easier, and we’re not just dependent on my father,” she tells The Better India. Leela is in her final year of MBA.

A life-long lesson

Lata says the road to success has been riddled with potholes. “Helping these women earn meant that we would have to ask them to step out of their homes. We faced massive challenges in that, because it was strictly against what was allowed at the time. The community was averse to outsiders, and thought that women who come from other areas try to talk and engage with the Meghwal women were corrupting the latter. We had to work on building trust and forming our own relationships with them. We lived with them, ate with them, participated in their festivities, and tried our past to make them feel like we were part of the community. We’ve also had to keep up with the changing trends of the time to ensure the women can keep earning. The village was also facing acute water shortage, which meant that women would spend hours travelling long distances to fetch water, and not have time to work. We installed facilities in each household so they would have supply for 7-8 days at a stretch, but the problem has not fully been eradicated,” she says.

She adds, “Earlier, there were no cars or such facilities to travel, so remote areas could only be accessed via foot or on camels. Taking pregnant women to hospitals was a task, and often, only either the child or the mother would survive. We trained birth attendants for that, and how to refer high-risk cases to hospitals.”

“I wanted to ensure that other than just empowering them with work, we were addressing their holistic needs as well. Over 40 years, we have worked to provide them sanitation, sexual health awareness, education for their children, water security, taught them sustainable agriculture, and advocated for their food entitlement,” she says.

For her work, Lata was recognised by the Government of Switzerland and felicitated with the International Prize for Women Creativity in Rural Areas, as well as the Mahila Shakti Award and Senior Citizens Service Award by the Rajasthan government. “These awards have only pushed me to continue what I was doing, with renewed hope that my work has made a difference. I always tell the women that it’s because of them that I have received these awards,” she says.

Lata says her learnings have come from her mother. “She would always tell me that while society has many ways to dictate what a woman should or should not do, I had to remain focussed enough to carve my own path. She encouraged me to be educated, and I finished my postgraduate degree in law before coming to Barmer. Her words have inspired me to ensure that other girls had the opportunity to attain their dreams,” she says. The same teachings have inspired Lata’s 40-year-old journey in making sure that generations of Meghwal women in Barmer don’t become eventual casualties of war.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

Every now and then you come across people who break barriers and inspire us to achieve our goals, sans excuses. Bhathirappan, 85, from Thekampatti village in Coimbatore district, is one such person. He is an exponent of the Tamil folk art Kummi – a mixed form of song and dance and has been performing at various forums since 1958.

We are so used to seeing glitzy dance performances that the first thing that will strike you about Bhathirappan’s art form is its sheer simplicity. With no elaborate costumes or make-up, all the artists require is a good throw of their voice. The performers are all clad in a uniform coloured half-sleeved shirt and a coloured dhoti. Simple dance moves are accompanied by powerful storytelling all via song and dance.

A recipient of many awards and accolades, the latest being the Kalaimani award from the Government of Tamil Nadu, he is still an enthusiastic and active performer. He narrates his life’s story to The Better India.

Belonging to an agrarian family, Bhathirappan tells me that he had to drop out of school after completing his class 10 examination to help support his family. “We have very small farm holdings, and since this is our only source of income, I had to be there to help my family,” he says. Life went on, he got married and had two children while he continued to work on his land in the village.

In his early 20’s he met a folk artist called Doddana Gouder, whom he considers his guru. He says, “It is because of him that I became a folk artist. The first performance we worked on was the story of Harishchandra. We would travel across towns and perform. We did that for almost three years before we worked on our next production.” While farming was the source of income for him and his family, folk art gave Bhathirappan wings to follow his passion.

The next stop for Bhathirappan was Mothepalayam, a neighbouring town where he met Thirumapa Gouder, another proponent of folk art. His troupe learnt Valli Thirumanam – the tale of Lord Murugan, son of Lord Shiva, marrying Valli. Bhathirappan says that this performance is one of their most vital compositions, and they are preserving and performing it till today, for over 40 years.

Performances galore

This performance of Valli Thirumanam is a key art form in Tamil folk art. It is a story which holds significant religious and cultural value in the region and hence is performed at all major festivals and gatherings. The story is enacted in 34 parts, having over 30 dance movements, the artist also has to sing the story while performing at the same time.

As an artist, Bhathirappan says that preserving and ensuring that the form is passed on to future generations is an important responsibility for him. He has taught this to over 150 students over the past 30 years.

Bhathirappan takes pride when he mentions that he has performed across various universities, art festivals, temple festivals and gatherings across Tamil Nadu. There are no costumes, make up or any props. It is a simple art form that requires nothing between the performer and the audience – not even a stage.

Even a street corner can be made into a stage. The artists perform in their regular attire, sing, dance and narrate the story.

One can hear the passion in Bhathirappan’s voice as he says, “Simplicity is all there is to this art form. Most modern art has been reduced to exhibitionism and glamour. There is more show than art. Folk art is the original art form that emerged centuries ago. It is pure and unadulterated.”

He continues, “Folk art was the medium by which culture, history, stories and tradition were preserved and handed down through the generation. It is an art form that helped people express happiness, joy, and even sadness – much before the advancement of science and technology.”

Keeping with the times

While kummi is an art form that has stayed true to its original roots, retaining its rusticity and simplicity through the centuries, Bhathirappan says that they have made some changes to modernise their performance.

While it traditionally used to be the domain of men, Bhathirappan says that they have taught this art form to women, and one can now find many women artists performing Kummi.

Another new element is that their recent performances speak about relevant issues like environmental protection, morals, and social ills.

Bhathirappan says that his troupe has around 15 people across all age groups. They practice every new composition for three months, so that all of them are comfortable with the material. They then practice for the new routine for an hour-and-a-half every day and more so as the performance date comes closer.

For performing for all these years and preserving and protecting the kummi art form, the Government of Tamil Nadu conferred the Kalaimamani Award on 85year-old Bhathirappan on 20 February 2021.

The passion with which Bhathirappan speaks conveys his strong feelings towards this art form. For Bhathirappan, kummi and its practise is a way of life and he derives utmost happiness in being able to share this art form, which he considers his legacy, with the younger generation.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

When Lokesh, an award-winning professional tattoo artist, decided that he was going to learn the art of making tattoos by himself, there was no YouTube or Google to fall back on. This was the early 2000s, and he had no idols, reference videos or material to refer to. The only thing he had was passion to become a top tattoo artist, and the necessary skills to do it.

The strong belief he had in himself was the reason he was able to afford his artistic dreams. He took up various odd jobs, such as mopping floors and flipping burgers in McDonald’s, so he could purchase a tattoo machine and fund his MBA course.

For the next few years, Lokesh rigorously learnt how to make innumerable tattoos using the machine, and even paid his friends to let him practice on them. In 2008, he opened his studio in South Delhi’s Greater Kailash area, and there has been no looking back since.

Fast forward to 2021, Lokesh is known across the globe for his colour realism tattoos and portraits, and owns three studios. He has travelled to 15 countries for various projects and holds a Guinness world record for tattooing the maximum number (199) of flags on a human body.

“When I decided to enter the tattoo industry, it was very niche and there were hardly any professional artists. I wanted to etch my name as a pioneering artist. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, considering my father had retired from the army and my mother was a school teacher. My dreams were far from my reality. So instead of changing my dreams, I changed my reality,” Lokesh tells The Better India.

Lokesh has a quintessential rags-to-riches story that may seem biopic-worthy, but underneath this fame lies the hard-hitting reality of a boy who literally studied under street lights and took up jobs during college to support his family.

Giving wings to childhood dreams

Lokesh was artistically inclined even as a child, and loved drawing and colouring on any kind of surfaces, be it papers, walls or school desks. He grew up in a one-bedroom house in an unauthorised colony in Delhi, where the building received power for only three hours a day. Lokesh remembers judiciously using those three hours to complete his homework and giving time to the thing he loved the most — drawing.

He would paint only when there was power, to ensure the painting dried quickly. If there was no electricity post sunset, he would silently sneak out of the house, find a quiet corner near a street light and start drawing. His exceptional drawing skills made up for the average marks Lokesh got in exams. His parents never complained or chided him for not being a topper. They were happy that their son was engaged in art and working on mastering it.

“I remember making sketches on my desk and when there was no room left, my bench partner happily offered his desk. When even that space was full, I used his bag also to draw,” Lokesh recalls.

 

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Despite his artistic prowess, he never considered himself an artist, or thought about making a career out of it, even after winning the first prize in the Inter-Asia painting competition.

“After retirement, my father worked in a security department, and my mother would teach 20 children to earn Rs 100 a day. I don’t remember going to a restaurant till the time I was in college. I saw my parents struggle daily and work endlessly to educate my sister and me. I knew drawing wouldn’t fetch me money, and that I needed a stable mainstream job to improve our financial condition,” he says.

After completing his schooling he took admission in Delhi University in 2000, and also took up a cleaning job at McDonald’s. Through his undergrad, he switched a few jobs, one of which was to sell movie CDs, where he ended up making high sales. This tweaked his interest in marketing, and Lokesh decided to pursue an MBA degree after graduation.

“My MBA days were very hectic, as classes would be held from 8 am to 12 pm, post which I would be on my job till 7 in the evening. After that, I would perform at a few music gigs to earn extra money. Weekends were the only time I had to explore different mediums of art. One of those weekends, I came across a tattoo parlour. I was fascinated by the designs,” he says.

With his savings, he bought a tattoo machine. Lokesh says this was one thing he was not doing with any ulterior goal  — it would be his own work, minus the pressure of earning money. He began without any real road map, and didn’t even know how to insert the needle in the machine. Regardless, he gracefully followed his dream. Soon, requests from friends started pouring in.

When he ran out of material and inputs such as needles and ink for the machine, he started charging a minimal amount for tattoos. It wasn’t long before people began noticing the boy from a Delhi neighbourhood who possessed a special skill. Lokesh takes pride in telling me that all the marketing for his art was done through word of mouth. He never took efforts to publicise his artwork.

“I was able to produce good work only because I had a backup plan of an MBA, and a supportive family. My dad never hesitated to give me his skin to practice on. As my customers increased, I moved to my friend’s house, and later, to a small salon. However, when the salon shut, I opened my own studio, ‘Devil’z Tattooz’ in 2008 and took aspiring artists under my wings,” he recalls.

A pioneering artist

Lokesh is one of the few tattoo artists in India who has mastered 3D tattoos, portraits, and mandalas, and his studio offers tattoos on more than 10 organs of the body, including arms, legs, the back, and wrists, among others. However, his most impressive services include coloured realism and soundwave tattoos. Colour realism is a challenging but fine art style that aims to capture the objects as accurately as possible onto the skin. Meanwhile, soundwave (Audible) tattoos are coded messages inked on the body and upon scanning them, you can hear music/audio on your phone.

These innovative and detailed-to-perfection artworks have taken Lokesh to several countries, including the United States in 2010, and later Europe. Some top-rated studios that he has been invited to include Paul Booth’s Last Rites Tattoo Gallery in New York; Nikko Hurtado’s Black Anchor Tattoo in Hollywood; Off the Map in Massachusetts; Tommy Lee’s Monsters; Heaven of Colours in Switzerland; Alex de Pase Tattoo in Italy, among others. Additionally, he has cemented his place as a sought-after tattoo artist among the celebrities such as Swara Bhaskar, Remo D’souza, Tapsee Pannu, Ishan Sharma, Umesh Yadav and so on.

For every tattoo, Lokesh maintains European hygiene standards. “I am very particular about hygiene and end up sanitising my hands ten times,” he says.

Lokesh rightfully channels his years of experience and expertise by training aspiring tattoo artists. He has taught more than 100 artists, many of whom work at his studios today. From doing five tattoos a month to now making 15-20 every day, and seeing a footfall of 3,000 customers every month, Lokesh has come a long way.

When asked if he plans to expand his studios across the country, Lokesh quickly dismisses the idea. “There are hundreds of tattoo artists in India today, but only a handful of them are good. The only reason I never intend to make a franchise is that I don’t think I will ever find enough highly skilled artists. It takes 5-6 years of strenuous work to master this craft,” he says.

Edited by Divya Sethu

It has been an eventful month for 25-year-old Kekho Thiamkho, the Hip Hop artist from Arunachal Pradesh, who is popularly known by the moniker ‘K4 Kekho’.

After confirmation on 4 March that he will feature as a rapper/songwriter in the upcoming Varun Dhawan and Kriti Sanon-starrer Bollywood film, Bhediya, Kekho has helped organise donation drives for Longliang village that suffered a devastating fire on 18 March.

Located in Lazu Circle of Tirap district, Arunachal Pradesh, Longlian suffered two casualties. To make matters worse, 114 thatched houses, including community halls and granaries, were burnt down. Led by the All Tirap Changlang Namsai and Longding Students’ Union Itanagar and the Rajiv Gandhi University’s Tirap Changlang Namsai and Longding Students’ Union, the donation drive in Itanagar over three days collected nearly Rs 6.7 lakhs for the victims.

We caught up with Kekho following the conclusion of a three-day donation drive in Itanagar which lasted from 20 to 22 March. Speaking to The Better India, Kekho talks about how the fire in Longliang hit close to home. His native village of Lower Chinhan falls under Lazu Circle. On the intervening night of 18 and 19 March, he posted a video on his Facebook page with an appeal to the government for urgent assistance.

“I could relate to events in Longliang because the same thing happened in Lower Chinhan a couple of years ago, when more than 40 houses were burnt down in a fire. Besides urgent assistance for the residents who lost their homes, I also appealed to the government for better infrastructure. The village has no proper road connectivity or other modern amenities. It was an emotional day, and I was really motivated to do something for them,” says Kekho.

After consulting Sange Droma Bodoi, a good friend and CEO of Arunachal Today, a local news media outlet, he got in touch with the student unions. After meeting them on 19 March, they decided to organise donation drives from different locations in the city the next day.

Offering regular updates of the donation drives on his Facebook page alongside Arunachal Today, they reached out to a large audience online and offline.

“People in the village need relief immediately. Even though the state government and local administration are offering financial and other assistance, we feel it’s important to supplement their efforts. These victims are without a roof over their head. I feel more people should donate money to those in need of help. Since I am a struggling artist, I wasn’t in a position to donate a few lakhs. Instead, I decided to donate my time,” he says.

Now, Kekho feels that his immediate duties are done. It’s up to the respective students’ unions to ensure money reaches the intended beneficiaries, while he gets back to his music.

Falling in Love With Music

From the Ollo (Nocte) indigenous community, Kekho’s love for music was first inspired by his father, Najen Thiamkho, a constable with the Arunachal Pradesh Police.

“My father had a massive collection of audio cassettes ranging from Bollywood to international pop artists like Michael Jackson and Michael Learns to Rock (MLTR). The collection also included Sufi music, semi-classical tracks and local songs as well. He would often sing at home. When his friends would come over, drink wine and play Antakshari, my father and I would sing together while others would shower us with compliments,” he recalls.

Najen always encouraged his son’s interest in music, but like many parents in Arunachal, he wasn’t sure whether Kekho would survive without a secure government job to fall back on. Besides music, however, Najen also encouraged his son to learn spoken English properly. He believed that learning English would help his son land a better government job. It was this introduction to English language learning which first sparked his love for Hip Hop.

“My father bought a book home for me to learn English, but that wasn’t helpful. To learn it, I started listening to English songs starting with Michael Jackson. When my father bought me my first MP4 player in school, my first objective was to download all of Michael Jackson’s songs. But I asked people at the local internet cafe to transfer all the English songs they had into my MP4 player. Hip Hop found me through this process,” says Kekho.

Besides singing/rapping to songs by international artists like Eminem and Lil Wayne, he would also regularly watch the World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE). Through these mediums, he not only improved his vocabulary but also began ascertaining the different tonalities of English speaking. But out of all the music genres, Hip Hop stuck with him.

“Initially, I would imitate artists like Eminem and Lil Wayne, but after a point that seemed like a futile exercise because they were on another level. By the time I was in high school around Class 11, I began writing my own lyrics with a mix of broken English and broken Hindi. In Class 12, I performed my first ever rap song at a school function. While teachers weren’t very fond of my rap performance, fellow students went crazy because that’s the first time they saw someone perform a Hip Hop song in front of them,” he recalls.

Following the electric reception he got, Kekho knew that Hip Hop would become the medium through which he would express his emotions, while telling stories about the self and society.

Hip Hop For Life

The next big turning point came during Arunachal Pradesh’s inaugural Rap Riot competition in 2015. Competing with 10 other rappers in his final year of college, Kekho came first. This is the moment, he believes, when his music career actually began.

Speaking to The Better India in an earlier interview, Kolkata-based independent rapper and producer, Vikramjit Sen (aka Feyago), talked about this moment.

“We had a rap battle in Arunachal, and this young man called Kekho won. He was driven. His father was there at the time, telling him that this was a total waste of time. However, when the boy went to his dad with the winner’s cheque, what we saw was a parent eventually seeing this as something his son could pursue in the future,” said Feyago.

“Back then, all the craze was about Rock music and Metal. In my opinion, even today, people in Arunachal who love Rock music, Bollywood music and Metal, don’t really respect Hip Hop. But since I started making music, the Hip Hop scene in Arunachal has grown tremendously. There is a budding rapper in every colony across cities like Itanagar,” he says.

However, Kekho doesn’t like to call himself a ‘pioneer’ of Hip Hop music in Arunachal. “I just played my part and witnessed the Hip Hop scene rise in our state,” he adds.

‘I am an Indian’

Later that year, he wrote a song called ‘I Am An Indian’, responding to the spate of racist and xenophobic attacks against people from the Northeast in cities like Delhi and Bengaluru.

“I had to find something relevant to rap about so that people could ascribe real value to my art. If I can compose and rap a song about a subject which touches people’s hearts, it’ll be worth remembering. Recording this track on my mobile phone, I shared it with my friends on WhatsApp and Facebook. After a few weeks, people started talking about this song. Even before I recorded the song in a proper studio, people would ask me to perform it in different gatherings. Bengia Morto, a friend, came to me and said we need to make a music video for this song because more people needed to hear it. After all, music is a better way of spreading awareness about racism against Northeasterners than textbooks,” he says.

But that music video didn’t come for a few years. Instead, Kekho was honing his craft and putting out the occasional track. Finally, in 2018, his search for someone to help produce ‘I Am An Indian’ in a real studio and make a music video on the same, came to an end.

Approaching Hilang Nima, a local producer, they re-recorded the song and made a music video alongside close friends and long-time collaborators Bengia Morto, the director, Nyago Ete, the cinematographer. This video went viral with over a 1 million views, and many mainstream Indian publications covered it. “This video changed my life,” he adds.

He hasn’t looked back since. Besides regularly putting out songs expressing personal bravado, the pride in belonging to tribal communities, and socially conscious lyrics, Kekho has collaborated with many artists from the Northeast in cyphers and other tracks.

Take the example of Yoksa, a Hip Hop track song by Arunachalee producer DJ Bom, which features Kekho on vocals. With nearly 850,000 views on YouTube, this song pays homage to the traditional values associated with Yoksa (Tibetan swords) of the indigenous Adi tribe.

As the song’s YouTube description notes, “the beat is a combination of digitally produced hip hop sounds and the sounds of yoksa recorded in a studio accompanied by the vocal performance of a traditional Tapu War dance crew.” A personal favourite is his verse in the Northeast Cypher 2020, which saw contributions from rappers across the Northeast.

Never Giving Up on a Dream

Throughout this journey, his family has backed him. Then there are two of his closest professional collaborators and personal friends Bengia Morto and Nyago Ete, who have sometimes made Kekho’s music videos for free. Other well-wishers include Katung Nabam and Yachang Chan. Since his career took off, Kekho has been supporting his music dreams by working on background scores and music for documentaries, feature films and short films made in Arunachal.

“I also work on dubbing and sound designing projects. But then again, it’s not easy to find work because there isn’t an organised film industry here. The money I get goes into buying petrol, purchasing things for my kitchen and making music in my home studio. My father does his best to support me as well, but we have a big family. I don’t want to exploit my friends into making free music videos. That’s why I’m taking my time working and earning in different spaces to put out new content because I’d like to pay them for their work and put out quality content. So far, I have earned my name in the game and the love of my people. I want to keep it real and not give people the impression that I’m rich and fancy,” he says.

However, there are times when Kekho feels that he should give up his music dreams and find a ‘proper job’. This happens, particularly, when he sees artists who have parents with deeper pockets support their careers. These artists put out music videos regularly. “I can’t expect too much of my father because he has a large family to support. So, I’ve gone independent to fund my content on YouTube,” he adds.

Having said all that, things are really looking up for Kekho. A couple of months ago, he was approached by Amar Kaushik, a Bollywood director, who was doing a recce for the upcoming shoot of Bhediya. As per reports, the movie will be shot in Ziro, Lower Subansiri district, Sagalee, Papum Pare district and parts of Pakke Kessang district.

“Amar Sir approached me to compose a song for Bhediya. I was competing with a couple of other artists as well for the same spot. They were given the same brief. Although he expressed his desire to see me come on board, I wasn’t sure about making it till I heard Varun Dhawan Sir publicly mention my name in that official press conference. My entire family was overjoyed when the news came through officially. I remember hugging my parents and wife in excitement. Hopefully, I will be featured in another song, besides the one I have already submitted, and the movie goes ahead as planned,” he says.

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

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