Dombaris

Touch the underside of a penny you find on the street
Doesn't feel any different unless you close your eyes ― Dave Matthes

The newspaper had a last corner reserved for an article on the Dombaris. The producer of the film expressed about his oncoming  film that tackled the lives of gypsies in India called Dombaris. The Domba or Dom (Sanskrit ḍoma, dialectally also Domaki, Dombo, Domra, Domaka, Dombar, Dombari and variants) are an ethnic  or social group, or groups, scattered across India.(wiki.0rg) Dombaris are nomads therefore do not have Adhar Card or any other proof of identity. Their moves are dangerous and once in a while they die performing the act. It caught my eyes owing to the association of the word with the Telugu language. It hasn’t been long since I met a Dombaris family.  The large open space between the shops in the open lane leading to Chintamani Chowk in Pune has an array of people occupying the space periodically. Just before Diwali the space was occupied by brisk vendors to sell their wares. During Dusshera the flower sellers and the street hawkers occupied the space. Many times beggars and  stray dogs inhabit it displaying an irony in life equalizing human beings with animals.

A few months back there lived a family of  gypsies for a short period. In the mornings I could see them  open  their possessions that had been carefully packed the previous night, and getting them ready to show human stunts that vaguely resembled the monkey tricks, their daughter, little Neela was no less than a monkey in her antics and gusto. Neela was a seven year old girl who wore  frocks when she wasn’t presenting her tricks. Her skin was brown, sun tanned with ill kept brown hair that was combed laboriously by her mother as she was the heroine of every act. Her brown eyes searched for her little brother who followed her everywhere with a toothless smile. Neela was lean and nimble and would run behind her baby brother Shiva as he crawled away to new unknown places. She feared that the vehicles would run over her little brother. Her constant care kept the family free to collect money and cook for themselves in the evenings. One morning as I was leaving early I saw Neela standing near a tea cart. The man  pumped and started the stove after burning the wick of the pumping stove. He had a huge saucepan in which he brewed milk and water with  crushed ginger, spices and tea leaves. He spoke to Neela lovingly as he kept checking the tea by pulling  out  ladles full of the mixture  and dropping it back. He sieved it quickly and gave little Neela her cup of hot tea that brought delight in her eyes. She cupped the tea and sipped it with a  loud drop and looked around. She saw  her brother, Shiva search for her on the opposite side. She left her tea and ran to fetch the little boy. They then sat basking in the sun, sipping the tea  patiently. The little boy carved his arm around her neck and pulled her head forward to place a gentle kiss on her face.

Whenever she heard the loud noise of the kettledrum, she  understood that she needed to hurry back. She would leave her little brother Shiva near her mother and begin rocking the handdrum or a Dumaru rhythmically, in loud and soft drops of sound. In the stillness of the morning the tiny drum made deafening noise attracting people’s attention. As the crowd would begin gathering,  a rope would be made ready for Neela to walk by tethering it at both the ends of elevated bamboos. Neela’s mother played the drums and Neela performed in a beautiful purple frock and leggings. That day was no different, Neela began running efficiently to gain swiftness and perform a few acrobatics. People clapped as she performed the hoopla and somersaults, but what attracted one was the lovely smile that she sported and the immense confidence she displayed. I then saw her climb up the rope. As she walked, she swayed the rope intermittently showing her expertise. Suddenly we heard a loud, angry cry from her mother, she yelled at Neela in anger. We could see her beautiful movements waver as the drum beats slowed. I looked at the frightened face, but Neela managed to cover her feelings. She jumped down with the air of a true acrobat and danced towards little Shiva, the drum beats continued. Shiva had fallen down and was crying in pain and anguish, however, he felt the sweep of a loving hand pick him dancing, moving back. She lovingly handed the baby to her mother and now jumped on the rope once more. She somersaulted and displayed slips, climbs and many more frolics visibly well. 

At the end she snatched little Shiva from her mother’s arms and went around with a bowl to collect money. People heaved rupees and coins in her bowl. Her eyes gleamed with joy as her brother pulled her head near his face. Perhaps the onlookers were moved by the silent adoration of the little one for her brother. A sister’s love is equivalent to gold. She is next to the parent yet closer than a parent. Sibling love knows no boundaries of riches or poverty. It was this invisible act that left a memoir in the hearts of the onlookers.

In photographs of us together,
she is always looking at the camera,
and I am always looking at her.” 
― Jandy Nelson,