Meeting Saraswati in the Desert

We arrived in the village of Tallo ki Dhani at dusk, our car having scrambled and struggled across sandy dessert tracks for a few miles beyond the shingle road. Some of the men of the community and a posse of children gathered round our car. They smiled shyly, though I expected that curiosity would soon win out. After some introductions and sharing sweets with the children, the Shoogles were taken to the house, where musicians with whom they’d collaborated were waiting to welcome them.

Gathering in the ‘village hall’

Gwilym, Govind, our guide and interpreter and I were ushered to what was described to me as the village hall. This squat, concrete room gradually filled with storytellers and their attendant musicians that had come from two different villages (those we had failed to visit that day due to the delay in gaining our permits), and some twelve curious boys and three young girls who stared wide eyed at Gwilym and I between fleeting glances at Bhaga Khan who was quietly tuning his tandura, a long necked fretless Indian lute, with a body made from a gourd. It is the chosen instrument of Saraswati the Hindu goddess of knowledge, music, arts, wisdom and learning worshipped throughout Nepal and India. In most images and statues she is depicted either playing the tandura or holding one.

 

Bhaga Khan singing a story with his tandura

 

Every so often, one of the men would hush fidgety children, or impatiently shoo them out of the room, but gradually, their faces would re-appear at the window and at the door and they would slink back in like young foxes, drawn to the storyteller. His head was bent to the neck of his instrument, his eyes closed, totally absorbed in the act of adjusting the tone of four metal strings, as though nothing else existed in this world but the sound and the tuning pegs. We all watched him, drawn in by his focus and the air of peace about him.

Govind filled the waiting, explaining that Bhaga Khan, had spent time living with sadhus, Hindu ascetics who had renounced worldly life. He’d learned from them many devotional and teaching stories, which he now told in addition to the traditional Manganyiar storytelling repertoire. A few minutes later as the final tuning was done, and the dholak player finished tapping the edges of his hand drum to tighten the goat-skin, the room hushed and Bhaga Khan began. Head still tilted intimately to the tandura, he strummed a drone then began to sing in a light, gentle voice, lines of an ancient song he’d learned from a sadhu called Gee Aram in Varanasi. In this form of storytelling performance, songs are used to punctuate portions of story narrative. The songs use lines of ancient and often difficult to decipher spiritual poetry, and any number of tales can be partnered with each song, they are matched only by theme or the lesson they communicate.

The story he chose to tell was of a boy child waiting impatiently in the womb to be born. Of the prayer he makes to Param Atma or Great Spirit, promising always to remember him, to live a good, purposeful life, rich in bhakti, the Hindu practice of emotional devotionalism, particularly to a personal god or to spiritual idea.

The child is born and grows in this world but forgets his promise and his connection to Param Atma. He wastes his gifts and lives carelessly. As a result, he is burdened by guilt, anger and sorrow. The song-story ended with an entreaty for us all to lay down our fire, our anger and sorrow and return to the true path of our lives, and remember our birth promise to Param Atma.

The second story he told was of the Pandava brothers, Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva from the Mahabharata. The time of the five brothers on this earth was coming to an end. As Bhaga Khan explained it, their time, or to give it the Hindu name yuga –was ending, and a new yuga was beginning. He stopped strumming to explain that there are four yugas in a cycle:

• Satya Yuga – the age of truth and perfection when there was but one religion, and all men were saintly. Humans were gigantic, powerfully built, honest, youthful, vigorous and virtuous. There was no disease or fear of anything.
• Treta Yuga – in this age, virtue diminished slightly. Many emperors rose to dominance and conquered various parts of the world. Wars become frequent and weather began to change to extremities. Oceans and deserts were formed and agriculture, labour and mining began.
• Dvapara Yuga – in this age, people became tainted with base qualities and weren’t as strong as their ancestors. Diseases became rampant and humans became discontent and so began to fight each other.
• Kali Yuga – the final age of the cycle, through which we are said to be living now. During this time, people lack virtue, they become slaves to their passions and society crumbles, knowledge is lost and scriptures are diminished. Humans eat forbidden and dirty food. The environment is polluted, water and food become scarce. Families become non-existent. By the end of Kali Yuga the average lifespan of humans will be as low as 70 years.

Bhaga Khan started to strum once more, and the tale of the Pandava brothers began to weave as Govind translated the story for us in sections. In short, he told a story from the end of the brothers’ lives. After many battles and adventures, the Pandava brothers and their wife Draupadi managed to rule Hastinapur for 36 years and established a righteous kingdom. Shortly after the death of Lord Krishna, they all decided that the time had come for them to renounce the world, as the age of Kali yuga had begun.

The Five Pandava brothers and their wife, Draupadi

So the five Pandavas and Draupadi leave Hastinapur to follow the path of liberation. They renounce the world and their possessions and set off to climb Mount Kailash, which leads to Swarga Loka, one of the eight higher spiritual planes in Hindu cosmology.

One particularly memorable section of the song-story describes the poignant farewells of the brothers’ with friends and neighbours.

Along on their way, all except Yudhisthira die. Yudhisthira is the only one to reach the door of Swarga Loka. He is accompanied by a dog, who is none other than Lord Yama, the lord of death and spirit himself. The story ends with the message that though the Pandavas may have departed this world, the tales of their good deeds remain and so, they are never truly gone nor forgotten.

All too soon, the story was ended, and for a while we sat and discussed the many similarities in stories across the world, and the wisdom teachings and truths held within the tales we tell. There was something sacred about his telling and I could have listened to Bhaga Khan all night long, but the women of the village had been cooking and it was time for us to receive their hospitality. I walked with Bhaga Khan into the darkness beyond the ‘village hall’, thanking him for the stories, giving him a kilo of hand made confectionary – which seemed a poor exchange for the riches of his telling – and sharing hopes that we would meet again to share stories next year.

I carried the stories and songs with me, as Gwilym and I were led to the open central courtyard of a family dwelling, flanked by four squat, single story mud built houses (our equivalent of cob built dwellings) with thatched roofs. A rug was laid out on the hardened earth floor of the yard for us to sit. Govind and Sharon our wonderful guides and translators joined us and we were served with small dishes of home-grown, home cooked spiced vegetable delights and millet roti straight from the clay oven. It was delicious. Rice is a scarce and expensive grain for these desert communities, but with visitors coming, they’d invested in a bag to make us a special desert, traditionally made for festivals and special occasions, which I’ve come to love, chawal ki kheer. It’s like a rice pudding but infused with cardamom, saffron, sugar, sometimes rosewater and other spices too. At the time of Sharad Purnima (the October full moon in India, which is the brightest and which had just passed), the rice is often left out beneath the light of the moon for up to three days to absorb its energy before the pudding is made.

The men of the family joined us, while the women prepared and served the food. Every so often, a half-clad toddler would make a dash for his father’s lap before being shooed away by one of the men, and we’d all laugh.

At the end of the meal, through Sharon, I asked to meet the women of the family who had prepared our food. This being ‘women’s business’ we were ushered into one of the dwellings where our host’s wife, her mother in law and sister in law greeted us, and where through Sharon, we were able to thank them for the meal and talk a little.

They were as curious about me as I was about them, but their questions overwhelmed mine. They asked if I was married and whether I had children. I expected my answer to raise eyebrows in this very traditional village. I told them I had one daughter of fourteen. This only served to raise more questions. “Only one child?”

How does one give adequate reasons for the breakdown of a marriage to women for whom marriage for life is an unquestioned fact of being as much as is breathing. I explained that my daughter’s father and I had ended our marriage when she was young. Which only provoked another question – “Why?”

Across a dinner party table back home in Wales, this question might have seemed rudely intrusive, but there was such guileless honesty and concern in the young woman’s question that I found myself struggling to form an answer. In that moment, western sensibilities seemed somewhat feeble, but I explained as succinctly as I could some of the reasons why the marriage ended.

She took my hand and spoke softly. “Aren’t you lonely?” translated Sharon.

“No, not really. I have a partner.” I explained. The word ‘partner’ seemed to require quite a bit of explanation from Sharon. The young woman looked back directly at me with a slightly quizzical look in her eye, and responded.

Sharon translated.“She’s asking if this is usual where you come from.”

How to answer that one? “No” I said. “It’s not usual, but it’s not unusual either.”

Sharon related my answer and the young woman’s gaze returned to mine. She shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that is universal it seems. She spoke again and Sharon translated. “She says it’s not usual here. Women marry at about sixteen and that’s it for life, but she understands that not all places are like this, that other places have different traditions, and that if this is usual in your country and you’re happy, that’s good.”

The young woman before me was in her very early twenties. She had a small son and an eight-month old daughter. She would have met her husband on her wedding day and had likely never travelled beyond 50 Km of the village. Yet, she was wise beyond her years, open hearted, generous, curious and accommodating of the fact that there were cultural differences across the world, and content for it to be so.

We steered our conversation to matters we had in common, first children and then to clothes. She disappeared, leaving me with her chubby eight month old in my arms. Sharon sidled up and reminded me that babies don’t wear nappies here. I didn’t mind, she was a bonny child, and I was missing my own daughter. Our hostess returned with her mother in law, carrying two lovely sari headscarves, hand embellished by the women of the family, and generously presented one each to myself and Sharon. She and her mother in law had great fun dressing us and we delighted and giggled at the results before the men were called and obligatory photos were taken.

It was a wondrous night. I had met Saraswati in the desert – twice! First I had encountered the artistic, creative aspect of the goddess in Bhaga Khan’s devotion to his art and audience. Then, I had found the goddess’ wisdom in in my young hostess, an understanding and acceptance far beyond her years and life experience.

Saraswati

Saraswati is a part of the trinity of Goddesses: Saraswati, Lakshmi and Parvati, who help the trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva to create, maintain and regenerate-recycle the Universe respectively. If we are in the Kali Yurga epoch of mankind as Hindus suggest, then it is this kind of open heartedness: sharing of knowledge and creativity, quiet wisdom and acceptance of ‘other,’ and a willingness to reach beyond and to find common ground so that we may celebrate that which makes us human, that might yet be the saving grace of our time.

 

 

 

 

 

Communicating Coherently

This is a guest post by Gwilym Morus

Bringing together the music of Wales and India was always going to be a challenge, but as at it turns out, not in the way I expected. Before beginning on this project, I assumed the main issue would be getting to grips with each other’s distinct time signatures, modes and keys. But that wasn’t it at all; far from it.

To be precise, our project is actually bringing together three types of music: traditional Rajasthani folk music provided by Darra Khan and Sawai Khan, Indian classical music provided by Smita Bellur, and contemporary Welsh folk music provided by yours truly.

The folk music traditions of Rajasthan are built upon the same basic principles as Indian classical music. Both are essentially based on raga, or rag as the Rajasthani musicians call them. I won’t try and describe what a raga is here, only that it provides a sophisticated melodic framework for a musician to improvise within. It’s also in that key feature of improvisation that our greatest challenge lies as a collaborative project.

Our musical collaborations: traditional Rajasthani folk musicians Darra and Sawai Khan, and Indian classical singer, Smita Bellur. 

I grew up singing. Some of my earliest memories are of singing traditional folk songs with my mother. Then from primary school all the way through to the sixth form, I sang in several school choirs, even a few good ones. I went on to compose and perform music throughout my adult life. As a result I’ve often improvised music. In fact, as far as I can tell, all song writing begins with improvisation; how could it not?

For all of my years making music, never before have I come across a style of improvisation that has such coherence.

But for all of my years making music, never before have I come across a style of improvisation that has such coherence. That’s really the only word for it, coherence: a way of improvising melodies that make a lot of musical sense. Both Rajasthani folk and Indian classical traditions can give a musician the ability to improvise lines of music that are complete, finished and coherent within themselves, like a well crafted sentence or line of poetry.

This is different to the free flowing, stream of consciousness stuff that we hear so often in modern jazz music. Neither is it the tentative grasping for a half realised melody that I often experience in song writing. At the drop of a hat, Smita, Darra and Sawai can produce long lines of elegant, complete, finished and (I’m going to say it again) coherent melodies.

Kamaicha masters of their generation, Gevar and Darra Khan Manganiyar.

Of course, within these melodies, the particular raga they’re working in provides set notes and motifs that can be returned to over and over, but these sound like punctuation to me, defining beginnings and endings to continually evolving improvisations.

So what is the challenge? The Western musical tradition has largely evolved as a tradition of composers. The music of European cultures, for all its incredible ingenuity and beauty, is composed before performance, not during it. That means that musicians like myself have been schooled since childhood in viewing music as something pre-prepared, fixed, generally not improvised. It’s something we already know before we get up on the stage.

As a result, the biggest challenge I face over the coming months as I try and prepare music for our next collaborative stint, is ensuring that my addiction to that musical certainty, my need to know what comes next, does not impinge on the virtuosic flow of my Indian collaborators.

WEAVING – mystical poets, words & music

Nine yards, ten yards –

that completes one stretch of cloth.

Sixty threads in the warp,

Nine panels interlocked,

seventy-two extra threads

added to the weft             ~ Kabir

 

Our performance was long since set for Sunday morning at 11am in Mehrangar Fort’s beautiful Chokelao Bagh gardens as part of JRIFF’s ‘In Residence’ series which is essentially an interactive session combining informative talks alongside performance and question and answer sessions.

Each of our Indian musicians were involved in other JRIFF performances and collaborations during the festival, but we managed to gather for a few hours on Saturday morning with Darra and Sawai at the Scholar’s Retreat within the Fort. Towards the end of the session, as we waited for some chai to arrive, Darra suddenly began to play an old Welsh folk song ‘Yn y Gwydd’ on the kamaicha. Gwilym had woven the song into our storytelling performance, and by now the musicians had heard us rehearse it a number of times.

Manganyiar musicians like Darra and Sawai, learn by listening and repeating. They memorise and perfect a huge body of traditional music in this way from about six years of age, without notation. But this was the first time that Darra had ventured to play one of our Welsh tunes. Gwilym quickly picked up his guitar and began to jam along, weaving chords in harmony with the melody. I joined in with some hesitant and very basic alaps (a form of intoning through and above the music within the scale which our Indian friends did as easily as breathing – but I did not!) and Sawai returned to his dholak and began a percussive beat. It was a precious glimpse at what more time could achieve in terms of fusing the musical styles together and pushing each music culture’s bounds. But, with just a few hours of rehearsal time left, once Smita arrived from other rehearsal commitments to join us, our focus had to return to the work in hand.

We developed a show that used stories a little like Russian dolls, one opening to the other, and then closing each and drawing the threads of each tale together at the end. A story that appears in a similar form in many traditions across the world, that of the grandmother who weaves the world, formed a frame into which the mythic births of two mystical poets, the Welsh quasi mythic – quasi historical poet Taliesin and Kabir, India’s beloved Sufi weaver poet were folded together. Around these we wove songs using Taliesin’s poetry with some new words from Gwilym in Welsh and English, sung dohes (or excerpts of Kabir’s poetry) in both Hindi and Marwar, a declamation of a section Taliesin’s poem Cad Goddeu performed by Gwilym using a pastwn, as it might have originally been performed, tied together with beautiful desert and Welsh folk melodies.

We chose mystical poetry as the meeting point for our two cultures, to be precise, the Sufism of India and the early Welsh poetry of the Cynfeyrdd (c. 550-700 AD) that has a spiritual even magical quality. Taliesin is the best known of the Welsh Cynfeyrdd and happily, has a great story attached to his birth.

Taliesin was an early Brythonic poet of Britain, whose work has survived in a Middle Welsh manuscript, the Book of Taliesin. He was a renowned bard who is believed to have sung at the courts of at least three Brythonic kings. In legend and medieval Welsh poetry, he is often referred to as ‘Taliesin Ben Beirdd’ (“Taliesin, Chief of Bards” or chief of poets). He is mentioned as one of the five British poets of renown in the Historia Brittonum, and is also mentioned in the collection of poems known as ‘Y Gododdin’.

According to legend Taliesin was a reincarnation of Gwion bach who swallowed the drop of pure inspiration and knowledge, that the sorceress Ceridwen had intended for her own son. He was adopted as a child by Elffin, the son of King Gwyddno Garanhir, and prophesied the death of Maelgwn Gwynedd from the Yellow Plague. In later stories he becomes a mythic hero, companion of Bran the Blessed and King Arthur.

The Sufi poet Kabir on the other hand, was a 15th-century Indian mystic poet and saint, whose writings influenced Hinduism’s Bhakti movement and his verses are found in Sikhism’s scripture ‘Adi Granth’. While his early life was in a Muslim family, he was strongly influenced by his teacher, the Hindu bhakti leader Ramananda.

Many legends exist about his birth family and early life. According to one version, Kabir was born to a Brahmin unwed mother in Varanasi, by a seedless conception and delivered through the palm of her hand. She then abandoned him in a basket floating in a pond, and baby Kabir was picked up and then raised by a Muslim family.

The similarities in Kabir and Taliesin’s birth stories were just too delicious not to use as a way of weaving these two mystical poets’ stories.

Back to Gwilym and his pastwn. Reference to reciting poems or ‘cywyddau’ using a pastwn or staff to beat time and underline the rhythm of poems, appears in the work of the Welsh poets of the nobility from about the Fourteenth Century. This declamatory form was used to present cywyddau at the halls of noble patrons in Wales. Gwilym would be performing a fragment of Taliesin’s work in this way under canvass on grass rather than a great feasting hall, so we needed a stone to make the necessary sound. We asked Mana our artist co-ordinator to find a slab with a surface area large enough for Gwilym to easily hit it with his pastwn, but light enough not to break backs while carrying it to the performance venue. We all decided that a stone from Merhangar fort was not a good idea – it’s an archaeological site after all. So we left in in Manna’s capable hands.

The JRIFF team are a pretty extraordinary bunch, and regularly work miracles: finding replacement reeds for bagpipes in India, getting a replacement double base for a musician within 24 hours, and finding the perfect stone for Gwilym. In the end, it came from Jodhpur airport – which, due to its proximity to Pakistan, is highly militarised. Despite armed guards, Mana managed to pick up two stone floor tiles that were being replaced and stash them in a car boot while picking up arriving artists from their flight, and so all was well. After that at each rehearsal, Mana would remind us “your stone is in the boot”. Anyone listening might well have thought that we were speaking in code!

Smita and Gwilym in the audience during the pre performance talk. Photo credit: JRIFF / OIJO

Sunday dawned as sunny as each day had been, but even hotter. Jodhpur was experiencing a heat wave. In the late 30 degrees each day, it was considered uncharacteristically hot for the time of year. By the time we finished the sound check in the beautiful round, open sided Bedouin style tent in Chokelao Bagh gardens – designed to give a nod to a Celtic roundhouse, after which this series of collaborations between Wales and India has been named – the temperature was pushing 39 degrees. Already, European performers had become unwell in the intense heat at the Festival and returned to cooler climes earlier than planned. We were determined not to succumb, and drank what seemed like many litres of water as the audience began arriving.

Darra and Sawai accompanying master storyteller Savai Khan during the talk. Photo credit: JRIFF / OIJO

The first hour was a talk about the storytelling traditions of Rajasthan and Wales and an introduction to this project, shared between RIFF’s Artistic Director, Divya Bhatia and myself, and a demonstration of one of these traditions by renowned Marwar storyteller Savai Khan. With mid day temperatures now topping 40 degrees, the sweat running down my back was in danger of flooding my microphone pack tucked inside the waistline of my trousers, and I felt pretty lightheaded as I introduced Gwilym, Smita, Darra and Sawai, ready to begin the show.

Photo credit: JRIFF / OIJO

The audience were as hot as we were, but they had continued to gather throughout the introductory session until by the time Darra played the first haunting notes on his Kamaicha to open the show, the seating area was full and the hush of deep listening met our sharing of songs and stories. We journeyed together from the deserts of Rajasthan to the centre of the earth, on to the Dyfi Estuary in Wales and to Varanasi before bringing performance to an end and the audience safely back to the shores of the here and now. As we closed the show the sea of faces ahead of us were tear stained but smiling, and full of generous appreciation. We had all been present in the weaving and were bound together by the experience.

Hot but happy, heading for the hotel

An hour later, after many enthusiastic conversations, kind comments and insightful questions, and requests about how to find out more about storytelling from an audience who, in the main had never before attended a storytelling event, Smita, Darra and Sawai headed off to prepare for their evening performance and Gwilym and I wondered down through the high gateways of magnificent Mehrangarh Fort, past the elephant gates in search of our car. Happy and content, we were ready to retreat to our air conditioned hotel, to shower and rest, before returning to RIFF for Smita, Darra and Sawai’s Moonrise concert. After all, they were by now more than friends, we were bound by music and stories and the creative journey we’d made.

Smita, Darra and Sawai tuning up for the Moonrise concert. The perfect end to our day.

To the glory of Ganesh

This is a guest post by Gwilym Morus.

It feels like Ganesh, the Hindu elephant god, has been driving us around Jodhpur for the last week. The first time we got into a Rajasthani taxi, there he was, sitting cross legged on the dash board. He is always adorned in some finery, surrounded by the small trinkets of reverence preferred by our eternally patient drivers. Ganesh is the god of many things, but his talent for removing obstacles is greatly appreciated by taxi drivers, their prayers to him trumpeted on horns in the too-hot sun of these October afternoons.

 

In the city of Jodhpur, our most frequent destination has been the fairy-tale citadel of Mahrangar Fort, and each time we have pulled up beneath its sheer buttress walls and elegant apartments, there is Ganesh, waiting for us at the old stone gates. Then again at intervals on the steep climb up though the fortified levels of the medieval palace, beneath the elephantine arches of the gatehouses, the old tusked deity greets us from his many plaques with his large open face, his many hands holding up the regal symbols of his power.

And again as I listen to the incredible skill and expression of Rajasthani folk musicians at the JRIFF festival, as I perform in the shade of a large tent in the lush gardens of the fort, again as I watch the sun set and the moon rise over the rocky landscape of the escarpment, Ganesh is never far away.

He is also the god of beginnings, making way for the new to emerge from the chaos of the old. My journey here to Rajasthan is the first stage in a two year project. Two Welsh artists and three Indian artists will attempt to make something new from our respective traditions: our old Welsh myths blended with their Indian tales, our old musics made fresh again as we strive to combine them into new harmonious wholes.

Ganesh is also the god of the perfect Aum, the primal note of the created cosmos struck deep in the heart of all things and from which all things derive their given harmonic. I’m glad Ganesh has been watching over us this far. He must approve somewhat of our small attempts at cultural harmony. Through out this last week, our re-weaving of Welsh and Indian threads has been deeply satisfying, frequently hinting at a deeper, hidden unity to our distinct cultures.

As an ever present deity, Ganesh will have witnessed all our learning, rehearsing, composing and storytelling. He has heard it all, from uncertain beginnings through to our first performance. I’m assuming (if mortals can ever guess at the internal workings of a god’s heart), that Ganesh will have heard how we have all striven for compassion in our collaboration. Without it we could not have made anything worth while.

Which other god of this crazy, beautiful land could be such a patron? Who else would look after strangers wishing to come together regardless of the many spatial and cultural obstacles they face? Only Ganesh could help us find a new harmony of the eternal vibration of everything.

Love and devotion

They touch palms to hands of stone

Rubbed smooth by monsoon and moonlight,

Bestowing memories and remembering.

Love and devotion are apparent in all aspects of life in India. The Nation’s stories and spirituality are deeply informed by it, and here at RIFF, it is just as apparent, from the passion and deep love that the curators of this festival have for the numerous folk music and dance traditions and their exponents, as much as by the devotional shrines that are part of the fabric of this great palace fort of Mehrangarh. It doesn’t stop there either, the songs sung, the dances performed speak of love it in its various forms, often alongside its bedfellow, loss. Love is everywhere among the people here too, their relationships close and tactile. Young men walk about arm in arm, hand in hand as do young girls, mothers and teenage daughters, fathers and their maturing sons, and that sense of delight and warm, genuine affection is poured out to strangers too. It is a common occurrence to be surrounded by families or groups of young people wanting to say hello, talk to you, try out their english and ‘take picture with us?’ And of course, couples come here in their thousands to this romantic rock fortress full of the shadows of Maharajas, queens and concubines.   

Sisterhood

 
During a few hours break in Saturday’s programme I took a tour of the fort with Mahaveer, one of the palace guides. We’d met whilst queuing for the lift up to the fort the previous morning, and casually began to chat. By the time the lift reached it’s destination, we’d made arrangements to meet that afternoon, exchanging phone numbers and agreeing where to meet in this gigantic maze.

 

Holy cow!

 
As it happens, I got lost, trying to find my way out of the fort to the entrance, where the guides shelter from the sun in a little hut. I missed a right turn, and ended up heading further downhill into the ancient Blue City that nestles within the great wings of this rock fortress. It’s called the blue city because of the colour of the houses. Blue was traditionally a colour denoting a Brahmin household, the highest caste of priests, teachers and philosophers. The Blue City had a deserted feel about it yesterday, perhaps because its inhabitance were indoors sheltering from the sweltering heat and resting. My only companions along the streets were lizards, chipmunks, the odd stray dog and the ever present holy cows lazing about in the shade. Eventually I turned back, and after a few phone calls with Mahaveer in which neither of us fully understood each other, eventually we met – by chance or fate more than careful planning, just below the gateway to Mehrangarh palace.

We made our way to the coronation terrace. Mahaveer’s opening statement was, “Many Hindus, myself included, know that all the Hindu gods – be they male or female – are actually a representation of the One, and she is the goddess mother of us all.”I’d liked this man when we first met, now I had a pretty good inkling that a rather interesting afternoon lay ahead. What was supposed to be a historic tour of the fort and its treasures, became (as often happens here I think) a few hours of deep philosophical and spiritual discussion and enquiry into the nature of the soul and what sustains it. By his own admission, it wasn’t the usual tour that he gives, but he admirably guided me to some antiquities and Hindu or Islamic art treasures along the way, and used them to help make his point.

Traditional marriage crown hung above a bride’s door on her wedding day.

We stopped by what looked like a small gate, wonderfully decorated with flowers and parrots. It was in fact a ‘marriage crown’ traditionally set above the doorway to the bride’s house on the morning of her wedding. The groom would enter her house beneath this, coming to fetch his bride to the fireside to make their vows, but both careful always not to set eyes upon each other. In the same cabinet were two elaborately embroidered pieces of fabric. These were used to stop the bride and groom from seeing each other during the marriage procession and the exchange of vows. They were held in place by attendants until the point when the rituals of the marriage ceremony were complete and the two young people, who, due to the system of arranged marriage, might well never have seen each other, were finally allowed to look, one upon the other. In Mahaveer’s words, “then they are allowed to look into each other’s eyes, and it is then that they fall in love, and that is how you have the saying ‘love at first sight.’” I wasn’t convinced that he believed it possible. Later I discovered that he had been married at 22 under such circumstances, and that such high hopes are not always realised.

One thing that is central to Hindu philosophy is the belief that people are reincarnated together, time and time again to work out karma. Some are destined for each other, others actively pursue the other’s soul through incarnations. This is the core belief behind the Hindu funeral practice of ‘burning’ or sati (sometimes referred to as suttee), in which queens or widows of a high born Hindus would immolate themselves upon their husband’s funeral pyre, or commit suicide shortly after his death. The name of this practice, which dates back to the 5th century, is derived from that of the goddess Sati, who sacrificed herself because she was unable to bear her father, Daksha’s humiliation of her husband Shiva. The term was originally used to mean ‘chaste woman’ or ‘good wife’, and so to be correct, it relates to the woman rather than to the act itself, in that many who sacrificed themselves on the pyre in this way were deified, or became revered. Across India, shrines and memorial stones remain to these women, and they are revered by their descendants, who will often swear oaths, offer the first cuttings of a child’s hair and so on, at the stone or shrine.

  
The practice was outlawed in the early 20th century under British rule, too late however, for the very many queens of differing ranks that committed themselves to sati upon the death of the Maharaja of Marwar, and followed the funeral procession down the cobbled path, out of the palace gates to where smoke from the funeral pyre would already be visible. Around the fort, there are a number of quiet, poignant shrines to these women, a hand representing each one, and tradition holds that each queen leaving the fort would touch her hand to one of these stone hands, commending her memories of this life into the keeping of the goddess Sati, before going to her own death, in the belief that by burning with the king, their souls would reincarnate together and that they would love once more within seven incarnations. These shrines are well looked after, regularly covered with an ochre pigment and garlanded on high days and holy-days. I watch, deeply moved as some older Indian women, bedecked in beautiful saris stop to press their palms to the stone hands, in some silent remembrance of all those women who’ve passed through the gateway, perhaps for the last time. Some women even scratch pigment from the grooves and apply it to their forehead in a form of blessing..

Mahaveer was at pains to tell me that much of the repression of women in Hindu society had come about through contact with the Islamic world of the Mughal emperors. Before that, women in India, a little like our Celts, had been he tribal leaders, through which lineages and blood lines were traced. It was they who ruled, having a man as consort to protect and defend the community. Veiling, customs associated with modesty and the hiding away of women behind screens (as is apparent everywhere at Merhangarh Fort) was brought in by the Moughals and adopted into mainstream culture, through the patriarchal religious culture of Islam, with the ultimate effect of subjugating women.

Progression of the soul towards enlightenment is core to Hindu religion and practice. The lotus flower is a symbol both of the beginning of this journey, and upturned, its ultimate fulfilment, the attainment of an enlightened state. Hindus believe that their soul incarnates many thousands of times as different living things before taking on a human form. Furthermore, it is only while in human form that the soul can actively move towards enlightenment, in part because it is only as human creatures that we can understand and appreciate the relationship between action and consequence. Maharveer explained that there were three main routes to enlightenment: good actions, devotion to deity and that which he called philosophy or ‘developing the mind’ through conversation with others. The latter was, he said, his way. He enjoyed discussing ideas and thoughts with others in order to develop and broaden his thinking, and as a way to developing connections. In his own words, “if we all did this, like you and I are doing now, then the world would be a better place.” And I couldn’t have agreed more.

The Maharaja of Marwar’s throne

We had begun our tour in the throne courtyard. It has within it a small, carved marble throne upon which each Maharaja of this Marwar region of Rajasthan has been crowned for the past 500 years. The last coronation took place here in 1952, elevating a 4 year old boy to a Maharaja, following the untimely death of his father in a plane accident. His Highness Gaj Singhji II, still reigns today, and is an active supporter and enabler of RIFF festival, attending each concert with his wife, family and guests. He is an avid supporter of the arts, including, and particularly perhaps, the folk arts of Rajasthan. The work he does with RIFF supports the traditional performance arts, but he also patronises the visual arts. The museum at Mahrangarh palace has a gallery of devotional art dating from some 300 years ago. These detailed illustrative water colours, made from natural pigments are exquisite. They depict both religious and royal scenes, often merging both secular and spiritual life. Djins and kings, huntsmen, queens, mystic animals and deities occupy the same rice husk canvasses. Towards the end of my tour with Maharveer, he took me to the artist’s quarter within the palace. Here a number of local craftspeople and artisans have been given selling space on a rent free basis by the Maharaja, as a way of displaying and selling their wares, and ultimately keeping local making traditions alive. Among these is an artist, a twenty fifth generation descendent of the one who’s delicate watercolors in the museum upstairs had enchanted me. Like his forefather, this artist continues to keep the artform alive by adapting to changing times, making his work relevant to today’s customers, not so much kings and nobles perhaps as visitors and tourists from across the globe. His depictions of animals are astoundingly similar to those of his forefather, and I can’t help but wonder where the boundaries lie here between keeping traditions alive and creative freedoms. Ironically perhaps, everyone in India’s higherarchical caste system is bound to narrow fate, to be a musician, an artists, a labourer, a priest or even a Maharaja, it’s what you do with your allotted place in this life, this precious time in human form that matters. This Maharaja is much loved by the people here. He is active in maintaining traditions and heritage, whilst improving life for the millions of people of this region, developing sanitation and clean water systems in the outlying villages and cities, supporting projects to develop the economy and the welfare of his people. It is a bond of love as much as any other, his work a devotion to the responsibility and role into which it was his karma to be born.

 

One of the wonderful old paintings at the Fortress museum

 
Last night, we we privileged to hear the women of Rajasthan’s musician communities sing. Usually, they reserve their songs solely for their patron’s wives and daughters, but since 1982, a few brave women have flouted convention, gone against the wishes of the the men of their communities and begun to sing in public. Ironically, this act of love and defiance was performed beneath the now empty gaze of the ‘Queen’s bedrooms’, the chambers of the old Maharaja’s many queens, set behind elaborately carved viewing screens out of which they could view the world, but not be seen. Here was a womanhood emerging from behind the veil, even though one of the singers resolutely kept her face covered, here were women reclaiming the freedoms their sex had enjoyed before the Mughal empire, as much out of a devotion for their art and tradition, and a will to share it before it dies, as much as anything else.

a rare opportunity to hear village women sing their traditional songs

These women, and other great exponents of the musical traditions of India have shared love songs with us during the festival, songs of the leaving of daughters to a husband’s home, of the birth of babies and their loss, of wished for love, of weddings and partings, yearned for passion and its ending. Last night as the moon sailed full above Mehrangarh, when the musicians had played the last note and the Fortress fell silent, we left beneath the queen’s chambers, walked down the old cobbled walk ways out through the palace gate. I pressed my palm to the stone hands, leaving my memories there, touching in some unfathomable way the lives of women who had passed this way before me and did the same, some for the last time before embracing death and the what lay afterwards in the lottery of karmic reincarnation. I noticed other dark eyed, Indian women behind me do the same, quietly honouring courage, the loves and devotions that shape lives, meeting memories across granite stone, connecting for a moment across time.

Remembering

They touch palms to hands of stone

Rubbed smooth by monsoon and moonlight, 

Bestowing memories and remembering.

Music, the last weapon

Where to begin today? Perhaps with the tuktuk journey that took me through Jodhpur and climbed a hill to Mehrangarh Fort which dominates the city’s horizon. It sits upon dark red volcanic rock and a layer of thick pink sandstone, 400 ft (120m) above sea level, watching over the city’s colourful chaos like a brooding hawk.
 

Tuktuk to the Fort

Built around 1460, initially as a military fort by Rao Jodha (from which the city takes its name), it soon became an elaborate palace decorated with exquisite hand crafted stone jalis and jharokhas, betraying an Islamic, Mughal influence. It developed into the royal heart of Marwar, this territory within Rajasthan,becoming the seat of its kings for over 500 years.  

The mountain on which the fort sits was earlier known as Bhaurcheeria, the mountain of birds. According to legend, to build the fort Rao Jodha had to displace the rock’s sole human occupant, a hermit called Cheeria Nathji, known as the lord of birds. Somewhat peeved at being forced to move, Cheeria Nathji cursed The king, saying: “Jodha! May your citadel ever suffer a scarcity of water!” Rao Jodha managed to appease the hermit by building a house and a temple in the fort very near the cave which the hermit had used for meditation. Furthermore, being a belt and braces kind ‘a king, Jodha ordered a huge underground water storage tank to be built. It was able to store enough rain water from the monsoon, to provide hydration for an armed garrison of 1200 men and the royal family for a full year should the need arise. 

Even so, sitting as it does at the edge of the desert, this region suffers drought every 3-4 years, and temperatures are intense. It is now their autumn season, yet the heat still soars to 36 – 37 degrees during the day. The fortress’ name, Mehrangarh means ‘sun fort’ and it was certainly living up to its name today. I was reminded of that song, which states that “only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day sun,” while passing a number of dogs sleeping in the shade as I made my way from the tuktuk, up the steep cobbled pathway through one of Mehrangarh Fort’s seven gates, in the blazing heat of the mid-day sun. It seemed the mad dogs at least had grown wise while this Welsh girl certainly had not!

Approaching the Sun Fort in mid day heat

 
The hundreds of thousands of visitors who visit the fort these days have the option of either walking up the broad fortress path that zig zags uphill or wait in line to take a short lift ride up. As I was running late, and didn’t know how to get up via the path, I opted for the latter, giving myself some precious minutes in the shade of the fortress rock as I joined the queue. Actually, it transpired I wasn’t late. There was little going on, lots of Festival facilities were still being set up and so I wandered around the labyrinthine palace, finally finding a café to sit once more in the shade, have some much needed water, a veg samosa and a sweet lassi. 

Rajasthani dancers prforming in the palace courtyard

 
Eventually, after going in circles and down dead ends a few times, I found my way to a small room on the upper floors of the palace where a couple of films will be screened during the Festival. The first screening was of a film entitled ‘Their Last Weapon’. It was directed by a young female director, Nirupama Singh, and tells the story of local singer Bundu Khan Langha. His story, raised familiar questions about the future of folk music in a culture that is changing. Bundu is a member of the Langha caste. It is one of the many sub castes within the Sudra caste of servants and labourers. The Langha are Muslims, but also perform Hindu devotional songs. They have a Hindu counterpart, known as Manganiar. Both are communities of folk musicians by caste, living in the Rajasthan region. Those born into these castes are expected to become musicians, the music traditions being passed down mainly from father to son, though women can become singers too.

They survive on gifts and donations from their local patron, a family of higher caste. Such families have been patrons of local musicians for hundreds of years. In Bundu’s case, his patron or ‘Jaimaan’s line have supported seven generations of his family. In turn, Bundu and his brothers, sons, uncles and cousins sing and play music and poetry as well as recite lineages for their Jaimaan on high days and holidays or whenever the need arises. Sometimes they perform for many days at a time – ten days is not uncommon for a wedding celebration here! For these services, the Jaimaan looks after the musicians, giving them camels and goats, millet and other seed to plant, grow and harvest. Wedding guests are also expected to contribute towards the musicians, in the form of gold or silver jewellery, livestock or money.

In the main, the Langha are illiterate, though some of their children now have some basic schooling. Their learning, from about 8 years old, is focused upon musicianship. But what happens if you’re born into a hereditary tradition of musicians and you haven’t a musical bone in your body? DNA seems to make this a rare occurrence, but those who can’t sing, are taught an instrument. Those who show no aptitude at all are taught their patrons’ ancestral line from a young age, growing up to, become ‘Siphadi’, keepers of lineages, able to recall thousands of names in order, chanted from memory, whenever the occasion arises; either that or they become a poet. This doesn’t necessarily involve the composition of new verse, but a rather becoming a repository of a wealth of traditional pieces, from praise poems to epics, love poems to elegies, celebratory poems for marriages and births, and verses of consolation for funeral rites.  

What strikes me is how similar a social and economic structure this to the ancient bards, the ‘cyfarwyddion’ or storytellers, and musicians of Wales, who survived based on the patronage of the kings and Uchelwyr (nobles). This system of artistic patronage in Wales came to an end around the time of Elizabeth l st’s reign, and subsequent strict protestant and puritan religious influences, not to mention the later religious revivals came close to obliterating our folk music and dance traditions.

The bond between musicians and their patron families remains strong in Rajasthan, maintained in the main it seems, by the patron’s fear of the power of the singers, poets and lineage keepers’ ‘curses’; that is, their power to malign a patron in song or verse that will last generations, or obliterate their name from lineages, thus deleting their existence from the historic record. But, things are changing. The next generation of singers and musicians from these communities yearn for a different way of life. They see hope for advancement in the city, and are not so content to stay at home in their rural village and learn to sing or play, recite verse or vast lists of ancestral names.

This might in part have been fuelled by the relative success of some of these singers, such as Bundu, who, since the 60s have been feted by a number of western performers and taken on tour as support acts across Europe and the US. They returned to their communities wealthier, and with a store of stories full of the glitz and glamour of life in the world beyond their village. Sadly for Bundu, much of that work has now dried up, and the money he made for it has been spent on unsuccessful treatments for his father’s cancer. Following the treatment, Bundu was left with a number of unpaid borrowings, for which unscrupulous loan sharks demanded high interest, meaning that he lost his house in Jodhpur, and was forced to return to his village to sing for his patron once more just to feed his twenty five strong family. He now lives in a very modest shack that he shares with fifteen of his kin, the odd dog and goat, but still dreams that the west and the bright lights of international concert halls will come calling again some day.

 

Bundu sings the sun down and the moon up over Jodhpur

 
It was rather poignant therefore, to watch him and some of his family members perform at the festival this evening. He sang the sun down, and the rock of Mehrangarh fort lived up to its name, releasing birds, mostly swifts to fill the lilac sky, swooping down and circling the musicians, their aerial display becoming a dance as they feasted upon notes caught mid flight and sliced through songs with scimitar wings. Then, suddenly they were gone, sweeping to their nests as the moon rose high above the red sandstone of mighty Mehrangarh. Night descended, only to be filled with yet more, and more music, the tunes emanating from the Fort forming a strange counterpoint with the call to prayer drifting starwards from the city’s Mosques below.

 

 

Returning

So, I’m back in India. Its acid-spice palette of colours, enigmatic people and complex cultural and religious landscape haunted and taunted me for weeks after returning home from Jaipur last February. No other country or culture has ever had such a profound effect on my psyche. It challenged me more than any other place on earth and hit my body hard, but despite this, and perhaps because of it, I’m excited about returning.

My journey is different this time. I’m travelling alone, but that’s ok as I rather enjoy going solo. I got used to it commuting back and forth to Dubai and New York in my late 20s and early 30s. I enjoy the freedom, how it forces you to turn outwards and throw your lot in with humanity all around you, place your trust in a magnanimous universe, and actively connect and converse, rather than relying on a travel companion for a semblence of security and companionship. It’s the best way to meet new people, open yourself to new possibilities and discover inner resources. 

Being alone within such a different culture also provides a vantage point for reflection. It enables us to leave behind patterns, habits and ways of being that are the weft and weave of our existence within a familiar place and community. It opens up a host of possibilities, different ways of thinking and engaging, challenging us to see ourselves and our world from a different, more spacious perspective. These are conditions that attract and nurture adventure, not necessarily of the swash-buckling variety, but certainly of the soul-soaring kind. 

 

Leaving Delhi behind, bound for Jodhpur

 This afternoon, while boarding a dinky plane for a short internal flight from Delhi to Jodhpur, that opening to conversations and the making of friends began. Travelling musicians and artists the world over are easy to speak to, and relatively easy to identify, as they generally carry instruments. My new found pals are a pair of Flamenco-jazz musicians, Antonio Serrano and Josemi Carmona from Madrid in Spain. Like me, they were bound for RIFF festival in Jodhpur, a world renowned showcase of Indian traditional arts and world music. They’ll be performing at the festival, having spent much of the last year travelling across Asia, absorbing rich cultural and music traditions into their own performance, making a living whilst having an adventure. I’m at RIFF, thanks to Wales Arts International, to develop a relationship between this Festival and Beyond the Border Storytelling Festival in Wales, to hopefully find artists for our festival, and some with whom we can develop a Wales-India storytelling project, perhaps based around our core mythologies, the Mabonogi and the Mahabharata respectively, and an exploration of identity. 

India it seems is going through a period of intense questioning about its own identity. My time here in January was filled with conversations with old and young people who, in different ways, were questioning how India would develop in the face of increasingly pervasive westernisation and globalisation. At that time, Prime Minister Modi and his Government made overtones about their commitment to guiding India’s social and economic development without succumbing to western capitalism, instead, by holding true to India’s own religious, cultural and spiritual values. It’s an aim to be admired, but difficult to see how that can be achieved without breaking apart the caste system which keeps most Hindus at least, in a rigid, birth defined, social order. The caste system is certainly more fluid in more cosmopolitan cities such as Mumbai, but elsewhere, it is as strong, and clearly defined and strictly maintained as ever. You only have to take a tuktuk through any city here to see vast shanti settlements and understand that living on the street and taking your chances alongside stray dogs, cows and vermin is normality for many, many thousands of people in Indian cities. There is no social care or welfare state here, there are only a plethora of western NGOs that nibble and gnaw at the very edges of the problem which is held in place ultimately by the Hindu belief that you are born into the life that you deserve, that your caste is a core part of your karma. 

 

Crowds gather and clamber for the best view of RIFF opening concert

 The lowest rank of the caste system are generally believed to be the ‘untouchables’, but this is not the whole story. Those outside the Hindu religion such as the diverse, ancient tribal peoples of India are below even that, beyond the grace of the colourful and numerous Hindu gods and goddesses. Interestingly, I suspect that some of the performers at RIFF may well be non-Hindu, tribal tradition bearers. I’m keen to understand more about how this dynamic works in terms of artists and performers, how it is that those below ‘the untouchables’ are regarded within a cultural festival where their talent is fated. Our western society is full of ‘working class singer becomes a global music star’, rags to riches stories. 

  At the Festival’s opening concert this evening, I was lucky to sit next to one of RIFF’s founders. We spoke about the dynamics that existed between caste and artistic talent within the folk and roots genres in India. He was very clear that while talent will improve an artists capacity to earn money, it has no effect on their caste. Most of the traditional artists at RIFF in fact come from the’ Sudra’ caste of ‘commoners, peasants and servants’, understandably perhaps as we’re dealing in traditional ‘folk’ artforms. John explained it like this, referring to a female singer who performed, “When I first met her some six years ago, she lived in a very poor, tumble-down house at the edge of her village. Today, she still lives in the same house, but now earns more and has improved and extended it. But, it is the same house, in the same place, and she can only marry a man of the same caste as her.” 

There are other types of performers across India drawn from higher up the caste ladder, but their style of singing or dancing is different, more classical perhaps. So in a way, the caste you are born into determines your creative output, the genres in which you can create and perform, as well as your socio-economic sphere. Imagine saying to Pavarotti when he was young, that he would only ever be able to perform folk songs, that he was born too low for opera!  

 

Tuktuk weaving towards the old Blue City, Jodhpur

 I am glad to be here, glad to be challenged by the shabby grandeur of this deeply human place again, with its soaring hill top fortresses, its honking tuktuks, seatbelt-free traffic chaos that runs on intuition and a life necessitating co-operation, where lay-bys are lay-byres for holy cows, stray dogs and displaced people, where identity is forged despite caste, and creating beauty, even in the darkest places, is deeply valued. 

The Real Maharaja

We have read about and heard speak of many Maharajas on this journey, from Jai Sing, founder of Jaipur and his many royal descendants, through to the current, young Maharaja of Rajasthan. But clearly, none of these are the real Maharaja, as Baba our driver for our day in and around Raipur was at pains to point out, when he took us to what the guidebook described as a regional museum for tribal arts and culture of Chhattisgar region. The museum park was a desolate place in which plastic reproductions of tribal statues and poor imitations of tribal art had been left to die. The gardens however, continued to be manicured and there were groups of men installing much needed new lavatories, perhaps in anticipation of some revival of fortune and visitor numbers once ‘New Raipur’ a multi-million pound business, retail, leisure and residential district is built nearby.

One exhibit, decaying in a field was an old ‘rath’, a large, high wooden platform upon which, according to Baba, effigies of Ram and Sita would be borne along with ‘the real maharaja’. They would be wheeled on a platform such as this one for the annual, October celebration of Dushira. This festival celebrates Ram’s victory over Ravvena. It is celebrated across India, but a particularly spectacular celebration is held by the tribal peoples of central India in Bustar. When we asked more about the ‘real’ maharaja, it became clear that while each region has their maharaja, the tribes elect their own. It was this tribal maharaja or leader that was deemed by Baba to be the ‘real’ one.

From here, we went in search of some of the ‘real’ sculptures, depicted in the park. It seemed that some were housed at Raipur’s museum, so we headed there. In typical Indian style, it cost Rs. 2 to enter the museum, but Rs. 10 to take photographs, and a form had to be filled in and signed in triplicate to allow for photography, in what was a wonderful but poorly kept and utterly uncurated collection of scupltures, architectural features, statues, written tablets, stuffed animals (which shared their exhibit with a human fashion dummy that bore an uncanny resemblence to a tanned Johnny Depp in pyjamas), and tribal artefacts. I’m quite sure we saw treasures, but without any explanation – neither in Hindi nor any other language, other than the occasional label such as ‘head’ or ‘statue’, which more than pointed out the obvious – it was very difficult to understand what exactly we were viewing. Many of the exhibits were pictures of statues and archaeological sites, placed within dusty glass cabinets. One set of three small statues was familiar. This little collection of monkeys had a little English captioning: ‘do not say bad’, ‘do not see bad’, ‘do not hear bad’, for which we read, see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil.

After this, I returned to the hotel to rest up before the evening’s train journey and to nurse by queasy stomach and aching kidneys, while David and Baba went on to explore the local bazars. David returned some hours later, triumphant with a fine brass double headed snake bracelet and other treasures and we headed to Raipur central station.

It did not disappoint. All of life was there in one sweating, spiced, urine punctuated human soup, sitting, standing, leaning, rushing, heaving luggage as we did up a long staircase to cross to the far platform, and down to join the hundreds waiting to join the overnight ‘express’ train to Bhopal and beyond. I’m sure I’d have engaged with the experience and embraced it more fully if I hadn’t been feeling so rough. The train was late by about half an hour, which was just as well as we’d cut things a little fine in the end. Eventually, a long snaking iron tank of a train pulled into the platform as we stood in our appointed sections according to carriage class and number. Around us on the platform edge were a number of bereted military men, and others of a professional class – no women that I could see. We had tickets for the second class sleeper carriage, there being no first class upon this particular train (which was a cause of great anxiety to our Mr Singh). Those in the lower seated classes seemed to be enclosed within grilled carriages (without windows to protect them from the elements and the inevitable cold of a speeding train).

We alighted and soon found our sleeping berths. David had a top bunk in a square formation of two sets of bunks at either side of an open ended, but curtained compartment. MIne was a top bunk across the footway to those, privately curtained off. David shared his ‘bedroom’ with Mr Paul, an ex regional manager of India National Bank in the Raipur area. His wife worked as a doctor in Bhopal, and this was a regular commute for him. Newly retired, he still carried his business cards, he explained that he was now looking to volunteer for NGOs in the region. He also introduced himself in hushed tones as a Christian, and while I unpacked the supplied newly laundered sheets from their brown paper bag, and made my bed for the night, I could overhear him and David speak about a number of incidents, church burnings and the like, that had gone on recently. It seemed that all was not at all well between Hindus and Christians in northern India.

I was soon asleep, rocked by the jigging and jogging of the train. My dreams were occasionally interrupted as more people joined the train and scrabbled looking for their beds for the night. It was a pleasant enough journey, and a good way to traverse long distances, the only drawback being the lavatory, but that is basically the same whether on land or rail in India – First Great Western and Arriva Trains’ toilets are five star by comparison!

After a breakfast of leftover chrisps, a ripe banana and a cup of Nescafe instant, hastily bought from a platform vendor at one of the many stops along the way, my stomach confirmed that normal service had resumed and we settled down to reading and watching India pass by as we slowly edged our way towards Bhopal. Much of the countryscape we passed could easily have been British meadows, other than the odd tell-tale ramshackle hut or brightly saried worker bent over in the field. Finally, three hours later than scheduled (due to the wrong kind of rain overnight) we rolled into a station on the edge of Bhopal that was closest to our hotel.

Our pre booked driver was waiting for us and we headed the ten or so Km to freshen up at our hotel, ahead of our afternoon appointment with Prof. Choudray at the Indira Ghandi National Museum of Mankind. After yet another cold shower, I hastily ordered some french fries to appease my stomach that now wanted to make up for lost time, changed and we were out the door again, heading into the city past fields of grazing camels, slum townships, tower blocks, shrines and golden facaded temples. The first museum we drew up at was the National Museum of Tribal Arts, and looked wonderful, but unfortunately, it was not our appointed place, so after some hasty directions we were off again, and this time arrived at a 200 acre complex of tribal exhibits, re-constructed villages, galleries, archive centres and a museum.

We were warmly welcomed by Prof. Chowdray and his team of anthropologist trained museum professionals. Wasting no time, as time was short, we were ushered to his waiting jeep and taken for a private tour of the site, first stopping at a magnificent re-constructed hut of a tribal leader. They explained that each of the ‘village’ exhibits on the site were created or recreated by members of the individual tribes, who would come and stay for a few months at a time to prepare the exhibit, and return annually to help maintain it. During their visits to the museum, they would share elements of their indiginous traditions, displays of dance, song, story and ritual were commonplace throughout the year. At our next port of call along the route we met such a group, visiting the mueseum to maintain a traditional smelting exhibition.

A small, elderly and very dark skinned man showed us how he would paddle skin bellows to fan the earthen furnace kiln, adding a mixture of charcoal, made from wood traditionally gathered from the ‘jungle’ beyond their village, and broken up chips of iron oxide rich stone drawn from quarries in the hills near their home. Sadly, the government now prohibited them from using wood from the jungle, and their source of iron ore had been depleated. What was once a vitally important, valued, magical craft of the smelter, was now little needed as metal was easy to come by. He was the last of the smelters of his tribe, who had now turned their hands to crafting scrap metal in forges and making and repairing agricultural tools. As he spoke about the ending of the tradition of smelting amongst his people he looked utterly sad, defeated, as if in loosing that skill, they had also lost their soul, their pride.

We were then taken to the main museum building which housed some great exhibitions about the life, building traditions and economies of the tribal peoples of india. The museum’s curator explained that there are over 190 classification of tribes in India – types of tribe – under which might be hundreds of varying tribal groups. Many of course are in danger, their traditional ways of life and habitat under threat, while others have had little contact with the outside world.

On our last evening in Jaipur, one of the literature festival delegates had introduced himself to me as having been born in a Welsh hospital. “I and my three sisters were born in a Welsh hospital,” he’d announced.
“Where?” I asked, waiting to hear something along the lines of Penarth, Cardiff, Newport or Pontypridd. I did not expect the answer to be Shillong. “It was a Welsh Missionary hospital'” he explained, and went on to tell me the story of the Welsh Missionaries’s arrival in the area.
“English missionaries came first, but they were eaten by the local tribes. Then, when the Welsh missionaries arrived, the tribes attacked them too. They encircled them with spears, and the Welsh began to sing.” He shrugged this shoulders, “after that they became friends, the tribes converted to Christianity and turned from human to animal sacrifice.”
It was a great story, one that seemed vaguely familiar, or was it that I’d grown up on stories of Welsh people getting themselves out of sticky situations by singing? I wasn’t sure, but decided that I would definately find out more when I could. He ended our conversation by explaining that he was a king in his own right amongst the tribal families of that region, though with his polished English accent, it was clear that he worked in an international context rather than sat upon a tribal throne in north Eastern India. I wonder now if he was the ‘real maharaja?’

I wanted to find out from the museum’s curator whether this story of porpoted cannibalism could be true. Nothing in my life in PR had prepared me to ask my host whether her people had tried to eat my people. Is there a polite way of putting it? I decided to couch the question a little more tactfully, and started by asking about human sacrifice – I could work my way from there towards cannibalism. Her response begged more questions than it did answers, she said that “Many tribes in the north east of India including the Shillon area practiced human sacrifice. Some of these, through contact with Christian missionaries now practiced animal sacrifice instead.” Sadly, I never got to know for certain whether a song book was still considered a vital piece of survival kit for visitors to the region, but should I ever travel there, I will definately pack one just in case!

After the museum we were shown some of the other tribal zones in the park, passing by the tantalisingly named ‘mythological trail’. Our jeep stopped at what looked like a traditional Ladakh village, filled with locals celebrating a festival. A group of women sang and danced, and as we came out of the jeep, they came forward and danced for us. A larger lady, with a beaming smile put a silk sash around my neck and welcomed me formally with bows, intricate hand gestures and in her own indigenous language. The same was repeated for David and then we were ushered into the newly furbished kitchen, which it was explaind to us, the thirteen members of the Ladakh community had come to stay at the mueseum for three weeks to complete. We were honoured guests at the opening ceremony, and were ushered inside to where the great big square metal tea urn had been fired up in preparation, and the large lady with a beaming smile was ceremonially making us a brew of yak milk tea. We were invited to sit and the brew which tastes a little like a combination of tea and minestrone soup, was poured skillfully into three wooden cups, one for David and I, the other for Prof Chowdray. My stomach, only just finding equilibrium rebelled at the idea, but there was no way I could refuse the tea, though I did pass on the offer of a second cup. After that we went out to watch more dancing, and inevitably, joined in the dancing. This caused great excitement amongst the Ladakhies, who must be the happiest, smiliest race of people I have ever met. The ‘head man’ who looked much as I imagine a chubby tibetan priest would look, exuberantly hugged David and I. This outpouring of joy, warmth, affection, and physical ease was something of a relief after the very propper, somewhat restrained tactility of other Indians (appart from the odd rogue) that we had met along this journey. It was full of innocence and joie de vivre and utterly lovely. Our hosts from the museum hung around watching us for a while but some, including Prof Chowdray eventually joined in and we went round and round in a chain, gesturing to the earth and sky, joining in as we could with their song. It was something between the western lombada and hokey kokey, with far finer hand gestures and more precise foot placements! As dusk set in, it was time to go. We said goodby to the Ladakhies and as I got into the jeep, I overheard one of the museum curators who had recently joined the party ask another where we were from. Her answer “from the Prince of Wales.” It could be a case of chineese whispers in India. Certainly Prof Chowdray and his closest team members knew we were from Beyond the Border Festival, and that we were here to explore potential links with the festival and with the Folklife museum in Wales. Perhaps Wales was just bound inextricably with the Prince of Wales here, or perhaps indeed they thought that David and I were the real Maharaja and Rani of Wales – that would certainly explain the royal treatment we’d received!

We headed for our hotel via the old bazar where we found yet more silk and woollen delights in an unimaginable array of colours. Just as we returned to our car, a moped came speeding up, driven by a man from whom David had recently bought a stole. “You forget your bag, Sir?” Indeed he had. Somehow or other, the shopkeeper had tracked our footsteps through the maze of fabric lined streets. David finally got the bike ride he’d longed for and I climbed into the back of our car as he sped off, riding pillion on the moped to retrieve his bag.

We arrived back at the hotel as a wedding party made their way to the garden for a pre wedding family get together and meal. Here, the grooms ride in gaudy horse drawn carriages, and smile a little more than their Rajasthani counterparts. The women dance just as wildly, and of course, it was inevitable that we should be drawn into the fray. We did our duty of dancing with both the men and women to help with the bringing of good luck upon the marriage. Two large Indian gentlement (fathers of the bride and groom I think) waved wadges of Rupee notes above and around us – presumably to induce wealth and plenty……at least I hope that what it was meant to do, then they continued on their way, and we went on to have some supper.

We left the hotel at 7.40am this morning, we’d have left 10 minutes earlier, but I had to pay for my room service french fries. All of 65pence, and it should take no time at all, except that this is India, and all papaerwork, including a receipt for french fries has to be copied out in triplicate, and signed. The paying and processing of the paperwork for my chips took far longer than I had done to eat them, and sums up the Indian administrative system perfectly.

An internal flight took us from Bhopal to Delhi airport, and we found ourselves in the now familiar corridors of that airport. En route to our departure gate for the flight to Heathrow, we passed a very dapper gentleman in a turban, sharp suit, mirrored specks and colour co-ordinated but not matching striped socks. David approached him for a photo, and as often happens in India, a short conversation became an invite to return and stay as a guest. It transpired that his suit was from Saville Row, his parents owned a huge house almost next door to the Dali Lama’s home, and we should definitely come out again and stay there as his guests. We exchanged cards, took photos and dashed to catch our flight that was now boarding. As we settled down in our Jet Airways seats, overlooking the aircraft wing, David and I mused that during our last moments in India, we may very well have met with the ‘real Maharaja’.

Stories within stories, within stories (part 2)

I’m starting this blog entry as David and I begin our long journey home to Wales. This India odyssey has moved on apace, with yet more acid-bright colours and subtle textures added to its weft and weave, but now to pick up the threads of our day with Ritu Verna in Chhattisgar, and continue where we left off.

Thursday is the day allocated in the Hindu week to honour departed Gurus, the clue is in the very name given to this day, Guruvar. It’s election time here in India right now, with many of the areas holding local and regional elections, and the towns and cityscapes are awash with rainbow coloured election posters, that bear poorly photoshopped images of each of the candidates and what I imagine is an outline of their election promises. These along with adverts of education colleges, institutions and courses dominate the advertising billboards and find their way onto every spare patch of wall and signboard from bazar to bus station, five star hotel to shanty town.

On the day we met Ritu, it was Chhattisgar’s turn, which caused a problem. Ritu wanted to perform for us, she wanted to present an extract from the Pandavani, and we were more than delighted to accept that offer. We would ‘sponsor’ the event, which sounds extravagant for those of us used to theatre prices at home, but here in India, things are different, and for the cost of a branded coffee and a cake in the UK, six traditional performers can come together to put on a short performance in the equivalent of a local village hall. The problem was that all the village halls and associated performance equipment such as microphones and PA systems, had been commandeered for the electioneering. Nevertheless, Ritu’s husband, Mandesh, knew that a community in nearby Durg were getting together to honour Guru Saii Baba, and managed to arrange for Ritu and the group to have use of the stage immediately after the ceremony.

At five o clock, with Pandavani musicians gathered and now clad in bright yellow silks, and Ritu transformed into a vision of red, tribal womanhood, with a coil of delicate green and red glass bracelets set between thick, chunky silver tribal bracelets along both her forearms, we left in a fleet of cars for Durg, only a short, dusty drive away.

The ceremony honouring Saii Baba was drawing to a close when we arrived, though there were still some women at the shrine making their offerings. The priest or ‘Pundit’ as they are known (yes, another Hindi word appropriated by the English language) was still presiding, sitting cross legged above and behind the makeshift shrine. Women at the front fed a fragrant fire with dry dung of some kind and threw herbs and incense onto it, so that the smouldering pyre gave off a rich mixture of earthy and sweet, perfumed smoke.

We were warmly welcomed. One among the ladies had a little English and she drew us forward to sit in plastic patio chairs at the side of the stage while the Padavani troupe set up their instruments. We didn’t stay sitting for long. Once the offerings to Saii Baba were complete, those assembled turned their attention to us and the shaking of hands, the exchange of ‘Namaste’, the requests for photos with wives and children, cousins, uncles, aunts and neighbours began. It is delightful this enthusiasm, this wonder and welcome, but also somewhat overwhelming for western sensibilities. Cameras are trained upon you and follow your every move, snapping away. Of course, we took some too, and the images will be a part of the record of this journey, I’m just curious as to what the hundreds of photos they took of us will mean to them in a week, a month or a year’s time?

Eventually I was drawn by a group of gloriously saried women to sit among them, at the front. We sat cross legged on mats and I learned the Hindu word for wonderful ‘sundar’ which I repeated time and time again, touching the silks and synthetics of their saris, making them smile coyly, accepting the complement. I turned around to look behind me, it was a sea of bejewelled saris all the way to the end of the seating mats – an extraordinary sight, one I think I will never forget, and utterly ‘sundar’.

The lady in charge came towards us with a dish containing some thick, creamy liquid and a small spoon. I thought we were about to be pujad again, but she ladled a little into our hand. ‘Drink’ she said, ‘it is a blessing’. Travellers in India have long learned that regular hand washing, particularly before eating or putting your hands near to your mouth is a vital part of avoiding upset tummies caused by the thousands of unfamiliar bacteria we encounter here, and to which we have no natural resistance. That and avoiding drinking or consuming anything prepared with local tap water. There was just enough time to regret not having had the chance to wash our hands after so much hand shaking, photo taking, sari touching, mat sitting, and to reflect that the water used to make this cold potion, was probably not of the mineral, bottled kind. There was also no way out. There was no question of refusing to drink this liquid, it would have been a great insult, so down it went.

With that, Ritu took to the stage, or rather took the stage. This petite, quietly spoken lady had transformed. Her presence filled the canopied space and probably resonated beyond. She was powerful, heroic, indomitable. The music began, and we were off, following Arjun on his adventures.

The Pandavani form has a very clear, definded and repeated pattern of text as the singer regales the story, it then moves to music and song and eventually tipping into what seems like a calamity of music, a free for all, and yet it has form, and melody and rhythm, before fading to a few passages of ordered melody from which the dialogue springs up once more. And it is a dialogue. Ritu, while addressing the audience, was nevertheless in a conversation of sorts with the group’s ‘ragi’ (Udairam), who’s role is to punctuate, comment, add comic effect and sometimes ask questions to draw out further meaning from the singer’s retelling. Much was punctuated with “whe, whe!” And “yeah, yeah”. Ritu’s stances during this section of the retelling were heroic and warrior-like, and bore more than a fleeting likeness to the energy of those equivalent yoga postures. These elements: the music, the singer’s stances, the ragi’s contributions, the singer’s mention of names and her actions mean that much communicates without the need to understand the language. As long as you have a very basic knowledge of the story’s narrative, then the performance is easily followed.

It was over all too soon. After more photos and hand shaking, we were back in our cars and returning to Ritu’s village. By now it was getting late, and so after some short discussions around festival dated and visa arrangements, we bid the Padavani’s farewell and headed back to the hotel, dropping our lovely translator Andulav near his home on the way.

My stomach was complaining. Something in the past 24 hours was not going down well and so supper at the hotel became a cup of hot chai massala. David and I were just looking through our pictures of the day when a call came through from Andulav. “My father wants a picture of us together, we’re coming over to the hotel.” And so it was that we met Andulav’s proud dad who had been in college with our tour operator, Mr Singh, and our day ended with the taking of more photographs, more shaking of hands, and yet more fond farewells.

Stories within stories, within stories (part 1)

What was due to be a lie in, and a gentle day to rest up didn’t happen. The phone in my hotel room rang at about 7.55am. What followed could well have been scripted for a sitcom, as a series of hotel receptionists tried valiantly to communicate with me in good, but heavily accented English over a fuzzy phone line. My sleep befuddled , fever drained brain could make nothing out. On the fourth attempt, I understood ‘driver waiting’. I finally found the wherewithal to phone our travel agent, Mr Sing, who explained that he’d vibered me with the changes to the plan the previous day. I hadn’t had wi fi access on my phone that day, and so had missed the message.

Showered and breakfasted, we met Anulav our translator for the day in the hotel lobby. He is the son of an old college friend of Mr Sing. He’s not a translator by trade rather he’s a student studying telecommunications engineering at a local college. He shared with us that he’s not sure he’ll be able to find a job in engineering, as the college doesn’t have much prestige and that competition for engineering jobs in India is fierce. We assured him, that if engineering didn’t work out, he could to our mind, make a living as a translator, as his grasp of the nuances of language was excellent. During the 40 minute drive from our hotel to Chhattisgar, Anulav also mentioned more than once that he was a shy person. The day ahead was to challenge that.

With every KM we left the city behind and embraced a semi rural landscape of forests and small townships. In almost every wooded area, whether near houses or not, buffalo and wild pigs rooted around for morsels. Neither were they confined to the woodland areas, but like most wildlife here, mingled quite nonchalantly with the rest of life on the roadside, and on the road itself. Buffalo and cows in particular consider themselves traffic as well as bovine in India, and just like every other vehicle, observe no traffic regulations whatsoever. Thankfully while both cows and buffalo have horns, unlike their fellow human travellers, theirs do not make loud honking noises. It’s a small mercy on a loud road.

Ritu’s village, is what I imagined an Indian village to be. Small, colourful homes lined the street in higgledy-piggledy fashion. This village seemed to be a mixed community of both Hindus and Muslims, not something we’ve witnessed previously. The Muslims of Jaipur seemed to have clustered in separate ‘townships’. Those we saw seemed to be in poorer areas and appeared more like shanty towns in comparison to the shabby but sturdily built Hindu communities. Of course this was only a glimpse, and it may be far from the whole story.

When we arrived, village children gathered and a few Muslim men on their way to the mosque across the street from Ritu’s house, gathered to see what was going on. Some of the children it transpired were Ritu’s ten and eleven year old nephews on the look out for us.

Ritu Verna is one of India’s most renowned contemporary Pandavani singers. She trained under a guru from the age of six, learning tales from the Maharabhata by rote and the traditional performance style, from song and word to action and stance. Pandavani literally translated means Songs and Stories of the Pandavas. It is a folk singing and storytelling style involving the narration of tales from the Mahabharata.

The origins of Pandavani are not known, but might well be as old as the Mahabharata itself. Traditionally troupes were all male affairs, but since the 1980’s a few women such as Ritu have taken centre stage as singers.

During a performance, as the story builds, the tambura (stringed instrument) becomes a prop, sometimes to represent Arjun’s bow or chariot, or the hair of queen Draupadi, thus helping the narrator-singer play all the characters of story. The singer is usually supported by a group of performers on Harmonium, Tabla, Dholak, and/or Manjira. The lead singer continuously interacts with at least one of the singers, who asks questions, gives commentary and interjections in order to enhance the dramatic, and often comedic, effect of the performance. A telling can last for several hours on a single episode of Mahabharata. What starts out as a simple story narration turns into full-fledged ballad. Today, unexpectedly, we were treated to an impromptu performance. It was hastily arranged in a flurry of phonecalls made while David and I were taken to share some stories from Wales at a local school.

White people, particularly those with blue eyes it seems, are a novelty in India, but particularly here in a remote tribal region where tourists are very few and far between. I now know what it feels like to be the queen arriving for a state visit, though I doubt she’s ever had such a warm and exhuberant welcome as we received from the school children. With little warning, our ‘shy’ translator, Anulev found himself on stage, holding a microphone, translating a story he didn’t know full of animals he’d never seen! Shy or not, he rose to the occasion and was simply fantastic. The amount of hand shaking that marked our departure had more than a little of the ‘royal walkabout’ about it too, minus the security and barriers!

On our return to Ritu’s home, lunch was prepared. As guests, we ate, cross legged on the kitchen floor, with all the children and family looking on. Thankfully, I remembered reading somewhere that it’s terribly bad manners to eat with your left hand, every social interaction must be conducted with the right. That includes braking your chapatti into pieces, collecting rice, veg and sauce within a piece and eating it – no left hand whatsoever, in any circumstance. It’s tricky, particularly when under the scrutiny of eight or so pairs of beautiful dark eyes, conducting a conversation via a translator and without the aid of cutlery. I expect that our eating was a form of entertainment they won’t forget in a hurry, but we did our very best.

After that, Ritu and her husband, who is also one of the group went to prepare themselves for the performance, and were were delightfully left to occupy the children – or perhaps it was the other way round. Krish, the youngest of the cousins kicked things off by showing us his head-stand skills. Not feeling up to reciprocating on headstands nor handstands today, I opted for drawing – if there’s one thing other than music that transcends language, it’s art. As I started to draw, the children brought forth their school sketch pads to show me. Krish wants to be an artist when he grows up, and dashed home to bring me a picture he’d drawn of Superman. It was excellent for an 8 year old. Angeline, Ritu’s daughter had filled her sketchbook with drawings of butterflies, girls or dolls and houses – with flowers outside, much the same as children at home will draw, but with fewer windows. Ritu’s eldest daughter likes to draw patterns, flourishes of flowers and leaves akin to those found in henna tattoos. From this came the idea to create a story.

Making up stories with children is something we quite commonly do at home, but stories hold a different role in this culture. They are sacred tales, learned by rote. The concept of ‘making up’ a story therefore, was totally new. Nevertheless, we persevered. I asked each to come up with a character for the story, and to draw that character. We ended up with a horse, a dinosaur, a red power-ranger and a doll. Hmmmmm.

Creating the story one by one, bit by bit didn’t seem to work, they’d just never done this kind of thing before. Instead, they told me a few things they wanted to happen, or rather Krish very excitedly said that the power-ranger and the dinosaur should have a fight, and Ritu’s eldest son (who wants to be a police chief when he grows up) suggested that a thief should be included in the plot. With those scant threads, a story came to life of a magic doll and a magic power ranger, a sleeping prince and princess, a wily thief, the theft of the doll; the chase, given by a red power-ranger, the thief’s escape upon a dinosaur, the power-ranger’s befriending of a winged horse, another chase and the eventual James Bond type fight between the thief and the power ranger upon the back of a galloping dinosaur. Eventually, the red power-ranger slips down the dinosaur’s tail, grabs onto it with both hands, diggs his heels in the ground and swings the dinosaur in circles. Thief flies one way, doll the other. Doll and power-ranger catch a return lift home upon the winged horse and are tucked up in bed next to the prince and princess before they wake. It was a hoot, but unlikely to become a classic!

It’s very late here now, and time for sleep, so more about the day tomorrow. Namaste. xx