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For what is referred to as
a desert, Rajasthan is amazingly populated: its landscape scattered with a number of
villages and hamlets, telltale signs of tree groves and populations of cattle being the
only indication that there is such a settlement in close proximity. The typical village
has always been difficult to spot till one is actually upon it Its simplest hamlets, the
most basic form of civilisation with a way
of life that has probably remained unchanged since centuries, consists of a collection
of huts that are circular, and have thatched roofs. The walls are covered with a plaster
of clay, cow dung, and hay, making a termite-free (antiseptic) façade that blends in
with the sand of the countryside around it. Boundaries for houses and land holdings,
called baras, are made of the dry branches of a
nettle-like shrub, the long, sharp thorns a deterrent
for straying cattle.
If a hamlet looks bleak,
it is hardly surprising: the resources for building these homes, which are the most
eco-friendly living unit, are made with what is available at hand, and in Rajasthan, and
particularly so in its western desert regions, this can mean precious little. A village
that is even a little larger may have pucca houses, or larger living units, usually
belonging to the village zamindar family. Consisting of courtyards, and a large nora
or cattle enclosure, attached to one side or at the entrance, these are made of a
mixture of sun-baked clay bricks covered with a plaster of lime. Floors are made with a
mixture of pounded lime, limestone pebbles, and water.
Decorative facades in such
units are limited to creating a texture in the plaster in the façade, or using simple
lime colours to create vibrant patterns at the entrance, and outside the kitchen. These
homes capture, for many of its residents, the only cosmos they know. For the women, but
for visits within the village community, the only social occasions were in the nature of
pilgrimages which were usually combined with fairs. But it is when they step out that
the stark desert and the village break into a feast of colour: turbans bob past in
saffron and red; skirts billow beneath mantles that veil the faces of their women – if
they didn’t, the jewels that glint on their foreheads and faces would add
to the shocking surprise of their magentas and oranges, their blues and greens
and pinks. Trims of gold ribbon add to this feast of colour, and bangles jangle not just
on wrists, but all the way up to the arms
above the elbow. Into the bleak, baking hamlets of the desert, the people breathe life
that is palpable, carrying in their jaunty strides, the spirit that is their destiny.
Each village is a
multi-community settlement, the various castes creating a structure of dependence based
on the nature of their work. While changes are being
wrought in this structure, with ceilings on land holdings, and with the young seeking
employment opportunities in towns distant from their villages, the social fabric has
still not been rent. At the head of the village settlement are usually the Rajputs, the
warrior race whose kings ruled, till recently, over these lands. The Rajputs served
their kings, joining their armies, and raising their cavalries, but and attendant
pursuit was as agriculturists. Often, they employed labour to work on their extensive
fields, and kept cattle for dairy produce: in fact, the cattle density in Rajasthan is
very high, and milk from desert settlements is supplied to the large cities close to the
state, including Delhi.
The Rajput homes,
therefore, came to be the fulcrum around which village life revolved. In their employ
were the bards and minstrels who sang their praises in verse and song; tradesmen
supplied them, and the others in the community, with the goods required for their daily
lives, and this was little, since they grew their grains on their own lands; the potters
and carpenters were required for their services;
and if the village were large enough, there were also ornament makers and cloth dyers
and printers. The priests of the Brahmin families cast horoscopes, performed the
elaborate rituals of their festive ceremonies, and served at the temples.
An intensely religious
people, each home in Rajasthan will have a room or at least an alcove where they fold
their hands and say their prayers before calendar images of their gods. To seek
benevolence from their gods, for in this hostile landscape, it is easy to be
superstitious, and they pray to the terrible image of Kali, the wrathful form of
Shiva’s consort, to protect them from the demons of the elements, and the scrouge of
mankind. Outside their homes, and in their villages, it is not unusual to find images of
local deities daubed with vermillion, and kept in the gnarled roots of
a peepul tree, or set into the steps leading to the village pond. There are
images of Bhairuji who keeps a vigilant eye
over his community, and Sagasji who, when propitiated, can provide a proper harvest. And
there is Pathweari who’s task it is to look after those setting out on journeys and
pilgrimages. And there is the plethora of folk heroes and gods who provide immunity from
everything from snake bites to cattle diseases. When one lives so close to the elements,
it is natural to want to bow before these deities as one passes before them: a little
obeisance can mean so much in the struggle for existence.
A settlement that grows
even a little larger immediately marks out its space with a more formal temple for its
gods, and these are temples to Krishna or Ram (manifestations of Vishnu), or to Shiva,
and they are usually a little outside the village, and surrounded by a dense plantation
of trees that are nurtured by the villagers.
Such spots are ideal for a little meditation, for getting away from home to sit in
probably the village’s only leafy spot, and to set the temple bells pealing with an
air of celebration as the air resounds and then swallows up the sounds of their chimes.
Temples may be one of the
several places in a village where people gather, the others being in front of the shops,
or at a tea-shop, or in the village ‘square’ which is usually an old, leafy peepul
tree with a large platform built around it for people to sit on. Wells are also
gathering points, with the men bringing their sheep and cattle to drink here in the
mornings and evenings, and the women collecting to fill their earthen pots with water
that they carry home for bathing. Since
water is so crucial to their survival, wells
are often elaborately decorated, and have tall pillars that would indicate their
presence for travellers on long journeys through the desert. Songs about wells, and
walking long distances with pitchers, form
part of the repertoire of music that swells in the state.
At home, women confine
themselves to the kitchen where rows of shining brass and
copper vessels and platters are lined up on shelves against the wall. The stove
where the cooking is done is wood fired, into which cow-dung patties are also fed for
fuel. Over this stove, set into the floor, women place earthen pots for cooking. The
principal meal for the family consists of dinner, when freshly baked bread and porridge
is served with a yoghurt curry called karhi, and with vegetables that may consist of
dried beans, or, now, increasingly fresh produce that is grown and transported from
neighbouring states. For most families, breakfast is a glass full of hot tea gulped down
with stale bread, before rushing off to attend to the day’s tasks, and lunch is a
frugal meal of unleavened bread eaten with a spicy chutney of chillies and garlic.
Most meals are vegetarian,
and though they eat meat, the Rajputs too do not consume it regularly. In the old days,
game would be hunted, and the spoils shared with families in the village. With the ban
on hunting, meat now comes from the goats raised in the communities, but they are
slaughtered only for special occasions, and at the time of festivals that demand
offerings of blood. It is this frugal diet that keeps the people of Rajasthan in fine
fettle, slender of build, and not given to fat, and with a posture that is erect.
Betrothals, marriages,
even deaths are occasions for the entire
village to come together, as much in a show of solidarity as of participation in each
other’s good times and bad. Cooking for wedding feasts calls for the cooks to dig pits
under the ground where the fires will be lit for the huge cauldrons in which the food
will be prepared. The entire village dresses up festively to welcome the wedding
procession, and the Dholis and others of the singing
caste lead the party to the house where the wedding is being celebrated. Such
celebrations can last for a few days, and can become the social event of the season.
Just as the women adorn
themselves, and decorate their houses, and the men wear rings in their ears and slip
their ears and slip their feet into gaily embroidered shoes, so too it in not unusual
for them to create special jewellery for their camels, or to cut their coats in
intricate motifs. The camel is the beast of burden ideally suited to the climatic
conditions of the desert. Its ability to store enough water in its stomach to last it
for a few days makes it ideal for long distance travel along routes where even wells may
be a rarity. No wonder there is such close amity between the long-legged beast and its
owner From transport to plouging in the fields to pulling carts, the camel even provides
milk though its sweet, thick consistency is not pleasing for everybody. In death, its
hide finds use for converting into leather for saddles, bags and shoes.
A visitor will find smoke
still curling from the kitchen window – modern, gas-fired stoves have still not
arrived in the villages of the desert. The postman carries mail on camelback. Most
villages now boast electricity, though strong gusts of wind can interrupt its supply, so
that the twinkling lights of kerosene lamps still illumine the night The government has
provided telephone lines, and even the smallest village has at least one such service:
but this is its contact with the world inside. Of what other use would the villagers
have for telephones, where their neighbour’s are o more than a shout away? The
television is a new marvel in their homes, something they watch when there is
electricity, but from which they are strangely detached: it reflects, after all,
cultures far removed from their own. And a network of roads means that they can travel
more easily between villages, and to the neighbouring towns.
There was a time, till a
few deca-des ago, when villagers would sing of rain to children because
it was a rare visitor: today, with the increasing green cover, as a result of the
network of canals and of electricity-fed tubewells, rain is less of a rarity. Children
are no longer surprised at the fact of motorised transport. They are beginning to forget
too the fierce desert storms that would shift entire sand dunes and snuff out everything
in their way: once again, the increasing fields under green cover, and the spread of the
habitations has put a check on the wind velocities that once raced through empty
landscapes. Life in the desert is in a stage of transition: but the traditions remain,
for they are a heritage from times when they were not just essential, they also gave
life its unique blend of flavours.
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