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Images: courtesy - Nidhi Dugar Kundalia.

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Sights, Sounds And Professions Of A Bygone Era

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On the subcontinent, several professions which were passed on within families from one generation to the next have become redundant in the 21st Century, gradually slipping away into history.

In her new book, ‘The Lost Generation‘, author Nidhi Dugar Kundalia chronicles the "dying professions" of the subcontinent.


SCRIBES

Back in the Mughal era, calligraphy was considered a virtuous and pious act and katibs (scribes) were deeply revered by the kings, princes and noblemen. It was considered the pinnacle of divinity, and the artist was uplifted along with it.

Members of the royal family often learnt calligraphy from the finest experts and offered them high positions in their courts.

Wasim Ahmed, a scribe and teacher of Urdu, Persian and Arabic calligraphy, has been practising the art for over 30 years. He once inscribed books and made hand-drawn posters, both flawless in terms of fine design and flawed in the slight caprices of an artist's hand.

They were then sent to the printers to be replicated and sold to be hung in the homes and offices of people who believed that the sacred verses would bring them good vibes and luck.

But Mr Ahmed and others like him have long lost the patronage and the benefits that came with calligraphy

Their final death knell came with the introduction of the Urdu font on computers which had been difficult to create until now.


RUDAALIS - PROFESSIONAL MOURNERS

In the Thar desert in the western state of Rajasthan, where women from privileged backgrounds are expected to preserve their dignity by not exhibiting their emotions in front of commoners, the so-called Hindu lower-caste rudaalis are called in to mourn for them.

As soon as a man is on his deathbed, the rudaalis are called in for the imminent death rituals. After death, the rudaalis sitting amidst the women in their black scarves, break into action -- crying out aloud, tossing their heads, and wailing to the heavens, beating their chests and slapping the ground in front of them.

"Arrey, tharo toh suhag giyore (Oh, your husband is now dead)," they cry, holding the widow's hands.

"What is the reason for your existence in this world now," they wail, beating their chest.

This performance goes on for 12 days after a death. A longer mourning period is designed to display the family's affluence, and the more theatrical the act, the more it is spoken about in the homes of the neighbours.

Over the years, with rising literacy rates and migrations, families now prefer sophisticated, quieter funerals and the rudaalis are increasingly losing their relevance, being pushed to the realms of obscurity.


THE STREET DENTIST

Amrit Singh's humble office is a tidy, albeit dusty, street shop outside the iconic structure of the MS Baroda University.

Beyond the periphery of its walls, wraith-like domes and minarets, in the looming dusk, he squats on a cobbled pavement, his tools arrayed on a cloth - a few dentures, blindingly white and intended to dazzle, are displayed along with jars, bottles and a tin box that holds extra dental tools.

There's no mortar-and-brick structure, no ritzy chairs, no surgical light head.

He won't give you long names for diseases and you can drop in when you pass by the shop; patients just pull up a bamboo stool and Amrit will wipe hands on his pants and boot out any pain from their mouth with his corroded set of pliers.

These street dentists learned their skills mostly from the Hubei community of China, who came looking for work on the subcontinent in the early 1900s.

Post-independence, regulations in dentistry practices were introduced, rendering street dentistry illegal but they continued to thrive in the dark underbelly of the land, tending to those for whom licensed dental services are still unaffordable.

But the government is anxious to clean up the pavements for the recent plans to develop a world-class tourism industry, where the street dentists are nothing but a source of embarrassment.

GENEALOGIST

Hardwar is the Mecca for Hindus - it's a kind of a mass crematorium and, at the same time, an address for temples and influential so-called ‘godmen’ with millions of followers.

After a death in a Hindu family, male members travel down to Hardwar to cremate their kinfolk by pouring their ashes in the Ganges, a river ‘holy’ to Hindus, in a ceremony conducted by the family "panda" - priests who double up as genealogists.

They are also in charge of the family register, of updating the family's genealogical tree with details of marriages, births and deaths.

The reason for their existence has to do with the Hindu belief that the family is everlasting and comprehensive and that each Hindu must "look out" for his ancestors and perform ceremonies for their journey heavenwards and immortalise them by recording their names in the genealogical registers known as "vahis".

Over the years, digitisation of their records and increasing scientific worldview are eating into the pandas' work, raising greater doubts about the value of ritual and religious actions.

Many have dropped out of the profession, finding lucrative options in the growing tourism industry in Hardwar as hotel managers and owners.

But some pandas, like Mahendra Kumar continue to work, bound to their clients by inherited religious pledges and for financial reasons.


ITTARWALLA - THE PERFUME MAN

Before they bought a box-sized shop, Syed Abdul Gaffar's ancestors sold their wares from a wooden box that hung around their necks, walking the streets with many other hawkers, including bear dancers, rope walkers, mango sellers, carders who buffed cotton in old quilts and pedicurists who cleaned the feet of privileged women with rose water.

They moved about the lanes of the old city that were lined with the nouveau riche homes of nobles and relatives of the Nawabs, former rulers of the region.

The ittarwallahs would be invited in and the women would buy their scented wares - a vial of "raat ki rani", a flowery scent reminiscent of breathing the warm night air, or jasmine that would lure their husbands to their beds.

Gaffar now sells the ittar (perfumes) he makes to the few discerning customers who still have a nose for it.

"I have never made synthetic perfumes. It's immoral," he says.

There is an increasing demand for branded synthetic perfumes which are more cost effective.

"But this is all I know," he says. "I can't sit at home with my granddaughters and do nothing but eat and sleep, can I?"


Edited for sikhchic.com
January 19, 2016

 

Conversation about this article

1: Jasleen Kaur (USA), January 19, 2016, 7:28 AM.

This is a very thought-provoking article and makes me sad. What was the "creep of modern life" in the past is now happening at breakneck speed. Too fast for a new balance. As we hurtle toward the "modern" life, we are leaving behind centuries of tradition which are being replaced by nothing solid.

2: Hardev Singh (Richmond Hill, Ontario, Canada), January 19, 2016, 3:04 PM.

Interesting. Exponential pace of time, centuries are fading within years all around us.

3: Sangat Singh  (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia ), January 19, 2016, 8:03 PM.

You might want to include the erstwhile roadside photographer with his camera with built in processing unit, now overtaken by mobile cameras. Then, of course, was the roadside mesmerism with his agent lying on the ground and covered by a white sheet and intoning "Tum khon mein mehool tum knon mein amal," whatever that meant. Then there were the bunch that cleaned out wax from ears and would be wearing a red sort of typical tiny turban. There were roadside astrologers and the ones with a bird (a parrot usually) who would pick a random envelope with an answer in it. What a lovely spectacle to beat today's soaps. And, of course, the 'lalaree' to colour and starch your six foot turbans. All that roadside fun is gone now.

4: Sangat Singh (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), January 20, 2016, 7:26 AM.

Rudaalis were in full swing with their lament: "Oh, you have to go to a place where there is no food, no water, and no shelter ..." Just then a maraasi and his son were passing by this house in grief and heard the rudaalis banging their heads and wailing. "Bapu," said the little boy, "is he going to our house?"

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