I am delighted to present my latest book, conceived as a travel notebook and illustrated with photographs and drawings, published by  Éditions Geuthner, in Paris. With a preface by Catherine Clément.

The ephemeral paintings that grace the floors and walls of India unfold like living tapestries, capturing the essence of religious rituals, seasonal festivals, foundational myths and mythological narratives. Each creation offers a unique perspective on India’s graphic and cultural heritage, expressed through a great diversity of forms and colours. From Kerala to Tamil Nadu, and across the villages of Rajasthan, Bengal, Odisha and Jharkhand, each region reveals its own distinctive style. Here, often anonymous artists perpetuate ancestral gestures, creating motifs that celebrate life, the divine and nature, all the while attuning to the rhythm of time and the seasons.

A glimpse inside my book

If, however, you are interested in the topic of floor paintings, it is possible to read the latest issue of MARG, written by multiple authors, — including my own piece on the kalam of Kerala — in English.

“On Painted Ground”, Marg Art Magazine

"On Painted Ground", the latest issue of Marg Magazine devoted to India’s floor painting traditions, is now out. I am delighted to have contributed an article on Kerala’s ephemeral art of kalamezhuttu, alongside contributions by Aurogeeta Das (muggu), Vijaya Nagarajan (kolam), Stephen Huyler (chita), Rituparna Basu (alpona), Jyoti Bhatt (mandana), John H. Bowles (digna), and Raja Mohanty (chita).

This issue is especially meaningful to me: Marg was the journal I subscribed to during my years studying in Kerala. It shaped my earliest understanding of Indian art, and I have long dreamed of seeing these ephemeral arts—so often overlooked—receive the attention they deserve. To witness them celebrated in this way, and to contribute my own voice, is profoundly important to me. Founded in 1946 by Mulk Raj Anand, Marg remains India’s oldest and most respected art journal—a pathway that has guided generations of readers and will continue to inspire those to come.

After spending the summer and autumn fine-tuning my third book — a collection of articles on ephemeral paintings of  India — I am back in Chennai, ready to resume my graphic wanderings. In early February 2025, my quest led me to Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum), the capital of Kerala, whose name means "the city of Lord Anantha". Vishnu, the main deity of the temple, also known as Shree Padmanabhaswami, is depicted reclining on the mythical snake Anantha, with a lotus (padma) emerging from his navel (nabha), symbolising creation.

In the forecourt of this temple, a kolam competition is held annually, organised by the women's wing of a Tamil Brahmin association. The Kerala Brahmana Sabha (KBS) is a non-profit organisation that works for the development of Kerala Iyer Brahmins. It organises fairs, sports events, and food festivals to promote the cuisine and traditions of the community. Its women's wing (Vanitha Vibhagom) is actively involved in initiatives to empower Brahmin women in Kerala and supports the preservation of traditional arts through various cultural programmes, including kolam contests.

For the occasion, the esplanade transforms into an ephemeral carpet of linear motifs. Striking a balance between geometric rigour and creative freedom, these powdered kolam celebrate the richness and vitality of padi kolam, a graphic repertoire unique to Tamil Brahmin women. In Kerala, women do not draw kolam, except for long-established Tamil communities such as those mentioned in a previous article, notably the women of the Nurani district in Palakkad.

During the reign of the Travancore kings, many Iyer Tamil Brahmins from Tirunelveli in Tamil Nadu, migrated to Palakkad and to Thiruvananthapuram. Some were invited to participate in the Mura Japam ritual, a recitation of the three Vedas at the Shree Padmanabhaswami temple, dedicated to Vishnu. This migration continued for several decades, as it had in other parts of South India, leading to the concentration of Iyer communities around the temple, in agraharam, located on its outskirts. Each agraharam consists of two parallel rows of houses facing each other and organised around a central street.

That day, I meet Geetha S., an acquaintance who will be one of the two judges for the contest. Rising at dawn, I make my way to the forecourt of the Shri Padmanabhaswami temple, which made headlines around the world in June 2011 when a priceless treasure was discovered hidden in its underground chambers.

On the orders of the Supreme Court of India, several of the temple's mysterious sealed rooms were opened, revealing riches worth billions of euros: gold statues, jewellery, ancient coins, and other precious artefacts accumulated over the centuries. There is, however, one final chamber whose door is engraved with a serpent motif. It is believed that sages in the past sealed this room by reciting the powerful mantra (sacred formula) "Naga Pasam". Only a priest with perfect mastery of the Garuda mantra (the mythical giant eagle Garuda, enemy of snakes) could open the doors, as any attempt to break in would bring great misfortune. A local tale recounts that in the 1930s, a gang of thieves attempted to loot the temple , only to be repelled by a sudden apparition of snakes.

It is 7.30 in the morning. In the sky, eagles circle and glide around the pyramid-shaped gopuram, as if to pay homage to Garuda, the mythical eagle and mount of God Vishnu. This monumental portal rises to seven storeys high, each level pierced by vertical, window-like openings. At its base, the largest of these marks the main entrance to the sanctuary. What really draws the eye is the massive presence of security forces around the complex. Behind these imposing granite walls lies one of the world's greatest treasures.

The women began to arrive on the majestic forecourt, making their way to their designated space. About a hundred of them have registered and are preparing to draw. The area is enclosed, and devotees gather as well to see and be seen by the divinity (darshan). The competition begins, and the women, bent over the floor, let the white powder slide between their fingers, flowing in a continuous thread, either light or thick. This type of kolam is made up of a square of parallel lines intersecting at right angles. To expand it, additional strokes are added, from which new lines emerge. Lotuses, conch shells and other decorative motifs enrich the works with the greatest freedom. Like a yantra or mandala, four highly stylised gates, oriented toward the cardinal points, symbolically  block the entry of negative or destructive forces.

The centre of a line kolam is never left empty; it is always marked with one or many dots, diagonal lines, sun and moon motifs, a pentagon, or a star hexagon. Padi kolam, literally "steps kolam", take their name from the steps surrounding the temple's sacred pool. They are also known as kalyana kolam referring to the designs drawn at the precise spot where a wedding (kalyana) is to be celebrated. The central square of a padi kolam sometime mirrors the floor plan of a Tamil sanctuary or the contours of a temple's sacred tank. The parallel lines that define the contours of the kolam are reminiscent of the numerous enclosures (from three to seven pyramidal entrance towers) that characterise Tamil temples. The padi kolam sanctuary seems to be the projection of the temple and its values of prestige, reputation, and guarantor of moral and social order.

It's almost 10am and the heat in the square is becoming unbearable. The temperature rises, beads of sweat glisten on foreheads and faces grow tense under the blazing sun. Most participants have completed their kolam and are now adding the final touch: a red line drawn with a brush soaked in a mixture of iron oxide and water (kavi), enhancing and magnifying the drawing.

Despite the splendour of the kolam, many devotees linger only briefly. They arrive in groups, dressed in the traditional attire required to enter the temple. One photo session follows another, with fervent poses, hands clasped in studied humility. Selfies abound, capturing the moment from every angle, with the imposing silhouette of the temple and kolam as a backdrop. It is hard not to feel both perplexed and disappointed by this crowd, where the moment captured - hands clasped in a gesture of devotion - often seems to take precedence over the simple act of pausing, observing, and truly marvelling at the meticulous work of the women.

But on this day, the real treasure lay neither in the shrine's hidden riches nor in the fleeting images shared on the screens. It resided in the silent graphical offering of the women, who perpetuated the fervour of an infinitely precious ancestral gesture.

Follow the links...

To find out more about padi kolam

To find out more about Tamil Brahmin in Kerala

After spending four days in the village of my hosts, I am on my way to the temple of Sree Sastha, in the Nurani area of Palghat (Palakkad). Today, I have an appointment with Kavitha Girish, a valuable contact with whom I have been in constant touch throughout the pandemic. Her availability and expertise have undoubtedly enriched our discussions. Furthermore, I am also very much looking forward to meeting the women in her circle who draw kolam every day, a tradition that is devoutly observed in this temple for 41 days every year. Kavitha and her family reside in an agraharam, a traditional neighbourhood typical of villages in southern India.

Agraharam are characterised by houses lined up along straight streets, often with a temple dedicated to a local deity in the centre or nearby. In these neighbourhoods, traditions and rituals have been carefully maintained for centuries by Tamil Brahmins, a priestly class that includes priests, scholars, grammarians, lawyers, and temple cooks.

Most of Nurani’s inhabitants of are Iyer Brahmins, followers of the Advaita Vedanta philosophy initiated by the spiritual master and religious reformer Adi Shankara in the eighth century. The migration of Tamil Brahmins from Tanjore (Thanjavur) in Tamil Nadu to Palakkad dates back dates back to the eight century AD, during the reign of the Chera and Pandya kings. According to some accounts, King Rajashekhara Varman brought ten families of Tamil Brahmins to oversee religious rituals in the temples, giving rise to numerous agraharam in the Kerala region.

This is the story of the village of Nurani. As the families settled in and planned to clear the western part of the village, residents of the neighbouring colony reported hearing bells ringing and sensing a delightful fragrance in the air. Informed of these observations, the villagers began meticulous excavations at the site. Their perseverance was rewarded with the discovery of three cylindrical stones, a small granite elephant and a flat stone. After consulting astrologers, it was declared that the three cylindrical stones represented the deities Dharma Sastha and his wives, Purna and Pushkala. The flat stone was associated with the goddess Bhagavathi. Later, it was revealed that a Brahmin had once lived on this spot before the agraharam was built. He was a fervent devotee of Lord Sastha, and every year, he used to journey to the Aryankavu shrine, but with age he could no longer walk. One day, the Lord appeared to him in a dream and told him to keep the three idols in front of his house. The villagers believe that these statues are the same as those once worshipped by the Brahmin. Since then, the idols of Sastha and his wives have been placed in the agraharam of Nurani.

Though the present generation of Tamil Brahmins speaks Malayalam, they still maintain the traditions inherited from Tamil Nadu, especially the practice of kolam. When I studied in Kerala, I was surprised to find that there was less kolam than in Tamil Nadu. I did not understand the reason for this until I realised that this art was mainly practised by Tamil women, and that the woman who taught me was herself a Tamil whose family had been in Kerala for several generations.

In the Nurani neighbourhood, culture and spirituality are deeply intertwined, especially during the Sasthapreethi festival, dedicated to the Hindu deity Shasta/Sastha/Ayyappan. This year, in 2023, the festival takes place from 17 November to 30 December and corresponds to a specific calendar cycle known as "mandalakalam". This cycle begins on the first day of the month of Vrikshikam (mid-November to mid-December) and concludes on the 11th day of the month of Dhanu, which corresponds to the end of December. This is a period of intense austerity, especially observed in Ayyappan temples.

My visit was scheduled for the weekend in mid-December, and I arrived with my hosts at the temple entrance with undisguised joy. Once inside, I spotted a group of women and young girls happily chatting away. Having seen photos from previous years, I knew they will be painting the path leading to the shrine of Shasta/Ayyappan. The conversations were lively, and it is mainly young girls who were discussing the kolam that would adorn the floor today. To my surprise, they unanimously agreed to paint Warli motifs, a far cry from the traditional aesthetic of the kolam.

The Warli tribal community, largely settled in the state of Maharashtra, is renowned for its ritualistic pictorial art, a practice traditionally carried out by women. In the 1960s and 1970s, however, this art underwent a radical transformation as a result of a government development plan aimed at increasing the income of many tribal communities by providing them with paper sheets. It was during this period that Jivya Soma Mashe, inspired by the ritual paintings of the women of his village, began to paint and explore new forms of personal expression.

His fame quickly spread across borders, and he was invited to exhibit in some of the world's greatest museums, inspiring many young talents in his wake. Among them was Shantaram Tumbada, who had the opportunity to see one of his works displayed on one of the walls of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier in Lyon, France. Warli art motifs are characterised by their simplicity, combining geometric shapes such as circles, triangles, and squares. The human body is represented by inverted triangles.

Thanks to social networks, these motifs of human representation have been widely shared and reproduced in a variety of media. The young girls have also embraced the trend for these streamlined figures and have appropriated the repertoire to create a painting. To achieve this, the corridor has to be divided into equal sections to integrate the patterns. The intergenerational team of women is inspiring, and their laughter brightens every moment spent in their company.

It is an exceptional opportunity to explore and participate in this tradition, which lies somewhere between performance art, religious asceticism, and a meditative path. Indian artistic traditions offer a particularly rich perspective on the relationship between man and the divine, and the role of women in these practices is of paramount importance. Through their art, they are able to transmit ancestral knowledge, preserve a cultural heritage and express their spirituality in a unique way.

The floor of the corridor is now prepared, and the nimble-fingered women draw the Warli musicians with liquefied rice paste, bringing them to life. It is as if the wind instrument tarpa, and the percussion resonate in harmony in this ephemeral painting where music and art converge. The longevity of the kolam is enhanced by using the wet painting technique.

As the evening puja approaches, the group rushes to finish the borders that will enhance the floor paintings. The doors of the sanctuary open and the priest pays homage to the divine image. In the soft glow of the oil lamps, as the devotees melt into prayer, the kolam, like visual hymns, captivate hearts in silence. Then, seated on either side of the paintings, men recite the Yajur Veda, a liturgical hymn and one of the four main Vedas of Hinduism. In the days to come, the women will return to the sacred enclosure to paint kolam as a graphic expression of reverence.

The next day I meet an enlarged group, with unfamiliar faces joining us. This time the paintings are of birds. Once again, the space is measured and divided, with each bird depicted within an ornated circle.

A majestic peacock leads the procession, followed by two pairs of parakeets and pigeons in an affectionate face-to-face encounter. At the end of the pathway, facing the sanctuary, a flamboyant eagle stands tall like a heavenly messenger, its feathers displayed in reverence.

Each day, in an unchanging cycle, the evening rituals unfold, and until the end of December, the women will make their way to the temple, faithful to their purpose, creating ever-new graphic offerings.

Follow the links...

To find out more about the worship of Shasta/Sastha/Ayyappan

To find out more about the worship of Shasta/Sastha/Ayyappan as a householder

To find out more about painting with liquified rice paste

The painting has become a sacred realm, and those entrusted with its creation have manifested the divine form that can be seen, heard, and touched. There is no need for initiation or guidance; the materialisation of the “divine body” and the deliberately theatrical staging of the ritual leads the viewer into an immersive and transformative experience.

Right from the start of my research, the colours of the kalam have exerted a particular fascination over me. They seem to emerge from the earth itself. Tones of ochre, burnt sienna and moss green blend harmoniously, to create a palette imbued with mystery that evokes the organic environment of the forest and a rustic elegance. Vettakkorumakan, in a classical pose, illustrates with dignity his role as the protector of Kerala. His masculine expression, imbued with nobility, reveals the majesty of his origin and the grandeur of his destiny.

Once the image is complete, the canopy above it, is adorned with garlands of oleander flowers and fringes made from tender coconut leaves. Practitioners then place offerings of husked and unhusked rice, and coconuts, on banana leaves around the kalam.

Villagers gather eagerly to gaze at the painting, but to my disappointment, few show genuine interest in the painstaking work that went into its creation. How can one not be moved by the way this fragile work powerfully evokes the transience of existence and the wisdom that comes from contemplating it? Paradoxically, its strength lies in its ephemeral nature.

Accompanied by the powerful sounds of drums (chenda) and oboes (kuzhal), the oracle, adorned with a red cloth around the loins, emerges from the inner sanctum, wielding a straight sword symbolising the divinity. Devotees light oil lamps all around the temple precinct, while the practitioners do the same around the kalam.

I put my thoughts aside to watch the procession form and make its way to the main sanctuary. There, the oracle, sword in hand, performs a series of rhythmic movements, steps, and leaps, accompanied by the Marar musicians, who patiently develop measures ranging from 1 to 10 beats. This dance, known as “eedum koorum,” prepares the oracle to receive the divine essence, that gives him the power to communicate with the devotees.

The musicians then escort the oracle to the kalam, around which he first performs several slow circumambulations (kalapradakshinam). As the tempo of the chenda increases, the oracle speeds up his movements and enters the kalam, cutting through all the plant decorations hanging from the canopy.

These evokes the forest and, by analogy, the act of self-renunciation. In Hinduism, the forest corresponds to the third stage of life, called vanaprastha, which means “path of the forest.” Vanaprastha marks the stage when an individual entrusts household duties to the younger generation, assumes an advisory position, and gradually withdraws from worldly affairs. This phase typically follows the status of head of the house (grihastha). For the devotee who has dedicated part of his life to caring for his family, it is time to devote himself to the study of sacred texts and to spiritual practice.

Little by little, a jumble of leaves and banana fringes covers the painting, which has been battered by the repeated assaults of the oracle. To the rhythm of the drums, he gradually erases the divine figure, leaving only the powdered face, while tracing a sacred formula on the mound with his index finger. The divine body, freed from its material form, remains in its essence. At this moment, the atmosphere of reverence in this space is broken by the words of the oracle, who approaches the patrons and delivers his message. Some members inquire whether the divinity is satisfied with the offerings, to which he replies in the affirmative.

The ritual ends in silence, and the kalam powders, along with the grain offerings are distributed to the temple trustees and the devotees. These images, truly intricate works of art, reveal their full meaning as they are erased, thus embodying the profound message of the adage from the Book of Genesis (Gen 3:19): "Remember, man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return" (Latin: Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris).

The following day, the ceremony is repeated, but with three additional Kuruppu officiants and a larger number of Marar musicians. The Vettakkorumakan kalam is also more detailed and grandiose.

The climax, however, is the final ritual in which the oracle breaks twelve thousand coconuts without interruption, hurling them in rhythm onto a stone slab. This performance, known as pantheeraayiram (twelve thousand), is considered the most cherished offering to the hunter-god in temples across northern and central Kerala. Symbolically, the coconut represents the head, while the act of breaking it materialises the letting go of existential vicissitudes.

Story to be continued...

Previous articles:

Kerala Kalam, "On my way to the village of Paruthipulli" — part 1

Kerala Kalam, “Visiting the Kalamandalam School” — part 2

Kerala Kalam, "Painting Vettakkorumakan, the hunter-god" — part 3

Once again, the murmur of the night has given way to a nascent symphony of birdsong, timid at first, then growing in intensity. As the sky gradually brightens, the first rays of sunlight filter through the palm trees. Like the day before, I stroll leisurely through the lush green alleys, sipping a glass of chai while carefully observing the surrounding plants. The slightest breath of air carries sweet, intoxicating scents through the garden, creating a captivating olfactory palette. Among the branches of a tree, the jasmine curls up to reveal a fragrant, intimate embrace that is both delicate and enchanting. The Rangoon Creeper, a shrubby vine, displays its clusters of pale pink to purple flowers on the surrounding wall of the house.

Further down the wall, the Purple Wreath vine adds a touch of grace to my hosts' garden. The pale purple inflorescences unfurl in star-shaped cascades, attracting butterflies. Among the shrubs, a hibiscus flaunts scarlet petals, while a vibrant red Ixora unfolds its flowers in domed corymbs, which will be used tonight in the temple ritual to make the oracle's garland.

After a hearty breakfast, it was time to set off for the Sri Vettakarappan temple, located near a rice field below the village and estimated to be between 400 to 500 years old. In April 2022, the temple committee, including my host Ravishankar and his friend Nishanth Nottah, gathered to embark on the ambitious project of renovating and reconsecrating the sanctuary, which had suffered the ravages of time. The work was completed in 2023, and today, 14 December, marks the beginning of the first festival. It is a special occasion to participate in the two days of propitiatory rites dedicated to Vettakkorumakan and performed by the Kallatta Kuruppu community. They are part of a social class known as Ambalavasi, which literally means "Those who dwell in the sanctum." Their hereditary task is to paint images of deities with powder in public or private temples, as well as in the homes of individuals.

Thirty years ago, when I received a fellowship to document the traditions of ephemeral painting in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, the Vijñana Kala Vedi Centre put me in touch with Sri Parameswara Kurup, a painter and musician attached to the Ambalapuzha temple (in Alappuzha district, southern Kerala) and also a member of the Kuruppu community. He came to the school several days a month to teach me drawing techniques, measurements and proportions, and the art of colour. He drew his entire repertoire for my research, illustrating several versions of a deity. Outside the classroom, I followed him as he performed in temples and private homes, taking notes, photographing, documenting the details of the various rituals, and at his request, sometimes helping him to apply the colours to the painting in progress.

Today, I am meeting artists from the same community, all from the Palghat (Palakkad) region. They are here to paint the deity Vettakkorumakan (വേട്ടക്കരുമകന്‍), whose cult is widespread in northern and central Kerala.

According to one legend, Vettakkorumakan is the son of the divine couple Shiva and Parvati. Disguised as a hunter and a huntress, they tested Prince Arjuna, who had come to the Himalayas to do penance and obtain the divine weapon Pashupatastra. After granting Arjuna the coveted weapon, the divine couple stayed in the forest for a while, where a son was born to them, named Vettakkorumakan, which literally means "Son of the hunt." The daring boy killed many demons, but his reckless use of the bow and arrow disturbed the gods and sages in their meditation. Overwhelmed by his mischief and recklessness, they turned to God Vishnu, who transformed himself into an old hunter, approached the boy, and offered him a dagger on the condition that he never let go of it. Vettakkorumakan respectfully circled the hunter, holding the bow and arrows in his left hand and the dagger in his right hand. Before Vettakkorumakan could finish his gesture, Vishnu disappeared. To keep his promise, Vettakkorumakan was forced to hold the short sword in his right hand, forever depriving him of the use of his bow and arrows.

Inside the temple, on a raised platform, I marvel at the floor painting taking shape. A kalam always begins with the drawing of a vertical line, the Brahmasutra, running east-west. On either side of this axis mundi, the officiant outlines the contours of the deity with rice powder. The height between the middle of the forehead and the chin (siras pada) serves as the standard measure for drawing the various parts of the body.

Gradually, a silhouette emerges as the painters swap brushes for fingers and traditional pigments for rice flour, turmeric powder, a mixture of turmeric and slaked lime, crushed acacia leaves, and burnt rice husks.

On contact with the hands, the powder comes to life, revealing unexpected landscapes. The thumb strokes the index finger or the hollow of the palm, sending the dust in a precise jet to create solid backgrounds. No sooner do two black and red piles emerge from the ground, than a bronze mirror flattens them into soft, firm curves. Thus transformed, they become the wide-open eyes of Vettakkorumakan, expressing courage and heroism.

Here and there, cones rise, immediately shaped by the flat of the hand or hollowed out by two or three fingers joined together. These strings of craters wait patiently for another colour to fill them.

Like a jeweller, the painter creates fleeting ornaments that will adorn the sturdy neck, arms, wrists, and ankles of the sylvan deity. Another painter meticulously paints the peacock feather ocelli on either side of the deity, creating the illusion of a majestic mane.

Around the mandorla (prabhavali) framing the deity, crossbars with zigzagging silhouettes punctuate the flat areas, accompanied by lines of juxtaposed colours.

His immaculate dagger contrasts with the richness of the fabric around his loins, known as virali pattu. This is an ikat fabric known as patola in the Gujarat region and was used in various rituals in Kerala.

The perfect mastery of the line and the relief effects created by numerous graphic techniques give a dimension that is both sculptural and pictorial, infusing a particular liveliness to the character depicted.

Story to be continued...

I dedicate the film Kalam Eluttu Pattu, Peindre et chanter le Kalam (Paint and sing the kalam) produced with the help of the CNRS, (National Centre for Scientific Research), Paris to Sri Parameswara Kurup (free viewing).

Previous article:

Kerala Kalam, "On my way to the village of Paruthipulli" — part 1

Kerala Kalam, “Visiting the Kalamandalam School” — part 2

As the first rays of sunlight begin to dispel the night, I hear the call of the birds around my host’s house. Among the first to greet the day is the Greater coucal, known in Kerala as chakora or uppan, with its deep, distinctive call.

This solitary bird, with its dark silhouette, attracts attention with its coppery orange wings and piercing ruby eyes. Considered a harbinger of good fortune, it is said that those who hear its song early in the morning are assured of a successful day. The most famous work of Ramapurathu Warrier, an 18th century Kerala poet, is Kuchela Vrittam, which tells the story of Kuchela, a poor Brahmin and childhood friend of Lord Krishna, who travels to Dwaraka to meet him. In just a few lines, the poet sets the tone for his journey, which begins under auspicious circonstances:

“His way was charmed, for to his right. There alighted sweet chakoras, whose songs of joyous melody he heard as he stepped forth.”

Kuchela Vrittam, Ramapurattu Warrier, translated from the Malayalam by Reade Wood.

As I savour a chai (Indian tea) and contemplate the sunrise, other birds join in the morning symphony. Yellow-billed Babblers are on the prowl for insects, meticulously probing the roots of garden plants. They are unmistakable as they move in flocks, are noisy and chatter incessantly. A pearl-necked turtledove, perched on an electric wire, cooing softly while peacocks stroll leisurely through the garden. Outside my bedroom window, Purple-rumped Sunbirds hover like hummingbirds around the hibiscus bushes. They live close to the flowers because they feed mainly on nectar. In this harmonious cacophony, there are many others, such as the Orphean Bulbul, the Green Barbet, the Royal Fork-tailed Drongo, and so on.

Even if I had read and re-read "The book of Indian Birds" by the famous Indian ornithologist Salim Ali, it would have been impossible for me to identify all the birds without the BirdNet application. While some birds are within sight, others can only be identified by their calls or songs. BirdNet, a marvel of technology, is a software application that records a bird's song or call via the phone's microphone, then uses an algorithm to analyse the sounds, compares them with a database of bird songs from around the world, and finally, displays the image and name of the species on the screen.

Vasanthi, my hostess, interrupts my investigation to remind me that breakfast is ready. She is full of energy, getting ready for a busy day at the school where she teaches. Ravishankar, her husband, is waiting to explain the day's schedule, which includes a visit to the Kalamandalam, an institution founded in 1930 by the poet Vallathol Narayana Menon. Over the years, the school has become one of the main centres for the study of classical Indian arts, particularly Kathakali and Mohini-Attam.

After a delicious breakfast, we set off to Cheruthuruthi, an hour’s drive away. Nestled in lush surroundings, the institution comprises several buildings and the classrooms reverberate with the sounds of dance music, footworks of different styles and the rhythms of various percussion instruments, all under the guidance of an experienced master called asan in Malayalam.

I am always overcome with emotion when I hear the resonant chenda drums, played vertically with slightly curved sticks, used to inform the villagers that a Kathakali performance would be taking place that evening. Because of its powerful sound, it is an integral part of religious processions, cultural festivals, and social ceremonies in Kerala.

The visit continues, and in each classroom, memories of nostalgia and gratitude come flooding back. Everything in this environment is familiar and reminds me of my years of discovering and learning Kathakali theatre and classical Mohini-Attam dance, which for me were more than just artistic practices but also a cultural and spiritual experience.

One day, fate led me unexpectedly to Kerala, where at dusk in village temples, actors in magnificent costumes mime mythological tales by the light of oil lamps. In this traditional theatre, hands greet each other, touch each other, challenge each other, transform into fish, birds, merge to form the hood of a cobra. Sometimes the curled fingers become the claws of a tiger or the hooves of a horse. Kathakali struck a chord in me, awakening my curiosity and admiration for this unique form of theatrical expression.

I was instantly drawn to the symbiosis of dance, theatre, music, and mudra; this silent language that narrates epic and mythological stories, conveying complex emotions and deep cultural values through hand gestures. In Hindu rituals, the priest, like a storyteller, also addresses the divine, his fingers devoutly shaping the sacred formulae to invite the deities to manifest in a geometric diagram or in an ephemeral painting called a kalam in Kerala.

The main morning session of Kathakali brings together dancers, singers, and musicians. This exercise, known as choliattam, is designed to prepare students for public performance. They rehearse roles or dance sequences and practise improvisation.

As I continue my visit, I am greeted this time by the sound of the maddalam. This imposing cylindrical drum, worn around the waist, has a slightly curved middle section and is played with the hands. Every morning, students learn rhythms based on the exact wording of the bol, a succession of syllables whose sounds and accents correspond to sequences.

This mnemonic system is also used by the dancers, who memorise all choreographic sequences. Elsewhere, groups of students are divided by speciality; three young girls vocalize to the beat, while future make-up artists learn the lines and colours of each character category, as well as the art of layering white paper cut-outs over prominent facial features to create the illusion of a mask.

To conclude our visit to the school, we pay our respects at the tomb of poet Vallathol, the founder of the institution, before entering the gallery of portraits of the most illustrious actors who have contributed to the preservation, promotion, and enrichment of Kathakali.

Kalamandalam Krishna Nair was one of my teachers, and I will always be grateful to him for his invaluable teaching, storytelling skills, and understanding of human emotions. His presence and charisma will forever be etched in my memory.

I leave moved, carrying with me a spark of this radiant legacy. Tomorrow, a humble village temple will welcome the presence of the hunter-god Vettakkorumakan, a deity dear to the people of this part of Kerala.

Story to be continued...

Previous article:

Kerala Kalam, "On my way to the village of Paruthipulli" — part 1

For many years now, I have been deeply immersed in the documentation of festivals and ephemeral painting rituals across India. In the rich tapestry of Kerala's cultural landscape, one of the fascinating subjects I've dedicated myself to is the "Kolam of the Nurani community." Nurani embodies multiple facets, representing not just a neighbourhood within the city of Palghat (Palakkad), but also a temple devoted to the deity Shasta. Additionally, it is home to a cherished tradition where women gather annually within the temple's sanctum to paint kolam designs during a 41-day period known as mandalakalam. I have been in contact with a woman from this community for three years, but due to the pandemic, we had to postpone my visit until December 2023. As luck would have it, I will be staying close to Palghat, having accepted an invitation from KP Ravishankar, a documentary filmmaker and art enthusiast whom I met earlier this year.

After Jharkhand, on to Kerala. Upon exiting the International Airport in Coimbatore, a city located west of Tamil Nadu, south of Karnataka and bordering Kerala, I am greeted by my host, who drives me straight to his home. Along the way, I marvel at the imposing mountain range of the Western Ghats, which runs parallel to the Arabian Sea to the west, peaks at 2,695 metres in Kerala and stretches all the way to Kanyakumari (Cape Cormorin), the southernmost tip of the Indian peninsula.

Some hill stations such as Kodaikanal and Ooty, at 2100-2200 metres, are highly popular and serve as an ideal refuge for residents of the tropical plains to escape the scorching heat. In 1939, Maria Montessori, the first woman in Italy to graduate in medicine, was invited by the Theosophical Society of Madras (Chennai) to conduct a training programme there. When the Second World War broke out, she was placed under house arrest in Kodaikanal and remained in India until 1946, using her stay to refine her educational method, which ultimately gain worldwide renown.

Kodaikanal is also home to one of India's most important rose collections. Its recently deceased founder, M.S. Viraraghavan, was an internationally renowned rose breeder. Girija, his wife and granddaughter of the former President of India, Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan (1962-1967), left everything behind to settle with her husband in this town with its ideal climate for germinating rose seeds. Invited to numerous congresses around the world, they created hundreds of new varieties.

A few years ago, the couple bought a house in a residential area of Pondicherry (Puducherry), which they visited regularly. One day, a friend in Chennai invited me to give an informal lecture on the art of kolam and other ephemeral paintings in India to the residents of this senior living community. It was during this time, I had the opportunity to meet and converse with this legendary couple of rose creators. Impressed by the number of photographs and information I had collected over the years on this popular Tamil art form, Girija Viraraghavan wrote to me a few months later to inform me of their intention:

"One of the rose varieties that my husband hybridises is called ‘Hand Painted.’ In other words, every flower of this variety looks as if the petals have been painted with a brush. My husband has recently grown a plant that has been flowering for the past few months. The flowers have many petals, and each petal has a lighter edge, so that when you look at the rose, it reminds you of a kolam or rangoli. It was in memory of the kolam conference that he decided to call your rose “Chantal's kolam.” Many of our roses are named after friends from all over the world, and we wanted to honour your work.

As a keen gardener and a lover of roses, nothing could have made me happier. In a horticultural garden in Kodaikanal, nestled in the hills of Palani, there is now a rose dear to my heart. I am yet to visit this place, but I hope that one day I will be able to welcome this Indian rose into my garden.

We are crossing the "Palghat Gap", a strategic passage, a depression of about thirty kilometres between the Nilgiris and the Anaimalai mountains to the south, which divides the Western Ghats and connects Tamil Nadu with Kerala. The Nilgiris, or Blue Mountains, owe their name to the violet-blue flowers called kurunji (Strobilanthes kunthiana), which bloom once every twelve years.

The road to Palghat is lined with palm trees and dotted with lush green rice fields where great white herons (Ardea alba) can be seen. Then comes the much-needed tea and coffee break, accompanied by crispy lentil fritters (parippu vada), to discuss plans for the coming days, and I am delighted to learn that I will be attending a kalamezhuttu of the Kurup community at my host's village temple. This ritual requires the creation of one or more ephemeral paintings and the presence of an oracle.

Back on the road, the signboards previously written in elegant and intricate Tamil characters (தமிழ்நாடு), are suddenly replaced by the Malayalam alphabet, all curves, and artistic loops (കേരളം). We are in Kerala, and this region of India and its culture has shaped my identity and my artistic journey in a unique and significant way. We finally arrive at our destination and as we enter the village of Paruthipulli, we are greeted by a bucolic landscape.

By the pond, men refresh themselves after a hard day's work, while carefree, laughing children play in the water, creating cheerful ripples with each splash.

The evening breeze gently caresses the graceful ears of rice, and the soft green undulations create a soothing tableau. A kingfisher perched on a power line observes patiently before diving headfirst in search of small fish swimming between the rice stalks. It disappears in a flash, only to reappear in a spray of water droplets, prey in its beak.

Here and there, herons with immaculate plumage and piercing eyes move silently, meticulously scanning the water in search of aquatic creatures. A few minutes later, I arrive at the home of my host, K.P. Ravishankar, and his wife, Vasanthi.

Story to be continued...

My stay at the Sanskriti Centre left me with a feeling of bitterness, not because of the quality of the murals I saw, but because they are becoming increasingly rare in the villages. This is borne out by the many photographs of the Imam family taken over the last twenty years, which show an abundance of painted houses and a varied repertoire. What are the reasons for this? Cited are: the Covid years; migration for work; and the displacement of tribal communities due to mining; the lack of naturally occurring pigments; and the replacement of mud houses by brick or cement houses, which are impossible to paint. I also noticed the absence of young girls painting, as if their mothers had stopped passing on the art because they did not see the point. One wonders why the younger generations seem to be losing interest in this exceptional patrimony. Is it the difficulty of embracing such a heritage at a time when their existence as Indigenous oscillate between identity claims, dispossession, integration and forced conversion under the guise of education?

A young generation struggling to identify with the codes and myths of their parents, with songs and poetry that tell of the forest and its animals, that speak of plants and trees as living beings, that marvel at a school of fish in the swift waters of a river, that rejoice at the fireflies that lit up the night as the boys dance. The environment has changed: the coal fields have devoured the jungle, left the land barren, driven animals, and birds to extinction, wiped out rare plants, mushrooms and flowers, and polluted the Damodar River. The stories, songs, and bucolic festivals may not mean anything to this generation. Many go to the city to study, while others are simply attracted to the urban world and dismiss these paintings as naive. This phenomenon is common in other parts of India and elsewhere in the world.

Hinduisation has brought changes, which are surreptitiously manifested when an elephant depicted in a mural becomes Ganesha, the elephant-headed god, while tribal traditions attribute other stories to him. Christianity, for its part, has opposed rituals dedicated to animist deities, the worship of trees, tattoos, men's jewellery, feather ornaments, and so on.

We must admit that these wonders of human creativity are fading away in the villages year by year. However, these tribal paintings, in their paper form, have travelled the world, giving rise to exhibitions or live performances in prestigious museums. Several articles published in interior design magazines (World of Interiors, AD India, Maison Marie Claire) and on the Wall Street International blog have testified to the interest and beauty of this heritage. Some of the motifs have been used on wallpapers and cushions sold by L'aviva Home in New York.

But these paintings need new media to survive, and one way to ensure the survival of this heritage is to encourage demand for them. Individuals through social networks, companies, institutions, and the government have this power. Recently, Justin's wife Alka Justin and their son Adam created a collection of saris painted with traditional motifs.

The association "Femmes du Hazaribagh", founded by Deidi Von Schaewen, is carrying on the work. Thanks to membership fees and other initiatives, the French association provides financial support for the purchase of pigments and materials, pays the women artists, and provides financial assistance for wedding expenses, for example. The funds also enable workers to be employed to maintain the Sanskriti centre. There are regional initiatives, such as the Hazaribagh railway station, which was painted in 2015. After Prime Minister Narendra Modi highlighted this remarkable effort, it was the turn of all government buildings in the country to be painted with motifs inspired by local cultures. The idea was to turn railway stations into public art museums, making people aware of their cultural heritage.

A few days later as I was leaving the centre on my way to the airport, I came across a group of people waving a flag made up of red and white horizontal lines, which my guide called the Sarna flag. This flag symbolises the tribal religion of Sarnaism, practised by Indigenous communities in the states of Jharkhand, Odisha, West Bengal, Bihar, and Chhattisgarh. At the heart of this tradition is the cult of the "sacred groves" known as sarna, a word etymologically linked to the name of the sal tree (Shorea robusta) that grows abundantly in the region. The shrine is the home of the village deity, to whom sacrifices are made several times a year.

On the way, the taxi driver informs me that today, 15 November, is the birthday of the folk hero Birsa Munda, born into the Munda tribe in 1875. From an early age he condemned British oppression and Christian missionary conversions and urged his people to reclaim their land and ancestral rights.

The British, apprehensive about the growing popularity and strength of Birsa Munda and his bow-and-arrow warriors, arrested him on 3 March 1900 as he was sleeping with his troops in the forest. Taken to Ranchi jail, he died on 9 June 1900, aged twenty-five. Arriving near a roundabout that leads to the airport and bears the name of the famous freedom fighter, tribal dancers in close ranks hold hands in a circle to pay tribute to him.

In the waiting room, a last glance at the bust of Birsa Munda adorned with flowers, before taking off for southern India.

Previous articles:

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "An endangered heritage"  — part 1

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 2

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 3

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Diwali at the Sanskriti Center" — part 4

Jharkhand, Sohrai festival " Painting aripan to welcome the cattle "  — part 5

Early in the morning, we set off again for Oriya, the first village I had visited. Today, several tribal communities celebrate Sohrai, the festival of crops and livestock, like its Tamil equivalent, Pongal. Justin, my guide, explains that the word Sohrai, refers to the gathering of animals in a fenced shelter or the action of whipping cattle. The word “soh” is used to drive cattle with a short stick or to chase birds or animals. So, perhaps the name of the festival itself traces the history of animal domestication and the beginnings of agriculture among the Adivasi (indigenous) communities of this region. We arrive at the village just as the men are taking the animals to bathe in the local pond. Later in the morning, on the way back, the cattle will return to the cowshed along a path decorated by the women.

I waited years before I was able to observe this unique way of painting on the floor. Always on the lookout for filmed testimony, I came across an amateur video, shot in a region of Bengal called Purulia, of women painting on the floor in a unique way, that intrigued me. Dipping her whole hand in what appeared to be rice milk, a woman was drawing, letting the liquid run down her five fingers as she formed figures on the ground. I tried to understand the context in which she was painting in this way, until I saw a photo of a similar floor drawing posted on the blog of my guide, Justin Imam. After some discussion, it turned out that tribal women in the Hazaribagh region also paint for the Sohrai festival, which takes place just after Diwali, in the month of Kartik (mid-October to mid-November).

The daily ritual begins with sweeping the courtyard and applying a primer made from cow dung. Liquefied rice flour is then prepared and used to draw on the ground. The rhythmic pounding of the dekhi (rice pestle) can be heard in the surrounding houses as the husk is removed from the rice.

The resulting rice flour is mixed with water and a vegetable binder extracted from a wide range of plants, including okra (Abelmoschus esculentus), known for its sticky texture due to its high mucilage content. The lightly crushed vegetables are immersed in a bucket of water. After a while, the water becomes sticky, and its degree of viscosity is tested several times until the expert is satisfied with the result. After filtering, the sticky substance obtained is mixed with the liquefied rice paste. During mixing, the solution is frequently checked by dipping the hand and lifting it several times to test the flow along the outstretched fingers. However, the mixture must be applied immediately after preparation, otherwise it will coagulate.

When the liquid rice paste is ready for use, the women trace a graphic path from outside the house to the stable. If the latter is in the inner courtyard of the house, the line runs across the courtyard to the entrance of the stable. The rice milk is poured into a dish that is wide enough for the hand to brush the surface of the liquid and what sticks to the palm of the hand is guided by the thumb along the four fingers, falling back in diffuse lines. The linear design, comparable to a climbing or creeping plant, consists of a straight line and circular patterns on either side of the line, ending in a triangular or rectangular pattern.

Bulu Imam, who took an interest in the rock paintings at the archaeological site of Isco, not far from Hazaribagh, pointed out the similarity between a motif adorning the wall and the aesthetics of the aripan paintings. Having also visited the site during my stay, I noted the similarity with the aripan painted for the Sohrai festival. According to Bulu Imam, the circular motifs framing the central line are cow or buffalo hooves. This suggestion is supported by similar images found elsewhere in India in floor drawings in honour of cattle.

Once the painting is complete, vermilion powder is applied at regular intervals along the central edge of the motif. Finally, the women make clods of cow dung into which they press a plant known locally as latlatiya, which is said to cling to clothes, and durva grass (Cynodon dactylon) which is used in Hindu rituals. Stories vary about the symbolism of these herbs. Some say they are used to ward off the evil eye, others to attract wealth.

Finally, when the cattle return to the cowshed, the men wash the horns and anoint them with mustard oil and vermilion powder. The coats of the cows, bulls and buffaloes are marked with circles using clay lamps dipped in colour or rice milk. Others dip the palm of their hand in white or coloured liquefied rice paste and place it on the animal's body to protect it from the evil eye.

Women do the same for stable lintels, ploughshares, hoes, and tractors. The tribal world also has a vast and varied repertoire of songs about the activities of daily life, festivals, nature and so on. Here is an Oraon harvest song by Rosalia Tirkey, mother of Philomina, the companion of Bulu Imam:

“For twelve months bullocks, we beat you and drove you; but today we will praise you and give you affection. Hario! On which horn will you take the tassel of rice sheaves? On which horn will you take the oil and vermilion? Come we will feed you rice.”

" Oraon songs and stories" by Philomina Tirkey, Bulu Imam, Lambert Academic Publishing, 2015

An invitation to a festive meal concludes the morning.

Story to be continued...

Previous articles:

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "An endangered heritage"  — part 1

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 2

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 3

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Diwali at the Sanskriti Center" — part 4

We arrive at the Sanskriti Centre. On the floor of the covered terrace of Bulu Imam's house, a path of geometric patterns made of liquid rice paste is gradually drying. In this region, once part of Bihar, the floor designs are called aripan, a word derived from the Sanskrit alepan, which translates as “to coat.”

Jharkhand, which means “land of forests,” was carved out of Bihar in 2000, and Mithila, a region in what is now northern Bihar between the foothills of the Nepalese Terai and the right bank of the Ganges, is often mentioned in the Jataka tales. These stories recount the past lives of the Buddha and celebrate the wealth and splendour of the palaces of the Mithila kingdom. In 1948, William George Archer, an anthropologist specialising in India who had worked for the Indian Civil Service in Bihar for 16 years, discovered and helped to publicise the mural art of the women of Mithila, particularly those of the Brahmin and Kayastha castes. As in other regions of India, the murals are temporary, painted by women for domestic and religious ceremonies, and very often accompanied by floor paintings known as aripan.

Here, too, daily life revolves around the lunar calendar. The month, divided into two halves of 15 days each, beginning with the full moon and the new moon respectively, is the basic unit of the annual ritual cycle. The ritual significance of each day, according to the position of the moon, the movement of the sun and the planets, is detailed in a calendar called a panchanga. Hindu women observe vows (vrata), fast on ritually important days and paint the floor with liquefied rice paste.

In a room, in front of the house altar, on the floor of the veranda or in the courtyard, on the occasion of a birthday or to commemorate the marriage of a deity, to welcome the full moon, the half-moon or the beginning of a lunar month, to celebrate a birth, an engagement, a marriage or for the initiation rituals of a child (the first haircut or the sacred thread ceremony), women draw.

I have heard that it is customary for a new bride to make an aripan every morning for several months after her marriage to ensure the couple's happiness and prosperity. Alone or accompanied by a priest who recites the appropriate formulas, she makes the necessary offerings, and the drawing gradually disappears as the members of the household come and go. During my stay, I did not have the opportunity to meet any Brahmin or Kayastha women (a community whose profession is that of clerks, writers, and accountants, who were also responsible for keeping land registers).

In the tribal communities around the town of Hazaribagh, the women make aripan only for the Sohrai harvest festival, which will be celebrated tomorrow. But tonight, at the Sanskriti Centre, my host's daughters and granddaughters are making aripan for Diwali, the festival of lights.

As night falls, the house is buzzing with activity as everyone waits for darkness to light the oil lamps in the centre's three houses. The children, grandchildren and my hostess Elisabeth prepare the clay lamps on a tray and place them in key locations.

The flickering light of the oil lamps on the low walls gives an ethereal vision of the many patterns that dot the surface of the walls.

Each point of diffused light enhances the effect of immersion and intimacy, inviting a silent dialogue with the subjects depicted. These works speak of the beauty of the animal and plant kingdoms, as well as of the tribal community and its relationship with the world around it.

Story to be continued...

Previous articles:

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "An endangered heritage"  — part 1

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 2

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 3

This year, Sunday, 12, November 2023, is a public holiday in India. Among the dates on the religious calendar, Diwali is an important Hindu festival that takes place every autumn at the time of the new moon between late October and early November. Symbolising the triumph of good over evil and light over darkness, Diwali celebrates the return of Prince Rama after many years in exile.

The Ramayana, one of the founding texts of Hinduism, tells the story of Rama's journey to Sri Lanka to rescue his wife Sita, who was being held captive by the demon Ravana. On his return, he is welcomed to the kingdom of Ayodhya by his people, who light the way with oil lamps. While the majority of Indians celebrate this festival, the tribal world attaches little importance to it, as tomorrow they will be celebrating Sohrai, the festival of cattle and harvest.

At dawn I hear voices and singing from the side of the main house. I met the two women from the day before, who have finished whitewashing the adobe house that Justin, my guide, and his brother Jason had built to house artists. The thickness of the walls, made entirely from their own excavated soil, protects them from the heat, and their surfaces are devoted entirely to murals.

It was in front of the long surrounding wall that I met Rudhan Devi, an artist whose immense talent I was about to discover. As I approached, I noticed a four-pronged comb between her fingers, with which she was scratching the kaolin plaster she had just spread on a low wall.

This graphic technique is similar to the art of sgraffito, from the Italian graffiare (to scratch), which consists of creating ornaments, symbols, or figurative scenes by hatching, scratching, or incising a white layer on a black or coloured background to reveal the underlying colour.

Sgraffito was mainly used to decorate houses and palaces and was very popular during the Renaissance and Art Nouveau periods. For those who live in Paris, there is the magnificent "sgraffito" facade on rue Mouffetard, depicting pigs, deer, goats, and poultry, originally intended for a delicatessen.

In Hazaribagh, this art of scratching is the hallmark of the Kurmi tribal farming community to which Rudhan Devi belongs. I watch as she prepares a new section of a wall to be coated with manganese oxide, or "kali-mati" mixed with water. This deep black pigment was used in cave paintings.

Before the black coating is completely dry, Rudhan Devi covers it with a layer of kaolin called "dhud-mati", literally "milk of the earth". Then, using the few teeth of a comb, she cuts and scratches the surface, taking us back to the forests of her childhood, where elephants, tigers, leopards, deer, and wild birds such as peacocks, moorhens and herons could still be seen.

But not far, just a few kilometres away, grey fumaroles float above the dwellings, enveloping the landscape in an ominous dust that bears witness to a devastated land, devoid of colour, animals, and greenery, populated by machines that swallow up bucolic villages day after day to extract coal, sacred groves where the spirits of the ancestors reside, tribal council sites, divinised hills, and springs inhabited by spirits. After returning from this trip, I read in the press that the Indian government is planning the ninth auction of commercial coal mines to boost national production. For the moment, far from this supposed progress, Rudhan Devi is drawing the outline of an elephant holding a lotus.

Behind him, a peacock has stretched its tail across the bottom of the wall, and some puzzled deer are chewing leaves while another peacock seems to be peering into the mouth of an animal. In the final panel, a fawn faces a wildcat, frozen in a position of attack.

It is breakfast time and, like the day before, we are on our way to a village called Jorakath, inhabited mainly by the Hinduised Kurmi community. After an hour's drive, at a crossroads, we take a side road. As soon as we enter it, we are plunged into a world of darkness and the roar of lorries loaded with coal. We also meet "black faces" who, instead of pedalling, are struggling to push their bicycles, on which dozens of sacks of coal are ingeniously stacked to supply towns and villages.

But this activity is forbidden by the penal code and coalfield laws, and these thousands of outlaws are part of a vast network that produces thousands of tonnes a year. I am outraged by this Dantesque atmosphere, worthy of a futuristic film. Elsewhere in Jharkhand, the town of Jharia is infamous for a coal mine fire that has been burning underground for almost a century, digging chasms in the ground that collapse and swallow everything in their path. On the road, too, hanging coal bins criss-cross the landscape like a fairground attraction.

Then the nightmare finally ended, nature gradually regained its colours, and the road literally became a path of light as mica flakes detached from the layered blocks on the sides of the forest road were embedded in the tarmac. The Hazaribagh region in the state of Jharkhand produces around 50 per cent of the country's total mica output.

When I was studying Kathakali in Kerala, I remember that once the make-up had been completed and the character's costume was put on, we would pass around a cloth bag of mica flakes, to sprinkle on the face to illuminate the make-up. The coveted mica, the geographical origin of which I did not know, was a rare and expensive commodity in South India, so it was distributed sparingly.

After an hour's chaotic drive, we reached the village of Jorakath, surrounded by gardens full of life and freshness. They contrast with the facades of the houses, most of which have no murals, except for the exterior and interior walls of Mainwa Etwaria Devi's farmhouse. I was struck by both the simplicity of the drawing tool and the richness of the mural motifs on the façade. The jungle and its inhabitants occupy a central place, and the distribution of animals, birds and plants is left entirely to the artist's discretion, although certain iconographic formulae seem to be repeated. The long corridor leading from the entrance to the courtyard is also populated by forest animals, fish, and plants.

As we enter the courtyard, followed by a swarm of children, Mainwa Etwaria Devi is coating a wall with manganese oxide mixed with water, followed immediately by a layer of kaolin.

Then, with a piece of comb in her hand, she brings out an elephant, a peacock, and some plants, which she surrounds with a simple frieze. I notice that the elephant is swallowing a leaf that is partly in its mouth and partly in its stomach, in the form of a food bowl, as in the so-called radiographic paintings of the Aborigines of Arnhem Land in Australia. It is a peculiarity of this style of sgraffito painting for which I find it difficult to find an explanation.

Elsewhere, in Phulaso Devi's house, two elephants face each other. Above them, a frieze shows peacocks pecking seeds from a bowl.

The last house we visit is that of Malo Devi. Standing in front of the outer wall of her house, she greets us, surrounded by her two young granddaughters, who gaze longingly at the pieces of a comb used for drawing. Little by little, the artist reveals a very friendly feline with stripes and rosettes.

Whether it is a tiger or a leopard, the artist's hand fascinates with its dexterity and the little girls, whom we encourage, end up taking over the lower part of the wall and a narrow vertical surface. Watching them, it is easy to see how difficult the technique is. If the black paint underneath is too wet, the comb will struggle to create a pattern on the layer of kaolin. After many attempts, miniature peacocks or cranes emerge from the wall.

Another day comes to an end, and we return to Sanskriti Centre to celebrate Diwali.

Story to be continued...

Previous articles:

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "An endangered heritage"  — part 1

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "Painting the walls for Sohrai" — part 2

Along the way, we talked about the Indigenous tribes or Adivasi (literally adi “original” and vasi meaning “to dwell, to reside, inhabitant” in Sanskrit), who live mainly in Jharkhand, Bihar, Orissa, Chhattisgarh, Tripura, but also Assam and north-eastern states such as Mizoram, Nagaland, and Arunachal Pradesh.

Until recently, they were largely ignored until censuses conducted by the British in the 19th century revealed their existence. Although animist, the tribal world is not a homogeneous group. Some tribes have adopted Hindu customs and beliefs over time, while others embraced Christianity. The term tribal is commonly used to describe non-Muslim, non-Hindu and non-Christian communities that are excluded from the caste system. However, the Indian Constitution recognises tribes as “scheduled tribes”. Over time, this denomination has become a crucial factor in promoting the benefits offered under the programme of positive discrimination, which also includes the Dalits (the oppressed). It should also be remembered that many tribal groups were considered “criminal tribes” by the British Raj; a label which was repealed after Independence in 1949.

The autumn rains have receded and the married women, whose names are always followed by the title Devi in honour of the goddess, are once again whitewashing the walls of their homes to restore the surfaces on which they will paint. The artists often paint after they have finished their household chores, tended the cattle, and collected wood for the preparation of meals.

After lunch and just before the animals return at dusk, the women adorn the walls. If they are day labourers, this window is narrowed, and they work in short bursts at dusk.

After a two-hour drive, we reached the village of Oria, and I discovered the stylized paintings of the Ghatwal tribal community on the long adobe walls of the farmhouses. Dogs, cats, elephants, flowers, and the leaves of the Pipal or Pagoda Fig tree are carved, alone or in mirrors, in square spaces like a comic strip. In red, white, and black, the abstract figures drawn in bold strokes tell no stories, but exude a gentle presence that draws me in, holds my attention and whispers the beliefs of this community to my bewildered eyes.

The Ghatwal venerate Shiva Bhairava, a wrathful form of Shiva who is always accompanied by a dog called Shvan. They also worship groves or “sarna” which they consider sacred. These groves can be found around the villages to remind us of the patches of forest that were cleared to become farmland.

The second village is Bhelwara, home to Parvati Devi, a talented artist from the Kurmi community. The paintings for the Sohrai festival vary from village to village and community to community. Much to my regret, except for a single bird that perfectly illustrates the technique of this type of mural painting, the frescoes in Parvati's house are almost complete.

The lines are drawn in triplicate, the outer and inner lines in white and black respectively, and the central line in red.

The basic palette includes red, white, black, and yellow, and these raw materials are all found close to the village, except for white kaolin, which is extracted from quarries. Today, most of the women artists struggle to get these materials, so my guide Justin has been supplying the iron oxide and kaolin for several years. Red, or lalka-mati, is traditionally sourced from hematite deposits or isolated field deposits. Yellow or tila-mati is an ochre clay used by potters. Tila means child and mati means earth, so yellow is associated with young earth, while black manganese oxide symbolises Kali, the mother goddess, according to Bulu Imam.

At Parvati Devi, one of the two panels along the inner wall of the courtyard depicts Shiva in the form of Pashupati, the "Master of the Herd" or "Lord of animals," riding a bull or a horse known as a ghoda. He is an ancient form of God Shiva, who is said to bear similarities to the Gallic god Cernunnos, who is sometimes seen surrounded by animals.

The other panel is called Kamalban, the "lotus forest" in reference to the mythical Indian flower that grows in village ponds or waterholes in the forest.

As the first day draws to a close, we return home at dusk.

Story to be continued...

Previous article:

Jharkhand, Hazaribagh "An endangered heritage"  — part 1

The 2023 journey to India begins in Jharkhand, a northern state of the country which was carved out from Bihar in 2000. It is bordered by West Bengal to the east, Odisha to the south, and Chhattisgarh to the west. I arrived at Birsa Munda Ranchi airport in the early evening for my meeting with Bulu Imam and his family at the Sanskriti centre in Hazaribagh, the capital of Jahrkhand.

My project is to document Diwali, the festival of lights, as well as the tribal wall paintings and floor paintings called aripan created during Sohrai. The tribal populations of Bihar, Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, Odisha, and Bengal celebrate the latter as a harvest and cattle festival. It is the eve of Diwali and, as in Europe in the days leading up to the festive season, the frenzy of last-minute shopping intensifies. It took me three hours to reach the house of my host, Bulu Imam, in Hazaribagh. After the introductions, I expressed my disappointment at not having had the chance to admire the scenery and was informed that the road was lined with open-cast coal mines and that I had escaped a desolate scene. Later, I discovered that the state of Jharkhand has the majority of India's coal reserves, and that their anarchic exploitation has been destroying the environment for decades. In the days to come, I will have the opportunity to assess the impact.

The following morning, I was pleasantly surprised to be awakened by the call of the chakora or pheasant crow (Centropus sinensis). This strange and secretive bird, with dark red eyes, hops about. Seeing or hearing its low cry is considered a good omen. Created by Bulu Imam, the Sanskriti Centre is a peaceful haven nestled in a grove. The trees are intertwined with lianas and are home to numerous birds, squirrels, and, above all, golden orb-weavers or golden nephilid spiders whose webs are among the largest in the world.

As I joined my hosts for breakfast, my attention was drawn to a neighbouring house adorned with faded wall paintings. Two women were busy preparing a mixture of earth and cow dung to cover up last year's paintings.

After breakfast, I set off with Justin Imam, my host's son, who will be my guide during the stay. Justin has been accompanying researchers, photographers, and tourists to the surrounding villages for years. We travelled for two hours to reach Oria and Bhelwara, two villages where wall paintings can still be seen.

Upon leaving the city, the beautiful hills and lush green nature immediately dominate the landscape. Cows graze in the shade of tall evergreen sal trees (Shorea robusta), while the paddy fields, which are dry in November, are ripening.

As we approached the villages, I noticed many well-tended gardens filled with a variety of vegetables.

The women renew the murals a few days before the Sohrai festival. Justin, my guide, greeted the villagers with a “johar” - a popular tribal greeting in Jharkhand. He then distributed bags of kaolin powder and iron oxide to some of the houses. These in-kind donations are from a French association established in 2014 by photographer Deidi Von Schaewen, who first visited the painted villages in 2009 with Bulu Imam. On her next visit in 2012, she noticed a significant decline in the number of paintings. She therefore created the association "Femmes du Hazaribagh" to provide the necessary pigments needed for the murals.

With the support of the Imam family and the French association, the women were then encouraged to paint their designs on paper, and the sale of their creations enabled them to continue the tradition of mural painting. However, Bulu Imam was the man who initiated the conservation project. He is an enthusiast who has written extensively on tribal murals, the graphics of the Isco archaeological site, and the tribal songs collected within his family circle.

In his youth, he was a big-game hunter and later, became an ecologist. In 1979, he witnessed the massive destruction of forests caused by state coal-mining projects. He led a protest movement against it because coal mining was disrupting the lives of tribal communities whose livelihoods depended heavily on the forest. Despite receiving the Gandhi Foundation's International Peace Prize and the Padma Shri Medal for his work in safeguarding a priceless heritage, coal mining in India continues to increase every year and continues to eat away at the forest and the lives of tribal communities.

Story to be followed...

One of my greatest pleasures when I am in Chennai is to spend an afternoon in the company of the women who come to the Vedanta Desikar temple to paint, especially on important dates in the shrine's religious calendar. They live in the neighbourhood and often gather to draw kolam on the floor of the pillar hall.

I could spend hours contemplating these rhythmic, abstract graphs, brimming with imaginary suggestions. The choreography of the body and the fingers is so interwoven that it is easy to forget where the dance graphics begins and ends. My gaze lightens, I no longer try to understand the meaning of the images.

I let myself be carried away by the rhythmic flow of curves, arabesques and long ribbons that unfold moment by moment to complete the drawings on the floor. Vibrant graphic lines create landscapes imbued with religious symbols, or perhaps inspired by the deep-rooted memory of the ancient curvilinear Pallava Grantha script that can be admired here and there in the temples of Tamil Nadu.

These braided paths, these ample unwinding, winding and other spiral movements, in repeated zigzags, oscillate between slowness and speed, impetuous bursts and freeze-frames. These dynamic compositions, repeated in cadence, evoke incantation, inner exploration and prayer. It is as if the women were seeking a fleeting break in human time to connect with the divine.

Their almost ecstatic dance around the kolam suggests that they are contemplating something of the divine presence, but in what form? Is the divine perceived as a power, a radiance? In Indian spirituality, music, dance, and religious experiences are intimately linked. The Supreme Being can manifest Himself in all forms, even in the silence of the majestic, nourishing lines of a rice milk kolam. An experience that culminates in an intimate face-to-face encounter with oneself.

Once the floor in the hall was fully adorned with these amazing kolam, I slowly came back to reality as there was a unique event occurring in the temple today which was unfamiliar to me: an auction. Twice a year the temple holds auctions to sell saris and dhotis offered to the divine couple by devotees. Auctions are also conducted in other temples, producing significant profits.

In the large hall adjacent to the temple, members of the temple authorities hang the textile offerings one by one from a rope held between two pillars. The saris and loincloths form impressive piles as new saris and dhotis are offered every day of the year, draped around the statues, and later put up for sale.

Generally, only women from the local community attend and buy. Although these fabrics are eventually stained or damaged by the rituals performed before the divine statues, the women do not hesitate to buy them and eventually transform the damaged ones into skirts and tops for the young girls, as they are inherently auspicious.

Women I admire

You only realise it's an ecstatic ballet when you see them drawing.