The presiding deity of this tribal village is a goddess called Zakubai. A goddess so powerful that she took it upon herself to protect this village and the nearby four villages, without any help from any of the male gods. She even went to the extent of decreeing that the idols of Hanuman be removed from these five villages. To this day, these five banished idols are kept on the banks of a river near a village called Khadki, all with their faces down. If ever anyone dares to make these idols stand upright, by the morning the idols are found lying flat on their faces again.
Though the village is matriarchal, and is ruled by a tribal goddess, paradoxically it is called Purushwadi. It is said that earlier it was called Pur-unch-wadi, which means the village on top of the mountain. With the gradual onslaught of a male-dominated society, it was conveniently changed to Purushwadi.
This tribal village is about 180 kms from Mumbai. And it’s one of the villages adopted by Grassroutes, an organization that has been promoting village tourism in this tribal belt for over four years.
Today, Purushwadi is a picturesque village of 109 houses in which a tribal community called Mahadeo Kolis lives in perfect harmony with Nature. Here again, there is a living paradox. In the very name of the tribe protected by a goddess, a mainstream god has crept in: Mahadeo or Lord Shiva. The fact that these tribals now trek to the Bhairavnath temple situated about 20 kms from here to seek his blessings points to the influence of a mainstream religion on tribal beliefs.
In 2006 only a handful of households joined the Village Tourism Committee. Today over 60 households invite guests to stay with them and experience what it is to live in a village. To make sure that the guests don’t experience a culture shock, the housekeepers, the cooks and the guides have been extensively trained.
So the guests, whether they stay in the tents pitched in the wheat fields on the outskirts of the village or in the houses in the village itself, can expect the basics: clean toilets, clean towels, safe water to drink, hot water to bathe, clean mattresses and bedsheets, and even a green salad along with the otherwise authentic, rustic food.
Our host was a lady called Jijabai, whose husband Punaji was a clerk in the Panchayat office. All our meals were cooked and served in this matriarch’s house, including the morning tea. I thought the disarming, perpetual smile on her face was because we were her special guests. But as I stepped out of her house into the village, at every corner I saw the same smile on a hundred other faces. And I realized that Mahadeo Kolis are an extremely friendly and warm people. We walked through the narrow lanes of the village as if it was our own village. And the best part was they continued their regular activities, unmindful of our presence: whether they were filling water in their pots, or cutting wood, or harvesting in the wheat fields, or milking their cattle. It was a real slice of life and not a show that was specially put up for us. Much like the Masais of Kenya who have got used to guests coming into their villages; and who live out their life in the open, in front of a hundred inquisitive eyes.
It was at the village square that I meant Datta, an authority on the local flora and fauna. Apart from telling us about the various plants and trees endemic to the area, he also told us about the local varieties of wheat and paddy. And how the import of hybrid seeds into the village had already resulted in three of the endemic rice varieties becoming extinct. Despite the advent of mainstream agriculture, some local species have survived. And whenever someone in the village falls ill, they make sure that only those local species of rice is cooked and served to the patient, till he or she is fully recovered.
Datta also told us about the adverse impact of the government scheme of afforestation. As part of this scheme, the tribals were asked to plant innumerable saplings on a barren hillock. The intentions were noble; but the saplings sadly were of eucalyptus, acacia and jatropa. All of which, when they spread from the hillocks into the unsuspecting farmlands, create havoc with the local plant species, as they guzzle water and deplete the moisture in the soil and reduce the ground water level.
Another interesting character we met was Atmaram, the local expert in honey collection. He is actually a shepherd who goes into the nearby jungles to graze his goats. And as they lazily graze on the grasslands, he follows the busybees to their honeycombs. Village folklore has it that once a tiger attacked his favourite goat, and he grappled with the tiger till he secured his goat’s release.
Next up was our trek to the highest point in the region. And on our way to the top, we came across many sacred stones marked in saffron. Made of all shapes and sizes, they were the original idols of the adivasis. An insight into their beliefs was provided by our adivasi guide. When we asked him where the nearest village was, he answered, ’There, right in the belly of that mountain.’ Showing that, for an adivasi, a stone is a living thing.
As the sun slowly started dipping behind the Western Ghats, the vast landscape of dried-up grass on the hilltop became a gorgeous tapestry woven with endless golden threads. And when we started our descent, our weary path was lit up by the rising moon, as it was the full-moon night of Holi.
In Purushwadi, everything begins at Zakubai’s temple. So did the Holi celebrations. The pyre of dried twigs and small branches was waiting in all readiness. After the temple lamp was lit, young girls lit up their own diyas from the flame of that lamp, and these were in turn used to light up the Holi pyre. Soon, aided by a strong breeze, gigantic tongues of fire leapt into the sky as if to rival the rising moon.
The next day morning we climbed down the mountain slopes lined with mango trees in full bloom to reach the blue river. For a river of its ethereal beauty, it had a phonetically ungainly name: Kurkundi. A dip and a swim in the chilled blue waters did wonders to rejuvenate us and we walked briskly to the village for our breakfast. We had deliberately worn old clothes in anticipation of a colourful Holi ahead. But when we reached the village, there were no pichkaaris, no colour-filled balloons, no bucketsful of vibgyor colours.
That’s when it dawned on my urban mind that Rang ’Panchami’ is actually meant to be celebrated on the 5th day after the full moon. It’s the domination of North Indian culture, perpetrated through Bollywood, that irrevocably changed it to the 2nd day.
Untouched by this, the tribals here were getting ready for five days of festivities packed with various rustic competitions. The first one was to lift one of the three perfectly round boulders that were kept at the village square. And the boulders weighed 25 kgs, 50 kgs, and one that was well over a 100 kgs. This was followed by kabaddi matches, wrestling bouts, and you guessed it right, the mainstream sport: cricket.
As we bid farewell to Jijabai and her family, I really wished this tribe retains its rustic innocence and its very special beliefs and rituals. But the recently-constructed iron bridge that stretches across the river, connecting this tribal village to the mainland, is a grim reminder that mainstream thought will come in by that bridge, by the hour and by the day, and smother the special flavours that have evolved here over many, many centuries. Eventually resulting in the vanillisation of culture, where one flavour suits all.
