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Ali the Dervish

By Paul Mirabile

Whirling Dervishes, painting by Jean Baptiste Vanmour (1671-1737). From Public Domain

In 1976, I bought a small country cottage very pleasantly located near the town of Sheffield at Dronfield in South Yorkshire from an elderly woman who informed me she that had travelled quite extensively throughout Asia in the nineteen twenties and thirties before settling down here. She never married. The learned woman left no forwarding address.

Settling in took much time and energy because of my abundant belongings. At last, one rainy afternoon having nothing to do, I climbed the shaky stairway that led to the garret. The door had been left ajar. Inside the low-ceiling, ill-lite space, there was nothing but a large chest placed in the middle. The lid lay aslant. Its hinges were broken. 

Curious about its contents, I began rummaging through the numerous newspaper and magazine clippings, booklets, letters and other documents. A particular envelop caught my eye because the red wax seal had been broken. Wax-sealed letters are very out-dated these days. When I opened the envelop I understood why it was sealed. A seven-page letter had been written in fine, elegant script, by Lady Sheil, dated 1869. Lady Sheil was quite a prominent woman in her time[1] . This indeed was a remarkable find. It baffled me why the former proprietor would leave in a chest of documents a letter of such archival interest. Since there was little light in the garret, I took the letter downstairs to read it. Unfortunately there was no addressee, so I assumed it was sent to the former proprietor. I must confess that a feeling of guilt touched me when I began my reading. Luckily I overcame this sensation because the contents of the letter proved extraordinary …

Lady Sheil details a very peculiar adventure of an Englishman who named himself Ali the Dervish -or as she spelt it, Deervish — who had undertaken a voyage to ‘Balochestan, Persia’[2]. As I read through her letter, I came to realise that the Englishman had abandoned his British ways entirely, adopting those of the semi-nomad Balochi. To such an extent was his assimilation that he even married a Balochi woman, something utterly unthinkable at that time — in the year 1856. Why Lady Sheil would write a long letter about this chap to an unknown reader or readers heightened my curiosity.

I began investigations at the Sheffield library and found Lady Sheil’s Glimpses of Persian[3] though I found nothing at all about Ali the Dervish. Lady Sheil mentioned something about his diary but nothing substantial came of this. Be that as it may, the letter fascinated me by its mysterious allusions and ellipses, especially concerning this unusual identity change. Not a simple task for a European in the nineteenth century, or even in our century for that matter. This Ali even outdid Sir Richard Burton’s bursts of outlandish impersonation …

Examining the letter carefully, I felt a strange, slight tremor goading me to do justice to this eccentric Ali. Something unsaid in the sentences urged me to read between them, to scrutinize the margins and the paragraph indents as if Lady Sheil had deliberately left out parts of her narrative for her reader to fill in those blank, yellowing spaces.

I picked up my pen, imagining myself to be both Lady Sheil and Ali the dervish, and began filling in the those blanks, writing in the gaps, the lacuna, the untold events and details so to speak. Indeed, I had convinced myself that the letter had been destined for me. And this resolution was enough for me to divulge the mystery of Ali …

Ali, whose English-born name was left unknown, had had the best of aristocratic educations in the fine arts, especially languages. He was fluent in Hindustani, Persian, Pashtun and Turkish, besides having mastered four or five European languages, including Hungarian. This was quite a linguistic feat, second only to Richard Burton whom, by the way, Ali had the occasion to meet in Lahore. A meeting which lasted two or three weeks according to a friend of Burton’s memoirs. Little, however, is reported about their relationship.

Prior to Ali’s arrival in India and that fortuitous encounter with Burton, he apparently had led a rather lukewarm existence in England, and this in spite of his family wealth, or perhaps because of it. His accumulation of capital was analogous to his successive accumulations of prolonged bouts of depression. They left him utterly exhausted. How and when he left England is not written in the letter, although he probably reached India by ship, then on horseback or foot into Northwestern India, accompanied often by erring minstrels and story-tellers. From whom Ali learned the art of dancing, chanting and story-telling. It was not a question of imitating these rituals and customs. Ali had integrated them as if they had been part of some distant, latent self that required jolts of recollection to surge up from the depths of the unconscious. In fact, Burton was quite taken aback by Ali’s very ‘unEnglish’ appearance. His manner of speaking English, too, possessed a curious twist of Persian and Hindustani syntax — a ring of their tonal stress.

To Ali’s pleasant surprise, he no longer suffered from bouts of violent depressions. The former Englishman on leaving Burton, perhaps in 1849, rid himself of paper money, donating it to missionaries, then rode off into the verdant valleys of North-western India towards Afghanistan carrying only the clothes on his back, two gourds of fresh water, several loaves of acorn-bread and a pouch of Arabic gum. Ali carried no weapon.

Ali’s sound knowledge of Hindustani, Pashtun and Persian offered him unparallel glimpses of these undomesticated lands. Lands of shifting desert sands whose rising heat conjured in the distance illusions of ravishing oases and sparkling cascades off tree-laden crags. Ali had been warned about these deceitful mirages (by Burton?) whose marvellous vision had been the death of many a brave adventurer.

He kept to the clayey track, accepting food and board from the hospitable villagers or sleeping under the silver stars on his woven kilim-saddle cloth. He rode days or nights penetrating landscapes of indescribable beauty, of terrifying singularity, of unbearable heat in the day and equally freezing nights. At one point in his wanderings, Ali, slumbering on his horse due to the rising heat and lack of food, looked up to discover a gigantic Buddha hewn into a tuft-like cliff. A small stream ran in front of the lithic niche along which flourished many date trees. There the Buddha stood, calm, reposed, sedentary, encased in his stone casket, home to a myriad birds who had made their nests on his rounded shoulders and shaven head. Ali jumped off his horse, filled his gourds with clean water, scouted about for fresh dates. With one last look at the towering Enlightened One he set off towards Persia, filled with equivocal sensations. He felt that his nomad days would soon be numbered …

A month or two passed. Now villagers tilling their fields or collecting wood no longer greeted or spoke Pashtun to him, but in Dehwari or Persian. He welcomed this language shift. Ali felt more at ease in Persian, albeit it be the Dehwari dialect, which he had learnt from one or two erring Zarathustrian talebearers in India. By then his uncombed beard touched his chest and his hair his shoulders. In one village he traded his khaki-coloured shorts for a shalwar[4] and his boots for goat-skin sandals. In another his Safari sun hat for a turban and his heavy flax shirt for a long, cotton tunic. Whenever he met tillers or merchants they would greet him with the customary ‘hoş amati’[5]. By their pronunciation and vocabulary Ali knew he was travelling southwards into Balochestan. Temperatures rose and rose — 37° C … 42° C. His horse trotted slower and slower. Her rider drooped soporifically over her mane. Ali no longer calculated his wanderings in farsakhs[6] but by the risings and settings of the sun …

Notwithstanding these discomfitures, the persevering Ali carried on. To his delight the track widened, hospitable shepherds driving before them their herds of sheep or goats offered the solitary traveller the warmth of their camp-fires, goat’s milk, cheese and acorn-bread. Caravans of transhumance nomads pressing towards the high plateaus nodded to him. The stony-faced herdsmen chanted in their own language which translated means —

 A breath of mountain breeze,
A breath of wind from the Sea,
In the middle,
We trudge
The pilgrims of the fountain…

Then they called after their huge, savage dogs. Ali seized upon that admirable chant and intoned it to himself or aloud …

One sparkling, azure day, Ali, road-weary, alighted from his horse in a large settlement of tents, called Sa’idi. There both Persian and Dehwari were spoken, judging from the scores of people who came to greet him. It was a charming settlement, surrounded by fields of red poppies, iris, bluer than the blue of the sky, crown imperials whose orange tints glowed like lit candles, and tulips. Horses, sheep and goats dotted the terraced rows of poppies on the hills and skirts of the low-laying piebald mountains, motionless. Ali, both dazzled and comforted by the undulating kaleidoscope colours decided to halt for the night in this welcoming settlement to rest his fatigued physical and mental state and his horse.

When he asked for the elder of the settlement, he was directed to a very large white tent. In fact, since his arrival the snowy-bearded elder had been eyeing the stranger askance. He threw open the flap of his tent and greeted him in Persian as custom would have it, inviting his visitor inside for tea. Sipping their respective glasses of sugared tea, the snowy-bearded elder’s deep-set black eyes peered into those hazel-brown of Ali’s. Though he was pleased to meet this curious traveller, he was confused about his identity. Finally he put the question point blank to his sipping visitor: “Are you Persian?”  

Ali nodded neither yes nor no. His ambiguous nod set off the string of events that followed. events that transformed the already transforming Ali into a rather ambiguous Other …

The snowy-bearded elder had read that ambiguous nod as a sign of belonging. Ali’s sun-mat complexion, his extraordinary command of both Persian and Dehwari, his knowledge of social and religious habits and practices, mostly acquired during his years on the road, opened the elder’s heart and those of the Balochi people of Sa’idi, people who now had stepped into the tent, forming a large circle round Ali and the snowy-bearded elder. Out of this wide circle came the elder’s three sons and daughter to lead him to his own red tent at the outskirts of the settlement. His horse was led to pasture with the others.

On the thick carpets of his medium-sized tent, Ali sat and meditated upon that ambiguous nod. Had he really become the one of them? Deep within his heart, the former Englishman rejoiced … rejoiced at his ‘crossing over’. He had become what he really was …  

Several years passed. Ali no longer felt guilty about leaving his past behind. His immersion seemed complete. He sang and danced round the ritual fire at night. He told stories night after night after a hard day’s work in the poppy fields, apple and peach orchards and the vineyards, the tribesmen chanted their chants of ancestral lore, joined him in his whirling dance, one palm to the Heavens and the other to the Earth, eyes staring into a void of quiescence …

It was in Sa’idi that he began to be called Ali the Dervish, whirling as he did before and behind the leaping flames. Ali taught his dance to the snowy-bearded elder’s three sons. In turn, the elder offered his daughter to him in marriage — a privilege since this signified entrance into the chieftain’s family.

Once the three-day marriage ceremonies were over, his lovely bride — for she was truly lovely — sat next to him in the nuptial red tent. His wife, whose name has never been recorded, demanded nothing of him. She accepted all his nightly hesitations … ‘failings’ … Her fruity laugh and obsidian back eyes spoke a language that communicated higher values … loftier treasures than uncertainty, physical gratification or hereditary obligations.

Ali slowly discovered that his young bride possessed the quality of a seer, perhaps even belonged to a long lineage of Central Asian mystics. Intense were her meditations and visions of the Other World, of events passed and those to come … His past … Their future … Ali, both bewildered and beguiled by this power of prophesy, would timidly question his bride about her unusual gifts. She would answer enigmatically: “One must remove the Husk before bringing in the Bride,” an adage he never fully understood, nor would she ever elucidate.

On other moonlit nights, alone within the sanctuary of their intimacy, Ali’s wife would envision scenes of his long aristocratic lineage, each member afflicted by physical or mental atrophies, plagued by wasting ennui. The Dervish listened in awe as she revealed events quite unknown to him. Yet, he remained speechless, peering into the almond-shaped eyes of this woman depicting scenes that could very well cost him his life. She said nothing. He yearned to avow everything to her but some fey voice prevented him each time. She read his mind and laughed her fruity laugh, delving ever deeper into his life … theirs !

Ali accompanied her with his eyes then turned them to the dying embers of the stove fire, the glowing logs sizzled lightly in the silence. Was he deluding himself? He knew that his wife had discovered his native idenity. But were all those past scenes his true identity? He indeed stemmed from that hoary lineage, the last scion. Was he the last to play a role on this world stage of masquerade and mummery? No ! He was Ali the Dervish … Here amongst these hearty tribesmen he played no role. He had overcome the hardships of childhood as a fatherless boy. That unknown gentleman had left for Africa never to return! Never a letter nor a message brought by acquaintances. Before dying of grief, his poor mother repeated to him everynight: “Look to the stars.” And the sullen boy looked, and believed that they would lead him to another life … another identity !

Once Ali began to cry softly listening to the sizzling embers and the light, rhythmical breathing of his strange wife.

Many years had passed and yet, they had no children. His hair and beard had greyed. Yet, no reprimand, no rebuke, no judgement ever came from the community, especially from her aging father. Was the power of her revelations known to him ? Would he be the last branch of that gnarled and rotten aristocratic tree ?

Ali rode often into the fields and mountains to gather wood to build tent-frames or glean fruit from the many apple and peach trees. During these solitary moments his past crept up on him, making him feel guilty. There seemed only one solution : speak openly, candidly to his wife about his British birth, his genuine desire to become the Other. She would surely understand since she had already read his former life by sounding his heart. That night he would go straight to his wife.

But, just then out of the blue sky his wife came galloping towards him, whipping up her stead. She jumped off, an odd expression wrinkling her forehead. Ali ran up to her, took her shoulders gently, admiring the sapphire blue that framed them so perfectly like a painting. There she stood, basking in the soft glow of the mellowing, evening sun. Before he could utter his rehearsed confession she put a hand to his lips.

“Father has just passed away,” she whispered softly, without emotion. “He has been freed from the trammels of worldly existence.” She smiled. “Now you too are free to divest yourself of a personage that has been conferred to you by the stars and the strength of your will.”

“But who am I really, my dear?” her husband wondered. She caressed his bearded, burning cheeks. She answered: “If you want the horse to neigh, you must slacken the reins.” Turning round, she rode back to the settlement to wash the body of her deceased father and prepare the three-day funeral rites with her brothers. Ali puzzled by that enigmatic counsel trudged to his horse.

He rode back far behind her, meditating his ‘freedom’. What other choice had he?

This sentence was the last in Lady Sheil’s long, detailed letter. On further investigation into this strange fellow at the London library, I discovered that Ali the Dervish had divorced and remarried his bride to one of her brother’s mates, then left Sa’idi. He was last seen in Tabriz, Persia. No document reports his whereabouts after his reaching that northwestern town in the lands of the Azeri people. 

I have often wondered whether Lady Sheil ever knew who Ali the Dervish really was. I have my doubts. Only his Balochi wife knew, and of course, that mysterious person could have never been questioned. It’s also odd that Ali himself — whatever self that be– had never woven his thoughts and experiences into a book, never enlightened a Western public on integration and assimilation into a foreign culture.

As time went by I even considered that this letter might have been a hoax to hoodwink a naive fellow like myself into clothing Ali in legendary fashion. On second thought, though, who’s to arbitrate between fact and fiction ? Not I, in any case. For isn’t it a refreshing act of freedom to slip from one to the other without a pinch of guilt ?     

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[1]        1803-1871.

[2] Balochistan is in Pakistan but the Baloch community spreads to Iran and Ali’s story dates before the formation of Pakistan.

[3]        Published in 1856.

[4]        Large, light baggy trousers.

[5]        ‘Welcome’ in Persian.

[6]        A Persian measurement equivalent to 5.35 kilometres

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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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The Great Himalayan Ascents

Title: The Great Himalayan Ascents

Author: Frank S Smythe

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

The Himalaya

TWO HUNDRED YEARS ago mountains were regarded as useless and terrible masses of inert matter where dragons had their lairs and the spirits of the damned lay in wait to claim the unwary. But as man emerged from the superstitions and materialisms of the Middle Ages he began to realise that mountains were beautiful and their summits worthy of attainment. The nineteenth century saw the conquest of the Alps. Unknown difficulties and dangers had to be faced by the pioneers of mountaineering. Disasters occurred, lives were lost, and mountaineering thrown into disrepute. The mountaineer was not dismayed. He knew that beauty was his for the seeking; he rejoiced in a newfound comradeship and in the acquirement and exercise of a new craft.

The great alpine summits fell one by one; traditions were established; a technique was evolved; a literature was born. The ripples of alpine mountaineering radiated outwards, bearing with them mountaineers to other ranges: the Caucasus, the Rockies, the Andes, the New Zealand Alps. On their highest peaks the skill acquired in the Alps was sufficient to ensure success. But there remained one great range that defied invasion of its strongholds – the Himalaya. There, the technique acquired in the Alps was not sufficient. Height alone was a physical deterrent, and coupled to height was steepness and danger. Expeditions had to be organised to reach even the foot of the great peaks; time and money had to be found. Yet, despite these disadvantages, Himalayan mountaineering and exploration progressed steadily. Pioneers such as the Schlagintweit Brothers, Sir Joseph Hooker, The Duke of the Abruzzi, Mr W.W. Graham, Lord Conway, Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr D.W. Freshfield, Doctor T.G. Longstaff, Doctor A.M. Kellas, General Bruce, Mr C.F. Meade, Doctor and Mrs Bullock Workman, Messrs. Rubenson and Monrad Aas, and many other pre-war pioneers opened up a region unsurpassed for its beauty and grandeur, and by their experiences pointed the way to the highest summits.

Many people refer to the Himalaya as though their limitations in scenery and climate were similar to those of the Alps. The tourist who gazes upon Kangchenjunga, 28,226 feet, from Darjeeling returns home saying that he has seen the Himalaya. So he has, but how much of two thousand miles of mountains stretching from the Pamirs to the borders of Indo-China, and beyond these limits, in terms of mountains? A lifetime might be spent wandering about the Himalaya, yet the knowledge acquired would embrace but an infinitesimal portion of that vast labyrinth of peaks, valleys and plateaux scrawled across the map of Asia.

In climate alone there is an extraordinary variety. From hot steamy tropical valleys, filled with luxuriant vegetation, it is but a few horizontal miles to zero temperatures and the highest snows in the world. Between these two extremes is an immense range of climate, the common despot of which is a fierce sun. Added to the complexities of climate due to height alone is the added complexity of seasonal weather fluctuations, due directly or indirectly to the influence of the monsoons and weather conditions emanating from the plateaux of Central Asia.

Racial characteristics are as diversified as the climate. From the people of Hunza and Chitral to the Sherpas and Bhotias of Northern Nepal, the almost extinct Lepchas of Sikkim and the wild races of Bhutan, the Himalaya can show many different types, for they form a natural frontier between India and Tibet, and a pudding-bowl wherein is stirred a mixture of Mongolian and Indian blood.

Politically, only a comparatively small portion of the Himalaya is accessible to the mountaineer and explorer. Democracy is unknown in Tibet and Nepal, and both these countries have closed their frontiers to Europeans and resolutely set themselves against infiltration of European thought and ideas. Some of the finest peaks of the Himalaya lie within the borders of Nepal, including the southern side of Everest, 29,140 feet, Dhaulagiri, 26,795 feet, Gosainthan (Shisha Pangma), 26,305 feet, and many other great peaks. In addition there are other districts where the mountaineer is not always welcomed, owing to political and other objections. The three most interesting districts accessible to mountaineers and explorers are the Karakorams, the Kumaun and Garhwal Himalaya and the Sikkim Himalaya, including the eastern side of Kangchenjunga, and it is in these three districts that the most notable mountaineering expeditions have been carried out, with the  exception of Everest (now barred politically) and the northern side of Nanga Parba (forbidden territory to expeditions at present). Each of these districts is magnificent in its own way. In the Karakoram there is no glacier to rival in grandeur the Baltoro, and no peaks surpassing in ferocity the terrific ice- armoured spires dominated by K2 (Mount Godwin Austin), 28,187 feet. From the Kumaun Himalaya rises Nanda Devi, 25,645 feet; the highest peak entirely within the confines of the British Empire, a mountain so difficult to approach that no one has yet succeeded in treading the glaciers at the foot of it, whilst Kamet, 25,447 feet, dominates the ranges of Northern Garhwal. In Sikkim, Kangchenjunga boasts the most wonderful snow and ice scenery in the Himalaya, owing to its exposure to the moisture-laden airs of the monsoon. It has defeated three determined attempts to climb it, in 1929, 1930 and 1931 by mountaineers well versed in the technique of high-altitude mountaineering. The highest point reached was 26,000 feet, by the gallant Bavarian expedition in 1931 and that only after incredible difficulty.*

Geologically, the Himalaya are a young mountain range, due to an uplift of the ancient seabed covering Central Asia. This uplift took place so slowly that rivers such as the Indus and the Brahmaputra, which have their sources to the north of the Himalaya, have been able to carve their way through the range as it rose. This is the only explanation that can account for the deep valleys cutting through from Tibet to India.

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(Extracted from The Great Himalayan Ascents by Frank S. Smythe. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)

About the Book

Frank S. Smythe (1900-1949) was one of the greatest mountaineers of the twentieth century, and a celebrated memoirist and adventure writer. This collection brings together three accounts of Smythe’s most thrilling ascents in the Himalayas—The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Camp Six.

The Kangchenjunga Adventure narrates in detail the 1930 expedition to climb the third-highest mountain in the world: how Smythe, as part of an international team of mountaineers, attempts to reach the summit of Kangchenjunga, before a deadly avalanche—which kills one of the Sherpas— forces them to change course and scale the Jonsong Peak instead. In Kamet Conquered, Smythe makes a successful bid at ascending Mount Kamet in 1931, which was at that time still unscaled. On their way back, Smythe and his team chance upon the spectacular and colourful Bhyundar Valley, which they christen the ‘Valley of Flowers’, and which is now a National Park. Camp Six recounts a gripping adventure on the world’s highest mountain—the 1933 Everest Expedition, in which Smythe, climbing alone, ascends to a point higher than any human had reached before. Made without ropes or oxygen to support him, and in terrible snow conditions, the climb is regarded as one of the greatest endeavours in the history of mountaineering.

This majestic omnibus edition offers a fascinating window into early mountain climbing and Himalayan exploration. It is also a rare treat for every lover of fine, entertaining writing.

About the Author

Frank Sydney Smythe was a British mountaineer, botanist and adventurer. Smythe, who began his mountaineering career in the Alps, joined the international Kangchenjunga expedition of 1930 which ended in failure. In 1936, he led the expedition which successfully ascended Mount Kamet, then the highest peak ever to have been climbed. Subsequently, in the 1930s, Smythe was thrice part of teams which attempted to climb Mount Everest. An accomplished photographer and a prolific writer, Smythe wrote twenty-seven books in all, the best known among which are The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Adventures of a Mountaineer. Smythe died in 1949.

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Shabnam: A Novel by Syed Mujtaba Ali

Title: Shabnam

Author: Syed Mujtaba Ali

Translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Badshah Amanullah was surely off his rocker. Or else why would he hold a ball-dance in an ultra-conservative country like Afghanistan? On the occasion of Independence Day, Afghanistan’s first ball-dance would be held.

We, the foreigners, were not that bothered. But there was a buzz of restlessness among the mullahs and their followers—the water carriers, tailors, grocers, and the servants. My servant, Abdur Rahman, while serving the morning tea, muttered, ‘Nothing is left of religious decency.’

I did not pay much heed to Abdur Rahman. I was no messiah like Krishna. The task of saving ‘religious decency’ had not been bestowed upon me.

‘Those hulking men will prance around the dance floor holding on to shameless women.’

I asked, ‘Where? In films?’

After that there was no stopping Abdur Rahman. The ancient Roman wild orgies would have sounded like child’s play compared to the juicy imageries of the upcoming dance event that he described. Finally, he concluded, ‘Then they switch off the lights at midnight. I don’t know what happens after that.’

I said, ‘What’s that to you, you mindless babbler?’

Abdur Rahman went mum. Whenever I called him a blathering prattler, he understood that his master was in a bad mood. I would use the Bengali slang word for it and being a seasoned man, though Abdur Rahman did not know the language, he would be able to read my mood.

I was out in the mild evening. Electric lamps lit up the bushes of Pagman. The tarmacked road was spotlessly clean. I was meandering absentmindedly, thinking it was the month of Bhadra and Sri Krishna’s birthday had been celebrated the previous day. My birthday too, according to Ma. It must be raining heavily in Sylhet, my home. Ma was possibly sitting in the north veranda. Her adoptive daughter Champa was massaging her feet and asking her, ‘When will young brother come home?’

The monsoon season is the most difficult one for me in this foreign land. There is no monsoon in Kabul, Kandahar, Jerusalem or Berlin. Meanwhile in Sylhet, Ma is flustered with the nonstop rain. Her wet sari refuses to dry; she is in a tizzy from the smoke of the wet wood of the oven. Even from here I can see the sudden pouring of rain and the sun that comes out after a while. There are glitters of happiness on the rose plants in the courtyard, the night jasmine at the corner of the kitchen, and on the leaves of the palm tree in the backyard.

There was no such verdant beauty here.

Look at that! I had lost my way. Nine at night. Not a soul on the street. Who could I ask for directions?

A band was playing dance numbers in the big mansion to the right.

Oh! This was the dance-hall as described by Abdur Rahman. The waiters and bearers of the building would surely be able to direct me to my hotel. I needed to go to the service doors at the back of the building.

I approached.

Right at that moment, a young woman marched out.

I first saw her forehead. It was like the three-day-old young moon. The only difference was the moon would be off-white—cream coloured—but her forehead was as white as the snow peaks of the Pagman mountains. You have not seen it? Then I would say it was like undiluted milk. You have not seen that either. Then I can say it was like the petals of the wild jasmine. No adulteration of it is possible as yet.

Her nose was like a tiny flute. How was it possible to have two holes in such a small flute? The tip of the nose was quivering. Her cheeks were as red as the ripe apples of Kabul; yet they were of a shade that made it abundantly clear it was not the work of any rouge. I could not figure out if her eyes were blue or green. She was adorned in a well-tailored gown and was wearing high-heeled shoes.

Like a princess she ordered, ‘Call Sardar Aurangzeb Khan’s motor.’

Attempting to say something, I fumbled.

She, by then, looked properly at me and figured out that I was not a servant of the hotel. She also understood that I was a foreigner. First, she spoke in French, ‘Je veux demand pardon, monsieur—forgive me—’ Then she said it in Farsi.

In my broken Farsi I said, ‘Let me look for the driver.’

She said, ‘Let’s go.’

Smart girl. She would be hardly eighteen or nineteen.

Before reaching the parking lot, she said, ‘No, our car isn’t here.’

‘Let me see if I can arrange another one,’ I said.

Raising her nose an inch or so, in rustic Farsi she said, ‘Everyone is peeping to see what debauchery is taking place inside. Where will you find a driver?’

I involuntarily exclaimed, ‘What debauchery?’

Turning around in a flash, the girl faced me and took my measure from head to toe. Then she said, ‘If you’re not in a hurry, walk me to my house.’

‘Sure, sure,’ I joined her.

The girl was sharp.

Soon she asked, ‘For how long have you been living in this country? Pardon—my French teacher has said one shouldn’t put such questions to a stranger.’

‘Mine too, but I don’t listen.’

Whirling around she faced me again and said, ‘Exactment—rightly said. If anyone asks, say I’m going with you, or say Daddy introduced me to you. And don’t you ask me any question like I’m a nobody. And I will not ask anything as if you have no country or no home. In our land not asking prying questions is akin to the height of rudeness.’

I replied, ‘Same in my land too.’

She quipped, ‘Which country?’

I said, ‘Isn’t it apparent that I’m an Indian?’

‘How come? Indians can’t speak French.’

I said, ‘As if the Kabulis can!’

She burst out laughing. It seemed in the fit of laughter she suddenly twisted her ankle. ‘Can’t walk any longer. I’m not used to walking in such high heels. Let’s go to the tennis court; there are benches there.’

Dense darkness. The electric lamps were glowing far away. We needed to reach the tennis court through a narrow path. I said, ‘Pardon,’ as I touched her arm inadvertently.

Her laughter had no limits. She said, ‘Your French is strange, so is your Farsi.’

My young ego was hurt. ‘Mademoiselle!’

‘My name is Shabnam.’

(Extracted from Shabnam by Syed Mujtaba Ali, translated by Nazes Afroz. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2024)

About the Book

Afghanistan in the 1920s. A country on the cusp of change. And somewhere in it, a young man and woman meet and fall in love.

Shabnam is an Afghan woman, as beautiful as she is intelligent. Majnun is an Indian man, working in the country as a teacher. Theirs is an unlikely love story, but it flowers nonetheless. Breaking the barriers of culture and language, the two souls meet. Shabnam is poetry personified—she knows the literary works of Farsi poets of different eras. Majnun is steeped in the language and thoughts of Bengal. Together, they find love in immortal words and in the wisdom of the ages.

As the country hurtles towards yet another cataclysmic change, and the ruling king flees into exile, Shabnam is in danger from those who covet her for her famous beauty. Can she save herself and her Indian lover and husband from them?

Shabnam has been hailed as one of the most beautiful love stories written in Bengali. Lyrical and tragic, this pathbreaking novel appears in English for the first time in an elegant translation by the translator of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s famous travelogue Deshe Bideshe (In a Land Far from Home).

About the Author

Born in 1904, Syed Mujtaba Ali was a prominent literary figure in Bengali literature. A polyglot, a scholar of Islamic studies and a traveller, Mujtaba Ali taught in Baroda and at Visva-Bharati University in Shantiniketan. Deshe Bideshe was his first published book (1948). By the time he died in 1974, he had more than two dozen books—fiction and non-fiction—to his credit.

About the Translator

A journalist for over four decades, Nazes Afroz has worked in both print and broadcasting in Kolkata and in London. He joined the BBC in London in 1998 and spent close to fifteen years with the organization. He has visited Afghanistan, Central Asia and West Asia regularly for over a decade. He currently writes in English and Bengali for various newspapers and magazines and is working on a number of photography projects.

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Review

Connecting Diverse Cultures and Generations

Book review by Bhaskar Parichha

 

Title: Unpartioned Time: A Daughter’s Story 

Author: Malvika Rajkotia

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Malavika Rajkotia is a prominent divorce attorney based in Delhi. She has collaborated with numerous non-governmental organisations addressing civil liberties and human rights concerns. Additionally, she has a strong background in theatre, participating in approximately thirty productions in both Hindi and English. She has also served as the host of Shakti, the inaugural television talk show in India dedicated to women’s rights.

Her memoir, Unpartitioned Time: A Daughter’s Story, is a complex tale that intertwines the history and current experiences of a family following the Partition. Jindo, Malavika Rajkotia’s father, arrives in India amidst the chaos of the Partition riots. He is allocated a piece of desolate land in the small town of Karnal, where he must clear and cultivate the land to reclaim his role as landlord and patriarch. However, devoid of his past and confronted with an uncertain future in a place where the language is foreign to him, he undergoes a significant transformation. Rajkotia intricately weaves a narrative around this generous, humorous, loving, and increasingly despondent figure, delving into her family’s history and present.

The story explores themes of yearning and belonging, the nature of privilege and its loss, while reflecting on the resilience of a people stripped of their autonomy. Through her evocative and lyrical writing, she leads readers through the challenges faced by a large family—comprising uncles, aunts, siblings, cousins, and esteemed figures—who are all in pursuit of recognition, identity, and stability.

Rajkotia fearlessly confronts her milieu, whether navigating the radical Khalistan movement, the tensions between the Sikh faith and Hindu nationalism, or the pervasive cynicism of Indian politics. Her vivid, meditative, finely detailed portraits of a rich family life are filled with moments of tears, laughter, and music, and a diverse array of characters who are immensely relatable. Ultimately, this brave and moving book is about the enduring quest for meaning and fulfilment that transcends cultural boundaries.

Narrates Rajkotia: “The diffused light of dawn lit a dull, flat landscape cut by the highway, gleaming under randomly spaced streetlights. Until about thirty years ago, this single carriageway witnessed an almost daily carnage that left heavy and light motor vehicles, bicyclists, and bullock carts in confused mangles. Everyone had a personal story of loss on this road. Three of my family was killed in two separate accidents. A splintered windshield glass lodged in a young girl’s throat. An aunt and cousin died when their car rammed into a truck to avoid a cyclist.”

She has a detailed account of the road in Karnal town thus: “For over 2,500 years, this road has streamed with traders from Central Asia, scholars from China, adventurers from Europe, sadhus from the Himalayas, and armies coveting Hindustan. This portion of the road was the battlefield of the story of the eighteen-day Mahabharata war, marking the cusp of the end of the Dwapar Yuga and the rise of the Kali Yuga. Eighteen days of soldiers’ cries and trumpeting elephants and neighing horses, each ending with sunsets blackened by smoke from the funeral pyres hanging heavy until impelled by the sounds of wailing women.

“From myth, we come to somewhat recorded history in 300 BCE, when Chandragupta Maurya built this road to connect his fast-growing kingdom, spanning the north of the subcontinent from the source of the Ganga to its northwestern limits. The road was developed by Sher Shah Suri. My father remembered the time when it was called ‘Jarnailly Sadak’ under the British, and then GT Road, its official name, The Grand Trunk Road. The government of independent India called it Sher Shah Suri Marg, the Sanskrit ‘marg’ guillotining the English ‘road’ and the Urdu ‘sadak’.”

The memoir stands as a testament to the power of storytelling in bridging gaps between cultures and generations, ensuring that the voices of those who experienced Partition are heard and remembered. As part of the growing body of literature on this subject, it encourages further exploration and discussion, ultimately contributing to a more nuanced understanding of the complexities surrounding Partition and its enduring legacy.

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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Review

British Exploration of Tibet and Central Asia by Pundits

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: The Pundits: British Exploration of Tibet and Central Asia

Author: Derek Waller

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

The British exploration of Tibet and Central Asia began in the 19th century as part of the Great Game, a geopolitical rivalry between the British Empire and the Russian Empire. These British explorers, known as “pundits“, were tasked with gathering intelligence on the region’s geography, culture, and politics to inform British strategic interests in the area. The pundits traveled undercover, disguised as locals, and used their linguistic and navigational skills to map out uncharted territories and report back to British authorities. Their expeditions were instrumental in shaping British policy towards Tibet and Central Asia, and their findings laid the groundwork for future British involvement in the region.

The Pundits: British Exploration of Tibet and Central Asia by Derek Waller is a fascinating book for its rich details and shedding light on the frontier policies of the British Empire. Derek J. Waller served as professor emeritus of political science at Vanderbilt University, where he taught from 1969 until his passing in 2009. He was instrumental in establishing the examination system for the Chinese government at Vanderbilt and played a key role in founding the university’s International Studies Programme in London. Additionally, he held the position of director of Vanderbilt-in-England. Waller is best known for his publication, The Government and Politics of the People’s Republic of China, which was released in 1981.

Says the blurb: “On a September day in 1863, Abdul Hamid entered the Central Asian city of Yarkand. Disguised as a merchant, Hamid was in fact an employee of the Survey of India, carrying concealed instruments to enable him to map the geography of the area. Hamid did not live to provide a first-hand account of his travels. But he was the advance guard of an elite group of Indian trans-Himalayan explorers—recruited, trained, and directed by the officers of the Great Trigonometrical Survey of India—who were to traverse much of Tibet and Central Asia during the next thirty years.”

Waller presents the history of these intrepid explorers—Nain, Mani, Kalian and Kishen Singh, Mirza Shuja, Hyder Shah, Ata Mahomed, Abdul Subhan, Mukhtar Shah, Hari Ram, Rinzing Namgyal, Ugyen Gyatso, Nem Singh, Lala and Kintup—who came to be called ‘native explorers’ or ‘pundits’ in the public documents of the Survey of India. In the closed files of the government of British India, however, they were given their true designation as spies. As they moved northward within the Indian subcontinent, the British demanded precise frontiers and sought orderly political and economic relationships with their neighbours. They were also becoming increasingly aware of and concerned with their ignorance of the geographical, political, and military complexion of the territories beyond the mountain frontiers of the Indian empire. This was particularly true of Tibet.

Despite the fact that the use of pundits was discontinued in the 1890s in favour of exclusively British expeditions, they amassed a vast amount of information on the topography of the region, the customs of its inhabitants, and the nature of its government and military resources. They were able to journey to places where hardly any European could go and did so under conditions of extreme deprivation and great danger. They are credited with documenting an area of over one million square miles, most of which was completely unknown territory to the West.

The Pundits, one of the earliest books to be written about them, is an exceptional piece of scholarly work.

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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Travel

The Storied Past of Khiva

Narratives and photography by Gita Viswanath

Entrance to Khiva

If you thought time travel was only a captivating concept in science fiction or theoretical physics, try experiencing it in Khiva! Located in the heart of the Kyzylkum Desert in Uzbekistan is the ancient city of Khiva, declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1990.  With its immaculately preserved city walls and stunning monuments, Khiva transports visitors back in time to the days of the Silk Route and the prosperous empires of Central Asia. When five of us planned a trip to Uzbekistan, we knew we would encounter history in every nook and corner of this utterly enchanting country. However, to see it all preserved with so much care and thought was another experience all together. The credit for this goes to Uzbekistan’s first President, Islam Karimov, who took up the task of restoring monuments and returning to the Uzbeki people, their rich and layered history and multiculturalism after years of Soviet rule.

Our guide, Murat led us through this treasure trove of history and architectural marvels with a quiet, thoroughly knowledgeable air. We set out after a hearty breakfast at Zarafshon Boutique Hotel, conveniently located within the walls of the Itchan Kala (Inner City), to walk for the next four hours through its mesmerizing, labyrinthine streets that reverberate with the sounds of a folklore ensemble’s traditional music, tourists’ chatter, guides’ narrations, and shopkeepers’ entreaties to buy their wares.

A city that goes back over two millennia, Khiva was one of the oases along the Silk Route. The Silk Route, an ancient network of trade routes connecting the East and West, spanning thousands of miles across Asia, resulted in the exchange of goods, ideas, faiths and convictions that ultimately transformed and defined history in a way that has an impact to this day. Ever since, Khiva thrived as a centre of trade, commerce, and cultural exchange. It became an important city in the region, famous for its wealth, power, and architectural splendor.

The skyline of Khiva is defined by its walls, reminiscent of Jaisalmer in Rajasthan. Itchan Kala, enclosed inside magnificent mud-brick walls, packed with straw, dates back to the 10th century. Within these walls lie architectural marvels, including the Kalta Minor Minaret, Toshhovli Palace, the Muhammad Amin Khan Madrassah, and the Juma Mosque.

Kalta Minor minaret

The incomplete Kalta Minor, with its arresting turquoise minaret towers over us at 45 meters. Soon, the colour turquoise became so omnipresent in our photo gallery that we needed to use Google Lens to distinguish one from another! Muhammad Amin Bahadur Khan, the Khan of the Khiva Khanate intended the minaret to be the largest and tallest in the Muslim world at 80 meters, exceeding the height of the 73-meter Qutb Minar in Delhi. According to the historian, Mulla Olim Maxdum Hoji, the Khan could not have his way due to his untimely death in a battle near Sarakhs in 1855. Twelve of the sixteen verses inscribed on the minaret are those of Muhammad Riza Ogahi, a poet from Khiva, who was witness to its construction. The writings were pulled down during the Soviet regime, only to be restored after Uzbekistan’s independence. There is a belief that criminals were dragged up to the top of the minaret and thrown down, although there is no historical evidence to support this. It remains a tale told by the guides to tourists who go, “Oh nooooo!”

Tosholvi Palace

Moving on to the Toshhovli Palace, which means ‘Stone House’, we were captivated by the decoration comprising ceramic tiles, carved stone and wood. Built by Alla Khuli Bahadur Khan between 1832 and 1841, it has more than 150 rooms with nine courtyards. The high ceilings of the rooms are designed to keep the place cool in the summer months of this desert region.

Known for his impatience, Allah Khuli insisted that the royal architect, Usto Nur Mohammed Tajikhan, build the palace in three years. When the architect nervously said that it would not be possible, he was impaled and Kalender Khivaki took over along with the famous tile decorator, Abdullah Jin. It took eight years and the labour of nearly a thousand slaves to complete this structure that we, today as tourists, gape at in complete awe. The unfading colours of the glazed tiles owe their lasting quality to a technique called “ishkor,” mastered by the craftsmen of another era.

Embedded within the intricate tile work of the Toshhovli Palace is the hilarious story of how Allah Khuli picked a woman from his harem for each night. The region is known for its large pomegranates, with juicy seeds as red as rubies and Khuli is supposed to have flung one fruit into the quarters of the woman he desired. The fall of a pomegranate through the window, then, alerted the woman! Murat and the five of us had a hearty laugh and one of us even wondered aloud, ‘what if he didn’t have good aim,’ or ‘what if the window was closed!’ Murat shrugged his shoulders, a tad embarrassed.

Juma Mosque

The austere and monastic, yet splendid wood carved pillars and roof of the Juma Mosque stands as a contrast to the rich colour palettes of the other monuments. According to the Arabian geographer Al-Mukaddasy, the Juma Mosque was constructed in the tenth century. This one-storey brick building with a flat roof was rebuilt over the ruins in 1788 with 25 of its 212 pillars, made of black elm wood, recovered from the original structure. The roof has small openings to let in the light.

Beyond its architectural majesty, Khiva resounds as a living testament to the cultural heritage and traditions of Uzbekistan. In its stark brown desert landscape, the colours of Khiva’s monuments, ceramics and hats stand out in a sharp and endearing contrast. To this day, the bazaars of Khiva are filled with artisans who continue to practice traditional crafts such as carpet weaving, pottery, and silk embroidery, preserving age-old techniques and skills passed down through generations. The great artistic legacy lives on in the silent monuments staring down at you as well as in the bustling bazaars with warm, hospitable people who are especially partial to Indian tourists given their adoration of Bollywood films. In fact, fans of Hindi films, of which there are aplenty in Uzbekistan, rattle off names of stars ranging from Raj Kapoor to Shah Rukh Khan! Parts of the Hindi action film, Yeh Mohabbat Hai (This is love, 2002), directed by Umesh Mehra were shot in Khiva!

The rumble in the belly with all the walking we did brought us back rudely into the moment and we headed straight to a restaurant recommended by Murat.  Food is such an integral part of travel and we did full justice to the spread that consisted of fresh salads, bread called non, straight out of the wood-fired ovens, and the ubiquitous lamb. As Khiva continues to enthrall travellers, it remains a guiding light of history, culture, and heritage in the heart of the Uzbekistan desert. It remains a mute witness to a borderless world of yore.

Gita Viswanath is the author of two novels – Twice it Happened (2019) and A Journey Gone Wrong (2022), , a non-fiction book, The‘Nation’ in War: A Study of Military Literature and Hindi War Cinema (2014), and a children’s book, Chidiya (Bird, 2018). Her short films: “Family Across the Atlantic” and “Safezonerz” are available on YouTube.

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Excerpt

Canvassing the Lives of Banjaras

Title: Chakmak

Author: Ramesh Karthik Nayak

Publisher: Red River Books

Our Tanda


Our tanda is a bird’s nest
our homes: broken refuges
and our lives are feathers 
swirling in the air. 

The moon and the sun 
hatch time so long as they wish 
and flee, leaving folds, 
on the lips of time. 

Mirrors raise our hopes 
showing ourselves 
break our knuckles quietly 
shatter into fragments and prick hearts. 

Goats, cows, buffaloes, sheep and hearts, 
all dig out rivers of forests with desires
as kids draw winged horses on the black of night
with fingers
dreaming of sugary peppermints or custard blobs. 

Mothers sing lullabies,
oil-lamps 
embellishing the night 
to sleep. 

Fathers guard homes
one eye on the house
the other eye on the field 
with their heads out of their windows
they turn into flaming torches. 

The ippa flowers grieve
releasing inebriety 
listening to the story of our tanda.


Chakmak 


	I 

There were a few chakmak 
at the window, ants and insects wandered
among them.

Whenever I visit the window, 
I licked the chakmak, 
no sweetness touched my heart, 
nor did smell hit my nostril, 
though they look like candy jellies.

I picked them 
and threw them out of the window.

Daada picked them up, 
took them again into the house 
and placed them at the sill.
I thought of doing the same again.
He taunted our hen indirectly —
I could understand that the hen was me.

I thought the mysterious relationship
of our folk remains untold, 
hid in the skulls 
about chakmak.



	II 

One day when daadi was busy 
in stitching her tukri 
she kept the chakmak beside her
sharpening the needle on a chakmak.

I sat beside her staring at the chakmak —
darkness and light played about, 
I was astonished by the sharp light 
emitting from them.

The beads were placed in front of daadi 
on a piece of cloth for stitching them on her tukri,
they stopped singing and rolling, 
were trying to peep into daadi's honey eyes.

The needle writing the joy of tukri on the chakmak,
white stains swelled out from the black chakmak
when accidentally her sweat fell on it.

She saw me and asked me to sit beside her, 
started narrating the tales of chakmak, 
as I continued staring at them.


	III

Birth after the water broke —
you crept out of your mother's womb
with stains of the eternal world
giving her womb to rest from the eternal sea.

This black stone gave you the world,
cut your umbilical cord
but it suffered by your birth, 
fevered, it one day burnt our hut.

At the age of two 
when the moon was peeping into the rice
squeezed in my hand with milk,
my hand filled with moonlit serpents crawling down
that trembled in my blood tunnels.

Your daada sang a song —
the red stones brought joy to earth,
consoling the hard skin of daada's hand, 
illuminating his loneliness

Then you got an invitation to the wonderland,
and there you slept in the bed of the red stone's reflection.

At the age of five, 
we were summoned by the monsoon and started migrating.
We were stuck in the forest
you weeping of darkness and hunger, 
in the fierce night.

Flesh-coloured stones devoured the darkness, 
sprinkled its hunger on your fear 
and roasted a few onions for you.

At the age of eight, 
you were anxious about seeing the lunar eclipse —
the milk stone dragged the sky in its reflection.

She kept on stitching her tukri.
I was plunged into gazing at the chakmak,
my heart sensed something strange strange is about to happen.



	IV 

I picked the chakmak into my palm.
The curves in the palms and lines on the chakmak
are trying to mate, and the curiosity in me reached my neck.
A cleft appeared in the chakmak. 
I checked others for any more. 

After a few minutes, 
a butterfly soars from stone, 
a man falls from its wing.
I take him in my hand, 
he turns into a flute 
made of animal bone. 
I train my ear to hear him.

A voice from the bone flute starts talking
from the rusted past, 
how we vanished from our identities,
how we were sheltered in the tortoise shells 
and hung on horns of deers.

The world is trying to heap the chakmak together,
ransack our tribe for stones
and change the tanda into a haat 
of banjara tribes.

The chakmak in the haat were ready to burst
with chronicles untold. 
You gather the people.
The flute disappears.
I try fabricating the remaining tale.
Courtesy: Chakmak, art by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak
Canvassing the Lives of Banjaras

By Surya Dhananjay

Banjara is an indigenous ethnic tribe of India. Banjara were historically nomads and later established settlements called tanda. Generally known as Gor-Banjara, they are also called Lambadis in Telangana, or Banjaras collectively across India. However, they are known by different names in various parts of the country, including Banjara, Gor, Gorya, Tanda, Laman, Lambadi, Sugali, Labhan, Labhana, Baladiya, Ladniya, Adavi, Banjari, Gypsy, Kora and Gormati, among others. The other names also indicate synonyms and signify the principal nature — wandering of Banjaras in various parts of the country.

Banjaras generally suffix Nayak with their names, along with other surnames such as Jadhav, Rathod and Pawar. Nayak was a title given by the local kings, Britishers and Mughals, as the Banjaras were warrior transporters, who transported essential commodities, such as salt, food grains (as well as weapons) on ladenis, bullock caravans for their armies. The titles were bestowed in appreciation of their honesty and hard work. Over time, the title has become the traditional name of many of the Banjaras. 

The word Banjara is derived from the Sanskrit word Vana Chara — wanderer of the jungle. The word Lambani or Lamani, by which our community is also known, is derived from the Sanskrit word lavana (salt), which was the principal product the community transported across the country. Their moving assemblage on a pack of oxen was named tanda by the European traveller Peter Mundy in 1632 AD. 

Historically, they were the original inhabitants of Rajputana, Rajasthan, and professional cattle breeders and transported these essentials to different parts of the region, using crucial transport routes. They are known to have invented Laman Margass1.

They then migrated to North India, East Asia and Europe in the ancient periods and to Central India and South India in the medieval periods along with the armies of Mughals from thirteenth to eighteenth century.

Banjaras lost their livelihood during British rule when the railways and roadways were constructed and they became the victims of predatory capitalism. Banjaras who were uprooted by the British government from their transportation profession were forced to indulge in petty crimes for their livelihood, which invited the wrath of the British and brought them under the ambit of the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. Later, abandoning their traditional Ladeni profession, they settled wherever their Ladenis had halted in the colonial period and established their tandas, dwellings. 

Traditionally, Banjaras depended on the pack of bullocks and bullock carts, called balder bandi in their Gorboli, for carrying out their ladenis and the cattle and oxen only were their properties for the ages, on which they built their livelihood through centuries. Many generations of Banjaras have taken birth on the balder bandi and have used it as shelter too. 

Their language is called Gorboli, an Indo-Aryan language in addition to their own culture and traditions.

Gorboli has no script, it is either written in Devanagari script or the script of the local language, such as Hindi, Marathi, Telugu and Kannada, etc.

Most of their populations are concentrated in Maharashtra, Karnataka, Telangana, Andhra Pradesh, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Gujarat, Tamil Nadu, Himachal Pradesh, Orissa and West Bengal.

As such the local languages have much impact on their language, the words of which have found their way into Gorboli.

Owing to the fact that it is a dialect, the Banjaras do not have much written literature either. However, they keep their songs, lyrics, and literature alive orally. As there is no written literature available to the outer society about Banjaras, the chances of knowing their history, sentiments, culture and traditions are meagre.

Banjaras show a unique lifestyle, holding steadfast to their ancient dress code, perhaps the most colourful and elaborate of any tribal group in India.

The versatile and colourful Banjaras are found to be interspersed amidst tribal and non-tribal populations and yet tenaciously maintain their cultural and ethnic identity. Their dress and decoration and social practices have remained almost unchanged through the ages despite the habitation shift from northwest India to across India. Banjaras are a strong and virile race with tall stature and fair complexion.

The Banjara women’s dress and jewellery are auspicious and the whole outfit consists of elaborately embroidered and studded phetya or ghagro (skirt), kaacnhli or kaali (blouse), tukri and ghunghto (veil stitched in patches of cloth of various colours along with mirrors of different shapes, cowries and beads).

Women also wear baliya, bangles made of ivory to save their lives from wild animals. They wear many ornaments like topli, hanslo, rapiyar haar, wankdi, kasse, ghughara and phula pawla, which weigh nearly 20 kgs or more.

Banjara men (maati mankya) wear turban on their heads, a few wear babli (earrings) on the top of the right ear, kameez (white shirt) and dhoti, kolda (silver fat ring wrapped to wrist) in turban they hide chutta (cigar), tobacco, beedi leaves, cotton and chakmak (flint stone), etc.

Tattoos on their body parts define philosophies and memories of childhood. The main intention of tattoos is to sell them and buy food after death in heaven or hell. They make sacrifices to the earth and stones because they believe that God is in nature.

Banjaras have their own culture and traditions that reflect their life and beauty. Banjaras celebrate the festival of Goddess Seethla Matha (starting at the time of the rainy season to save us and our cattle from seasonal disease and for good yield) at the end of the rainy season.

They celebrate Teej Festival, a celebration of wheatgrass grown for nine days in bamboo baskets by maiden girls to get married to a good groom in the presence of Goddess Jagdamba,

Baar Nikler/ Baarand khayer is a feast in the forest, exposing the love towards nature that protects them.

Historically they had a big struggle to settle down since they led a nomadic life for centuries. During difficult times, they ate grass and clay. Their regular diet consists of grass poppies, leafy boiled dough-made baatis (chapattis), bran, maize, jowar, deer, pigeon, rabbit, fish, hen, turkey, peacock, tortoise, turtle, porcupine, goat, sheep, radish, raw onions, wild onions, green chilli, roasted potatoes, red clay, black clay, tamarind sprouts, rela pulu (golden shower flower as used to make curry) and monitor lizard.

Few folks sell their children, lands, traditional dress, ornaments and even wombs and many girls and women are known to have faced human trafficking. Many people have slaved as daily labours, women were sexually exploited, many of their tandas were wiped out and they have been killed. 

Though The Constitution of India had provided many rights to the tribes, the provisions are unknown to these people who lead their lives as daily labourers, selling firewood and children for food, becoming street vendors, roadside chapati-makers and the like. People who do not know this stare at them. A small percentage of people use the reservation benefits, and most of them are subject to discrimination and exploitation.

As such, not much is spoken about in media channels and newspapers about the atrocities of land evictions and exploitations of Banjaras. This still happens throughout the country.

Only a few scholars have written books and presented papers on their lives. Few non-fiction collections have been published in Telugu, Kannada and Hindi languages. But no creative literature has been produced from the community.

This effort of bringing out the poetic illustration of the life of Banjaras is made by Ramesh Karthik Nayak, a young member of the Banjara community.

He hails from the small, remote village of VV Nagar Tanda of Jakranpally Mandal of Nizamabad District. He has published a poetry book, Balder Bandi (Ox Cart) and a short story collection, Dhaavlo (Mourning Song), canvassing the life of Banjaras in Telugu.

Both books have been received well by the literary world and have since opened the doors to Banjara literature. Within a short span, he has been able to bring before us this wonderful poetic format, which shows his interest in bringing out the historical, cultural, traditional and contemporary issues of Banjaras before the world.

I believe that he is like a popular flower called kesula (moduga puvvu in Telugu), which is seen brightly among all the trees in a jungle.

According to my knowledge, this is the first poetry collection written on the lives of Banjaras in the English language which brings out the rawness of Banjara’s lives and the poems are brilliantly written. It is a rare drop of honey from a kesula flower, in which the lives of Banjaras are carved transparently.

I believe that each poem of this collection is a chakmak, flint stone, which ignites many endless thoughts in the reader. I hope that this poetic creation of Ramesh Karthik Nayak will also definitely be received in a big way by all the literary minds. I hope this introduction about Banjara tribes will help you understand the tribal communities a little. 

Finally, without going into the depth of his poems, I would like to quote a few lines from his poem ‘Tanda’:

Our tanda is a bird’s nest
our homes: broken refuges
and our lives are feathers 
swirling in the air.

In this poem Ramesh has carved the picture of the status of the lives of Banjara tribes in the present-day context and earlier days. Banjara lives are indeed shattering day by day.

Courtesy: Chakmak, art by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak

About the Book

Ramesh Karthik Nayak’s poems are marked by rich imagery, poignant stanzas, and moving stories about his people. I enjoyed reading his poems. — Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar

Ramesh Karthik Nayak distills all the pains and fears of his tribe to create a poetry of intense suffering and profound communion with nature. There is something primal, elemental, about his poetry that helps the reader distinguish it from the dominantly urban Indian English poetry. The poet brings a fresh voice, a new tone, and timbre seldom seen in traditional English poetry in the country, without making his poetry less sophisticated. — K Satchidanandan

Through his poems, Ramesh Karthik Nayak presents the celebratory life of the Banjara people; at the same time, he questions his existence. The questions he poses to us are both poignant and plausible. The poet expresses the truth with spontaneity and ferocity that if we are untouchables then, from nature to your vitality to your body, everything in this world has been touched by us. — Sukirtharani

Ramesh Karthik Nayak’s poems represent the dimensionalisation of Indian poetry in English. It’s appalling to think that a mature collection of poetry from a tribal/nomadic tribe poet had to wait for so long after Maucauley’s initiatives. Anchored in his cultural inheritance, Nayak documents with elan his dreams for the future. — Chandramohan S

About the Author

Ramesh Karthik Nayak is a Banjara (nomadic aboriginal community in South Asia) bilingual poet and short story writer from India. He Writes in Telugu and English. He is one of the first writers to depict the lifestyle of the Banjara tribe in literature. His writings have appeared in Poetry at Sangam, Indian Periodical, Live Wire, Outlook India, Nether Quarterly, and Borderless Journal and his story, “The Story of Birth was published in Exchanges: Journal of Literary Translation, University of IOWA. He was thrice shortlisted for the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar in Telugu.

Chakmak is his first collection of poems in English.

The poet can be reached at rameshkarthik225@gmail.com

  1. A type of map ↩︎

Click here to read the review of Chakmak and interview with Ramesh Karthik Nayak

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.