The Bharat Bhavan Art Center in Bhopal opened its doors in February 1982. Among the mazdoors (workers) hired to lay the bricks on which the gallery stands was a young woman from the Bheel tribe from a hamlet called Pitol in Jhabua district of Madhya Pradesh. She earned six rupees as a day laborer. Her house burned and her family fell into misery. She lived in an oda (a makeshift hut made of grass). She was hired by contractors for months and told how she accompanied her sister to work and provided for her family.
Later she came to Bhopal as a Mazdoor and worked at the construction site of the Bharat Bhavan. For them, Mazdoori meant livelihood. She could not understand that the secrets of Lok-Darma (the popular religion) were boiling inside her. Nor did she have the pleasure of immersing herself in the fascination of art. She was aware of her situation and was determined to earn six rupees. When J. Swaminathan offered her ten rupees, she agreed to settle for six. Although she belonged to a tribe known for its love of art, she did not have the privilege of spending her hours contemplating art. It was unusual for a woman from the Bheel community to step out of her bartans and pick up the brush. Therefore, when Swaminathan urged her to paint, incredulously she could not estimate what purpose her painting would serve and interpreted the suggestion, as it were, as the whims of the Babu.
For most of its history, art, as is usually the case, was for those who could afford it. From a mazdoor’s perspective, living with art is a worthwhile endeavor, which is why such a suggestion sounded bizarre. What would art bring her? Why are these people asking her to paint? Would it be wise to trust them? Rightly so, her fears, driven by her awareness of who she was – an Adivasi woman – and what might happen to her if she were seen as transgressive, made her wonder whether there were other ulterior motives of a Dariwala Baba. She was afraid of being kidnapped. She says in one interview“I was scared. Where would they take me, where would they leave me? This Baba with the long hair – what if he took me somewhere far away? When I thought like that, I was scared inside, really scared.)”
She had the right to panic because her fears were justified. When she became aware of her status as an Adivasi woman, she had the right to doubt the motives of the men who had invited her to the Bhavan to paint. The proposal was lucrative and lucrative could mean seduction. It seemed like a temptation. When Swaminathan invited her to the Bhavan to paint, she refused to follow them and instead chose the mandir outside the Bharat Bhavan as her place of work. She was paid fifty rupees for five days’ work and Swaminathan was impressed. However, the young woman could not understand what was so special about her work that brought her so much money. About a year later, J. Swaminathan came back to her and asked her to paint more. This time Swaminathan paid her fifteen hundred rupees for ten days’ work.
Among the mazdoors hired to lay the bricks on which Bharat Bhavan stands was a young woman from the Bheel tribe from a hamlet called Pitol in Jhabua district of Madhya Pradesh. Her name is Bhuri Bai.
This is how Bhuri Bai structured her mural, which documents her experiences. The detail below left shows the artist and her sisters playing and feeding animals; Photo credit: Subham Mukherjee
Likhandara
Likhandara means “writing”. It also means someone who writes a lot. For the Bheel community, Pithora is more than just “art”. Found primarily in the Dhar, Jhabua and Nimar regions of Madhya Pradesh and sometimes in the Bheel communities of Rajasthan and Gujarat, Pithora is an expression of tribal memory, mythology, music and more. The mythological premise is a centuries-old religious ritual of worship of water and the Indian king (the rain god – Indra). There is usually a badwa (a local priest) who sings. They are accompanied by Dhank (a musical instrument) players. This is the environment that creates a mood for the Likhandara, who paints according to the narrative of the song. It is the simultaneous singing, playing, painting, performing and writing stories. Pithora murals are traditionally painted on house facades and are a gesture of gratitude and welcome to guests who visit these houses. It would be childish to classify the practice of pithora as “art” when the practice of “art” has been annexed by those who can afford to practice “art”.
This is how the painting is segmented. It documents the life and experiences of Bhuri Bai. Photo credit: Subham Mukherjee
Bhuri Bai’s mural memoir
The state tribal and folk art museum ‘Aadivart’ in Khajuraho quietly houses a mural painted by Bhuri Bai on the walls in one of the museum’s galleries. Bhuri Bai actually came to the site and painted the mural himself. It was not a replica. Bhuri Bai had touched these walls. There is contact. Another mural by Durga Bai Vyam, documenting Narmada’s journey, enlivened another room under the same roof.
The room shines with the radiant shine of the painted walls. In the center of the room is a pile of terracotta animal figurines dedicated to the tribal deity Baabdev. There is, to quote Cixous, another “Music‘ in Bhuri Bai’s vision. It requires a different sensitivity where negligence has no place. It would be a shame to run through their vision like tourists do. Her vision does not exhort. There are no requirements for permits. Instead, it welcomes us into a patient attentiveness with which we learn to make an effort to listen to all who are subjugated, to all who we have subjugated.
In it, Bhuri Bai is seen insisting on working at the Bhopal lake, but the contractor doesn’t want to hire her because she is young. At her insistence, she receives a wage of just one and a half rupees per day from the contractor; Photo credit: Subham Mukherjee
The mural of Bhuri Bai is her memory. While the entire mural looks like a single painting, which it is, it can actually be read in 36 pieces that document their journey. That was her vision for Aadivart. But the mural is continuous and everything overlaps. Their laborious agricultural background is inextricably linked to their work as a kalakar. She expressed her work without rancor. Against a yellow background, myths symphonized memories in a prevailing rural tribal style, as if rural origins were reluctant to be erased. Rather, Bhuri Bai’s expression of her experiences with the art world does not ignore her Adivasi origins. Every stroke on the mural confirms that she is who she is – an Adivasi woman who had to work her way to where she is. This is an expression of resilience, especially today when history is being mutilated and it is becoming increasingly difficult for women to express themselves freely without censorship.
Invitation
Would Bhuri Bai – as an Adivasi woman – have found her voice in any other way than through her “art”? Would she have been able to realize herself as an “artist” and activate “art” in herself and hundreds of others like her if she had not been famous? Is this all a coincidence? If it was not for Bhuri Bai, who would have inspired the women from the Bheel community to come and paint? Would Basanti Tahed have had the same freedom if she had had someone other than Lado Bai as a mother-in-law? Is there another way to call it “art”? Does it have the potential to serve as a medium of Adivasi and Dalit self-expression and survive in the world of professionalized “art”? Must we categorize these expressions as “art” and allow them to be included in the larger project of appropriation that the art market is about?
We know that the Pithora tradition is a practical discipline among the Bheels. Pithora is a part of their collective tribal memory, their sense of tribal spirit. It’s her Lok-Darma. But do we view Bhuri Bai’s mural memoir simply as an autobiographical chronicle that captures the collective tribal continuum to which her mind belongs? Or is it something more? Maybe an invitation?
The gallery where the Bhuri Bai mural is located. In the middle of the room is a pile of terracotta figures. The figures are dedicated to Baabdev; Photo credit: Subham Mukherjee
A label reads: “Bhuri goes to the forest with her friends to feed animals, where she plays and makes various toys.” There is a serene recognition of sisterhood in Bhuri Bai’s mural memoir. Despite the fluidity with which she portrayed it, we cannot in any way indulge in romanticization. Working in agriculture is tedious and tedious. But the faces painted by Bhuri Bai are without grimace. Her sisters work the fields, look after the livestock, gather the harvest, climb trees, sing, dance, build, but they never let themselves be separated from each other. The world her mural depicts is one where sharing and caring intersect. It is a world that recognizes the value of work. It is a vital world.
Bhuri Bai’s mural memoir is a Likhandara archipelago where everything resonates and reciprocates. “Likhandara” – someone who writes a lot. This means exuberance. It’s the same spirit Audrey Lorde wrote in her cancer diaries. It is the same spirit that Cixous wants to awaken in women. It is the same spirit with which people like Bhuri Bai, Durga Bai or Lado Bai picked up their brushes. Bhuri Bai’s painting is the exuberance of the Adivasi woman and invites all women, especially all Adivasi and Dalit women, to express themselves exuberantly and exuberantly. If the language is unfair, as is often the case, or has stolen our trust, then put away the language and discover new forms of expression. Don’t let the form weaken what might otherwise flow freely without it.
Subham hails from West Bengal. He dreams of being a traveler and writer, which he knows he will never be. Trees and music awaken a tender feeling of empathy in his heart. He wants to apologize to the trees.
