We started our journey early in the morning, the hills still half asleep under a pale blue sky. As the road wound past government buildings toward Koraput, we noticed women alighting from autos laden with assortments of goods. Some were carrying sal leaves, while others had wicker baskets overflowing with vegetables. I asked our driver where they were headed.
“The weekly haat in Koraput,” he replied. “Would you like to see it?” he cautiously asked.
We all said yes. A small detour took us to the lively haat. The atmosphere was alive with colour and chatter, vendors calling out, baskets brimming with bright fruits, spices, and handmade crafts. Among them were a few Bonda tribal women, their silver ornaments gleaming in the morning light.
After exploring the haat on foot, we started again for our original destination: to meet the Bonda Tribe in their village and understand their way of life more closely.
It was late morning by the time we reached the winding roads of Bonda Ghati. The sun had climbed high enough to warm the air, though the breeze still held a touch of night’s coolness. The road twisted like a ribbon through the hills, curving past thick green forests and clear streams that sparkled in the sunlight. Fields of wild grass stretched out beside the water, dotted with smooth stones that caught the light like bits of silver.
Finally, we saw small clusters of brown mud huts with terracotta roofs, blending naturally into the earth around them. Wisps of smoke rose from a few hearths, carrying the smell of firewood and boiled rice. Pigs wandered lazily near the fences, while chickens clucked and pecked around the courtyards. Barefoot children ran down the dusty paths, their laughter echoing between the huts. Everything felt so real and unadorned, like a moving painting of life itself.
Yet, when we arrived, the villagers barely looked our way. They went on with their daily chores, women carrying water in clay pots, men sitting beneath trees, their expressions calm but distant. The silence around us felt thick, not unfriendly, but cautious.
Our guides, Lachim and Ghena, finally spoke in a quiet voices. “They don’t welcome city people easily,” .“Most visitors come here only to take pictures, not to understand them.”
Their words hung in the air, and we understood. The distance wasn’t coldness; it was a quiet shield built from being looked at too often, but never truly seen.
In the next village, Lachim helped us speak to a few Bonda women. Through him, we shared why we had come, that our visit wasn’t about photographing faces, it was about understanding and learning about their craft, their jewellery, their ringa cloth that carries the colours of their culture. We said we wanted people to know them not as Curiosities, but as Artists.
At first, they watched us with wary eyes. Then, one woman smiled faintly and brought out strands of bright glass beads—red, yellow, blue, and white. They shimmered in her hands like tiny pieces of a rainbow. Another showed us a ringa, handwoven and full of life. Its texture was coarse yet comforting, like the earth beneath our feet.
“According to what the elders believe,” Lachim said, “when Sita was in exile, while taking a dip unadorned, some Bonda women saw her and laughed. She then cursed the women of this land that they would live away from comfort, away from vanity. The Bonda women cried and requested her to lift the curse. She replied that the curse could not be undone, but she gave them a loincloth from her saree to cover their lower part, which then became the beautiful Ringa textile. She blessed them, saying they would cover themselves with beads and metal on their upper bodies.”
But looking at their distinctive features, accentuated by their adornments, I couldn’t help feeling that it was a blessing for them rather than a curse.
As we watched, the meaning of his words unfolded before us. What began as a curse had become their art, a living expression of pride and beauty shaped from restraint. The glass beads they strung, the ringa they wove, the iron ornaments they crafted, each carried a story that had outlasted centuries. Their jewellery wasn’t just adornment; it was inexplicably intertwined with their identity. Each bead and thread spoke of their bond with nature, their endurance, and their unbroken connection with an ancient way of life. The ringa’s vivid patterns mirrored the colours of the forest and the fire of their spirit.
Slowly, the silence began to melt away. By noon, the golden light rested gently on every roof and smiling face. The mud walls glowed, the leaves on the roofs rustled softly, and it felt as if the village had opened its heart, letting us in, not as strangers, but as companions in its quiet rhythm of life.
To be continued…
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