“It's not nice to sit at someone else’s door, no?”
“My day is spent doing the household chores,” said Jayshree as she laughed, probably wondering in her head whether the two young, urban, educated women were thinking if she had a lot of time to idle by. I wake-up at 05:30 in the morning, make my tea, brush my teeth, have tea and leave for the market. I come back with goods by 09:00–clock and hand them over to my daughter-in-law. Then she sets up the stall at Kanheri. By the time I come back home, have a bath, eat some food, and leave back for Kanheri. Then she comes back. And then I spend the rest of the day there in Kanheri. Me and my daughter-in-law come back in the evening. Both of us prepare dinner and have it with everyone. Then, by 10-10:30 at night, we go to sleep. We are tired by then. It's not nice to sit at someone else's door ... Because sitting at someone else's place and talking is like committing a crime here (… Laughs …) As you know things spread very quickly… So better not to step at anyone's door … Our two-three houses here ... Like my house, my sister’s house, Gharatkar’s house ... A few of us get together and sit somewhere … Around 10-10:30 (pm) we set up a fire and chit chat … And then we get back and sleep at our places … Our doors are usually kept open while others close them … Till 11-11:30 (pm) … Sometimes even till 12 at night we keep on chit-chatting about the situations at home … Like only these two to three houses … And we live together nicely …
“Housekeeping and Permit”
Jayshree Housekeeping is about the building and household work is about the house. Someone who is working on a permit means that they have a fixed job and nobody can ask them to leave their job till the day they die. They can continue working till they die or as long as they want to. And they will get pension even if they stay home. Other kinds of jobs in the SGNP are on a temporary basis. One will have to leave immediately when asked and then one has to keep searching for a job again.
“What’s left in the jungle anyways?”
Two youth from the pada recently moved to live outside the SGNP. “They are living well there,” one youth’s mother said aloud, “Nothing worrisome. If you see the other way round, what is there in the jungle? One can live nicely outside; one’s children can get admission in a good school. One understands and learns things when one engages the outside world, no? What's left in the jungle anyways?” “Then again,” she spoke agonistically, “It's nice here too; to breathe fresh air without tension. God knows what” the forest people “are planning to do. But nothing will happen in our pada so soon.” Even if the relocation scheme goes through, “Our pada will be the last one as our names are not in any list. No one will leave without the guarantee of getting proper houses. All of us are older residents here. No one will leave easily.” “In any case,” she continued, “those in the relocation scheme couldn't adjust to their new surroundings. They are acquainted with the jungle, no? Over here, one can wander anywhere, sit and chit-chat with everyone. How is it possible to do all this in that small room? Such small rooms! How will families with more members adjust in them? How will one even stay there? They have come back again to live here in the jungle.” The three women in conversation sat for a moment in awkward silence pondering over these questions.
“Till what time can I lean on?”
Arun came back from the aashram to the pada after completing 7th grade because he wanted to study in the Radhe Radhe High School at Borivali West. He also went back to work at madam’s house in Thakur Village where he earlier worked during holidays. His everyday routine was as follows: 07:00 Leave from home to work at madam’s house. 11:00 Leave from madam’s house to walk to school. 13:00 School commences. 18:00 Leave from school for night duty in the forest patrol. 05:00 Reach home after the night duty. His father passed on sometime after he completed 10th grade. His elder brothers were already married and had to look after their own families. He wished to study further but his elder brothers were already married and had to look after their own families. He had to look after his mother and younger brothers. He asked himself, “Till what time can I lean on my elder brothers for financial support?” He wanted to study further but had to take on a full time job.
“Not like they studied only in a big school here!”
Suddenly one amongst the many neighbours listening intently to the conversation in the adjacent verandah interjected, “Several children from the forest went to the aashram” in Palghar “to study.” “Yes, many went,” reiterated a mother of now grown up children, adding, “Not only my five children but also those of my sister and six brothers-in-law. Almost all children from the pada went there to study up to 7th grade. Not much importance was given to education” prior to the 2000s “in our pada. But it is not like they studied only in a big school here!” Actually, five of her six brothers-in-law too went to study at the aashram. Taai, whose children were already studying in the aashram, opened their eyes saying, ‘What will you get by doing wood gathering and selling work? You children should also come along with us to the aashram.’ “So we went to study for seven years,” explained one brother-in-law, “and, during vacations, returned to the pada. Each vacation, I used to go to a madam’s house” located on SGNP’s outskirts “and request her to give me some work. With the money I earned, I used to buy pencils and head to the aashram. Seeing me and my siblings, other pada children realised that there was no point in gathering and selling wood. So they too—forty to fifty children—joined the aashram.” Aspirations to study picked up at the same time as the forest department disallowed adivasis from pursuing farming in SGNP during the 1990s.
“We thought of building a house and living together!”
Many teenage friends gathered everyday to play at the spot where the gentle scout’s house stands today. He remembers, “Now alcohol consumption has decreased in the pada but earlier many elders consumed a lot. On going to school and venturing outside, we boys realised that this is a wrong habit. None of us wanted to stay close to such people. So we thought of building a house and living together!” “We 16-17 friends,” he added proudly, “Together we built a big house here from kaarvi and bamboo. It was a little bigger than my present house. All this after we finished 7th class. We used to bring whatever food we used to get in our (parents) houses, share, eat and even sleep together here. Then whosoever wanted to go to school or work, the next day they went from here. Later, some of us fell into undesirable company,” that is, started consuming alcohol, “and squabbling with each other everyday. Eventually we stopped living here. This house was abandoned. All my friends are married now.” The scout married in 2018. The house where he lives today with his wife and daughter was built in 2022. Today, adivasi teens do not build actual houses to live together. Their younger siblings, however, imagine houses in everyday games. In their aspirational imaginaries, we observe a garden occupying the centre as a kitchen surrounded by separate living and sleeping spaces.
“Don’t they breathe oxygen?”
On 08 September 2019, over two thousand people formed a human chain in protest against the city’s planning authorities. The latter had granted permission to fell trees in SGNP’s Aarey forest, Mumbai’s “last green lungs,” to construct a metrorail car shed. SGNP, spread over 120 sq. km., is literally considered as a ‘forest in the city.’ In the polyphonic protest were adivasi youth, SGNP residents, who “raised their voices for the first time” alongside the city’s middle class and low income residents, academics, politicians, and Bollywood film fraternity. In reflecting on the gathering, one adivasi youth exhorted, “... We feel sad why” more “people from Mumbai are not coming here. Don't they breathe oxygen?” The adivasi call on Mumbai's majority presents a paradoxical alliance in its attempt to advance collective action by joining, at the hip, differently situated spatial imaginations and practices, which are split at their roots. It reminds us of the imaginary twin city of Valdrada formed by reflection in a lake; twins who “live for each other, eyes interlocked; but there is no love between them.” The reflected twin is actually a refraction of things and activities in the lake’s waters that increases or decreases their value. Analogically, the ‘forest / city’ refract as unequal twins when interlocked as a carbon sink making one pause to think about the political in adivasi traverses to veer over, experiment with collaboration and stir things without complete knowledge of where it might lead.
“All this is something to think about, no?”
Unable to reconcile differing narratives, the city dweller couldn’t resist asking the medicinal healer, “How do adivasis see vanvaa as a time when the jungle comes to life but forest” department “people and news reports describe it in terms of destruction and loss?” “You see,” the healer replied, “forest people want to clear our padas. If it happens, there may be more animals and birds. But, during a vanvaa, what will happen to those unable to run or don’t fly much? There are ants, snakes and others, no? Can newborns escape easily? Those who cannot escape will eventually burn and die. Whose loss will it be—ours or forest people? They don’t seem to understand this. Who douses a vanvaa? We help. We care for the forest. The forest people are 7-8 km. away. Birds and animals will die by the time they reach.” The adivasi youth interrupted, “Vanvaa makes the soil fertile. But forest people don’t want it to occur. Various insects have increased as instances of vanvaa have decreased. Now, our whole body itches when we are back from a walk in the jungle. And, after 2-3 days, we get red and black patches. Going to the doctor does not provide relief. This is the other thing that has happened. Forest people don’t believe this.” As she sipped tea sitting in the verandah, the healer returned the question to his guest, “All this is something to think about, no?”
“Vanvaa ... It is a feast!”
“Vanvaa occurs,” the adivasi youth pictured a forest fire, “due to friction between dry grass, leaves, twigs and stones in a dense jungle. It won’t devour the whole jungle despite spreading in a blowing wind. It neither spreads in areas where water bodies are present nor where things are moist. From my pada, one sees it as smoke on the mountain during the day time. At night, the whole mountain appears lit like a golden snake!” The city dweller asked in thrall, “During which month?” “April-May,” the youth answered, “... January ... Forest” department’s “people nowadays extinguish it swiftly; in a day or two. Earlier, it used to burn for a month or two.” “What,” the city dweller retorted, “What happens to the animals and birds at this time? ... Monkeys?” “They are swift to jump from one tree to another,” the youth replied. Seeing the smile, the city dweller asked, “... Leopards?” “They are the fastest, no? They move to other places quickly,” came a matter-of-fact, wry response, “Those who can fly or run, escape; those who cannot, others die and become food. Palapucha kotwal,” Black Drango, “is often seen during a vanvaa. It comes to eat flies. It is a feast!” Not to be left behind in witty banter, the city dweller asked, “Cooked food for everyone, haan?” Mentally unable to reconcile the vanvaa as a time when the jungle became active and came to life for a feast, news reports teemed in the city dweller’s head with narratives of ecological destruction and loss of life.
“Gods have descended to greet the rain!”
In a 2021 report assessing SGNP’s environmental carrying capacity, the Central Pollution Control Board notes that the minimum Land Surface Temperature of this eco-sensitive area increased from 17.93 ℃ to 24.34 ℃ between 2000-20. On reading this National Green Tribunal initiated report in the matter of OA 462/2018, the architect asked the adivasi artist, “Did you know? SGNP’s Land Surface Temperature increased by 6.5 ℃ in the last two decades. How do adivasis notice weather change?” “I have learnt a little from my grandparents,” he replied, “When the koel starts singing during its mating season, dark clouds appear. There is a black coloured insect whose name I don’t remember. It eats the Red Silk tree’s cotton whose flowers bloom after Holi. This insect turns saffron during its mating season. At this time, rain should be around the threshold. We consider this colour change as if gods have descended from heaven on to the earth to greet the rain! Estimating how black the clouds are,” he continued, “Elders speak of the monsoon’s arrival by connecting cloud, wind and raindrop observations to more-than-human life. So monsoon has arrived on frog back if raindrops sound like long, slow croaks; on horse back if they sound tap-tap,” steady clip-clop of hooves; “on grass back if they sway like tall grass in the wind; and, on elephant back if they sound like their feet thud and thumping. You should talk with the elders in my pada to understand more.”
“... Invoke pleasure, make every being laugh!”
An adivasi activist asserted with disdain, “There is an old mentality,” amongst urban residents living outside SGNP, “no? A mentality that an adivasi wears leaves and keeps dancing in the jungle. This mentality needs to be changed, no?” “Yeah, I agree,” nodded the architect in discomfort, “Like the caricaturish songs and dances with phrases such as ‘Yaa phiphishika yaaaa phiphi phiphi’ or ‘Zhinga la la hu,’ no?” Bollywood songs such as “O Zindagi dene waale” (Nagin, 1954), “Mann mora naache (Do Dil, 1965), “Hum Bewafa” (Shaalimaar, 1978), “Tirchi topi waale” (Tridev, 1989), “Shabba Shabba Haai Rabaa” (Daud, 1997), and even “Hule maale gil chil hula” (MSG2 - The Messenger, 2015) present one instance where stereotyped, caricatured portrayals of adivasi figures pervade. Since independence, not much has changed in the ways in which this popular art form sexualises adivasi bodies, and portrays their language, costumes and landscapes as primitive. “On the contrary,” the adivasi artist rationalised, “When it rained, we used to perform the kamadi dance before worshipping hirwaa (evergreen forest god) asking for permission to eat Phodshachi bhaaji (forest vegetable). When it didn't rain, we performed the kamadi dance as a prayer to hirwaa. The dance was performed in the presence of our village deity wearing costumes made from plants. The idea,” in spite or despite the rain, “was to invoke pleasure, make every being laugh!”
“No more can we build houses in kaarvi!”
“I like the kaarvi house a lot,” the grandmother lamented, “But no more can we build houses in kaarvi! Now kaarvi doesn’t grow much; bamboo doesn’t grow much! If forest people catch us breaking even a single branch, they question us, ‘Why were we breaking? What were we doing?’ We fear them. We fear being fined. We don't want that mess! So we only collect those fallen” on the ground. Eager to see kaarvi, the architects approached the medicinal healer. Concurring with the grandmother, he took them deep inside the jungle to one spot and said, “See, these are kaarvi! They are small” clusters, “not as abundant as earlier.” There he vented, “One can only get seeds when the flowers bloom, no? A small plant will grow only if a seed falls in the ground, no? And only then will kaarvi be produced, no? It takes two to three years for it to grow. But can you see how impoverished these are? If they get manure, you won't have to bother” about their growth “for at least two years. But do we have cattle anymore? Since kaarvi doesn't grow in abundance, we have planted the Lokhandi zhaad,” Ironwood tree. During one conversation, a middle-aged woman recalled the existence of kaarvi houses until the shooting of Jaagruti, a Bollywood film, released in 1992. The “forest people” stopped adivasi residents from gathering forest produce during the following decade. This regulation stands today despite the passage of the Forest Rights Act 2006.
“During the British era, things were still ok!”
“Jal-Jangal-Jameen,” Water-Jungle-Land, “Adivasis have no alternative beyond it, no? Actually no one else has an alternative. Therefore, the environment has to be saved,” the youth adivasi activist emphasised, “The land question is very sharp here!” Outside my house, she continued, “You must have seen the wall, no? It is the new international zoo’s boundary wall; the Byculla zoo, which is to be shifted here. 190 acres! There are many such projects. My grandparents, with whom we lived earlier, lost their land due to the Royal Palms,” real estate, “project. Then we lost the land where we had shifted. Now land has been acquired for the metro car shed. You see, the work in Aarey dairy has to come to a standstill. This land was leased to Aarey no? Why doesn’t the government use it for new projects? Or the land leased to cattle sheds or poultry or veterinary college? Why is our land acquired?” Elsewhere, the medicinal healer asked, “Who laboured when this place was renamed as National Park during the 1970s? Road construction had begun from Powai to Hathi,” Elephant, “Gate at Film City. Adivasis were the ones to work in making them. Sahebs,” forest officers, “used to come by horse carriages to pay the workers. Just like the British! But at least the British returned us some land after taking it. They allowed us to farm and asked us to give some crops in return. During the British era, things were still ok! They were better than the forest department.”
“Record memories ... that will soon be lost.”
“I don’t want to make paintings based on usual themes of Warli rituals and customs. In my paintings, I want to record memories of my elders that will soon be lost,” emphasised the adivasi artist. One canvas draws upon his Mothi Aai’s, grandmother’s, memories of Tulsi reservoir (1879-97) construction in the then named Krishnagiri National Park. “Mothi Aai told me,” he recounted leaning over a canvas, “A pada had to be displaced to build a water supply reservoir. A woman chieftain and her clan refused to relocate unless the reservoir was named after their pada, Tulsi. On agreeing, the displaced pada was resettled close by. Ingraj sahebs,” British officers, “came to supervise our people who built the reservoir on tangas,” horse carriages, “and rested in a bungalow,” the Forest Rest House. The artist’s painting unravels adivasi dispossession and alienation through a reservoir that displaces their habitation to the canvas’ top and bottom. Colonial military, bureaucracy, science and technology, depicted through a forest officer, bungalow, tanga, retaining wall, large reservoir and binoculars, produced an infrastructure to accumulate monsoonal waters. Its flows, directed to support life in Urbs Prima in Indis, made possible the accumulation of colonial capital flows. Sanctioned by the Mumbai Metropolitan Heritage Conservation Society, a 2007 study report lists the lake, dam, outlet tower, filtration plant and bungalow as heritage assets.
“This is how water was supplied to Bombay city!”
The scout’s mother had told him, “Earlier there were no forest people,” officers, but “The PW,” Public Works Department, “people ran horse carriages. Ingraj sahebs,” British officers, “rode on them and managed the lime kiln. They used to take our people,” adivasis, “forcibly making them do any given work. Otherwise our people were whipped with a whiplash!” “During this time,” a medicinal healer recounted his grandma’s tale, “My great grandfather worked to construct Tulsi lake. Several pipelines were being laid from inside the jungle. Hills are up there, no? Pipelines were constructed at their base ... 2 number line, 4 number line ... They had such names. There are four pipelines from Tusli. Our people worked there for a long period. This is how water was supplied to Bombay city!” Tulsi Lake—Conceived: early-1870s; Construction: 1879-1897. Vihar Lake—Conceived: late-1840s; Construction: 1856-1860. Powai Lake—Conceived: mid-1880s; Construction: 1890-1891. Tansa Lake—Conceived: mid-1880s; Construction: 1892-1925. Sanctioned by the Mumbai Metropolitan Heritage Conservation Society, a 2007 study report lists many of these lakes as heritage assets. Meanwhile, ‘The trunk of the Ficus tree is stolen, you have connected taps stealing our water to Mumbai ...,’ goes an evocative adivasi song from Wada taluka where the Tansa lake is located.
“That’s how this place came to be called Satibaug.”
Sitting on a thick, low parapet shaded by canopies of trees, we struck a conversation with the temple’s caretaker, “A grandmother told us a story she heard from her parents. Prior to her birth, a young girl in her early 20s passed away after jumping into a well. She followed sati dharam (widow sacrifice). That’s how this place came to be called Satibaug.” The amused caretaker responded with a smile, “Adivasis have told me another story. Earlier they used to sacrifice goats in the temple and then eat them ... Around 100 years back ... Maybe 80-90 ... Umm, you could say 150 years ... They used to get tired with the wood cutting work. So they prayed to the deity asking for shakti (strength). The deity answered their prayers. So they started calling it Shakti Mata Mandir. Over time, it changed to Sati Mata Mandir. That’s how this place got its name.” The artist, listening intently, intervened, “This is what I think. We adivasis understand the meaning of sati as swarg (heaven). ‘Sati gati laagna’ (Receiving momentum to reach heaven) means ‘swargat parat janyacha marg’ (Finding a way to reach back to it). ‘Sati gati lagli ka’ (When a body has passed on to heaven) ... ‘Mag agni de tyla’ (Then offer it to the burning pyre). ‘Sati—swarg,’ this place. So the name.” In 1950, Krishnagiri National Park’s core area was around 20 sq. km. In 1981, it was renamed as the Sanjay Gandhi National Park. Renaming this expanded area of 100 sq. km. eviscerated histories of many localities.
“Now we feel we are in exile!”
“The space from where you enter the village now were all farms," the grandmother reminisced, “... farms on this side, farms on that side. We used to farm rice, sorghum, finger millet, white musali, maize and some edible vegetables.” One day “the forest people,” that is, forest officers, came to stop pada residents from farming and later “planted some types of trees in our farms. Nothing is left anymore. With my parents' generation everything was wiped out. Now we feel like we are in exile!” “Our condition became like this,” precarious, she added “from the moment we lost our farms,” pointing to her frail, thin body against the backdrop of the surrounding houses whose GI sheet walls had rusted. “Our children suffered,” she continued further with moist eyes, “Elder kids from the pada used to purchase vegetables from outside the forest with some money. People get, no—sold vegetables ... and then cook them? Such young children! For them I used to cook a vegetable mixed with salt. We used to eat it for lunch and dinner with a sip of water to fill our stomachs. We couldn't manage chapaati or rice at that time.” The “forest people” disallowed farming in SGNP since its establishment in 1981. According to the numbers in a recent report, between 1978-2020, SGNP’s forest cover increased by 225 percent while farming area reduced to 07 percent. The “forest people” were producing a forest. In turn, they also produced precarity for its adivasi residents.
“Both are experts in crafting different ingredients.”
“The Gaav Pramukh,” also called Pramukh or Patil, “alone takes decisions regarding the pada,” the architects inquired, “Is it?” “No, no! Pramukh doesn't take decisions alone. There are other members who hold importance in the adivasi society here,” clarified the artist. “There is Raandokya,” he went on to elaborate, “The one who is invited to cook during ceremonies. Raandokya isn’t alone but has his own team. They are invited to cook for various ceremonies such as weddings, when a child is born, during the child’s naming ceremony, or even during the fifth birthday. Then there are the Ghar Baandhnaare, “house builders, who also have their own team. In this manner, twelve to thirteen people gather to make decisions and resolve disputes in the pada.” “Wow,” the architect exclaimed, “We could never have guessed, I suppose! People who cook and people who construct houses, is it?” “Yes, Raandokya and Ghar Baandhnaare teams,” the artist emphasised, “They hold more importance in the adivasi society. Ghar Baandhnare ... They know the measurements of a house, how to build it, no? And Raandokya team, during ceremonies, cooks food for so many people each year, no? Both are experts in crafting different ingredients that pada residents regularly avail, no? So, if Raandokya are not given importance,” for instance, “they won’t set foot into your house during ceremonies. That’s why they hold importance in adivasi society!”
“One should have eaten the bamboo shoot flower at least twice.”
Chancing upon an adivasi artist’s landscape paintings in a conversation, the architects who were curious to understand the pada’s builtform transformation asked, “Your community does not follow private land ownership logic, no? So how does one decide where to build? As in, let’s suppose you want to extend your house or build an additional house. How do you decide—Should I build here? Or should I build there? What if your neighbour has a problem?” Gesturing to the houses and open space across the verandah where they were seated, the artist continued, “So let's say the neighbour approaches you saying Padavi kaadhaychi aahe,” that is, taking out a Padavi [English translation (various as): path, award, title]. “Suppose you agree,” he continued, “But have a problem with extension on some parts of the common space for it could be required in the future. Who will come to resolve the ensuing disagreement? Gaav Pramukh,” the village head. “Elders say,” he explained the rationale, “One should have eaten a bamboo shoot flower at least twice to become eligible for decision-making in the pada! It blooms once every thirty years. I can become eligible for decision-making in the pada if my grandfather has stored Inda, the seeds from a bamboo shoot flower. Such a person then becomes Gaav Pramukh, also called Pramukh or Patil. Patil’s house is big; so is Patil’s Vaai!”
“Eat a crab only after the first cultivation!”
Piqued with curiosity, the architect asked, “How did you catch crabs when there were no torches?” “People use battery torches now,” the adivasi youth replied, “But earlier torches were different. They were bamboo sticks that worked like a torch. We call them habel. We pour kerosene in the stick and light it” like a lamp “while we walk. The intestine of a hen is hooked to its other end and lowered near the rocks. Then one waits for the crab to hook onto the bait. At that time, we spin the stick and catch it. This happens during the monsoon. Sometimes, even today, we do use habel.” But during the non-monsoon season, he continued, “When there is no water, crabs are deeper inside the ground. So we rub rocks against one another to create vibrations that penetrate into the ground. Crabs feel as if it has begun to rain and climb up. The dried leaves make a” crackling “sound when they surface. That’s how we know they are here to catch. Without dried leaves we won’t know, no? They require moist grounds.” ”One thing though,” he warned, “We don't eat crabs everyday. We eat them keeping in mind that their population should not deplete. So, we don't eat crabs during the Shraavan month. They bear babies, no? We don't eat crabs with babies so as to save the species. We do farming at that time. People think it is a superstition but we have a saying, ‘Eat a crab after the first cultivation!’ ”
“Surva is like a broth.”
Noticing that “not only raanbhaaji,” forest vegetables, “but there are a lot of crabs here,” the architect asked during walk inside the jungle, “Do they bite?” “Yes. But only if you catch them,” the medicinal healer assuaged her. “There is another type of crab,” he gestured to his palm size, “Big and hefty, and black in colour.” “Oh, I just saw one earlier,” the architect promptly acknowledged. The healer’s response, “Those only come out at night, not in daylight,” punctured the architect’s self-assurance. As both began laughing, the healer continued, “We go with a torch at night to catch,” the big black crabs. “From them, we make Surva for those who ail from asthma. It is like a broth,” he explained, “First, one has to remove the shell and extract its juice. Then you can shred its flesh. Cook both lightly with chopped onion, spices and water. Surva will be ready. One can have it regularly to heal asthma.” “You see,” an adivasi youth added, “earlier there were no doctors or hospitals, no? This broth is also used as a cure for fever. Crabs have a lot of calcium, no?” Gesturing to a plant in front, the healer asked, “You see these leaves? We call the plant Daana. At monsoon’s onset, these small-small leaves grow on rocks. We pluck and chop the leaves and stem. After cleaning them with fresh water, we temper toor daal with these and garlic. Surva tastes better if you use these leaves. Try tasting one. It’s a bit sour.” “Hmm, it's good! It's a bit tangy,” the architect described its taste, face shrivelled.
“Not a single drop of water or air could pass!”
Some memories give away the heart’s longing for a bygone time. It is not so much about the desire to turn back the clock as it is about finding beauty in a knowledge that, derided as “primitive,” could forever be lost. “The pada” of her youth, the entrepreneur recalled, “looked so different than it does today. There were leaves on the roofs of houses everywhere. Elder men from the pada wove them so beautifully.” “Parshachi ... kosambichi ... leaves were used,” the grandmother interjected authoritatively, “We used to dry them first. Place grass and hay on them. Using bamboo, tie them together. Then apply pressure for some time,” she gestured with her hands and feet, “Not a single drop of water or air could pass” through the roof! “During those times,” the entrepreneur continued, “We used to peel branches from the Dhaman tree to use as ropes. But now,” she lamented, “money is used to purchase everything. We simply had to walk into the jungle, bring what we required or liked to build. It was nice to live in those houses,” her tone and eyes giving away her momentary longing. Transposed magically from the verandah where the conversation was taking place, she remembered kaarvi houses existed “until the shooting of Jaagruti,” a Bollywood film, “which took place for almost two to three months in our pada. Naming, “Salman Khan, Salman Khan ...," the heartthrob actor, she winked and blushed. Jaagruti released in India on 3rd July 1992.
“What you call a forest is our garden!”
A renowned scholar’s provocation, “the forest is an infrastructure to hold wetness,” had gripped our minds. We wondered during initial wanderings, “What should we observe if it indeed was one? And how should we draw the trees, leaves, muds, pebbles, boulders etc. whose surfaces seemed to fold on to one another to hold monsoonal waters?” We were literally and metaphorically lost in the forest until we met the grandmother. She insistently corrected us on numerous occasions, “What you call a forest is our baug (garden/orchard)!” Subsequently, the dense foliage opened differently to our eyes. On one such walk, a narrow mud path lined by lemon, star fruit, banana, papaya, guava, custard apple, mulberry, Bengal currant, Java plum, gooseberry, mango, jackfruit, cashew, toddy palm, coconut and tamarind trees led us to a shaded backyard. Here brinjal, chilly, curry leaf, cucumber, lady finger, tomato occupied small, protected saree or plastic sheet fences alongside jasmine, hibiscus, crossandra, marigold, rose, basil, periwinkle, adusa, cotton plant, Sewari, Giloy, Nigda. Nonchalantly we asked a few women chit-chatting in the shade of their backyard, “Who takes care of this garden?” Gazing back suspiciously, one of them replied, “We women do. We have planted all these. The ones much further” from the pada “grow on their own but we,” the adivasi clans that live here, “take care of them.”
“Vaai ... is always meandering!”
Soaking in the surrounds, the architect uttered spontaneously, “This space is beautiful; one can just sit here peacefully!” “Yes,” replied the young father. Both momentarily indulged the pleasure of the verandah’s surrounds. “But,” the latter added, “I have to clear the thick bushes and build a Vaai” in the open space. Bothered by his proposition, the architect quipped, “Why so?” The doting father responded, “My child is still a baby. She runs off to play here and there, and in the nearby stream. Anything can come here, no? Snakes or other animals. If the space is clean, they won't come” to cause harm. Made from bamboo or kaarvi sticks tied together, Vaai is literally a fence built around houses in adivasi padas. “You see,” the adivasi artist pointed out, “Vaai is never built in a straight line. It is always meandering!” The point being, “to reduce the speed of, not kill, big cats and other animals, while dissuading a hen to get out or a snake to come in. So really, it is built for many reasons—to protect vegetables from deer, dry and store paddy after a harvest, space to grind rice, grow creepers to shade, a place to sit, or hold on to animals such as hens, goats and cows. It is not necessary that each house has a Vaai; several houses could share one. In our community, land isn’t owned by one or another person. We don’t follow this logic, no? So it does not mark private ownership. One Vaai is built around the house to protect tender lives and another one further from the house such that all cultivation takes place within it.The latter marks the boundary of a waadi.”
“Rat lane.”
“Thickness ≅ 5 cm; Height ≅ 200 cm. Vertical branches @ 50 cm c/c; Horizontal branches @ 20 - 30 cm c/c.” Noting thus in her book, the architect asked Mothi Aai’s grandson while meandering in the waadi, “How is this Vaai constructed?” “We collect branches and twigs from the jungle,” he replied, “Ones that fall on the ground. We also use bamboo. Big and stiff ones are thrust vertically in the mud to mark the boundary. Smaller ones are horizontal ties. Earlier, peels from Dhaman tree’s branches were used to tie them. Now jute or plastic ropes are used. Then we plant seeds of a tree along this frame. When the sapling and other bushes grow, we weave them in the frame to make the Vaai strong. The seeds are of Undir Maarg tree” (trans: Rat Lane). Noticing the listener’s puzzled look, he clarified, \\"The tree’s leaves act as a natural poison for rats making it beneficial for Vaai’s inhabitants. So Rat Lane! Ingraj,” Britishers, “brought it to India and is found across Mumbai. In English, it is called Rain Tree. It will grow into a giant one without much care. We also use it for fencing.” In a Mumbai Metropolitan Region - Environment Improvement Society sponsored study, the Rain Tree’s entry notes: “A massive tree of tropical American origin, growing up to 30m high, with an evergreen foliage forming a broad umbrella like crown ... first introduced to Sri Lanka and from there brought to India, being of great value for railway fuel.”
“Treasure seeds ... to pass down generations.”
Gazing at the fruit trees outside the verandah, the architect asked an adivasi youth, “What goes into taking care of your garden?” Seeing his baffled look, she clarified, “I mean this guava tree ... Who plants it?” “Ah,” he replied, “My culture believes that saplings grow well with” the growth of “a child’s spirit. So we ask children to plant them. Later, women nurture them. My aunt used to make me plant in her waadi. She didn’t have kids. I was like her son. Today she is no more. Yet, to date, her waadi feeds around ten families in the pada during the monsoon. It has numerous mango trees. We divide and eat them when they fruit.” Unsatiated, the architect prodded, “What is the process of planting? I mean how is the sapling sourced?” “Not saplings,” he corrected, “We treasure and store seeds after every plantation to pass down generations. So if we don’t plant each year, we will lose our seeds.” “Suppose you want to sow pumpkin,” he elaborated further, “We will collect dried leaves and set a small fire in our waadi prior to the monsoon’s arrival. To this, we will add chaff from dry fish such as prawns. This acts as fertiliser. Then pumpkin seeds will be sown keeping some distance between them. We will sprinkle chaff again and add a top mud layer. Sometimes we use urea but it isn't good for the soil. Flowers blossom in five to seven weeks. Male ones usually appear first followed by female ones. On pollination, the latter develop into pumpkins.”
“Under whose care are we able to walk so freely?”
“Have you ever wondered how we are able to walk so freely in the jungle,” the medicinal healer asked, “Under whose care? Patai! We call the big wildcat, Patai. The whole area, from here, belongs to them. This is their home,” he gestured to a boundary barely perceptible to non-adivasi eyes. Giggling and muttering as they continued walking, the non-adivasi tongues asked with furrowed brows the next moment, “How are their houses? Have you seen them?” The healer nodded, “Yes, I have seen their house. Can you feel the breeze here at this point? Up there, you see,” pointing to a slightly higher elevation, “there is more breeze. It is rocky with sparse vegetation. The mud on the ground in their house is similar to dry mud that you will usually see during summer. Stones are stacked one above the other around mud, which don’t let water seep inside and make the ground mushy. Wild cats like to live in dry areas, you see.” “I was telling you about Patai,” the healer continued, “The big wild cat looks after everyone in the jungle. You see, what happens is, many-a-time the forest people find and catch leopards, cheetahs or other animals, and uncage them here in the jungle. Then Patai handles them. It won't allow newcomers to enter the pada. It will drive them off. So it helps Waghoba, whom we also worship, and who won’t let them live here in the pada. So, in recognition of this care, “During festivals, we worship it by offering hens or coconuts. That's how it is able to take care of the whole pada.”
“He is the most terrifying and dangerous!”
During a long winter morning walk inside the jungle, the medicinal healer stopped walking at a place etched in his memory. Gesturing to zig-zag, tall, dense bamboo clumps quite unlike the surrounding foliage of trees and shrubs, he said, “See, there is the presence of god here. You will keep going in circles” if you go inside “but not find a way out. Then you will have to pray, ‘Oh god, please get me out of here. Forgive me if I have done anything wrong.’ Soon you will find a way out. We call him Chedda!” “Earlier, he continued, “Our family owned cows. I or my brothers used to take them to graze and let them loose. If we were late, we would always bring back the dairy cows first. Many-a-time, we would not find the cows left behind. We could see their footprints but, despite endless efforts, not them. So we prayed, ‘God, I am tired now. It is late …’ Then suddenly, somehow, the cows appeared from somewhere,” saying thus, he smiled sheepishly, conscious of the non-adivasi presence in his midst. In disbelief, we narrated this story to an adivasi artist. His reply left us stunned, “Last week, my younger brother did not return home. Despite our search for two days, we couldn’t find him. Some told us that they last saw him near Chedda’s home. He returned on the third day from there but couldn’t remember what exactly happened.” “Chedda has always been like this since the beginning,” the healer added, “He is one of the most terrifying and dangerous deities! He needs a lot of offerings.”
