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Ah the "new Indian" superpower attitude. Boldly defying the perception of India as a 3rd world country.
Thanks to Modi, Indian term for 3rd world is now "1st world", reality notwithstanding.
With this kind of brute-force hum-barah "new Indian" attitude, it spells trouble for the rest of us desis overseas, many of us look like Indians.
As reported to me by desi friends in Turkey and other parts of EU.
Turkish people hate (I mean hate) Indians now. Ditto for Australia and almost every other 2nd or 1st world country. Desis like Bangladeshis and Pakistanis are getting the flak alongside.
But shameless as they are, the low-echelon "new Indians" continue to live there. Wanted or not.
One would wonder why these people ever leave India for a livelihood, if they are so obnoxiously proud of it.
God forbid if there is a Bolshevik type purge for Indians in one of these countries. But it is coming for sure.
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There are enough of these low-lifes in India who not only not respect someone's personal space, they don't have the decency to ask before assaulting them in this fashion.
Rubbing powder on an unknown person's face? I mean Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!! That is a perfect candidate for a open-wide slap.
I have observed these low lifes in airports where they don't have the simple courtesy of queueing up serially for services like immigration checks or customs checks. They'd bypass you without asking and don't even look back.
Just a bunch of low-lifes, sorry to say. Majority lower caste Indians.
They never integrate when they move overseas either, especially Canada is a prime example.
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Abusing others personally (and that too because of ethnicity)is a problem with you and you only.
A personal problem, connected with insecurity and lack of self-respect. Abusing others makes you feel superior.
If you had the himmat to abuse Pakistanis - you'd see the result soon enough. You don't.
Us Bangladeshis - we are a soft touch. We never returned your favor of name -calling.
You can't stand people from a certain nation/ethnicity (Bangladesh) and calling us two choice names 24/7.
Darkie, Runt, malnourished, and I don't even remember what else. I banned you once, maybe you need another one. I have been more than patient.
Sudhar jao Doctor Sahab, like we Bangalis say, "Sudhar janey ke liye paisa nahi lagta."
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A very good read.
Apurv Sharma
One fine afternoon in the early 1990s, Guruji sat in a moving bus of the then APRTC, gazing out at a distant uru (village in Telugu).
His attention was suddenly drawn to a man in the distance. Adorned in a vibrant pink turban, carrying a peculiar musical instrument, and exuding an air of mystery, the figure disappeared into the maze of mud walls and narrow lanes before Guruji could investigate. Amma, sitting beside him, limited his ability to leap off the bus and chase after the man at that moment.
Curious, I asked Amma, “Phir kya kiya?” (What did he do next?)
She replied in her own way, “Phir kya!—Gaye bhaag ke, do-teen din baad dhoondhne ko.” (What else—He went back, a few days later, to search for him.)
A few days later, he returned to the area and began making inquiries. The villagers responded with a knowing smile. “Ahh, – Dakkal Gopal anukunta”! (You must be talking about Dakkal Gopal,”) said Rajanna. “He’s not around right now, but he’ll return perhaps in a day or two.”
True to his nature, Guruji returned and found colorful Gopal wandering through the village, sitting down with him, Guruji struck up a conversation over a shared smoke, forging a bond with the man. And so, Dakkali Gopal—a man from the Kinnera community known for their vibrant singing and narration of the Jati- puran for Madiga’s (leather craftsman community)—became a cherished part of Guruji’s circle and a frequent visitor to the ashram.
Gopal kaka was unforgettable. His attire—a simple dhoti, kurta, and a colorful turban—was punctuated by a magnificent mustache and yellowed eyes that looked like a lot of dust had settled in his sclera through his wanderings. Over his shoulder, he carried a well-worn jhola, and in his hand, he held his Vaadya (Dakkali Kinnera)—a remarkable instrument crowned with a handcrafted peacock that seemed to come alive with every tune he played.
Whenever Gopal arrived at the ashram, it was as though a festival had descended upon us. We, the children, would flock to him, eager to experience the magic of his performances. With the very first note from his Dakkali Kinnera, he’d instruct, “Arre, Moora! Zara naach k dikha bachhon ko!” (O Dear peacock, show these children some moves!) And, as if enchanted by his command, the peacock ornament atop his Kinnera seemed to spring to life, its vibrant feathers quivering in perfect harmony with the rhythm.
Mesmerized, we would clap and cheer, utterly lost in the moment. But mischief was our constant companion. One of my cousins, a notorious prankster, saw his chance when no one was looking. Grabbing the Kinnera when no one was around, he mimicked Gopal’s dramatic stance and declared, “Arre Moora, bahut hua tera- ab zara breakdance karke dikha!” (O peacock, now show us some breakdance moves!) The room exploded with laughter, the ashram ringing with the pure, carefree joy of our childhood.
Initially, Gopal would only come to sleep at the ashram, always declining food. “I have my own people,” he’d say proudly. “They’ll feed me.” And indeed, he would march into the homes of nearby Maadhiga (Leather craftsman) families, who welcomed him with unquestioning warmth. Over time, however, Amma’s cooking won him over. Soon, he was savoring her sabzi, achar, and full meals, always bringing a pumpkin or some wild variety of Jujuba as a humble gift for the children.
One evening, after Guruji had left for his family home, Gopal and Ushanna Tata were the only ones at the ashram. Wrapped in a blanket, Gopal ventured outside but was unfortunately bitten by a dog. The next morning, Guruji and Amma wasted no time. Amma took Gopal to the hospital, where she insisted that he receive a full course of rabies injections.
Though Gopal complied, he remained uneasy. A day or to later, Guruji asked, “What’s troubling you, Gopal? Why do you still seem anxious?”
“Maharaja,” Gopal replied with conviction, “I haven’t found my medicine. If I find it, I’ll survive. Without it, no injection can save me.”
“What medicine?” Guruji inquired, intrigued.
“There’s an insect that comes and lives on the Tuvvar plant (Pigeon pea/Arhar),” Gopal explained. “If I find and eat just one, nothing will happen to me.”
And so, he went searching for this elusive remedy. When he returned after a few days, a triumphant smile lit up his face. Guruji enquired – “Dorkinda ni mandu” –(Did you find you medicine) to which Gopal replied “ Andukey kada bratakiunnanu swamy“ (I found it, Swamy! That’s why I’m alive now,” he declared, his faith restored).
Fast Forward: Kishtu’s Saline Fix
Years later, a new generation of Kolam artisans arrived at the ashram – Guruji identified them from his school and brought them to Ashram. Among them Kishtu, a young craftsman of exceptional talent. Though polio had taken his left leg, Kishtu’s spirit remained indomitable. His hands, as strong as his will, transformed raw blocks of wood into masterpieces of craftsmanship.
I spent six months working alongside him and others like Shyam Rao, Tulsidas, and Vasant. Our evenings were filled with Prarthana, music, and spirited challenges. Shyam Rao and Tulsidas would beat rhythms on the dhol, while Kishtu, defying all expectations, would walk on his hands, daring anyone to match his feat. No one ever could.
Those days, in the bloom of my early teens, were nothing short of magical. I was an active participant in the myriad activities that unfolded at the Ashram, and the Turning-Wood workshop, in particular, was a truly enriching experience. A wooden block, fixed between nails, would rotate as we skillfully smoothed its surface and shaped it with a sharp-edged tool. Lac, heated over coal until it began to melt, was then mixed with natural colors and set aside to solidify. This lac, once applied to the crafted pieces, imbued them with vibrant colors that, when polished with a special long leaf, shone with an almost ethereal brilliance.
Kishtu, with remarkable aptitude, soon mastered the craft. His creations were impeccable, exhibiting perfect symmetry, a flawless polish, and exquisite finishing. We experimented with various methods, from turning the wood on motorized machines to hand-turned fixtures, and even ingeniously creating a turning machine by pedaling a bicycle. All these efforts were made in a bid to adapt the work to the resources available to us.
In time, Kishtu found his path to livelihood, establishing his craft in his village of Khadki. People came to him from far and wide, seeking his expertise for various requirements, as his reputation as a master craftsman spread.
One day at ashram, Kishtu fell ill. It was nothing serious—just a fever—but his recovery was slow. Herbal remedies by Ushanna tata brought him back to his feet, yet a shadow of fatigue lingered. “I still feel weak, Amma,” he confessed.
Guruji, sensing his unease, asked, “What would make you feel better, Kishtu?”
Shyly, Kishtu replied, “If I get a saline drip, I’ll be fine.”
Understanding his psychological requirement, Guruji arranged it. As the saline coursed through his veins, relief washed over Kishtu. Within days, he was back on his hands, defying gravity and playing the dhol with renewed vigor.
A Reflection on Belief and Change
It is fascinating to consider how two individuals, Gopal and Kishtu, both bearing names derived from Shri Krishna, reflected vastly different beliefs. Gopal anchored himself in ancestral remedies, drawing comfort from the enduring rhythms of tradition. Kishtu, separated by a generational gap of 30 years, found solace in the modern precision of a saline drip.
Gopal felt incomplete without his insect cure, while Kishtu remained restless until the saline restored him.
The essence of Krishna lived on in both—one dancing to the tunes of a peacock, the other walking on his hands to the beat of a dhol. Over time, their belief systems reflected a subtle shift: one Krishna (Dakkali Gopal) relied on the certainty of his own knowledge, while the other (Kishtu) placed trust in someone else’s wisdom. Both found healing in their unique ways, yet their beliefs seemed to have quietly traded places over time.
Kishtu, with remarkable aptitude, soon mastered the craft. His creations were impeccable, exhibiting perfect symmetry, a flawless polish, and exquisite finishing. We experimented with various methods, from turning the wood on motorized machines to hand-turned fixtures, and even ingeniously creating a turning machine by pedaling a bicycle. All these efforts were made in a bid to adapt the work to the resources available to us.
In time, Kishtu found his path to livelihood, establishing his craft in his village of Khadki. People came to him from far and wide, seeking his expertise for various requirements, as his reputation as a master craftsman spread.
One day at ashram, Kishtu fell ill. It was nothing serious—just a fever—but his recovery was slow. Herbal remedies by Ushanna tata brought him back to his feet, yet a shadow of fatigue lingered. “I still feel weak, Amma,” he confessed.
Guruji, sensing his unease, asked, “What would make you feel better, Kishtu?”
Shyly, Kishtu replied, “If I get a saline drip, I’ll be fine.”
Understanding his psychological requirement, Guruji arranged it. As the saline coursed through his veins, relief washed over Kishtu. Within days, he was back on his hands, defying gravity and playing the dhol with renewed vigor.
A Reflection on Belief and Change
It is fascinating to consider how two individuals, Gopal and Kishtu, both bearing names derived from Shri Krishna, reflected vastly different beliefs. Gopal anchored himself in ancestral remedies, drawing comfort from the enduring rhythms of tradition. Kishtu, separated by a generational gap of 30 years, found solace in the modern precision of a saline drip.
Gopal felt incomplete without his insect cure, while Kishtu remained restless until the saline restored him.
The essence of Krishna lived on in both—one dancing to the tunes of a peacock, the other walking on his hands to the beat of a dhol. Over time, their belief systems reflected a subtle shift: one Krishna (Dakkali Gopal) relied on the certainty of his own knowledge, while the other (Kishtu) placed trust in someone else’s wisdom. Both found healing in their unique ways, yet their beliefs seemed to have quietly traded places over time
Dhol – Kinnera and Breakdance!
5 January 2025Apurv Sharma
One fine afternoon in the early 1990s, Guruji sat in a moving bus of the then APRTC, gazing out at a distant uru (village in Telugu).
His attention was suddenly drawn to a man in the distance. Adorned in a vibrant pink turban, carrying a peculiar musical instrument, and exuding an air of mystery, the figure disappeared into the maze of mud walls and narrow lanes before Guruji could investigate. Amma, sitting beside him, limited his ability to leap off the bus and chase after the man at that moment.
Curious, I asked Amma, “Phir kya kiya?” (What did he do next?)
She replied in her own way, “Phir kya!—Gaye bhaag ke, do-teen din baad dhoondhne ko.” (What else—He went back, a few days later, to search for him.)
A few days later, he returned to the area and began making inquiries. The villagers responded with a knowing smile. “Ahh, – Dakkal Gopal anukunta”! (You must be talking about Dakkal Gopal,”) said Rajanna. “He’s not around right now, but he’ll return perhaps in a day or two.”
True to his nature, Guruji returned and found colorful Gopal wandering through the village, sitting down with him, Guruji struck up a conversation over a shared smoke, forging a bond with the man. And so, Dakkali Gopal—a man from the Kinnera community known for their vibrant singing and narration of the Jati- puran for Madiga’s (leather craftsman community)—became a cherished part of Guruji’s circle and a frequent visitor to the ashram.
Gopal kaka was unforgettable. His attire—a simple dhoti, kurta, and a colorful turban—was punctuated by a magnificent mustache and yellowed eyes that looked like a lot of dust had settled in his sclera through his wanderings. Over his shoulder, he carried a well-worn jhola, and in his hand, he held his Vaadya (Dakkali Kinnera)—a remarkable instrument crowned with a handcrafted peacock that seemed to come alive with every tune he played.
Whenever Gopal arrived at the ashram, it was as though a festival had descended upon us. We, the children, would flock to him, eager to experience the magic of his performances. With the very first note from his Dakkali Kinnera, he’d instruct, “Arre, Moora! Zara naach k dikha bachhon ko!” (O Dear peacock, show these children some moves!) And, as if enchanted by his command, the peacock ornament atop his Kinnera seemed to spring to life, its vibrant feathers quivering in perfect harmony with the rhythm.
Mesmerized, we would clap and cheer, utterly lost in the moment. But mischief was our constant companion. One of my cousins, a notorious prankster, saw his chance when no one was looking. Grabbing the Kinnera when no one was around, he mimicked Gopal’s dramatic stance and declared, “Arre Moora, bahut hua tera- ab zara breakdance karke dikha!” (O peacock, now show us some breakdance moves!) The room exploded with laughter, the ashram ringing with the pure, carefree joy of our childhood.
Initially, Gopal would only come to sleep at the ashram, always declining food. “I have my own people,” he’d say proudly. “They’ll feed me.” And indeed, he would march into the homes of nearby Maadhiga (Leather craftsman) families, who welcomed him with unquestioning warmth. Over time, however, Amma’s cooking won him over. Soon, he was savoring her sabzi, achar, and full meals, always bringing a pumpkin or some wild variety of Jujuba as a humble gift for the children.
One evening, after Guruji had left for his family home, Gopal and Ushanna Tata were the only ones at the ashram. Wrapped in a blanket, Gopal ventured outside but was unfortunately bitten by a dog. The next morning, Guruji and Amma wasted no time. Amma took Gopal to the hospital, where she insisted that he receive a full course of rabies injections.
Though Gopal complied, he remained uneasy. A day or to later, Guruji asked, “What’s troubling you, Gopal? Why do you still seem anxious?”
“Maharaja,” Gopal replied with conviction, “I haven’t found my medicine. If I find it, I’ll survive. Without it, no injection can save me.”
“What medicine?” Guruji inquired, intrigued.
“There’s an insect that comes and lives on the Tuvvar plant (Pigeon pea/Arhar),” Gopal explained. “If I find and eat just one, nothing will happen to me.”
And so, he went searching for this elusive remedy. When he returned after a few days, a triumphant smile lit up his face. Guruji enquired – “Dorkinda ni mandu” –(Did you find you medicine) to which Gopal replied “ Andukey kada bratakiunnanu swamy“ (I found it, Swamy! That’s why I’m alive now,” he declared, his faith restored).
Fast Forward: Kishtu’s Saline Fix
Years later, a new generation of Kolam artisans arrived at the ashram – Guruji identified them from his school and brought them to Ashram. Among them Kishtu, a young craftsman of exceptional talent. Though polio had taken his left leg, Kishtu’s spirit remained indomitable. His hands, as strong as his will, transformed raw blocks of wood into masterpieces of craftsmanship.
I spent six months working alongside him and others like Shyam Rao, Tulsidas, and Vasant. Our evenings were filled with Prarthana, music, and spirited challenges. Shyam Rao and Tulsidas would beat rhythms on the dhol, while Kishtu, defying all expectations, would walk on his hands, daring anyone to match his feat. No one ever could.
Those days, in the bloom of my early teens, were nothing short of magical. I was an active participant in the myriad activities that unfolded at the Ashram, and the Turning-Wood workshop, in particular, was a truly enriching experience. A wooden block, fixed between nails, would rotate as we skillfully smoothed its surface and shaped it with a sharp-edged tool. Lac, heated over coal until it began to melt, was then mixed with natural colors and set aside to solidify. This lac, once applied to the crafted pieces, imbued them with vibrant colors that, when polished with a special long leaf, shone with an almost ethereal brilliance.
Kishtu, with remarkable aptitude, soon mastered the craft. His creations were impeccable, exhibiting perfect symmetry, a flawless polish, and exquisite finishing. We experimented with various methods, from turning the wood on motorized machines to hand-turned fixtures, and even ingeniously creating a turning machine by pedaling a bicycle. All these efforts were made in a bid to adapt the work to the resources available to us.
In time, Kishtu found his path to livelihood, establishing his craft in his village of Khadki. People came to him from far and wide, seeking his expertise for various requirements, as his reputation as a master craftsman spread.
One day at ashram, Kishtu fell ill. It was nothing serious—just a fever—but his recovery was slow. Herbal remedies by Ushanna tata brought him back to his feet, yet a shadow of fatigue lingered. “I still feel weak, Amma,” he confessed.
Guruji, sensing his unease, asked, “What would make you feel better, Kishtu?”
Shyly, Kishtu replied, “If I get a saline drip, I’ll be fine.”
Understanding his psychological requirement, Guruji arranged it. As the saline coursed through his veins, relief washed over Kishtu. Within days, he was back on his hands, defying gravity and playing the dhol with renewed vigor.
A Reflection on Belief and Change
It is fascinating to consider how two individuals, Gopal and Kishtu, both bearing names derived from Shri Krishna, reflected vastly different beliefs. Gopal anchored himself in ancestral remedies, drawing comfort from the enduring rhythms of tradition. Kishtu, separated by a generational gap of 30 years, found solace in the modern precision of a saline drip.
Gopal felt incomplete without his insect cure, while Kishtu remained restless until the saline restored him.
The essence of Krishna lived on in both—one dancing to the tunes of a peacock, the other walking on his hands to the beat of a dhol. Over time, their belief systems reflected a subtle shift: one Krishna (Dakkali Gopal) relied on the certainty of his own knowledge, while the other (Kishtu) placed trust in someone else’s wisdom. Both found healing in their unique ways, yet their beliefs seemed to have quietly traded places over time.
Kishtu, with remarkable aptitude, soon mastered the craft. His creations were impeccable, exhibiting perfect symmetry, a flawless polish, and exquisite finishing. We experimented with various methods, from turning the wood on motorized machines to hand-turned fixtures, and even ingeniously creating a turning machine by pedaling a bicycle. All these efforts were made in a bid to adapt the work to the resources available to us.
In time, Kishtu found his path to livelihood, establishing his craft in his village of Khadki. People came to him from far and wide, seeking his expertise for various requirements, as his reputation as a master craftsman spread.
One day at ashram, Kishtu fell ill. It was nothing serious—just a fever—but his recovery was slow. Herbal remedies by Ushanna tata brought him back to his feet, yet a shadow of fatigue lingered. “I still feel weak, Amma,” he confessed.
Guruji, sensing his unease, asked, “What would make you feel better, Kishtu?”
Shyly, Kishtu replied, “If I get a saline drip, I’ll be fine.”
Understanding his psychological requirement, Guruji arranged it. As the saline coursed through his veins, relief washed over Kishtu. Within days, he was back on his hands, defying gravity and playing the dhol with renewed vigor.
A Reflection on Belief and Change
It is fascinating to consider how two individuals, Gopal and Kishtu, both bearing names derived from Shri Krishna, reflected vastly different beliefs. Gopal anchored himself in ancestral remedies, drawing comfort from the enduring rhythms of tradition. Kishtu, separated by a generational gap of 30 years, found solace in the modern precision of a saline drip.
Gopal felt incomplete without his insect cure, while Kishtu remained restless until the saline restored him.
The essence of Krishna lived on in both—one dancing to the tunes of a peacock, the other walking on his hands to the beat of a dhol. Over time, their belief systems reflected a subtle shift: one Krishna (Dakkali Gopal) relied on the certainty of his own knowledge, while the other (Kishtu) placed trust in someone else’s wisdom. Both found healing in their unique ways, yet their beliefs seemed to have quietly traded places over time
Dhol – Kinnera and Breakdance! - सार्थक संवाद Apurv Sharma All Articles, Blog, Guruji Ravindra Sharma, Memoirs of Guruji Ravindra Sharma ji https://saarthaksamvaad.in/dhol-kinnera-and-breakdance/
Kala Ashram has had the privilege of hosting two Krishnas, each appearing in distinct forms and separated by a few years. Dive into this beautiful narration by Apurv Sharma and witness the magic of these two Krishnas.
saarthaksamvaad.in
Sharma Ji
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nationalists everywhere either on the ascendancy or ruling proper.
illegal aliens ki fati padi hogi is time in USA, expect quite a few desis to come in lapeta too, along with mostly Mexican and South Americans.. brownies and blackies ka scene bad hone wala hai.
Lulldapull
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@Vsdoc ......Garam soup in cold Tehran bhai......ye koi kar k dikhaey Karachi ya Lahore main. Do mintt main you get robbed or probably far worse an outcome for a single girl doing business. Begherat subcontinent can't even empower women on a societal level to be independent no? Women vendors working independently on the street is hard to imagine in our region. Its a totally diff culture doc. They'd harass that girl till she dies or gets kidnapped and whatnot in our region:
Sharma Ji
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I get what you're saying but itna bura bhi nahi hai, at least here in India major cities. There's Uber etc ki exclusively women drivers, all times at night.
Lots of women hawkers, chai mamas (as we call em here, boiled bhutta with maska, hot chai, cigarette vendors.. all gaon ki ladies) .. not everywhere, but certain nightspots, all night long.
Tu much bhi na karey kar, Iraan Iran le ke
------------------
Overall, but, muchos saaf suthra than here in South Asia., that much we agree.. also pains me... civic sense nahi hai idhar ke logon ko.
Egypt bhi isi type ka hai, gandagi everywhere, Gulfies/Emiratis are ekdum tichh.. Yemen must be a dump too.
Its very holepess in India, this gandagi xhit.. one take take great care in lot littering about and segerating your garbage like xutias.. end me jaa ke they just burn the entire lot together apart from a select few recyclables they can make some coin on.
bhot dil dukhta hai, pristine se pristive tanatan locations pe bhi wrappers, buds, plastic ki gangadi, someone doing susu randomly mil jayega... very sad.
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