Daneen (name changed), a Kashmiri woman in her seventies, would eagerly wait for her friend, Dida, who is half her age, every day. Daneen’s Alzheimer’s and deteriorating health may not have allowed her to socialise, but hearing Dida’s ‘namaskar, kaisa vare?’ (how are you) on video made her feel at peace. She enjoyed Dida’s chucklesome take on Kashmiri’s cultural mosaic, and loved her hand block-printed kurti with intricate threadwork.

When Daneen’s grandson, who lives outside Kashmir, heard about Dida’s impressive conversational skills for the first time, he tried to find out more about her. He was pleasantly surprised to learn that Dida is, in fact, a fictional character created by YouTuber Meanka Handu, who lives 700 kilometres away in Noida.

In 2019, when Daneen passed away, her grandson wrote to Meanka narrating the kind of impact her funny videos had on his grandmother.

“It was so heartwarming to know that I was able to make an ailing woman smile, day after day. According to her grandson, Daneen had assumed that I came on video just to greet her and talk to her about the nostalgic Kashmiri culture,” Meanka tells The Better India.

Meanka’s comic character was born in 2017, primarily to promote and preserve the Kashmiri language and culture, including family ties, history, art, and heritage. Her searingly honest and bitingly funny videos are a reminder of the common history, legacy and solidarity that has existed in the troubled territory of Jammu and Kashmir for centuries.

Her own journey involves a forced eviction from Srinagar during the mass exodus of 1990. Hailing from a Kashmiri Pandit family, she migrated to Noida when she was in Class II. Instead of hating a particular community, or developing bitterness due to the horrendous torture and threats she faced in Srinagar, Meanka chose to correct soured feelings through her humour.

These videos on her YouTube channel, Asvun Koshur (Smiling Kashmiri), garner thousands, and sometimes millions of views, while spreading love and harmony in the online world, which is otherwise home to much negativity and hatred. “Through my videos, I have realised that there is an entirely new audience and demographic that looks forward to positive content,” she adds.

Meanka shares with us how her family has kept Kashmir alive in Noida, why she quit her cushy job to start a YouTube channel, and what keeps her motivated amid the brutal trolling. 

A shared culture that can bring peace

Meanka was in Class II when she first experienced or rather understood, the resentment between the two communities. The year was 1990 and Kashmiri Pandits had been asked, ordered and threatened to leave. While her family tried to keep everything normal at home for Meanka and her younger brother, they couldn’t escape the slogans being raised outside their house, or the rocks being thrown at their windows.

One April morning in 1990, the Handu family, whose ancestors had been living in Srinagar for centuries, put their belongings and themselves in a truck, and left their home. Amid their uprooted lives, filled with grief and horror, Meanka’s parents tried to start a new life. The first two years saw the family grapple with financial problems, but gradually, they got back on their feet. Throughout, Meanka’s parents made sure they passed down aspects of Kashmiri culture, including the food, language, attire, and rituals, to their kids.

“We missed our home in Kashmir, which had a big lawn and walnut trees. We were now living in a small house in a city with soaring temperatures. It was a culture shock for all of us. My parents made sure we learned everything about our culture. They played a huge role in patiently answering all our curious questions, and preventing us from falling into an identity crisis. They emphasised on not turning bitter because of our past, and gave us several examples of how our shared Kashmiri roots are beyond a religious crisis,” says Meanka.

Meanka did her graduation in software engineering from Mumbai and went on to work with multinational companies for ten years, before quitting. “There was no creative satisfaction. Besides, I’d always wanted to share my culture with others. I took up freelancing to sustain myself. One day, I decided to make a video to talk about how we spend all our time online. I didn’t have a channel at the time, so I uploaded it on Facebook. People loved it. Soon after, Asvun Koshur came into being. Today it is a registered entity,” she says. Her channel presently has 46,400 subscribers. 

This was probably the first time that an individual was consciously trying to bridge the gap between communities and promote harmony by evoking memories of a pleasant history. While newspapers today are filled with stories of rising communal tensions, here is a lady reminding everyone of Kashmiriyat, or the linguistic sense of belonging.

It is no wonder that her videos in the Kashmiri language instantly gave the community an ineffable feeling of being at home, no matter which part of India they resided in.

“Saen (our) darling Dida is a multi-talented woman, who has won the hearts of so many members of the Kashmiri community. Her initiative of bringing people who speak Kashmiri together, and helping kids learn the language, is exceptional. It’s because of Asvun Koshur that I feel connected to our deep roots in Kashmir,” says Sanyogita Raina from Bengaluru.

“After the 1990 turmoil, it has become important to build bridges and spread positivity, which is exactly what Meanka is doing. Not only does she take people on a nostalgic trip, but also helps the younger generation understand Kashmiri language in a simplified manner. I know of many elderly people who eagerly wait for her comic relief videos. I truly appreciate and laud her staggering efforts,” says actor Ashwath Bhatt. 

Exploring the art of laughter

Like most creative content industries, the comedy landscape of India also grew via the internet. Meanka saw an opportunity in the rise of a generation that appreciates standup and content that is reflective of their own lives.

Thus, she essays the character of Dida, a mother who is wise enough to speak about social issues. She is a fun person who is liked by both the younger as well as the older generation. Her other characters include Jigga Masi and her daughter Cherry Didi. Topics include many aspects, including drug abuse, eve-teasing, forced marriages, gender stereotypes, and environmental pollution, among a host of others.

For example, in her video titled Bubji ka Telescope, she talks about child abuse, and water pollution in Dal Lake “I built this character called Bubji, who has a telescope. He looks into that telescope and answers questions asked by his visitors/followers. When someone asks when Kashmir will be peaceful again, Bubji replies, ‘The day we start feeling each other’s pain, acknowledge the loss of human life, the day we stop  being selectively sympathetic, we may see peace returning to Kashmir’.”

“I am representing my culture for the world to see, and this is a huge responsibility. I have to ensure my punch lines are not insensitive, and that I am dressed properly for older women to be able to relate with me. Another important aspect is to get the diction and words right. Before recording, I discuss the episode idea with my parents and implement their inputs,” Meanka says. 

Besides churning content via videos, she also recently launched a project called Asvun Koshur- Zaan, which brings children from different religions together online. “The idea is to introduce them to our past glory. Children have pure minds, so if you introduce togetherness early on, they will believe it to be true, and follow it no matter how many polarised views exist. I host them live on my Instagram page, where they talk about their favourite games, movies or things they like about their culture. The response has been amazing, as several parents reach out to me every week asking if their kids can join,” Meanka says.

While the intention behind all her videos is sincere and pure, she hasn’t been spared from negative comments and brutal trolling online. Haters often indulge in her character assassination, ageism or simply spew hate due to her gender.

So how does she deal with the trolls?

“Honestly, seeing some of the comments is tremendously hurtful, and I wonder what wrong I am doing. I try to see the positive impact my content is bringing and look past the so-called protectors or messiahs. I am flooded with messages where people talk about nostalgia, express gratitude and bless me for spreading the right kind of awareness,” she says.

Seeing the outpouring love from viewers, Meanka makes an effort to reply or at least like every comment or message she gets. She is also cautious about not getting swayed by the attention and taking her audiences for granted.

“You cannot mollycoddle audiences, and the best thing is to talk to them straight up, no matter how nerve-racking it is. To all aspiring comedians or YouTubers, my only advice would be to not deviate from original content, and being honest to it. Stay away from the rat race,” says Meanka. 

If there’s anything that Meanka has learnt in the past four years, it is that disarming humour and comedy makes larger space to talk about serious issues, because people tend to keep their mind open when they are laughing.

Follow Meanka Handu here 

Edited by Divya Sethu

With the advent of technology, many forms of traditional arts and games have faded away. Ganjifa is one such game, lost to the sands of time. The origins of this ancient Indian card game can be traced back to the Mughal era.

The word Ganjifa is derived from the Persian word ‘Ganj’, which means treasure trove. During the 16th century, the cards were designed on sandalwood and ivory, etched with colours of silver and gold and embedded with precious stones.

These cards were not only popular with aristocrats, but also among the locals. The latter would make the cards by pasting layers of clothes and hand paint over them. These had paintings of acrobats, dancers, warriors, hunters, musicians, animals and birds, and were primarily circular in shape, although rectangular ones were also made.

As their popularity spread across the country, each region developed its own version of making the cards and motifs. In the 19th century, the Maharaja of Mysore, Mummadi Krishnaraja Wadiyar III, helped popularise the cards. He had even formulated a version of the game that required 36 to 360 cards.

By the 18th and 19th century, the cards were played in temple courtyards as well as in the royal palaces. Today, Ganjifa cards are made in the homes of a handful of artists and played by even fewer people.

To know more about the history of these exquisite cards, and bring alive the age-old magic of the game, watch this video.

Not too far from the ghat, sprawled along the River Ganga are the famous gullies and pedestrian alleys of Dashashwamedh area in Varanasi. No more than 6 feet wide, these ever tangling maze-like lanes are part of a heritage walk in one of the oldest cities of India. They have had immense influence from their foreign visitors. For example, you could walk past a sadhu giving sermons in a foreign language, or stop by for a coffee at a cafe run by a Korean.

Traversing these lanes will also lead you to a rustic heritage structure, roughly 100 years old, bearing a sign that says ‘International Music Centre Ashram’. A door, a little over 5-feet tall, will lead you to the reception area, crossing which takes you into a courtyard with distinct architectural features for visitors to feast their eyes on, followed by a chauraha or a baithak hall, where musicians from different parts of the world learn, practice or even perform Indian classical music.

For more than four decades now, the Ashram has created over 10,000 musical jewels that have taken Indian classical music to different corners of the planet. Musicians from Europe, Japan, USA, Australia, Korea, and Latin America, to name a few, have learned to play instruments such as the tabla, santoor, bansuri, bamboo flute, violin, and sarangi, as well as vocals and dance forms such as kathak and bharatnatyam.

Many of these musicians have become professionals, who are now spreading their love for Indian classical music in their respective countries by performing concerts and teaching. The ashram also finds mention in the Lonely Planet.

Taking India’s musical heritage to the world

Continuing the legacy of this ashram is Sandeep Rao, part of the fourth generation that has been running the centre. He says, “Musicians organise concerts to entertain tourists, visitors and locals in the baithak hall three days a week. The ritual is to attend the Ganga Aarti at 7 pm and walk to the centre for a concert,” he tells The Better India.

While most of the performers and students at the ashram are foreigners, the centre was not not specifically launched to teach them alone. “In the early days, music festivals and events were limited to special occasions. The school aimed to then educate the locals about the Indian classical music and make it accessible,” the 37-year-old explains, adding that the involvement of foreigners happened organically.

“My grandfather, Pandit Laxman Rao Nayak Kewale, and his younger brother Pandit Gangadhar Rao Kewale, were two music lovers who started the music school Sugam Sangeet Vidya Mandir in 1975 to promote music. The city has a rich tradition in music. Legendary musicians from Varanasi, such as Pandit Ravi Shankar, Ustad Bismillah Khan, Kabir, Pandit Godai Maharaj, Pandit Gopal Mishra, Sitara Devi, and Girija Devi to name a few, continue to strike a chord in the hearts of millions of classical music lovers,” he says.

“The city attracts tourists because of its holiness, beauty, rituals, and classical and folk music. It hosts thousands of foreigners each year, and my grandfather’s idea was to reach out to such audiences to showcase India’s art, skills and the quality of music through concerts,” he says, adding.

“The music school was renamed as International Music Centre Ashram in 1980, and was officially registered in 1988. The status allowed the school to be recognised officially and gave credibility to the institute,” he explains.

Sandeep says it was Pandit Keshava Rao Nayak, Laxman’s son, who suggested changing the name. “He started organising concerts twice a week and giving lessons on music to foreigners,” he adds. “It became a platform for foreigners to listen, learn and understand music by taking part in the concerts and discussions organised in the presence of renowned and famous artists of Indian classical music,” he says.

Sandeep adds that word spread among tourists without any marketing, advertisement or means of online publicity, and the ashram soon became a must visit in the city. “Foreigners thronged to experience and learn music. They mastered the art and promoted it in their respective countries,” he says.

Transcending boundaries and language barriers

KG Westend from Sweden is one such student of the ashram, and has been playing the sitar since 2005. “I had my first experience of Indian classical music at the centre. After eight years of learning, I qualified to perform globally and organise festivals,” he says.

He adds that he has been promoting and teaching Indian classical music in Sweden. “Learning unique music requires a different kind of intellect. I have tried Jazz and other forms of music as well, but struck a chord only with Indian classical music,” he says.

He describes Indian music as advanced. “Such music has been practised in India for thousands of years. It has brought a big change in my life, as I could perform across the globe and make new friends. I feel at home with it,” KG says.

Gumi Nakaguchi, a bansuri professional, met Sandeep in 2007. “Sandeep heard me playing during my visit in Varanasi. He was impressed, and offered that I play alongside him in events and concerts. I took lessons to increase my knowledge and have been performing at various music festivals since 2010,” he says.

Gumi says it has been a unique opportunity to associate with the centre and perform in front of global audiences. “I have pure vegetarian meals with the family and have made the city my second home,” he says. Many of his students from Japan accompany him to India to seek exposure to Indian music and culture. “I hope I can return to perform in 2022,” Gumi says.

Sandeep says it was not as hard for both him and the foreigners to overcome language barriers. “The beauty of music is that rhythm can help connect and communicate. If any technicalities cannot be explained in English or understood, a practical demonstration serves as the best option,” he adds.

Sandeep adds, “The school has taught over 10,000 musicians so far. Around 75% of them come from Europe, Japan and the USA. In 2016, we started a project called Neckarganga (Neckar, a river in Germany) with German musicians who learned classical music at the institute. We have been organising live concerts during the COVID-19 pandemic. Every week, we conduct online music concerts under the Banaras Festival and perform with artists globally,” he adds.

Sandeep’s father, Keshava, feels that the years of efforts have helped the family turn their dreams into reality. “I have performed in Japan, Denmark, Finland and other countries in the past many years. We tried our best to connect with as many people as possible. Our motto of spreading the soul of Indian classical music all around the world has been lived up to. And I am sure Sandeep will continue the good work for years to come,” he says.

Edited by Divya Sethu

Up until the age of 11, Sai Venkat Gangadhar from Hyderabad had never heard of a dance form called Kuchipudi. This made sense, seeing as how, growing up in the slums of Mastan Nagar Basti, close to Jubilee Hills, he never had access to the internet, or other facilities to give him exposure to the outside world. His father is a driver, and mother a domestic worker, who work hard to keep their four-member family, cramped together in a small room, afloat.

So when you look at the grace and ease with which Gangadhar’s body now moves, it’s hard to tell there was a time when he didn’t even know of this dance form’s existence. The professional dancer, now 25, imparts free lessons to children from slum areas in the hope of giving them better opportunities like he had. To get here, he had to fight his father’s resistance, for he wanted his son to pursue conventional fields such as engineering or managing.

Today, his tale reads of inspiration and hope renewed.

Finding something to believe in

When Gangadhar was 10 years old and studying in Class VII, his family decided to move from their native home in Rajahmundry to Hyderabad, 435 km away, in search of a better livelihood. “I was studious and excelled in academics. But our poor financial situation never allowed me to explore the career options that I could pursue,” he tells The Better India.

Gangadhar says that a year later, in 2009, Anitha Reddy, a member of Women in Networking (WIN), an organisation run by businesswomen to help the needy, and Sandhya Raju, a promoter of Kuchipudi, reached the basti to organise a dance workshop for slum children.

“Organisation members frequented the area to help children by giving them books, free food, and any financial aid for education. One such occasion came when they informed me about a dance workshop,” he recalls.

Gangadhar, with 120 kids from the settlement, assumed they would be introduced to western dance steps. But they were pleasantly surprised when the lessons began. “There we learned its name – Kuchipudi. The first day was followed by a three-month rigorous training, after which only a little over a dozen students survived,” he says.

Around 15 students qualified for the professional training at Sandhya Raju’s Nishrinkala Dance Academy in Banjara Hills. After years of training, in 2015, Gangadhar and Lakshmi V became the only two to qualify as professional dancers. “We followed the art by keeping faith in Sandhya. We were sincerely learning and absorbing everything that came through teachings,” he says.

In 2015, celebrities from the field were invited for a Kuchipudi dance event at Birla temple where he was performing. After the event, the rangapravesam ceremony was conducted, which entitled Gangadhar’s transformation from a student to a professional.

The qualification earned Gangadhar a job as an assistant teacher at the dance academy. The earnings from this helped him support his family. However, as he completed his graduation in commerce in 2017, followed by an MBA in 2019, the pressure of choosing a better-paying profession started building.

“My teachers and mentors always insisted that I focus on academics and choose a conventional profession that would earn a better income than dance, enough to support the family. But I wanted to pursue dancing. In fact, even when I was pursuing MBA, I bunked classes to go dance. My father was against it,” he says.

Gangadhar adds that he struggled to make the decision. “I tried to give a conventional career a shot, and attempted the civil services examinations. But I failed. Meanwhile, my wish to pursue dance, choreograph, and pass the art to the next generation never faded. I had invested ten years of my life in Kuchipudi and given my 100% for it,” he says.

Eventually, Gangadhar declared to his family that he wanted to pursue dance as a profession. “Years of learning provided me an exposure to experts, and I attended Ted Talks and met people who were sensitised about pursuing alternate careers. My parents had not been made accustomed to these things – they had spent their lives working for rich people and struggling to earn a few thousand rupees. They had seen our neighbourhood plagued with all kinds of addicts. They just wanted a better life for me. I don’t blame them,” he notes.

Gangadhar says that his father has still not entirely accepted his career choice. “He still believes that dance is a hobby or distraction from mundane life, but cannot become a profession. My mother and younger brother Srikanth have been supportive throughout,” he adds.

He has performed for some prestigious events including the Young Dancers Festival at Sangeet Natak Academy, the Pongal Dance Festival organised by Shrikrishna Gana Sabha, and the Gandharva Male Dance Festival, among 40 others. Gangadhar took admission to pursue a masters in performing arts in Kuchipudi from the Hyderabad Central University, and will complete the course in June 2021.

‘Kuchipudi is lucky to have Gangadhar’

Watch students of Gangadhar learning Kuchipudi

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by gangadhar venkat (@sai_venkata_gangadhar)

With Lakshmi, the dancer spends weekend mornings teaching Kuchipudi to 25 slum kids for free. “The objective is not to create dancers alone. We aim to distract the children from addictions,” says Lakshmi. She adds that the choreography revolves around themes such as substance abuse, addictions and other problems prevailing in the slums. “We hope it helps change the mindset,” she says.

Gangadhar’s mentor, Sandhya Raju, says he has extraordinary talent, and his devotion and sincerity for the dance are unmatchable. “Gangadhar helps us create new dancers at the academy. He was one of the 120 students who had no social, cultural or economic connection with the dance. His talent could have allowed him to make a career in any field of his choice. But he dedicated himself to the dance,” she says.

Sharing an instance to show his sincerity, Sandhya says, “The children used to assemble at an assembly point at Jubilee Hills. They were picked and driven to Banjara Hills for the classes. But one day, Gangadhar was late. Owing to the delay, we left. But 40 minutes later, he reached by running a distance of 4 km, ensuring that he did not miss the session.”

“I have not seen a person as pure-hearted as him. I would say that Kuchipudi dance is lucky to have Gangadhar,” Sandhya says.

Edited by Divya Sethu

Dr. Kuzhalmannam Ramakrishnan from Kerala’s Palakkad district holds five Guinness World Records for his marathon performances, in which he plays the Mridangam, a Carnatic instrument, for the longest durations in the world. In one of his record holding events held in Coimbatore (2006), the maestro did a solo performance for 301 hours straight. 

Among the many people he thanked for helping him reach this stage was a man called P R Kasumani, a native of Peruvemba village. He was the craftsman behind making the two-headed percussion instrument that proved to be Dr Ramakrishnan’s perfect companion for the evening. 

“We have been sourcing mridangam from the Kasumani family since my grandfather’s days. Although the village is a culturally rich hub for instruments, our loyalties lie with the dextrous craftsmen,” Dr Ramakrishnan tells The Better India. 

Kasumani is a third generation craftsman, taking forward his family’s hard-earned legacy of making and preserving instruments. His skills and focus on precision have made him one of the most sought after artists by maestros of Carnatic music, including Indian film actress and Bharat Natyam dancer Shobana, as well as late Carnatic music artiste Jaya Krishnan. Kasumani’s instruments are also sold in countries such as Canada, Malaysia, United States, Singapore, and Gulf countries.

Like Kasumani, there are several uniquely skilled craftsmen in Peruvemba who manufacture musical instruments like Mridangam, Maddalam, Tabla, Timila, Chenda, Idakka etc. However, over time, some families have moved over to other professions such as making charkhas and sari weaving, due to financial issues. Presently, there are 30 artisans actively engaged in the profession. 

Kasumani’s son, Rajesh K, who is the fourth generation entrant in the profession, speaks with The Better India and gives a sneak peek into their well-preserved heritage, which is more than 200 years old. He shares what goes into each instrument piece and how the family has thrived over the years. 

A meticulous process 

Peruvamba is located only 15 kilometres from the noisy town of Palakkad, and upon entering the small village, you only see a different world. At any point in the day, you can hear someone humming along to classical ragas like Kambhoji, Hanumantodi, and Malahari, on freshly made mridangams. 

The cumbersome and labour-intensive process of making every piece, which continues seamlessly and without glitches, takes anywhere between 2-3 months to complete. Generally, the artisans dedicate a part of their house to make the instruments. This is probably the reason why the entire family is involved in the work. Rajesh was around eight when he first tried his hands at making one. 

“For a school project, I had made a miniature mridangam, and cut my skin in the process. In fact, in the initial days, I’d cut myself often, till I grasped every step of the process. Every family member excels at certain tasks. For example, my grandmother aces mashiyidal, which is the black circular ring on top of the instrument made from boiled rice and black stone. Her work is especially in demand by customers. Likewise, my father perfects the shape,” says Rajesh. 

The main materials to make the instrument are jackfruit and leather. The family sources their jackfruit from Tamil Nadu’s Panruti village and to ensure the sturdiness, the tree has to be at least 30 years old. The middle and lower body of the fruit is cut and kept for drying for nearly two months, and then chiselled to make the body. 

“Earlier, we would shape the jackfruit by hand, but now we have a rotating machine that does the work in three hours. The leather is made of three skin layers and pinned on the top and bottom. The strings are fastened tightly on the sides, and while doing this, it is crucial to note if the struti (microtonal units) is in perfect order. It is an excruciating process which requires a lot of arm and leg strength. After this, we make mashiyidal by grinding the black stone or puranakkallu on a mortar and mixing the powder with boiled rice. It is applied to drumheads which create a resonating bass sound,” Kasumani explains. 

The family makes two types of mridangams — Ech, which is usually used by female musicians due to its high pitch, and Thag used by men. In Ech, straw is placed in between the leather layers, and for Thag, rust iron is used. The finished product weighs between 9-12 kilos and the price range is between Rs 15,000 and Rs 20,000, depending on the specifications of the customers. 

The bespoke percussion instruments are made without any shortcuts and the dedication is reflected in the family’s policy of testing each instrument before selling it. Even though they make an average of 50 mridangams through the year, they don’t hesitate in discarding pieces if they find a defect. Many artisans sell the defective pieces at lower prices but for Kasumani and Rajesh, nothing is more important than quality. This principle is applied when customers come for their instruments to be repaired —  they either replace the instrument altogether, or repair it for free. 

However, adherence to quality has its drawbacks, especially in a time like COVID-19, when the demand has dropped dramatically. They end up working more and earning less. The family either sells directly to customers who comprise musicians and music institutions or middlemen at fair price. In case of middlemen, Rajesh tells me that often, they increase the price and sell it under their brand name without giving any credit to the makers. 

But by now, Rajesh has accepted the bitter truth. “Unlike in the old days, customers have specific demands with regards to design, tone, etc and we provide these, but they don’t want to pay extra for the extra work we do. Due to the pandemic, festival celebrations and social gatherings have reduced, so very few people are ordering from us. It is a difficult time for us.” 

Even though Rajesh holds a degree in MA, he has chosen to be a part of Kasumani’s legacy and, despite the pandemic, he aims to continue the craft. While he does not have children, he hopes to pass on the learnings and skills to his nieces and nephews, giving them a choice to join the family tradition when they grow up. 

“Mridangam is part of our identities now, I will part with it only when I die,” adds Rajesh. 

You can reach Rajesh between 10 am and 7 pm at +91 77365 46452

Featured image source: Manikandan/Facebook 

With inputs from Upasna Sudhir

Edited by Divya Sethu

In southern India, it’s common to see women drawing intricate patterns or kolams every morning just outside their front door.

The kolam is drawn at the threshold of one’s home using rice flour – which serves as food for ants and birds. The purpose of doing so? To attract success, good health and wealth, and ward off evil. Sadly, over the years, the number of people practising this art form has been slowly reducing.

Bucking those trends, a couple from the temple town of Madurai, Tamilnadu, had their home’s compound wall painted with traditional kolams and colourful rangolis.

The couple said they did it to spread awareness about the age-old tradition and provide a livelihood to a struggling artist.

“During the lockdown, I watched a video of a lady painting her home using cow dung and drawing warli designs over it using terracotta and white-coloured paint. This made me wonder if anyone had done something similar with kolams in Madurai, a rich art and culture city. We spoke to a city-based painter whom we were friends with, and even drove around the city looking for such paintings on compound walls,” says Aruna Visesvar (66), who is the founder of Adhyapana CBSE school along with her husband Visesh Aiyer (73).

Finding the artist

Early in September 2020, Aruna was approached by a friend trying to find employment for an underprivileged artist named Elangovan K.

“He had not earned money in six months and was desperate to find a job. Initially, he wanted to know if I required any work done at my school. However, when I asked him to show his drawings, I was impressed with it and decided to hire him and paint kolams at my home in Sathya Sai Nagar,” says Aruna in an interview with The Better India.

On a trial basis, Elangovan, the resident of a nearby village named Malappuram came down to Madurai. Aruna provided him with a kolam design she had printed and asked him to replicate it on the wall. He spent a few hours making a sketch and painting it.

“It was flawless. He did the drawings with one brush stroke, kept his work station clean, and was quick,” says Aruna, adding that they requested Elango to paint one compound wall that spreads across 100 meters in their home. The wall has 20 partitions, and Elango completed 55 drawings within one week.

How did he do it

Elangovan is a native of a village named Malappuram located in the outskirts of Madurai. For the last 25 years, the 54-year-old was involved in painting houses, billboards, temple walls, and signboards. However, he was also good at drawing maps, scenic landscapes, portraits of famous leaders, making him famous among corporation schools in the city.

“I learned the art from my father, who was also a famous painter in my village. He has made murals of gods and goddesses at temples across Madurai. From a young age, I have been practising drawing and painting. But I have never drawn a kolam until last year. The knowledge I have revolves around what I have seen my wife draw,” says Elango, adding that since the nationwide lockdown was announced, he has been struggling to make ends meet.

In August, after Aruna and Visesh had their home white-washed, they added a coating of terracotta-coloured paint. On the road-facing side of the wall, Elango made pencil sketches of designs picked by Aruna and Vishesh. Within one day, he had finished the outlines of the kolams.

“In the next six days, Elango painted 20 large ones surrounded by small ones on four corners. They were done using white paint with single strokes and no overlapping. Inside the compound wall, he made rangoli designs and filled them with various colours which were selected by me,” says Aruna.

Elango made 55 drawings and was paid separate rates for the kolam and the rangoli. After Aruna shared pictures of her home’s new makeover among friends and family members, they appreciated the artist, and some even enquired to hire him.

Vishesh says that Thiagarajar Arts College in Madurai contacted Elangovan to paint a small mural on one of their walls as a test run. He also adds that Elango received enquiries from two people in Bangalore recently. However, the artist declined the offer owing to the pandemic.

For more details or to get in touch with the artist, you can email Aruna and Visesh at mvisveswar@gmail.com

(Edited by Vinayak Hegde)

Konsam Ibomcha Singh of Imphal East, Manipur, was born to National Awardee parents. His father, Konsam Tona Singh, had won the award in the Dolls and Toys category and mother, Konsam Ongbi Gambhini Devi, for the Kauna Craft. It was no surprise then that Ibomcha decided to adopt his father’s craft of the century-old, doll-making technique, for which he was awarded the Manipur State Award.

“My father tweaked the way the traditional dolls were made in the state. Today, I am the only person in our region to make this style of dolls,” explains 58-years-old Ibomcha, speaking from his home which is just 3 kilometres away from the central marketplace. One can reach his home from the marketplace by getting directions from anyone there.

Manipur, one of the prominent states in North East, is steeped in many traditional crafts and art and culture. For some, the state represents the traditional and very graceful Manipuri dance, popularised in the rest of the country by the Gujarat-based classical danseuses quartet of Jhaveri sisters. There is also the Polo sport played on horse backs which was born in Manipur. The older form was believed to have been introduced by the Moghuls and popularised all over India by Emperor Babur.

For others, Manipur represents the traditional, colourfully attired dolls. These dolls are known as Laiphadibi or Laidhibi, which are handmade from old waste cloth by older women for children. In the Manipuri language of Meitei, ‘Lai’ means God, ‘Phadi’ means old rags and ‘Bi’ is attributed to the feminine gender. The old tradition states that these dolls have feelings. So, after playing with the dolls, children are asked to keep them back in their lubak (bamboo basket), otherwise they are told that the dolls will wander, crying the entire night under the banana plant.

Ibomcha says, “We changed the traditional doll-making style by replacing the rags with dried grass that are formed into shape with thin wires which are then glued with cloth. This is held tight by smearing with a paste of locally sourced clay and a fine powder made of grass. They are then dried in the sun. Later, the dried dolls are smoothened to get a uniform surface. I then paint them using acrylic paints. A single colour is used to paint the body and red and black, among other colours, are used to paint the facial expressions. The technique is almost similar to the one used in making the idol of Maa Durga during the Durga Puja festival. The last step is dressing the doll.”

And this is when his wife, Chandrima Konsam, steps in to stitch beautiful, richly embellished attires using either bright-coloured satin fabric or the fabric with traditional, region-specific weaves, depending on the doll to be attired. For embellishment, zari ribbons and sequins are used, especially for deity idols. She makes tiny ornaments like necklaces, garlands, hair and head decorations too. Unlike Ibomcha, who learnt the art of doll making from his father, Chandrima learnt stitching dolls’ attire after she got married. Every doll is attired differently to mark its unique features. And everything is hand-stitched.

The beauty of Ibomcha’s dolls is that every item is handmade. There is no mass production or moulds used in the making of these dolls. That’s why each doll takes at least a week to make. These dolls are made in sizes of 10”, 12”, 16”, 18” and 24” tall. He also makes two or three life-size idols of Maa Durga during the Dussehra festival. For dolls, he charges upwards of Rs 1,000. One of the costliest dolls he had made of Radha-Krishna was 4 feet tall, priced at Rs 50,000.

Though the most popular figures demanded are that of Radha-Krishna or individual Lord Krishna’s idols, Ibomcha has branched out to make different figurines too. In his collection one will find dolls of Manipur’s tribal soldiers, tribal dancers, women performing household duties like pounding rice, catching fish, weaving clothes, old woman praying, among others.

The father of three—a son and two daughters—Ibomcha recollects his days of hardships. He says, “There was a time when I hardly earned my keep. Each doll was sold for not more than Rs 300 and there were not many buyers. I thought of taking up some other job but in those days, even though I am a graduate, it wasn’t easy getting a job. Now, on an average I make around Rs 20,000 to Rs 30,000 a month.”

The gift of the ‘rug doll’

Since the late 1990s, Manipur along with other states of North East saw an economic growth with Imphal having one of the three largest airports in the region, making it easily accessible to the rest of the country. Additionally, the city was included in the Smart Cities Mission under the Ministry of Housing and Urban Affairs. This has immensely helped the handicrafts sector in the state
Ibomcha says, “Now I get bulk orders from our State Government. They present my dolls as gifts to their guests or display them in the tourists department for sale. Even banks place orders to gift their customers.”

Even with this new success, he is still reluctant to allow his children to take up doll-making as a full time profession. “My elder daughter, who is studying in a local college, was interested in fine arts and wanted to take up doll making. But I was reluctant because there isn’t a lot of money in this artform,” says the doll maker.

Ibomcha is reluctant to start e-sale and use boutiques to sell his creations too. “I can’t mass produce these dolls. Each item is made by me. I don’t want the quality and beauty of my dolls to diminish. But if anyone places an order on the phone, I can customise the dolls according to their demand and courier them to the customer,” he says.

His ‘rug dolls’, as he calls them, are so popular that they get sold out at any craft exhibition he attends. He has taught this craft at many seminars and workshops he has conducted. At present, he is training three students in the typical ‘guru-shishya parampara’. He hopes they take it forward with the help of the Government or NGO assistance.

Ibomcha’s art, like many other art and crafts in India, need to be preserved and encouraged.

To reach out to Konsam Ibomcha Singh, you can call: 9856507466/7005246634.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

Amidst the backdrop of World War II, two individuals are putting their lives at stake to support the Indian National Army (INA) by transporting a gem-encrusted sword to its members, to be used as capital to fund the revolution. A hanging bridge stands in their way, as the British try to corner them and stop them from crossing over and leaving Indian borders. What ensues after is a climactic scene on the flimsy bridge, followed by shootings and explosions causing some of the characters to lose their lives.

This is a scene from a 2017 Bollywood film, Rangoon, where the lead characters, played by Saif Ali Khan, Kangana Ranaut and Shahid Kapoor, wrestle with all odds to transport a priceless sword to the other side of the bridge.

Now, imagine watching this scene with no sound. You would not hear the characters’ footsteps, the explosions, the sounds of a torrential stream running below, or even the subtle yet dangerous reminder of their ultimate doom with each crack on the bridge. It would then be quite bland, wouldn’t it?

Without background undertones like these, any scene, be it a climatic one or otherwise, would lose its flavour. That’s why Mumbai-resident Karan Arjun Singh has dedicated his life to adding magic to the screen. The 48-year-old foley artist has recreated the minute sound-effects in the aforementioned scene, in a small foley studio, using not much but a charpai with a mini hanging bridge artificially constructed using jute and twigs.

Talking to The Better India, he points out that we don’t just watch a film with our eyes, but witness a seamless and immersive aural experience without even realising it. Foley is a highly underappreciated art in cinema. Artists like him recreate sound effects and add them in post-production to enhance the film without overpowering it. He is one of the country’s most prominent foley artists, having added his magic to more than 3,000 films so far.

‘Finding my true calling’

Born and brought up in the staff quarters of Mumbai’s BR Films studio, cinema has always been an integral part of Karan’s life.

Talking about his first encounter with his calling, he says, “My father was part of the security team at BR Films, but I was always interested in the process of filmmaking. Through the years, I had the opportunity to work in various capacities at the studio. From cleaning to recording, I’d done it all. But it was only when I was around 11 years old that I found my true calling. It was quite late at night and I sneaked out to watch the process of voice recording. I reached a small studio room, where someone was using all sorts of objects, from brooms to shoes, balls and leaves, to replicate the sounds shown on the video playing on a large screen. I was spellbound watching him work and at that moment I knew that this was something I wanted to do for the rest of my life.”

After this incident, Karan began to frequent the studio at night to learn more about foley from the artists there. A year later, in 1984, he did his first work on a film called Teri Maherbaniya, at the age of 12. Since then, he has worked on thousands of films with several prominent blockbusters to his name, including Tezaab, Jab We Met, Sultan, Dangal, Tiger Zinda Hai, Neerja, Secret Superstar, Tumhari Sulu, Krrish 3 and even Baahubali.

In 2003, Karan parted ways with BR Films and decided to establish himself as an independent foley artist. After freelancing for six years, he launched Just Foley in 2009 in Goregaon. His career has scaled since, helping him diversify into working on web series such as Paatal Lok, in addition to films.

An underappreciated art

But life as a foley artist is quite difficult, he says. “Long hours are a given. We spend nights without sleeping and work till 4 am in the morning every day to finish films. A few decades ago, when sound was recorded on mono tracks, we would manage to finish an entire film in a night, but now with Dolby Atmos and 5.1 surround sound, things have changed and become more complicated. So it can take somewhere between 15 to 20 days and sometimes even a month to finish one film.”

He adds that action films are usually the most challenging and time-consuming, as an average action film has more than 5 lakh sound effects to be individually recreated and added to the video clips. “Krrish 3, being the first superhero film in India, was quite a challenge. Creating sound effects for the explosions, building crumbling down, amidst the main character scaling heights, was quite something. We have to spend hours adding layers and layers of sounds to get the authentic effect,” says the artist, who manages to complete even the largest project inside his 10ft x 16ft sound studio with a trusted team. From the sound of a marching battalion to the delicate footsteps of Kareena Kapoor, he and his team of foley artists can do it all.

One of his youngest team members, 36-year-old Ram Nath, says, “I have been working with Karan sir as a sound recording engineer since 2005 and have done several huge films such as Baahubali. But even after so many years, the magic of sound never seems to surprise me. At a glance, it looks like an ocean of chaos, but there is a method to this madness, that artists like Karan sir understand and excel at.”

But despite the brilliance of this art and the artists, foley continues to be underappreciated in the film industry. Karan opines that one way of helping foley achieve its due as an art is its prominence in film institutions. Although several institutes in India focus on Sound Design and Engineering, very little emphasis is given to foley, a gap that Karan hopes to be able to fill someday by starting his own institution for teaching foley.

Watch this video of Karan recreating the sound of a blood pressure machine using nothing but an empty Suthol bottle and a laptop bag with a velcro strap.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by Karan Arjun Singh (@karanfoley)

Edited by Divya Sethu

Perhaps one of the greatest unions in the history of music is that of Pandit Ravi Shankar and former Beatle George Harrison. Their meeting in 1966 birthed an instant yet unlikely connection and albums full of wonderful music. The two came together despite differences in their age, cultures, backgrounds and even social status, but developed a solid camaraderie that would last till Harrison’s death from cancer in 2001, with Shankar being at his bedside with the rest of his family.

This historic union took place in the house of portrait painter and novelist, Patricia Clare Angadi, and her husband, a relatively lesser-known Indian man named Ayana Deva Angadi. While Patricia remains “best known as the person who introduced Harrison and Shankar”, her ex-husband’s name remains more or less missing from the mentions of this famed encounter. However, his efforts to popularise Indian music, yoga and dance in the western world paved the way for artists such as Pandit Ravi Shankar and Akbar Ali Khan.

So who was Ayana Deva Angadi?

‘Shining hope’

Born in 1903 in Jakanur village in Mysore State, now in Karnataka, at the age of 21, Ayana went to London in 1924. His goal in London was to finish a degree he’d started back home at Bombay University, but he soon realised that normal jobs were not for him.

Instead, he became increasingly involved in political activism and wrote several articles and journals under the pseudonym Raja Hansa. He joined the Labour Party and wrote on Japanese imperialism, fascism and capitalism. His deep interest in politics meant that he was never really employed long-term, and flitted in and out of radical left political circles for most of his youth.

At the onset of World War II, Ayana met his future wife, Patricia. In Ray Newman’s Abracadabra: The Complete Story of the Beatles’ Revolver, Ayana’s son Shankara said, “He was very striking looking, with long hair and aquiline features, and that went to his head. He…lived as a kind of toy boy to various socialist women for ten years or so. Then he met my mother. One version of the story is that she saw him from the top of a bus on Regent Street and said, ‘I have to paint that man’.”

Patricia and Ayana’s union was met with disdain, particularly because she belonged to a well-off family and he had given up his wealth for a life of activism. Alongside, of course, were differences of race, which contributed to Patricia’s parents’ overall disdain for Ayana. Regardless, the two married in 1943 on Labour Day in a registrar office.

In an obituary upon his death, The Guardian wrote that he came from a large family and was their “shining hope”.

The assimilation of Indian culture with the UK

In 1946, the couple founded the Asian Music Circle in their home to promote Asian culture and music in Britain. From hereon, the Angadis began shaping Indian arts as something more than just a fancy of the elite left circles of Britain, and more towards something that the masses could enjoy.

“…In the mid-1950s, Patricia and Ayana Angadi began the slow process of bringing Indian art to the chattering classes. They imported musicians and dancers, putting them up and, in their own chaotic way, organising and promoting tours. Some musicians stayed, forming the core of a musical “repertory group” who, as well as performing in their own right, would back visiting celebrity musicians or hire themselves out to record and film companies,” writes Newman.

This “repertory group” included renowned violinist Yehudi Menuhin, English classical composer Benjamin Britten, and world-famous yoga teacher B K S Iyengar. In fact, in the case of Iyengar, from the day he held a session in the Angadi’s north London home, the face of yoga changed in the UK forever — it became the popular discipline it is known to be today.

Around 1955, Menuhin had become the president of the AMC, which had started gaining massive notoriety for its performances. He had gained funding to stage a giant music festival — Living Arts of India Festival — in New York, and his first choice was Pandit Ravi Shankar, who he had previously met at a concert in New Delhi in 1952. However, Shankar was forced to turn down the opportunity owing to problems in his marriage, and the festival instead called in Sarod player Ali Akbar Khan.

This festival by the AMC marked the first formal recital of Indian classical music in America. Owing to its massive success, the centre organised for Khan to play in London and was finally able to bring Ravi Shankar alongside. This marked the sitarist’s first western concern, held in October 1956. The year also marked the entry of famed sitarist Vilayat Khan to the UK for the first time.

Angadi’s introduction to The Beatles happened particularly during the recording of ‘Norwegian Wood’, which featured Harrison playing the sitar. The story goes that during a recording session, one of the sitar strings broke, and Harrison made contact with Angadi in search of a replacement. In an interview for Newman’s Abracadabra, Shankara said, “There’s a story in my family, which I don’t believe, that my father had never heard of the Beatles. He was heard shouting into the telephone: ‘Yes, but Ringo who?’ As luck would have it, we did have some sitar strings in the house, and the whole family went down to the studio at Abbey Road and watched them record, from behind the glass. My mother drew several sketches of them recording ‘Norwegian Wood’, which are still in the family.”

As Harrison became further involved with the Asian Music Circle, he was introduced to Ravi Shankar, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Returning to his roots

It was due to Angadi and the AMC that Harrison, and subsequently The Beatles’ music, was so influenced by Indian culture. Many of the Beatles’ tracks featured Indian musicians from the AMC, in particular, Anil Bhagwat, who played the tabla for ‘Love You To’. He received a credit on the album sleeve for Revolver, which was a rare occurrence for an “outsider”. Songs on St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts, including Within You Without You, feature AMC members on the dilruba, swarmandal and tabla as well. In 2017, a few of these musicians, who had remained unknown up until then, were tracked down for a live performance.

Some time in the 70s, Angadi and Patricia split, leading to the dissolution of the AMC. Angadi’s roots beckoned him home, and he returned to Jakanur and immersed himself in rural development projects in his homeland. “He came to believe that his theorising in London had served its purpose but had done nothing for his home village,” journalist Reginald Massey said, writing for The Observer. “And so he went back to Jakanur and organised rural upliftment projects. Houses were built, a school was started, electricity was brought in and a well was sunk. He got buses to service the village.”

On Angadi’s death in ‘93, Massey further noted, “The death of Ayana Angadi, aged 90, will be mourned by all Britons and Indians who value mutual respect, tolerance, understanding and cultural exchange. He was a man of immense energy whose crusading work, often behind the scenes, influenced the great and the good. The acceptance of Indian culture — the art, music, dance, or yoga — in the United Kingdom today is due in no small measure to Angadi’s endeavours.”

Edited by Yoshita Rao

DDressed in a bright pink top and a short green ghagra(skirt), Subhreet Kaur Ghumman set the stage of India’s Got Talent (IGT) on fire in 2014. A resident of Chandigarh, Subhreet performed on ‘Chikni Chameli’ (Agneepath, 2012) on one leg and stunned everyone including the judges. She received a standing ovation and a green signal to move to the next round. 

Her broad smile, terrific dance moves and spirit to live her life on her own terms won all our hearts. She was the runner-up that season which changed her life. She became a dancing sensation and went on to participate in other reality shows, including Jhalak Dikhla Jaa and Asia’s Got Talent. 

Seven years after appearing on national television for the first time, Subhreet recently recreated her famous audition performance, which has garnered more than four million views on Facebook.  

Being specially-abled doesn't stop dancer Subhreet Kaur Ghumman from being a total star.

You inspire us every day, Subhreet!

VC: Subhreet Kaur Ghumman ( @SubhreetG ) pic.twitter.com/s2sb1TS4Bg

— The Better India (@thebetterindia) June 17, 2021

Behind Subhreet’s ‘overnight’ success lies years of struggle, dejection and stigma that she overcame with her strong willpower and her mother’s unconditional support.

Dancing on one leg

Subhreet lost her left leg due to a bike accident in 2009. She was on her way home from college when the vehicle skid. The next thing she saw was the frightful sight of several ants chewing on her skin. To prevent the infection from spreading, the doctors had to amputate her leg. 

Subhreet decided to pursue her childhood dream of dancing after the accident. 

“I have loved dancing since childhood. But it was only after the accident that I realised I should do what I love now that I have got another chance at life,” she tells The Better India.

A year after the accident, Subhreet joined a gym to improve her muscle strength and stamina. “I first learnt to stand and balance myself on one leg and then joined the gym. By 2012, I could dance on one leg,” she added. Once she was confident of dancing with one leg, Subhreet joined an academy in Chandigarh for a dance course.

In 2014, life took a pleasant turn with IGT and the accolades that came along with the show but her share of struggles was not over yet.

Subhreet faced several problems in the last couple of years, including going through a divorce and gaining weight. But she has braved it all. 

In 2019, she shared her inspiring weight loss journey on social media. She shed nearly 20 kilos with the right diet and routine exercises and she even got off her antidepressant medication.

“I gained a lot of weight after my emotional crisis. I was 164 pounds when I decided to adopt a healthier lifestyle. Surprisingly, my weight loss journey was more thrilling than gruelling. My best friend-cum-gym trainer, Jazmin, helped me get back in shape. I shed nearly 20 kilos due to a combination of gymming, dancing and eating right,” she says.

Subhreet is grateful that social media has helped her spread positive vibes and encourage others who believe that disability is a hindrance to achieving goals. By showing her stunning dance moves and participating in dance shows, she is ‘normalising’ all body types in the entertainment world. She only hopes people would now stop stigmatising the disabled.

She now hopes to perform on the stage of America’s Got Talent and inspire people around the world.

Isn’t she a total rockstar? 

Edited by Yoshita Rao

I n 2008, after performing a rare art form of puppetry called ‘Nokkuvidya Pavakkali’ in Paris, artist and Padma Shri awardee Moozhikkal Pankajakshi found herself at a crossroads. She was the last surviving artist of the dying art form and was aware of the burden she had carried for decades. But, her body had begun to give up under the pressure.

A centuries-old form of puppetry that originated in Kerala, Nokkuvidya Pavakkali is extremely strenuous as it involves balancing wooden puppets positioned on a tall pole in between the puppeteer’s upper lip and nose. The puppeteer, in this case, Pankanjakshi, had to hold balance while manipulating the puppets through a string held inside her mouth — a job that required absolute concentration and unimaginable balance. However, Pankajakshi who was 72 during the last performance began to feel the ache in her body and the blur in her eyes.

Her journey back home was clouded with uncertainty about the fate of this art form. However, a year later she soon discovered a silver lining in her granddaughter, Renjini KS.

Speaking to The Better India, 20-year-old Renjini says, “I was around 8 years old when I saw my mother very upset because she thought that our family legacy of Nokkuvidya Pavakkali would eventually die with my grandmother. That is when I along with three cousins decided to step up and learn the art form. But it proved to be extremely difficult and they all gave up. As I was staying with my grandmother, she continued to help me through my training and with time I improved.”

As the years progressed, Pankajakshi began to see herself in her granddaughter who would skillfully tackle the ancient demi-gods and goddesses at the tip of her lip with admirable grace. Today, this 20-year-old living in a remote corner of Kerala, a village called Monipally, is striving to keep ancient folklore and legends alive through this rare art form.

Becoming of A Puppeteer

Pankajakshi was 12 years old when she began to perform along with her parents. Being the eldest in the family it was on her to continue the legacy even after she got married at the age of 20.

“After marriage, I continued to perform along with my in-laws. My husband would make the toys while my mother-in-law would perform with me. This art form, from the music to the making of the dolls and the performance by the puppeteer, is done by the same family. And slowly, ours was the only family that continued it. Eventually, it was up to me to continue it,” says Pankajakshi, who couldn’t pass on the legacy to her daughter.

The indigenous theatre art form involves narrating stories from epics like Mahabharata and Ramayana through music and subtle movements of the puppets. Noku means vision and Vidya means knowledge, suggesting the importance of balance and vision of the puppeteer during the performance. During a performance, the tall tales of mythical characters and gods precariously rest on the face of the puppeteer. Even the slightest movement can become a mishap and derail the entire performance, explains Renjini.

“Eyes are very important when it comes to holding the balance and concentration. It takes more than a year just to get the balance right and then slowly you graduate into making the movements,” adds the young artist. She further adds that through the years her training has been extremely painful with her suffering several injuries but to preserve a valuable legacy all of it has been worth it.

Stressing on the importance of patience and perseverance, she adds that usually, only women are able to become puppeteers in this art form.

“Years ago my grandmother had told me that only women tend to become the centrepiece of the performance as the puppeteers as this art requires an unimaginable level of concentration and patience. Men in the family are usually involved in the musical narration through songs, playing instruments and creating the puppets. For instance, my grandfather used to be a very skilled craftsman responsible for making all the puppets we use today. After his passing, we have been struggling to replicate it and make new puppets,” says Renjini, who is also a Third Year B.Com student, aspiring to pursue a career in business management.

Like the star puppeteer she is, who deftly balances formidable epic characters on her philtrum, Renjini hopes to continue to hold the balance of her destiny as the sole guardian of the ancient art form.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

From the ’50s till the ’70s, Kolkata (then Calcutta) witnessed a surge of refugees after the Partition of India. These were decades of chaos but also of a social and cultural awakening, where different sections of the society were out on the streets to demand food, wages, housing and other basic rights. These varying sections—students, refugees, the working class and more—joined hands in the face of political upheavals and the surge of the Naxalite movement.

Amid the changing landscape of this city emerged a group of young men, armed with the drive to raise their voices that could connect even the most varying sections of society through a single medium — music. This helped form India’s first rock band, Moheener Ghoraguli (Moheen’s horses). The name was picked from Jibanananda Das’s poem Ghora, where a line of the poem says, “Moheen’s horses graze on the horizon, in the Autumn moonlight”.

At the helm of this musical movement was Gautam Chattopadhyay, who formed the group in 1975 with his brothers Pradip and Biswanath (Bishu), cousin Ranjon Ghoshal—who picked the band’s name—and friends Tapas Das, Tapesh Bandhopadhyay (who was later replaced by Raja) and Abraham Mazumder.

“The music had elements of rock, jazz, blues and Western classical music; folk elements from Bengal were also very visible in the music they made,” Gaurab Chatterjee, Gautam’s son, tells The Better India. “My father had a huge palette for different kinds of music, where he would try to listen to new forms all the time.”

Moheener Ghoraguli was born in Gautam’s backyard and as is the typical origin story of legendary bands, it was just a simple coming together of young boys who were united in their love for making good music. “For my father, a band from India, or even Bengal, had to sound like it belonged to the country instead of blindly aping the West. Having one’s own elements meant a great deal to him,” Gaurab notes.

At this time, Bengali music was defined more or less by commercial and/or Bollywood music. “These were sweet, romantic songs, or film songs, whereas the band was talking about social issues through a different composition altogether. So it was something different for the masses,” says Gaurab.

The group began with performances at small gigs throughout Kolkata. But audiences were unaccustomed to this new sound. Commercial success was a slow and uphill battle, but regardless, the band produced three albums of wonderful music.

Talking about a few songs and their meanings, Bishu Chattopadhyay, Gautam’s younger brother and member of the band, says, “We wrote this song called Shono Sudhijon [Dearly beloved]. Roughly translated, the lyrics meant, ‘Oh city dwellers, listen, we wake up with nightmares everyday thinking about your injustices and neglect—oh dear people, as if your life is the precarious ‘Charak’ performers going around with your back facing the sky—listen dear beloved people, we are with you’.”

He adds, “Then there’s Haay Bhalobashi [We love with sadness], where we say, ‘We love getting immersed in the countryside, the nature, a run in the moonlight with distant hills, paddy fields, a boat ride or sitting by the window with a book of poems.”

He further adds, “We love Picasso, Bunuel, Dante, listening to the Beatles, Dylan, Beethoven. Love listening (live) to Ravi Shankar or Ali Akbar and returning home in the foggy morning. Yet none seems good or satisfying, there is always sadness underneath. None makes sense when we notice oppressed peasants or workers sweating in the fields and ports. We wait for the bright day when we all can love life together’.”

Haay Bhalobashi

Gaurab says his father spent a lot of time with the Bauls, a group of religious singers from the Bengal region. Moheener Ghoraguli often described their style of music as ‘Baul jazz’. “My father was quite influenced by the time he spent with the Baul singers. Members of the community also came to perform with the band during the Kolkata International Jazz Festival around ‘79 or ‘80,” he says. “One of the first examples of folk fusion in a band came from Moheener Ghoraguli as well,” he says.

Describing the reception that Moheener received and the struggles they saw, Bishu tells The Better India, “We were not given opportunities to express ourselves the way we wanted. We wanted equal sounds for all our instruments, as well as vocals but engineers at the recording studios were often against that. There were many times where sound engineers or recording studios would think they were one up on us — we were nobodies at the time. Moreover, the so-called ‘established Bengali community’ was still holding onto Tagore songs, and a lot of footage was given to only gifted singers or traditional musicians. I think people were afraid to publicly support something different.”

“Also, none of us had money,” he laughs. “It’s not like we were going on these giant tours. We used to often jokingly ask, ‘How do you make Rs 5 lakh? Possibly by starting out with Rs 10 lakh of your parents’ money’.”

In 1981, Moheener Ghoraguli parted ways. When I ask if their struggles to find commercial acceptance played a role in this, Bishu says, “Well, yes, if we had been given more opportunities, maybe things would be different. It wasn’t because of any disagreement. It was more situational. So many of us left, and only Gautam da chose to stay back. But of course, if people listened to our music, we would have stayed — who wants to leave their home, friends, and family, and move away?”

Other members went on to pursue careers for a bit, while Gautam diversified into filmmaking. Interestingly, during this period of disbandment, many Moheener Ghoraguli songs survived across different college campuses in Kolkata as an oral tradition. “These kids didn’t even know whose songs these were, but they’d sing it anyway,” Gaurab says.

He further recalls that with the advent of MTV in the ’90s, when the father-son duo would switch on the channel, Gautam would be fascinated with the music videos he saw. “He wanted to make something similar and created a three-part miniseries of music videos which got sanctioned by Doordarshan,” he recalls. “He got new people to sing some of his post-Moheener songs, shot videos for them and that’s how a collective of great music came about.”

And that is how, in the ’90s, Moheener Ghoraguli emerged again, but this time as a collective of musicians. With his friends in a publishing house named A Mukherjee, Gautam released a compilation called Abar Bochhor Kuri Porey (Again, After Twenty Years) in 1995 at the Kolkata Book Fair. Gaurab says, “This was Moheener Ghoraguli’s second phase, which was a collective of musicians and artists that my father liked.”

A notable song on this album was Prithibi Ta Naki Chhoto Hote Hote, a commentary on the human tendency to be glued to the television to a point of humanity’s own downfall. This song was later recreated by composer Pritam in his song ‘Bheegi Bheegi Si Hai Raatein’ for the 2006 movie Gangster. The collective released three more albums — Jhora Samoyer Gaan, Maya, and Khyaapar Gaan.

Subrata Ghosh, a member of Gorer Math and an active member of this movement, tells The Better India, “This movement involved not just musicians but also artists and filmmakers, to encapsulate different forms of expression. We weren’t making this music to be famous, but to express ourselves. We didn’t know the kind of impact we were making. We didn’t have a lot of financial help on our side. A lot of these albums were sold in black but it gave us an idea of the impact. Gautam da used to say that when you find your cassettes being plagiarised or sold in black, you understand the popularity of your music.”

“There were no interviews or press releases,” Ghosh notes. “Our impact was all word-of-mouth. For example, one of the members of our collective was a radio jockey, who’d often play Prithibi during his segment. Our music started selling like hotcakes and we did some concerts but not too many.”

Also involved with the collective was Arunendu Das, a pioneer of 20th century alternative Bengali music. While Das never intended his songs to reach a wider audience, Gautam was so moved by his music that he included many of his songs on the collective’s albums.

Gautam died suddenly of a heart attack on 20 June 1999, and his demise left a deep scar on the Bengali music fraternity. Ghosh recalls, “I’d left for Japan for some work, and I used to call him and keep in touch regularly. I remember, on the day he passed, I tried calling him several times but the call would not connect. I received the news the next day. The whole Calcutta music fraternity came to the house to pay their respects. I was still in Japan at the time, and when I received the email of his death, I called his wife. The two of us broke down on the phone, and in the background, I could hear Baul singers singing in mourning. I returned a few years later, but Calcutta has always been empty without Gautam da.”

Shortly before his death, Gautam had visited a Naxal-infested area to interact with Karbi youth, and organised an opera on the community’s folklore called Hai-mu. Around 300 Karbi youth performed here, and the event was a grand success, inviting the community’s adoration for Gautam. He had also been working on a movie in Karbi language, which remains incomplete due to his sudden death.

Bishu, who now is a member of a jazz band in the US, says, “Gautam da was the most popular brother among us, from when we were very young. Our life was always a little public because of how many people noticed his talent. He taught me that you can make music the way you want, and that it’s okay to be adventurous. There’s no need to conform. He never believed in doing things the way everyone else expected him to. For example, people may expect that the best voice in the band should sing a particular song, but he would go ahead and pick someone else because that has another kind of creative quality. He was a leader, he knew how to bring people together. He could zero in on the best abilities of people to highlight them in the best way possible, just to try out seemingly unthinkable ideas.”

Today, remaining members of the original band include Pradip, who resides in Kolkata and experiments with city and natural sound, as well as abstract theatre, Bishu, who lives in the US, Abraham who runs a music academy, and Tapas who helms a band. Tapesh lives in Kolkata and Raja in the US. Ranjon passed away in 2020, a year after he was accused during #MeToo for sexual harassment. Band members and Gaurab have, in the past, emphasised that they stand in solidarity with the victims who came out in the movement.

Shono Sudhijon

Encapsulating the present world impact of the band, Ghosh says, “Earlier, there was this impression that people who make music or those who are artistic in general, are God-gifted. Commoners couldn’t do that. But with this movement, people started believing more in themselves, and looked at it as a form of expression, something that everyone is capable of doing.”

Bishu says, “I think Moheener Ghoraguli instilled a sense of pride in your own language. So many young talented singers today are making so much more new music, and if Gautam da was alive today, he would be so happy.”

You can watch the video that the ’70s band members created in remembrance of Gautam Chattopadhyay here (credit: Bishu Chattopadhyay) and a video of Abraham’s students covering Haay Bhalobhashi here.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

For the last 17 years, Hemant Chaturvedi always began the new year with a travel ritual. A Mumbai-based photographer and cinematographer, he travels all the way to Prayagraj (earlier known as Allahabad), Uttar Pradesh, to witness the Kumbh Mela, a prominent Hindu festival and pilgrimage. The juxtaposition of scores of people immersed in celebration of their faith with the unexpected sense of tranquility is what always drew him to witness the festivities.

However, 2019 turned out to be different.

“It had moved away from the beautiful simplicity of the celebration by becoming a huge spectacle. That bored me and so I decided to leave and explore Allahabad University instead,” says Hemant.

On his way to this 19th century architectural landmark, Hemant recalled the existence of another marvel — an old single-screen cinema theatre called Lakshmi Talkies. Having closed since 1999, the erstwhile popular theatre was now languishing in neglect and was about to be demolished to be replaced by a mall.

Even in the midst of ruins, the Art Deco heritage structure had not yet lost its charm, all it needed was its due appreciation through the eyes of an artist, and Hemant decided to be that person by making it his life’s mission to immortalise these neglected heritage structures through his camera.

“I remember walking inside, brimming with fascination. I’d spotted a pile of small film posters called lobby cards dating back to the 1960s and there was a dust-covered idol of Goddess Lakshmi in the lobby with a few broken arms. Upon entering the theatre auditorium I was taken aback by the large murals depicting Ramayana painted on the walls adjacent to the screen. It was breathtaking and something that modern multiplexes can never replicate. It was at that moment that I decided to make this into a project. I decided to photograph a few more single-screen cinemas across the city in the remaining days,” says the 53-year-old.

With the advent of multiplexes with high-tech facilities and financial challenges, these family-run single-screens are quickly becoming a thing of the past. “When I began to research this topic. I found a jarring reality that between 2000 to 2019, almost 12,000 single-screen cinemas were shut or demolished,” he shares.

Each demolition not only crumbled the physical structure of the theatres but threatened to wipe out the illustrious history of Indian cinema.

“I realised that if I let this continue and just be a bystander, I would let valuable heritage get lost. Each single-screen cinema is unique and an example of individuality, unlike multiplexes that look almost identical. So through my project I decided to make memorabilia of sorts that would chronicle the existence of these marvels and serve as a platform of visual conversation for generations to come,” explains the esteemed photographer who started the Single Screen Cinemas Project in 2019.

Since then, Hemant has spent over 20 lakhs traveling more than 32,000 kilometers in his jeep across 500 towns in 11 states, to document the beauty and history of more than 650 endangered cinema theatres.

“It began with my fascination and appreciation for the intricate architecture and design but slowly became about the people behind it as well. Over time, I began to understand how multiplexes, despite being technologically advanced, lacked the character and romance of single-screen cinema,” says Hemant, who has worked on several prominent films like Makdee (2002) and Maqbool (2004), among others.

Although the COVID-19 restrictions had halted his plans, he adds that with the pandemic the fate of such cinema theatres is precariously hanging by a thread. Working towards publishing the photographs in the first volume of his book, his project is nowhere close to an end and will not be until he has documented the last remaining single-screen marvel through his lens.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

Raghunath, a resident of Odisha’s Raghurajpur village, is a fourth generation artist engaged in Pattachitra, a cloth-based scroll painting. This art form dates back to the 12th century. In the last 22 years, the artist has created hundreds of these intricate paintings.

What makes Raghunath’s paintings stand out is that he makes organic colours from seashells, flowers and leaves to make sharp, angular and bold lines to depict epics, gods and goddesses.

In fact, he is one of the many artists keeping alive this art in his village, which is a hub of the indigenous art form, with at least one artist involved in the trade in every family.

However, the coronavirus-induced pandemic has severely affected his sales ever since March 2020. So instead of colouring on the cloth, Raghunath has been colouring his house walls for the last few weeks. This, alongside following his daily routine of making organic colours, is his way of assuring himself and his family that things are going to get better once the pandemic ends.

Within the confines of the house, colours explode in a way that looks like you’re part of a festival. But only Raghunath knows the burden of having unsold paintings worth lakhs just lying around.

“Coronavirus has robbed close to 150 families of their livelihoods in our village. We would receive a footfall of 400 people every day before the pandemic, but in the last year, I have not sold even one painting. By colouring the house, our community is keeping spirits high and hoping the world takes notice and buys our paintings,” Raghunath tells The Better India.

Raghurajpur was declared a ‘heritage village’ in 2000 by the Indian National Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage (INTACH). This recognition promoted tourism in the village and assured the artisans that their art is protected. Veteran artists like Raghunath even passed down the art form to their children, knowing it will generate livelihood.

Parul Kumar, who has been working with the village artisans for the past few years, says this is the first time they are struggling to make ends meet.

“Through my NGO Prabhaav, we have created market linkages and helped artisans sell the artwork even during cyclones. But the pandemic has restricted movement so we cannot even organise exhibitions,” says Parul.

She adds, “Raghurajpur village is full of talent, dedication and hard work, and produces several different types of breathtaking artwork including Pattachitra, cow dung toys, grass baskets, pottery, palm leaf painting and shell work.”

Here are some examples of the beautiful artwork done by the villagers:

If you wish to purchase the artwork from these highly talented artists, you can place your order here or call 98112 64284. Delivery is available across the world.

Edited by Divya Sethu 

Growing up in Goa, Dr Luis Dias (55) always found solace in music. It was a big part of his life, he recalls, right from his visits to church. But without the presence of the internet, he notes, it was hard to pursue a dream in that field. “If you didn’t know who to write to or where to submit your pieces, you had no scope,” he recalls in conversation with The Better India. “I’d loved to have pursued a career in music, but I didn’t know how.”

Coming from a family of doctors, Dr Dias thought it was the natural field of choice for him as well — he is a fourth-generation doctor from his family. His great-grandfather is Dr Migeul Caetano Dias, who was at the forefront of the fight against the Bubonic Plague in Goa. “We were a traditional farming family but my great-grandfather was the first to study medicine.”

Back when Dr Dias was growing up, career choices were limited, he says. “Today you have all sorts of arts you can pursue, but at that time, there was medicine or engineering, and things like that. I was a decent student so I pursued medicine but my love for music never faded.”

He became an obstetrician and gynaecologist and practised in India for 10 years. After this, he spent a decade in the UK. However, he notes, “More than having a lucrative career in medicine in a foreign land, I relocated to be closer to the music I loved. In those 10 years, whenever I was not busy with my work as a doctor, I was pursuing and exploring music.”

A life changing moment

In 2005, Dr Dias married his wife, Chryselle, who shifted from India to move in with him in the UK. Around this time, the Symphony Orchestra of India was formed, which is the country’s first and only professional orchestra. “This was a big deal because until then, India did not have a professional symphony orchestra,” Dr Dias notes. “I was very excited by this development. This orchestra is made up entirely Eastern Europeans and only a few Indians. I wondered why we couldn’t push for more Indians to join this movement.”

Alongside was Dr Dias’ understanding of the grave inequality that existed back in his home country. These, he says, are sections of society that are more or less overlooked. What if you could give them a better life if you hand them an instrument? This idea, he says, came from a project he’d come across years ago, wherein a few children from a slum were given disposable cameras to capture their lives from their own lenses. This project went on to become very famous and left Dr Dias deeply inspired.

The amalgamation of these two desires happened when Dr Dias attended a BBC concert in July 2007 at the Royal Albert Hall in London. This orchestra consisted solely of underprivileged children from various parts of South Africa and South America. “I was blown away by the talent of these young kids. After the concert, I happened to talk to one of the children, who told me that music saved his life. He told me stories about his friend who had taken to drugs and crime and had eventually died. This kid told me that if he had not been given the violin, this could have been him. That really stuck with me. When I came home, I was so overwhelmed by what I had seen.”

He adds, “A month before going to that concert, Chryselle and I had started preparing to settle down in the UK permanently. But after the concert, there was no looking back.” So in 2008, Dr Dias gave up his thriving career in medicine in the UK and returned to his home in Goa to start working towards his dream. And that’s how Child’s Play India Foundation was born.

‘Creating something beautiful together’

The organisation works with children coming from disadvantaged backgrounds across Goa to instill positive values and socially empower them through the medium of western classical music. These kids are taught the violin, viola, cello, recorder, transverse flute, clarinet and piano, which they then perform in concerts across the state.

Child’s Play aims to provide these kids a sense of self-esteem, possible career opportunities, a sense of discipline and encourage excellence and creativity. Around 250 children have learned music with the organisation, and have performed in 20 concerts across Goa. Audience members at these concerts include people from all backgrounds and walks of lives, and most notably, proud parents who marvel at their children mastering the toughest of instruments with ease.

“Our idea is to teach these kids instruments that you’d find in symphony orchestras, so we’re not teaching them the guitar or keyboard. We want to build an orchestra or choir,” Dr Dias notes.

Child’s Play has various projects through which they work with these children. For example, there’s the Humara School project, wherein the organisation has tied up with a shelter for underprivileged children in Goa. Humara School cares for over 80 children of construction workers, migrants and other low-income families and provides them with food, clothing, after school education and a safe place. A few children from this shelter are learning the violin, cello, flute and choir with the organisation.

The NGO has also launched the Santa Cruz Village Project, where they work with the Santa Cruz church and parish school to conduct after school projects and teach these village children instruments such as the violin and piano. Before the pandemic, Child’s Play would hold at least two concerts every year.

While the NGO charges Rs 500 a month for these lessons, any family who is interested but can’t afford the amount is never turned away. Instead, they’re inducted under the Child’s Play scholarship so they can play with the organisation.

“When sir first came to my children’s school to propose the idea of learning western music, I was very hesitant. I know these instruments are costly and that we couldn’t afford them but Dr Dias never turned us away,” says Seema Sali, a Saligao resident whose children Shreya and Sanjay have been learning the cello and violin with Child’s Play for three and two years, respectively.

“It has been a pleasure watching my children learn music with sir,” she tells The Better India. “Dr Dias provided them with all the instruments and he regularly helps them maintain these. My daughter, in particular, was very shy and couldn’t speak well. Learning music with Child’s Play has helped transform her. She’s picked up English so well, which has been such a big achievement for us. I tell my neighbours and other parents all the time that this organisation has helped change my children for the better, and that they are doing great work. When I watch my children perform up on stage, it fills me with so much pride.”

“I am a housewife and we’re not that well-to-do. I want my children to realise all the dreams that I couldn’t have myself. I have always been worried about giving them a good education and making them good people and Dr Dias stepped up to help. He makes accommodations to suit our comfort and is always willing to help. My children love the lessons he has imparted and my daughter regularly keeps up with practice,” Seema says.

“Playing and singing together is a good lesson for society,” Dr Dias notes. “We want to build a better society where we listen to each other. Music is excellent for that. We want to tell these children that no matter how small your role, your contribution is paramount. We harmonise, in the literal as well as the figurative sense. We make something beautiful together, which we couldn’t do on our own.”

‘Music belongs to everyone’

Speaking about some challenges that Dr Dias has faced along the way, he says, “The shift from my career in medicine to running this organisation has certainly been tough. The money is not what it used to be. But after 20 years of practising, the only thought I was left with was that there’s only one life to live. It’s also been hard to find people to invest in our dream.”

The biggest challenge, he notes, is getting teachers for the NGO. “We want to maintain a certain quality and look after these children. We might find teachers who are great at what they do but might not be able to connect with these children and want to help them. Alongside music, there’s also the question of character building, instilling confidence and realising the importance of hard work. There are many hindrances in inviting foreign teachers to join us as well. We could invite them on a volunteer basis but the stipend is not much, which makes it hard for them to survive. So sometimes a teacher from outside will fly in for six months or so but there’s a gap once they leave.”

Dr Dias works hard to fill this gap as much as he can. While he grew up playing the violin, over the years, he has honed his skills in cello and other instruments so he can continue teaching. “If you leave too much of a gap in teaching children, they lose interest. So we have to keep going,” he says.

“So many of our children have done well in their higher education, with renewed focus and drive. Now there’s no way to directly prove this, but I’d like to think it’s because they continued playing. They learn life lessons about daily practice, hard work and perseverance — and these are qualities you can apply to all parts of your life,” Dr Dias says.

The onset of the COVID-19 pandemic has certainly posed additional challenges. “Many of these kids don’t have access to phones or online learning. So continuing lessons has become hard. When you’re teaching instruments, it’s always better when you’re physically present with your student. Our lessons took a big hit during the lockdown last year. When things began to open up a little, a few kids would come to my house to learn. But after the second wave, that had to be put on hold as well. We also have to keep tuning and cleaning these instruments but it’s got a lot harder.”

“The dream is to reach out to many more kids, especially those from disadvantaged backgrounds, because they’re the ones who are denied a decent living the most. But for this, all sections of society have to work together. We want to uplift these kids and let the world know that music belongs to everyone. It’s about creating a society that grows together and exists in harmony through this medium,” Dr Dias says.

To donate to, support, or learn more about Child’s Play, you can visit their website.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

Did you know that a small village named Inakadate in Japan makes art out of paddy growing in large fields? The practice, which is called Tanbo art, was started in 1993 by farmers in the village who decided to beautify their fields with designs of iconic people, places, and anime characters.

Soon, this started attracting more tourists and the art form spread to 100 other countries, including Korea and Taiwan. Today, Inakadate attracts more than 2,00,000 visitors every year. However, this art form took a while to catch up in India, a paddy-intensive agrarian country.

It was in 2016 that Shrikant Ingalhaikar (67), a Pune-based engineer turned farmer, introduced the art to his paddy field. He single-handedly created four designs including one of Lord Ganesha across his 120 x 80 feet paddy patch.

Once images of his work went viral on social media, other paddy cultivators across the country began doing the same.

How is it done?

Using the field as a canvas, different colours and varieties of paddy are grown to make an elaborate design.

First, a blueprint of the design is drawn on paper or using 3D computer software. Then, it is transferred onto the field with the help of mesh wires placed in vertical and horizontal directions.

By taking an aerial view, the design is modified and markings are made to finalise what colour of the crop will grow where.

Shrikant, who made the design all by himself, said that this feat was possible because he was a self-professed amateur botanist and a part-time graphic designer.

“To execute it successfully, it is also imperative to have a distinctive understanding of the growth cycle and irrigation needs of each variety of paddy. To add a different colour to the field, I planted Nazar Bath, a black variant of paddy, ” he said, in an interview with The Better India.

He adds that this variety is native to hilly regions in the country and is grown to cast away the evil eye, rather than for consumption.

Now, the art form has caught on among other farmers across the country who shared videos of their own beautiful designs on social media.

Here are some of them:

In 2018, India’s social climate experienced a transformation like no other. A clarion call for sexual violence survivors, the #MeToo movement allowed thousands of people to share their accounts of trauma that were once silenced or shared only with a few in confidence.

What was once simmering behind closed doors had now erupted into a worldwide movement that came into prominence in India after a Bollywood actress leveled allegations against a co-star. A single woman’s story became a phenomenon threatening to bring down powerful individuals across the country.

But what after that?

Mumbai-based Aastha Khanna points out the fault in the system that never let the movement meet its true potential.

“In India, the #MeToo movement was as big as any other place. It rocked the entire nation, and yet three years later, we are not very different from what we used to be. With time, the conversations around it died down and the media moved on to the next big thing. Unlike the West, which worked toward finding a solution, at least in the film space, we did not do much. The job of an Intimacy Coordinator (IC), for instance, came into existence in the wake of this movement as people there realised that performers were being put in vulnerable positions. But in India, things did not play out the way it should have,” says Aastha who has been working as an IC in films and web series for the past nine months. Before her, India did not have any certified IC working towards making the visual medium safe for performers.

Speaking to The Better India she highlights different facets of her job role and the urgent need for us as a society to undergo a transformation.

‘It’s Not Just About The Sex’

During early 2020, Aastha was working as an assistant director (AD) in filmmaker Shakun Batra’s upcoming movie, when on the director’s insistence she happened to discover the role of an IC. After searching relentlessly to hire an IC in India, she realised that the role was nonexistent in the country and thus began her journey to fill a gaping void in the film and television industry.

“We were about to shoot a few scenes of intimacy and so the director asked me to do the requisite research. I tried looking for people to hire who could be experts in this but found none in this field. Then, the director sent me an article on Amanda Blumenthal who had worked on the drama Euphoria. That is when I reached out to her and began to get her help to design exercises and intimacy workshops. Under her guidance, we ended up making a team of three people — me as an IC, an intimacy coach and a director of intimacy, for the film,” she shares.

Her association with Amanda for this project opened up a new world for Aastha, who realised that by training to be an IC she could marry her profession with her passion to work for issues pertaining to gender-based violence, safety, etc. “After COVID-19 began, Amanda informed me about a course she was starting under Intimacy Professionals Association (IPA) that I could apply for. I applied, got in and spent around 20 weeks during the pandemic training to be an IC,” she adds.

“To understand what an intimacy coordinator does, we first need to dive into the definition of intimacy. Thinking of it as just a sexual act is very reductive, because a larger spectrum of intimacy also involves minors and small children. In case of minors, the scenes can range from exploration of their sexuality, first kisses to simple and basic familial relations shared on screen. People don’t realise that scenes with childbirth, non-sexual on-screen hugs and kisses with kids or minors are also considered intimate. In these scenes, the child artists and minors are performing not with their parents but actors playing the role of their parents or guardians, hence the job to ensure their safety, consent and comfort becomes of the utmost importance,” explains Aastha.

Aastha who has previously worked as an assistant director in prominent films, like Student of The Year 2 (2019), Andhadhun (2018) and Badlapur (2015), has now been involved in more than seven projects as an IC. These include upcoming web series and films with Netflix, Amazon Prime and Dharma Productions.

She adds that a change in behaviour is required to reflect beyond the screen. “As a culture, Indians are very physical in their interactions. From pulling the cheek of a stranger’s kid without consent to assuming that one needs to be 18 years of age to have agency of their physical being, the smallest of actions play into creating the larger fabric of social relations and we need to acknowledge it. Normalising and trivialising abuse is not the solution,” she says.

An intimacy coordinator also performs the task of a mental health first-aider on set, especially during scenes when minors are exposed to situations of sexual violence and trauma.

To explain this to most people on set, she follows a simple logic — “If you don’t want your child to experience the trauma played on-screen, make sure there is an IC on set when you are shooting such a scene with somebody else’s child.”

‘Are You The Sex Police?’

Being the first IC in a country that continues to grapple with issues around intimacy, sexual or otherwise, is mired with challenges. Hence, the path for Aastha as the first certified IC in India was extremely exciting but also full of roadblocks.

“With the glory of being the first at anything comes its own set of challenges. For me, it was to prove my legitimacy and worth every single day. When you are going against the wave, people will question you at every step. I have been asked whether I am required on set, whether I bring anything special to the table, the budget implications or if I am even qualified enough and all sorts of things. People have even asked if I’m a very sexually active person, what my parents think about my job or on the other end, if I am a prude or a sex police. The questions range from funny, ignorant to borderline offensive, but that’s fine as long as the work helps people,” says Aastha.

She adds that the idea that an IC might be a ‘sex police’ is a misnomer because it is their job to make the production safe while ensuring that the intimate scenes are steamy, realistic and organic, all while each performer feels comfortable and secure. “An IC helps ensure clear conversations between a creative team and the performers, by empowering the latter to know and ask for what they need from a safety and mental comfort perspective. The most important part of my job is to uphold performer consent at all times,” she adds.

While Aastha might be the first certified IC in the country, she adds that there might have been many before her performing facets of the role in isolation. But she is quick to add that a professional approach covers much more ground ensuring that both the performers and the creators are satisfied throughout the production process. A lone ranger for now, she with IPA’s support is striving to create a community of intimacy professionals in India, encouraging a new generation of progressive content creators.

Edited by Yoshita Rao

“Ae waqt aaj tu tham ja…” is how I felt when I saw my idol dressed in white trousers, a shirt and sandals, walking down the stairs of his palatial Pali Hill bungalow in Bandra, Mumbai. He walked towards where we were sitting in the front room, where I was interviewing his wife Saira Banu.

When in her sing-song voice Saira Banu announced, “Saheb aa gaye”, I just about controlled myself from jumping up from the sofa chair.
In that moment, I imagined myself as Madhubala in the scene from the film Tarana (1951) where Dilip Kumar emerges from a side room and bumps into her, and on realising that she is head over heels in love with him, gently pats her on the head with that mesmerising soft smile!

I could not control my adulation, as he smiled gently with stretched hands to greet me and came to sit next to me on the sofa. Imagine sitting next to the legendary Dilip Kumar (Mohammad Yusuf Khan).

 

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Throughout his life, thousands of women must have had the same bemused expression that I had at that moment way back in the mid-1990s. It was difficult to gather my wits to speak to him as a journalist and more difficult to take down his comments as Dilip Kumar’s impeccable English would have given a tough competition to MP Shashi Tharoor’s English vocabulary. Moreover, his mastery over the language could be gauged by his selection of words to make his point. They were not difficult words nor unheard of but apt words to express what he wanted to say. His correct pronunciation and the correct way to stress on the syllables, showed that the reason this legend was a master of dialogue deliveries.

It was this penchant for getting the exact nuances of each word that have made his dialogues famous even for today’s youth, who may not be as familiar with the work of this thespian. Today’s youth may have heard Shah Rukh Khan deliver the famous dialogue in the film Devdas (2002), “Kaun kambhakt hai jo bardaasht karane ke liye peeta hai…”. But they may have missed the same dialogue delivered by the first superstar of Hindi films, Dilip Saheb in Devdas (1955).

I fell in love with his dialogue delivery while watching the film Leader (1964) on DVD. In a court scene to counter his defence against Vyjayanthimala, the lead actor opposite him, Dilip Kumar says, “Is mehengayi mein sar phodne ke liye sangmarmar ke tukada nahin milata, mein inhe Taj Mahal kaise bana ke doon?” Of course, the credit has to go to the writer but one can’t deny his perfect delivery of the dialogues.

And what can be said about his way of acting, which has become the style book for many Indian actors. Actors like Amitabh Bachchan, Anil Kapoor, Shah Rukh Khan and others were believed to have emulated the legend. I remember the scene in the film Mashaal (1984) when his on-screen wife, Waheeda Rehman, is almost dying on the streets of Mumbai and Dilip Kumar is trying to get a lift from the vehicles passing by to help him take his wife to the hospital. The desperation and the beseeching ways he pleads with the passers-by is an emotional performance to say the least.

The same agony one felt watching while he took the dying Vyjanthimala, his on-screen wife in the film Ganga Jamuna (1961), in his arms saying, “Nahin Dhanno nahi, aaj agar tumhe kuch ho jaye to main is duniya ko aag laga dunga.” A dramatic dialogue but it was the pathos and anguish on his face while holding her that made the audience completely empathise with his character, even though he played the role of a dacoit.

The powerhouse of acting was bestowed with innumerable awards — Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan, Dada Saheb Phalke award, 8 Filmfare awards for best acting, Lifetime achievement award and many others.

Dilip Kumar came to be known as ‘Tragedy King’ as most of his earlier films like Mela (1948), Andaz (1949), Devdas (1955) and many others portrayed tragic stories. He started acting in pre- independence era in 1944 with the film Jwar Bhata (1944), and acted until 1988. However, he shifted to comic roles quite seamlessly in films like Paigham (1959), Kohinoor (1960), Leader (1964), Ram aur Shyam (1967) and innumerable others. We still laugh when we remember his scenes teasing Meena Kumari in Kohinoor and Azaad (1955), and Vyjanthimala in films like Leader, Naya Daur (1957) or heckling the newbie Mumtaz in Ram aur Shyam. His depicted a gentle humour — no garishness or loudness in his comic roles. His subtle dialogues, that soft, amused smile and the mirth in his eyes were enough to portray the comic scene.

Even when I had called him up to talk about Durga Khote, with whom he had acted in a few films, including Mughal-E-Azam (1960), after her demise,  he softly said, “People called her ‘Dimps!’ She had lovely dimples.”

Dilip Saheb always spoke softly and was famous for his pauses.

The best part of this conversation was that when after a week he had met my then-editor R K Karanjia, Blitz, he recalled talking to me by name. My happiness knew no bounds.

But the legend and the style book for Indian film actors is no more. I am at a loss for words to express my grief, but on hearing the demise of Dilip Kumar, Vishal Dadlani, the music composer and singer, put it so aptly — “Lafzon ki haisiyat kahan, jo aapko bayan kare (Mere words can’t describe you).”

(Edited by Yoshita Rao)

Bipin Das, 43, has spent the last 26 years burning the midnight oil to keep a dying art alive.

A skilled senior Pattachitra artist based out of a small village near Raghurajpur, Odisha, he dedicates hours painting intricate mythical stories on various surfaces, from canvas paper to coconut shells, keeping the state’s traditional artform alive. But even the bold and bright strokes of his brush couldn’t colour the grim reality that Bipin and many artists of the region have suffered in the past two years.

First came the cyclone Fani in 2019, tearing down the artisan villages of Puri district. Not just their homes but also art pieces worth lakhs that took years to complete were ravaged, leaving these families utterly helpless. Bipin’s family was among them.

After they barely survived the devastation of the cyclone, a second disaster hit in 2020 — the COVID-19 pandemic.

“We had incurred losses amounting to lakhs of rupees, which even the government compensations could not cover. Tourism is a big source of income for us, as it helps us sell our art. But with the lockdown, we even lost this scope of recovering from the devastation of the cyclone. Unlike others, we have dedicated our lives to this art and don’t know any other skill like farming or labour work, which meant that during this time we had no income,” shares Bipin, who along with his two brothers support a family of 10 people based on the sale of Patta paintings.

Like Bipin, hundreds of families of Pattachitra artists gravely suffered the consequences of these disasters. “I don’t think we could’ve sailed through this if not for some selfless people who came forward with a helping hand,” adds Bipin, talking about a social media initiative that helped revive the income of many artisan families in the region.

Social media to the Rescue

With the help of Karnataka-cadre IFS officer, Dipika Bajpai, Bipin was able to leverage the power of social media to solve the problems of his community. A Pattachitra connoisseur herself, Dipika got to know about the plight of the artists back in 2020 after which she started posting photographs of Patta paintings by these artists on her Twitter handle.

“In 2020, I came across a message from a neighbour, seeking help for a pattachitra artist called Bipin Das. Being born and brought up in Odisha, the state and its art is close to my heart and so I wanted to help. I decided to buy a painting of their local deity Lord Jagannath, but soon I realised that I could do more,” says Dipika who supported Bipin and many artists like him by promoting the Patta paintings online.

Soon, the intricate marvels began to receive their deserved attention and orders began to flow. At this point, Bipin connected with 35 artisan families from nearby areas with this initiative, while Dipika launched a dedicated handle on Twitter to directly connect the artists with the buyers.

Once the orders were received online, the artists began to paint and courier the pieces directly to the buyers.

“Through social media we are now connected with the entire world and orders have begun to come in from all over India and abroad as well. This online marketing that I was unaware of before, has helped connect the artist to the buyers, which ensures that we get the right price for our labour of love. Now thanks to social media our sales are much better even than the usual times,” says Bipin.

Starting from Rs1,500 and going up to lakhs, Patta paintings are extremely intricate and require a lot of time and effort to complete. “Some paintings can even take years to complete,” says Bipin whose most expensive sale so far has been worth Rs 2.1 lakh. However, through the online platform they have been able to sell almost 200 pieces, including both large and small paintings.

In a place like Raghurajpur, which is home to almost 150 artisan families, this initiative has proved to be a silver lining with a potential for massive impact in the coming years.

If you would like to check out their pieces, please click here.

Ramchandra Manjhi may have won the Padma Shri, India’s fourth-highest civilian award and Sangeet Natak Akademi, but his biggest achievement is something else. 

A resident of Bihar’s Chapra district, he has been performing ‘Naach’, a musical theatre performance for the last 84 years. His ability to perform on stage with the same zeal and passion despite his weak eyesight and age-related ailments, occupies the number one spot in his list of accomplishments. 

Just a month ago, the 97-year-old had donned a ghagra choli, did his own make-up and delivered an arresting performance in West Champaran on World Yoga Day. While performing he may have lost his balance and not achieved the near-perfect thumka but his eyes, voice and body language as a sautan (mistress) in Bidesiya, a popular play written by late Bhikari Thakur, received a standing ovation. 

By the end of the day, he was a completely different person — a knowledgeable grandfather leading conversations on current political and social affairs with his neighbours in the village. The transition from a grandfather to a woman yearning for love while dealing with societal pressures comes as a shock to many and that for him is his biggest award. 

Ramchandra joined the performing arts when he was barely 10. At the time, Naach had just started to flourish in the hinterlands of Bihar and money was good so his parents didn’t mind if their son was a cross-dresser. In fact, the by-products of theatrical performance—money and fame—made it honourable. 

Unfortunately, this wasn’t how the world was going to perceive Naach. The visible caste barriers sprung up and dethroned the artform from its reputed position. However, Ramchandra kept at it for this was not just his livelihood but also a medium of change. 

This is probably the reason why, even at this age, Ramchandra gets ecstatic every time he has to essay a woman. 

“I have done Naach all my life. It is my identity. Performance is part of any artist’s routine just like brushing teeth. Naach has been there for me at every stage of my life, and my reasons to do it have evolved with each passing decade — starting from money, pleasure, joy, spreading awareness to now preserving this dying art form,” Ramchandra tells The Better India. 

He is presently associated with the Bhikhari Thakur Repertory Training & Research Centre, a troupe run by Dr Jainendra Dost, a JNU scholar in Performing Arts.

“Ramchandra is one of the four living legends who can pass on his craft to the younger generations. He is not only performing for us but also spreading his wisdom and skills to others to keep Naach alive,” Dost says. 

History of ‘Launda Naach’

Contrary to popular belief, Naach (meaning ‘dance’) is not a traditional folk dance of Bihar. It is the equivalent of Jaatra, Tamasha or Nautanki, where a troupe performs on ancient folklores and current social conditions to preserve their heritage while educating people in an entertaining fashion. In Naach, female characters are portrayed by the male who cross dress as women. 

These men are known as ‘laundas’, meaning — young boys. 

However, the story behind how ‘Launda Naach’ came to be associated as a vulgar art form lies in India’s deep-rooted caste system. 

“In the Indian cultural context, tawaifs (courtesans) have held significant importance in palaces and mansions of the kings and lords of the Mughal era. It is believed that the period of Baiji Naach arrived after the tawaifs. Landlords and moneylenders were the main organisers of Baiji Naach during special occasions such as marriage ceremonies and festivals. While this catered to the higher strata of society, Naach performed by men was popular among the lower and middle-class in the villages. It is believed that the term launda (male performer) was used to differentiate it from baiji (female performer),” Dost writes in his 2017 paper on Naach, Launda Naach. 

As most themes of Launda Naach revolve around oppression faced by the Dalits and people from lower castes, it was not well-received by the upper caste. For instance, in Lakhdev Ram’s play Ghurva Chamaar (1965), a Dalit man is allowed to enter a temple after he tells the priest he has gold coins to offer. However, he is brutally assaulted when the Queen realises a Dalit has stepped inside the temple.

Such storylines, Dost says, prompted the feudal system to degrade Naach. While it is true that the performances have a touch of erotica in them, it is only a strategy to keep the audience engaged throughout the show that goes on all night. 

Coming to the structure of Naach, it is conducted on a wooden stage with live musicians playing the harmonium, naquara, dholak, tabla, jhal and sarangi. There is a small tent attached at the back that doubles up as a make-up room and storage.  

“Naach begins around 8 pm with a prayer followed by songs in Bhojpuri, solo dance, group dance, a commentary on social or political satire. The play begins around midnight and goes on till 4-5 am. The reason behind keeping the shows so late is that in the past, villagers would travel for miles to catch the show but returning late in the night was not an option. Secondly, the audiences that predominantly comprise masons, wage labourers, domestic workers, farmers, etc, were available only late in the evening,” Dost says.

He adds, “Naach is performed only by invite on special occasions like birthdays, funerals, weddings and so on. The significance of Naach is such that some politicians like Lalu Prasad Yadav have used it to connect with the communities. People from all strata of society appreciate the art form as long as the themes don’t ruffle feathers.” 

Among the many playwrights that honed Naach over the decades, Bhikhari Thakur (1887-1971) deserves a special mention. He not only popularised the artform beyond Bihar in West Bengal and Assam but also delved into subjects like dowry, child marriage, migration, caste discrimination, domestic abuse, addiction, which were otherwise brushed under the carpet. 

Plays such as Bidesia, Beti Bechwa, Ganga-Snan, Gabarghichor and Kaliyug- Prem, and songs such as Ramlila-Gaan, Budhshala ke Beyan advocated for individual’s rights. 

Countering Normative Masculinity

Ramchandra’s singing talent was recognised by a family friend when he was 10. Upon asking if he could sing in front of a small audience, he delivered a fine job. That earned him a place in a local troupe and his parents were on board. At least someone would bring in the money, they thought. He tells me that dressing up as a woman for Naach was considered respectful in his community back then. 

“The more I performed, the more I loved it. I felt like a magician with all eyes on me. Seeing their mesmerised faces, I thought I had the power to make them feel different emotions. The highlight of my performances would be people falling in the well or from a tree. That was our yardstick to know it was a full house,” says Ramchandra. 

Dressing up as a woman and revealing his feminine side was never a problem. On the contrary, it is an honour to highlight the atrocities to women. “In my career spanning eight-decades, several men have come up to me and assured me that they will respect their wives, sisters and daughters more. Some even shed tears while I am performing. This is the power of any art form, it can undo years of customs and perceptions.” 

Ramchandra may not realise it but by donning the ghaghra and being comfortable in his skin, he has countered the normative masculinity for years. 

But he warns of a flip side.

“Either I am mocked for not being ‘a man’ or I am sexually harassed, sometimes even physically assaulted just because they see me as a woman. It tells a lot about our society. Men believe it is their prerogative to oppress the opposite gender. It is very common for men to poke bhalas (pointed weapons) on my stomach when I go near them to take the money.” 

Over the years, Ramchandra has learnt to tackle such men. He even goes to the extent of sitting with them and explaining what they are doing is wrong. Likewise, opening up dialogues on child marriage and addiction is part of his after-performance. He claims people in his village have stopped selling their young daughters to older men.

For his most memorable performances, Ramchandra digs hard into his memory and narrates an incident that occurred in pre-Independence days.

“We were in Assam for a show to be staged in a theatre. Tickets were sold quickly and we had all the necessary permissions from the Britishers. The craze was such that people stopped watching movies for a few days to see us and this affected the revenue of theatre owners. They all ganged up on us and kicked us out of the city. On a more pleasant note, sharing a stage and wigs with yesteryear actresses like Helen, Suraya and Sadhana, is something I will never forget,” he says. 

With the money earned from Naach, Ramchandra purchased a house, married off his siblings, and later, all his children. He now lives with his granddaughter in his village.  

Ramchandra has overcome gender and caste-based prejudices, financial crisis and several other odds to keep his tradition alive. He believes that art is the only avenue to be inspired from and inspire countless others.

Edited by Yoshita Rao