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Escape into tomorrow
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Though Bastar may have its urban affectations, its older form still exists ... where the people revere their heroes and worship the Earth for its life sustaining bounty.
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YESTERDAY, we flew into tomorrow, though we didn't realise it till today.
We had soared out of the high-rises, frenzy and fog of Delhi, touched down briefly in Nagpur, took off and, after half an hour, had landed in the neat little airport of Raipur, the capital of Chhatisgarh. That was our first pleasant surprise. It is a burgeoning town with green avenues and at least one upmarket hotel with the unlikely name of Babylon. Then we had driven out for 300 km, along surprisingly good roads, and the insights had begun to fall into place.
The tribal plateau of Bastar is a land of wide horizons and few people. The fresh, green, serenity of the landscape had encouraged us to breathe deeply as we drove; and to think. Limpid village ponds spread, harvesting rainwater for people and animals and crops. We had stopped at the roadside hut of Budri, her son, and daughter-in-law Shambati: all of the Maria tribe. Their black-and-ochre home, cool with mud plaster, would have delighted an urban designer. It was immaculately clean with golden corn cobs hanging from the wooden rafters, a forecourt with a threshing floor, a pile of hay, and a water pot on a stand for visitors to wash their feet before they entered the slate-roofed hut. We learnt that the family went shopping only to barter grain for salt. Clearly, the intricacies of World Bank and WTO manoeuvres did not affect them! But they had their own socio-economic network which had worked well for countless generations, as we learnt later.
At the end of our drive from Raipur, Jagdalpur spread: the district headquarters of Bastar. Another surprise. We had expected a glorified village: we were wrong. Its bustling streets carried brightly lit modern shops, cable TV and NIIT. And, in our hotel, a wedding shimmered with decorated cars, loud music and raucous bonhomie. Clearly, even Bastar has its urban affectations. But we hadn't come here in quest of glitter and razzmatazz and we had looked forward to seeing an older Bastar.
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The wedding guests must have left last night and, this morning, when dawn spread its saffron light on the maidan outside our hotel, budding Tendulkars were wielding the willow with considerable gusto and loud exclamations of "Howzzat!" We left before the third wicket fell and spent much of the day doing the publicised touristy things. Some of our colleagues had been netted into a group tour, where they had been feted and shown all the attractions that Chhatisgarh hoped to market to the travel industry. They had been impressed; so were we.
The Chitrakote Falls pour over a great, stratified, horseshoe of a cliff tumbling for a certified "96.32 ft". Twin rainbows spanned the pool at its base, and then the Indravati river resumed its flow down the valley. If the Chitrakote Falls surge with aggressive virility, the beautiful Tirathgarh Falls, in the Kanger Valley National Park, are the epitome of soft femininity. They cascade like scarves of silver fur down a stepped escarpment. Visitors picnicked and bathed on the flat slabs of rock between the eight broad strands on the falls, and then worshipped at the small temples enshrining hero stones. The people of Bastar revere their heroes and worship Mother Earth for her life sustaining bounty.
This is probably one reason why they have not deified the curiously-shaped stalactites and stalagmites which have formed in the limestone cavern of Kailash Gufa, also in the Kanger Park. We were led to believe that, since the dark caves do not host any living creatures, they are not considered to be suitable for the worship of the life-giving goddess. In view of the divine aura that is associated with caves worldwide, this is an interesting insight into the mores of the people of Bastar.
Such an awareness of the customs and conventions, characteristic of the original people of Bastar, was the most enriching part of our trip to this tribal heartland. Everything they do is governed by what their plateau produces, everything they create is eco-friendly and bio-degradable, returning to the land from which it came.
On the avenue, leading to Chitrakote, we spotted a silk farm. Here, mulberry plants are grown to feed ordinary silk worms. This State-run farm also nurtures Saja and Arjuna trees whose leaves are food for the yellow, blue and green tussar silk caterpillars, found only in India. Tussar silk is, apparently, stronger than "ordinary" silk. The strongest silk, however, is made by caterpillars that refuse to be domesticated. They resent being hard led and go on a walkabout if any attempt is made to farm them. Their cocoons have to be collected from the jungle. We bought a length of this rare railly silk from the unassuming Kosa Silk Factory in Jagdalpur and wondered why this precious natural fibre had not been publicised world-wide.
We also visited potters and wood-carvers and the establishment of master craftsman Rajendra Baghel. Once upon a time, long, long ago, the tribal craftsmen of India knew how to smelt iron of such purity that it never rusted. Today, Baghel and his workers perform an even more valuable service. Out of discarded torch cases, car parts and other scrap metal, they melt and forge, hammer, sculpt and create beautiful metal icons: attenuated figurines that bear a strong resemblance to the works of Brancusi and Modigliani. The latter was influenced by African tribal sculptures and carvings: the distant ancestors of the people of Bastar could also have migrated from Africa, carrying their artistic perceptions with them.
Such traditional tribal crafts are now enriching museums and homes around the world. The retro and reductionist movements have begun to view "primitive" crafts as highly sophisticated art forms. To the ancient people of Bastar, however, such crafts are an accepted part of their traditional lifestyles. They are offered for sale at those socio-economic hubs of tribal life: the weekly village fairs, or haats. We visited the Mardum haat to see people of the surrounding villages buying and selling, gossiping, bargaining and haggling for metal-ware, bangles, yams, red ants for a red-hot chutney, baskets, beads and dried mahua flowers for a vitamin rich drink. Some distance away from the fair, they were quaffing this beverage with obvious enjoyment, and then they formed a circle around a small, stamped-earth, arena and accepted bets with all the enthusiasm of punters at a WWF wrestling bout. Here, however, the contenders were not humans but birds: ordinary village cocks chosen for their natural belligerence.
The haat is their club, pub, casino, stock exchange and supermarket all wrapped up in one lively package, quite independent of the outside world!
It's sunset and we're back in our hotel in Jagdalpur. On the maidan below, a truck carrying vegetables has broken down. But, as a mechanic tinkers with its gasping engine, an eco-friendly, alternative technology, bio-degradable vehicle plods placidly past. It's a bullock cart: a symbol of the self-sustaining strength of tribal society.
Bastar is an escape into tomorrow ....
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