“Kaise ho, chacha (how are you, uncle)?!” yelled Mukti Datta to a townsman as she expertly maneuvered her jeep along the narrow hill road. My heart was in my mouth as I watched an oncoming car squeeze past, sharing the 10 foot wide unbarricaded road with us. But not Mukti. This half Belgian, half Indian woman of steel was something else altogether, and she made me a little nervous.
“No, I don’t get lonely. There is so
much to do here.” Saraswati’s quiet words pierced through me as I tried to make
sense of her primitive surroundings- all of two little cottages divided by a vegetable
patch, two youthful trees, a make-shift toilet and a hand pump for water. Oh,
and the perk of no electricity after sundown! “I left Italy when I was 22 and
came to India. I knew then as I know now that this is home. Why do I need to go
back?“ she asked me simply. I looked around and had no answer. What does it
take for a woman from a foreign land to make a remote village in South India
her home for 40 years? I did not understand her.
“Madam, khana lagaon (Madam, should
I serve the food)?” The manservant respectfully bowed down and whispered softly
into the Queen Mother’s ear. Her Highness Satvashiladevi Bhosle, or Rajmata
(Queen Mother) as she is fondly called, adjusted her purple sari over her head,
discreetly nodded and continued talking to me. “Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru
was my favorite guest,” Rajmata said with a smile. “He was so particular about
how Indira carried herself.” She was referring to Indira Gandhi, his daughter
who later followed in her father’s footsteps and became the Prime Minister of
India in 1966. I had only read about both Prime Ministers in history books, yet
here I was, seated with royalty, listening to a personal tale about having them
as house guests. Rajmata wasn’t bedecked in jewels nor did she have a tiger as
a pet (a disappointment to my active imagination), but she exuded grace and
pride. She was a proper lady and I was in awe.
My most recent whirlwind trip across
India in search of unique handicrafts introduced me to such an eclectic mix of
people, that I was still reeling from all the life lessons by the time I touched down again at Mumbai airport.
On the one hand, there was the tomboy Mukti Datta, a force to
be reckoned with, who almost singlehandedly spearheaded the movement that now
provides a livelihood for over 1000 women in the hills of Kumaon in North
India. With the help of master weavers like Kunthi Martiola and the
Danny Kaye and Silvia Fine Foundation, Mukti set up Panchachuli Women Weavers in 1990. Today the organization produces exquisite pashmina
and lambswool scarves and shawls that are in great demand throughout the world..
Mukti lives in Binsar, about 30 kms from where her organization is located and
when I met her during the monsoons, she was spending an hour and a half
commuting that distance across muddy slopes and around hairpin bends, all in
the blinding rain. I bravely hitched a ride with her back to the resort and by
the time I got there, I was convinced there was no getting the mountain life
out of this woman. Half Belgian she might be but she speaks Kumaoni, the local
language, with a flair my grandmother would have appreciated (believe it or
not, she was from this part of the world too). Mukti knows everyone, speaks of leopards
roaming the hillsides and offers a ride to any local who asks. I could see how
Panchachuli Women Weavers got to where it is today- they are riding on the back
of their very own tigress.
…And on the other hand, I met the
reticent Saraswati, a 60-something Italian woman who left her home at 22 to
start afresh in South India. I was in Belgaum, Karnataka to visit an
organization that promotes the weaving of jute and coir bags amongst a few
women’s cooperatives in neighboring villages. It was only because we had time
to spare that my guide suggested we stop over at Saraswati’s house/ashram on
our way back to Belgaum. It was approaching darkness by the time we got to her
place and when she first walked out, I was taken aback by her simplicity. Clad
in a traditional midi (similar to a kaftan), with green glass bangles on her
wrists and with her oiled hair loosely tied, she looked like a local villager. She
had even taken an Indian name, Saraswati, meaning the goddess of knowledge,
music and the arts. It was only when her
four year old granddaughter came running out that I realized she had not only raised
her family here, but could also converse fluently in Kannada, the state
language! Saraswati told me that the land on which her house was built was
gifted to her by her Guruji, her mentor. She and her family use one cottage
while the other is a working space for the women artisans to complete the bag
making process. It is also used as an ashram when travelers stop by her
village. I struggled to understand where Saraswati came from. Here was a woman
who had voluntarily given up a life of comfort to live a rustic, hard life in a
village where she was a stranger. But
the more I watched her talk, act and react, I saw that that was not the case anymore.
She is very comfortable in her space. She is where she wants to grow old; with
her plants, her family, her women weavers and her hand pump. She is at peace.
It is I who struggles to understand, creating chaos in the calm.
Thinking of these two women my travels had introduced me
to, I chanced upon royalty during the final leg of my journey to the city of
Sawantwadi, located in the southernmost tip of Maharashtra in Western India. The
Queen Mother completed the trinity of extraordinary women that I met. I say
chanced because when I networked with her daughter-in-law in Mumbai, she never
mentioned to me that they lived at the Sawantwadi Palace or that she had
married into the royal Bhonsle family that once ruled the erstwhile Kingdom of Sawantwadi. Imagine my surprise
when ‘our meeting’ happened amidst sweeping
lawns, butlers, chauffeurs and of course, Rajmata (Queen Mother). Rajmata is
herself a noted artist as well as a patroness of local arts. The craft of
making round playing cards known as ganjifa is almost three hundred
years old and involves the painstaking process of handpainting each card with
unique iconographic illustrations. Because of the intensive laborinvolved in
the technique and the disintegration of princely states in India, this craft (which
was promoted by royal families across India)
faces the danger of extinction. Today, thanks to the perseverance of
Rajmata, Ganjifa art is still being practiced and Sawantwadi boasts of being
the only place in India where this technique
is still flourishing. Rajmata has opened up the Royal Darbar (audience hall)
for ganjifa artists to work out of, she ensures they get monthly wages and has
used her network of contacts to keep domestic and international buyers
interested in the craft. I could see she is proud of her artisans and the work
they are doing. Rajmata struck me an active, confident woman who despite her
advancing age has a goal to achieve- to keep the art of Ganjifa alive for as
long as she can. And I am in awe of her conviction to succeed.
Reeling from all the life lessons I had
learned, it came as no surprise that I
was overwhelmed by the time I returned home to Mumbai. I had traveled from the
north to the south, and then to the west of the country and while my search for
new crafts had yielded a rich harvest, more stirring were my encounters with
these three women. Be it Mukti traveling to Tibet for the best quality wool or Saraswati’s
open door policy with women cooperatives or Rajmata reminiscing about royalty
playing Ganjifa cardgames, each woman has worked her environment to provide the
utmost support for local artisans. In the process she has given of herself so
that her own personality is woven into the craft to which she is committed. And in a country with a population of 1.1
billion and counting, these three exceptional women surely are a minority worth
emulating.
For more stories on my trips across India click here.
