The Indigenous People of India

Over the centuries of the rough geographical entity of India, the region has been influenced by most of the major cultures in the world. Being a land of plenty, kings and conquerors from all over the world have been to India – to loot or to set base in the country. From the times of Alexander the Great, to the last British Viceroy, India has been influenced by the West and the East. These influences have been manifested in pratices, rituals, food, fashion and daily life.

However, there are a minor few who were the original people of India. In spite of such invasions and dynasties, the rituals followed by these people have not really been affected. Keeping to themselves, the rituals and lifestyle followed by these people have seldom incorporated any new changes since the time they were recorded. Through INDEBO you can now explore the lives of these people and maybe learn a few tricks on a better way of living. 

There is a substantial list of Scheduled Tribes in India recognised as tribal under the Constitution of India. Tribal peoples constitute 8.2% of the nation's total population, over 84 million people according to the 2001 census. Most of rural India is comprised of tribes, each different in their own philosophy and way of life. The most interesting regions in this aspect are the Himalayas, the hills of Orissa and Chhattisgarh, the Andaman and Nicobar Islands (although you are not allowed to meet them as they are under threat from modern developments and land encroachment), and the Western Regions of Gujarat. The tribal population of India is one of the strongest examples of diversity in a country that is trying to preserve its identity while inviting globalisation.

Arunachal Pradesh: The main tribes of Arunachal Pradesh are the Nishis, The Adi Miyongs, the Membas and the Khambas. Most of them hold on to their legends and the past through stories that they have memorized in verse. The Nishis practice agriculture & animal husbandry and stand out for their unique headdress of hornbill feathers. The Adi Miyongs are mongoloid in race and worship nature. The Khambas and Membas are of Buddhist origin and have preserved records of their ancestry. They interact with other tribes like the Tangins, Ashings and the Simnongs.

Gujarat: The predominant tribe of Gujarat are The Rabaris. Settled in Kutch, the Rabris trace their descent to Shiva. They were semi nomadic tribes, and consider themselves custodians of the camels, cattle and goats that they rear. The women stand out because they always wear black, the color being associated with that of sadness due to some events that they trace to their collective memory. They can be identified by tattoos, long earrings and stretched earlobes. They are adept at embroidery and create art on cloth, with pieces of mirror in various shapes.

Life and times in Orissa

Orissa & Chhattisgarh: Orissa has the highest number of original inhabitants in India. The most colourful of these people are the Saoras, the Gadabas, The Bondas and the Kondhs. The Saoras live in a stratified society and their pantheon consists of innumerable and ever watchful deities and ancestors. They observe a number of ceremonies at different stages of cultivation and other economic pursuits. Unfortunately polygamy is still practiced and marriage by capture is common. The Gadabas are the most colorful tribe in Orissa, are amongst the earliest settlers in the country and trace their origin to the time of Ramayana.They live permanently in large villages. Their language is called Gutab. They perform a dance called the Demsa. The Bondas are visible at weekly haats, (the market), where they come to buy provisions, and sell forest produce and country liquor. They call themselves Remo and speak an Autro-Asian language. They do not wear clothing, which has unfortunately made them the subject of speculation. The Kondhs belong to the dravidian group and speak the Kui language. Kondh life is full of festivities at the time of sowing and harvesting.

The infinity nod

This is one of those months when we haven't travelled. As the BBC had said "nothing happened on this day". We have busy in office working on itineraries, revised itineraries, ammended itineraries, confirmed itineraries, confirmed itineraries that need ammendment, revised confirmed itineraries... you get the point. As a result, this is one of those months that we have not travelled in.

Not having travelled, we have nothing to say. Having nothing to say, we decided to shift focus to a question. The million-dollar question, whenever we have met first-time travellers to India, has been... "What does the shaking of the head mean ?" Further corollaries have been "Does it mean yes or no ? Can be done or cant be done ? Up or down ?"

And thus, on a nice Saturday afternoon, we release our own leaked cables on the headshake. There is no author to this post and the management of INDEBO is not aware of such a post being published.

Now to business. What is generally viewed as "the infinity nod" (so named because of the illusion of the head creating a pattern similar to the infinity symbol) to the untrained eye is actually a generic name given to a few types of nods. Look closer and you will see the nuances.

The vertical nod: We will start with the simple one. This means the same everywhere. Its a yes, yessir, haanji, I approve.... or come here.

The vigorous vertical nod: To quicken things. It basically means "Yes, now moving on..."

The horizontal shake: You would give me a vigorous vertical nod if I explained the meaning to you.

The vigorous horizontal shake: "What you are saying is irritatingly and obviously wrong. I know that. The world knows that. My neighbour's dog knows that. The cow walking down the street knows that." It is generally accentuated by a cringing of the eyebrows or some hand movements.

The infinity nod: This might seem to be as difficult as infinity itself. But in essence, we are simply putting ticks on every point you mention. "Pack your bags." tick. "Make sure you have your passport." tick. "Keep your head straight". tick.

Of course you need a hands-on tutorial in the natural environment. But for that, you know where to be

Surprise - a word long forgotten

Mustard flowers on the way

All that we expected to see was an ancient rock cut temple and no more. Very few people have heard of Masroor and even fewer know where it is.

It was a drive through the mountain roads with tea gardens and yellow patches of mustard on both the sides. Sometimes our way was blocked by herds of goats ,grazing along and chewing on almost everything.It was a pleasant summer morning and an air of soberness had settled in.There were small colourful houses all along the way in the midst of farm lands. Bright coloured wild flowers filled the countryside. Little school kids, with bags slung over their shoulders were on their way to school. They gazed at us, wide-eyed, as we drove past them.Occasionally there were vegetable sellers with their merchandise. Everything looked so pleasant and chaste.The sight was so engaging that I didnt even realize when I had arrived at Masroor.

Yes, the temple was there. But it was much more than what I expected to see – a marvellous creation hidden away from the maddening crowd. The temple was cut out from free standing rocks, one of the few that survive today in India. The temple was partially destroyed in a massive earthquake which rocked Kangra valley more than a century ago. A beautiful specimen of the Nagara School of architecture, the temple had images carved in stone.I could not help but wonder that it could only be a poet who could have conceived such a monument.

The temple, and the school beside it

There was a small beautiful school just beside the temple. The classes were about to start and the bell had started ringing. Students were still pouring in. Some came with bunches of wild flowers, some munching on their still-to-finish breakfast, some came holding hands of their younger siblings. Students assembled at the courtyard for the prayers. Everything was brimming with life. I had always thought I had the most amazing school life. Now I felt that I have grown a bit too fast.

The Principal greeted us and invited us for a cup of tea. For the first time I was inside the room of a principal for reasons apart from the wrong ones. Everyone seemed so happy and curious, at the sudden arrival of the unexpected guests.

There were fields of wheat and mustard all around. The place looked so peaceful, I could only wonder how the people living there would be. It felt that, even time has rested here for a while. The air was so fresh, it felt like a sedative. There was the mild fragrance of flowers in the air. It was time for us to leave for the next destination. As I looked out of the car window, I felt I was leaving behind something .I had a feeling that I will be back again soon.

To be a romantic

When opulence is charming

Why would someone build beautiful havelis in a dry and desolate place like this? And not just someone , but an entire community who were rich and prosperous and traded with countries in the middle east and Europe in as early as the 19th century. Surely they could find a much better place to reside.

This was how I felt when I was driving through Shekhawati. I could only see acres and acres of farm lands interspersed with Khejri trees , standing like old setinels. Interspersed among them, were a few odd mud huts and a occasional old well. The wells with pulleys looked too old to be in use.

Then a few small houses started appearing in front of us. In a short while we had beautiful old havelis on both the side of the narrow road. We had entered the village of Alsisar. After a short drive we arrived at our hotel, a beautiful painted Shekhawati haveli . The Manager showed us around the haveli. We accompanied him to the terrace.The village looked so welcomingly pleasant.There were no cars, no din of the marketplace, no pollution.The sun was already setting and we were yet to have our lunch.The dining room was elegant and exuded old world charm.The food felt good. 

After lunch we went out to explore the village.We visited a few havelis of prosperpous merchants of Marwari community. The members of the community now live in the bigger cities. The havelis are looked after by caretakers. They willingly showed us around the havelis. There were frescoes all over the walls depicting scenes from the epics, myths and popular legends.Everything was so colourful , yet so lonely. An air of calm and quiet soberness was setting in. I could almost hear the heavy sighs of the lonely havelis. They were waiting for their occupants to return.

What looks brilliant in the day looks sublime by the candle

The sun was about to set, and there was a golden red hue in the sky. The gentle breeze was soothing and I felt that I had been travelling through the ages . As soon as the sun set , the village looked different. It seemed we had travelled back in time. It was so peaceful, and so different from the city life.The silence was broken only by the high-pitched calls of peacocks.There were a few dimly lit small shops here and there. Elderly men sat huddled engaged in animated conversations. 

The air was so pure. I now realised the air that I had always breathed in the city, had a foul stench. Everything felt so unadulterated .I now realised that I had exhausted myself in all these years. 

I looked at the village once more. It looked so pleasant,with dimly lit houses and the sky full of stars. I wondered why I didnt have a haveli there.

Painting the town red... and yellow and green and blue

With a modern "Pichkari"

Holi is upon us. The festival of colours is tomorrow, or today, or both. At a time when the winter gives in to spring and summer lurks around the corner, Holi brings the much-needed wardrobe change and spring cleaning. We have forever known Holi to be the festival of colours - when every street in every Indian city, town or village is coloured, when all-whites turn into all-but-whites, when people are proud of being unrecognisable. Holi has been known to bring out the best in us.

But it does show a lot more. Always having loved colour (even in the Desert), Holi does show that spring has been long awaited. Indians of Indian and French origin have always been more for the summer. We are summer people. Our colours are summer colours. They are more of brick-reds and yellow-ochres than blacks and greys. Winter for us is time for hibernation, time for everyone to grow bellies. But when the green comes back in the trees and the blue back in the waters, we start running about and jumping with joy.

Krishna playing Holi with Radha

Holi is also an important democratising day. This is a day when looks do not matter - because everyone looks like Disney characters. This is a day when dressing up does not matter - because it will be a pain to bring out the colours. This is a day when you forget your differences with your neighbour - because you cannot really play Holi without including everybody.

This is also a day when the child inside comes out - when getting drenched brings joy, when you thank your friend for ruining your clothes, when getting soaked feels good. For a long time the winter has kept us away from the element that we loved so much. For a long time the winter has played mind-games on us and made us shiver at the sight of water. But not anymore. Being and integral part of life, summer and monsoons are symbolised well in Holi.

So wherever you are, play some Holi. Find your colour. Lose yourself. Play with your kids. They'll love you. Play with your grandmother. She will bless you. Play with friends and family. They'll adore you for it. So wherever you are... go play.

of thunder and dragons - through Darjeeling and Bhutan

All ye who enter!

We all remember that time in the bar when people are drunk enough to disclose their past lives. Some were daughters of Persian kings. Some were sons of Persian kings. Some were Persian kings. Most of the others were either Einstein or James Dean. Well, I have recently realised that I was the last dragon. There is something about Bhutan that is so much better than erstwhile Persia or the US. I couldnt have been anywhere else. And the fact that I was born and settled in the plains is simply God's way of playing a joke.

A land locked away and kept a mystery to most who cannot afford it, Bhutan has been my preferred Shangri La after Ladakh. The water is pure. The people are pure. The alcohol is cheap. The cigarettes are illegal. Its how life should be. The fact that I love it is cliched and quite an understatement. After you have somehow escaped Assam, Bhutan feels like one of those lost paradises that movies keep talking about. A four-hour journey from Agra to Delhi felt taxing. A 6-hour journey from Gelephu to Wangdue felt like a dream.

The people have their priorities right. The king has his priorities right. To match the abstract notion of Gross National Happiness in such a way that you see the tangibility on the people's faces... I dont believe that even the most famous address on Janpath could do that.

The custodians of Wangdue

I started off in Gelephu. The border town is just waking up. No one really knows about it. None of the drivers at the Guwahati airport knew where it was. I was in love with it already. A 6-hour drive through villages where women wore their Sarees like the latest Chanel evening gowns, and I was in. The mystery was backed by this elaborate gateway in the middle of no-where and with the hills just rising beyond it. It is only in Gelephu that you can see some of the smaller factors that contribute to the happiness - the Druk and army distilleries. A Black label here and I am ready for whatever Bhutan throws at me.

The next day was reserved for Wangdue. Another 6 hours and I was finally at a place where the only sound I could hear is of the river, where there is no mobile network and where "no wireless networks found" is a very prompt message that has undertones of "what the hell are you thinking!!". This considering the fact that the place I am staying at is only 5 min away from the road. And this is not my vacation. A walk through the old dzong brings out laughing novices, stern monks and a walk outside brings out the colourful bazaars. Wangdue is where the heart is. Do you remember the old worn posters stuck behind the back of autos, the ones that you chuckled on and considered cliches just because it was virutally impossible to find such a place ? Well, this is what I saw from my balcony . The green river roared and tumbled. Behind it, a hill rises that is covered by creepers and trees that I have to say are lush and green for lack of creativity in finding a better description. I was home, and there is no other place that I would rather be.

From Wangdue, I headed towards el capitol... probably the biggest city in Bhutan. Thimphu is known for a lot - for the dzong, for the king, for the medicine, for the crafts, for a lot. But Thimphu is incomplete without the night. It is only then that the oysters and the oyster bazaars come out. It is only then that you can get to clubs called Om Bar that boast of Thimphu's budding and awesome nightlife. While you spend the night on blues and druk 11000, it is only now that you realise that the whole issue about Bhutan fighting its past with its present is not really a fight, but a gradual blend. The same women looking so homely in their kiras do let their hair down and groove to Joplin and CSNY. What would life be without drinking under the stars listening to Clapton in a land known more for not being known about that much.

The Punakha dzong

Thimphu also opens the gates to Paro - where they built a monastery in a crack on the mountain face more than 200 years ago. With such names as the tiger's nest and the whole buildup to the nest (you can only hike up to the place... a hike of 3-4 hours), you can see the glamour that stems from the mystery. And it all seems worth it. When the monastery does unfold in front of you, you do not miss the lost fat or the fact that you had to wake up early. All you realise is that it is not hard to gain enlightenment if you stay in a place like this.

Phuntsoeling turned out to be my last stop in Bhutan. The gateway city again humiliates you. On this side is a bit of Europe, except that the theme for the day is Himalayan Buddhism. Clean roads, smart places for beef and red rice, ordered gardens, prayer wheels.... on the other side is a an absolute mess, with too many people and too many paan stains.

Bridge over the river Teesta

Darjeeling turned out to be better than usual. The killing and the apprehension of a strike helped take all the Mr. Bannerjees and their chunnu munnus out of Darjeeling, leaving the place very British and very likeable - the way it should have been. It is only when you dont have to see where you are going that you can actually lift your head and check out the former movie theater that is now the municipality building and the post office.

It is only then that you thank god that Bhutan is not an Indian state and realise that West Bengal does not deserve Darjeeling. As I follow my route again, I am reminded of the discussion that I was having with the editor of NGT-ZA. We were discussing why two sides of the border were so different and I said that it is because of the number of people. Bhutan had only 934000 people to manage compared to India's 1.1 billion. "It might seem like a very good reason, but it isnt", was her reply."Its the reason alright. Its just not a good enough excuse", observed her photographer. These were the opening statements while we dived back into the land of the thunder dragon.

It is very weird. The other day I was reading this article by someone from somewhere who said that the environment was not his primary problem as he was bothered with bigger issues like poverty etc. The only difference between Bhutan and India is that we have not yet realised that all the problems are interconnected. In fact, we would have had a more effective government only if politicians travelled more.

When all thats gold, glitters

It is amazing how a city can surprise you when you do not expect much from it. On an otherwise regular journey that comprised of Agra, Varanasi and Dharamsala, we expected to be awed every time we went somewhere. The Taj was expected to be the Taj. Varanasi was expected to be excellent for photo-ops and Dharamsala was expected to be what it was. However, on this journey of comparative religion, we had quite a surprise waiting for us.

The evening Arti in Varanasi. Image Courtesy: Ann Raets

I have never been a great fan of religion. I was never quite keen or quite against it. To each his own. And to me, religion was more of a subject than something that I could actually follow. Moreover, in a country with 6 major religions and a million minor traditions, you would have to forgive my skepticism towards elaborate rituals that are more a show of wealth than a show of faith. Faith itself is hidden somewhere deep inside.

In this aspect, Varanasi itself is quite interesting. Although quite cliched, I have found Varanasi to be quite a fascinating collage every time I have visited the old city. Moreover, taking the boat down the ganges, I see Hinduism for what it really is – a way of life. The fact that it is meant to be this way makes me both proud and ashamed – proud of the fact that such a concept exists, and ashamed of the fact that those in power had twisted it to its current avatar just to suit their profits. Apart from this, it is amazing to see how life revolves and bows down to a river. Maybe Varanasi is one of the few cities to pay homage to something that is so essential. Most great cities are built around a river or a major water source. But most cities have quite forgotten where their water comes from or used to come from. Varanasi is one of the few cities that acknowledges and prays to this fact – and does nothing about it.

From Varanasi we had moved on to Agra and then Amritsar. We had not really expected much from Amritsar. Apart from the symbol or Sikhism, it is not supposed to have much. It does have a symbol of the freedom struggle. But the freedom struggle was in the last century. We have almost forgotten and taken our freedom for granted. Like most places of worship, I had already forecasted what I would see.

Or so I thought. For the Golden Temple is a different world on its own. Gone is the feeling that there are wars going on in some parts of the world. Gone is the memory of the petty squables that we had considered insulting. Gone is the rage that we felt during traffic hours. Gone is the greed we felt when we asked for the salary hike. This was something else altogether – and if I may say so, the closest definition to the divine.

The Golden Temple, Amritsar

The first thing that strikes you is the absence of elaborate shows of faith. Apart from the basic courtesies, everyone prays in the way he or she would like. Some take a dip in the holy water. Some stand in queue to see the holy book. Others just note down the teaching of the day. All that you see are men laughing, women helping the children, people praying in silence and occasionally, the priests reciting verses from the book. The elements of faith to be followed are of one's personal concern and do not need to be shown to others. The people did not jostle for one more minute at the shrines. They did not get any special treatment on account of their wealth. They did not believe in such things. Instead, they went about doing whatever the eye-in-the-sky meant them to do. In a large dining room serving 50000 people a day, you could see people from all walks of life serving and eating. Physically old and mentally young, newlyweds and old couples, the rich and the poor, everyone did his bit to serve food to the other person. Everyone sat on the ground and next to each other. Anyone peeled the vegetables. Anyone cooked the dal or boiled the rice. Anyone made the tea. It was as if “class” had suddenly lost all meaning or reason for existence.

While we were leaving for Dharamsala, my friend told me that it is an amazing feeling to sit there with your eyes closed for 10 minutes and listen to everything around you. He said that he had felt quite at peace after that. Unfortunately, I missed out on that. But it was already quite baffling. The fact that there could be such a utopian practice did not baffle me as much as the fact that such a utopian practice was so simple. Gold itself, seemed to be so crystal clear and simple.