Nomadic life: Being everywhere, being nowhere

With space shrinking for the itinerant life, nomadic communities are trying to fit into a world built for the settled. The ‘mainstream’ can’t understand them, and they find even getting an Aadhaar card an ordeal.

The Dombi Dasas have been entertainers since time immemorial. Moving from village to village, they put up plays and sang songs, living on alms that could range from grains to chickens.

In 2017, I picked up a slim book called ‘Alemariya Antharanga’ (The Inner Life of a Nomad). It caught my attention for two reasons. It had won an award from the Karnataka Sahitya Academy, and it was said to be the first complete autobiography in Kannada written by someone of nomadic origin. The opening line drew me in: “Appa owned nothing. There was nothing in the whole wide world that he could call his own.”

When I met its author, Kuppe Nagaraja of the semi-nomadic Dombi Dasa community, he said, “Everything was ours in a sense. We were free to go wherever we wanted. People respected our singing and acting. They showered us with love. But we owned no land, no houses. We had no schooling, no jobs. It was like we were everywhere, and at the same time, we were nowhere.”

In the 1950s-60s, Nagaraja's father was a popular actor and singer in the Hunsur and K R Nagar taluks of Mysuru district. He was their very own Charlie Chaplin. He brought comic flair to every character, as servant, minister, sidekick, angel, or ghost. He would rescue fellow actors who forgot their lines by using Murugu, a coded language unique to their community. His ‘joker roles’ became so popular that people began calling him ‘Kodangaiah’— the one who played the kodangi (jester or clown). The name stuck and even made its way into official records.

The family moved to wherever the rains were good, to places where the villagers might part with some grains. They camped under the trees on the outskirts of the villages, or if a landlord was ‘kind’, in his backyard. But every family used to have geographical boundaries for performing. “Once, one of my uncles gave the performing rights to a hobli (a revenue unit covering several villages) to his son-in-law as a gift. We were the absolute owners of the world, in a sense,” Nagaraja told me.

These performers once brought to life the enchanted worlds of kings and queens, gods and demons, and celestial beings. They put up all-night shows on makeshift stages under peepal trees, outside temples, and in village squares, using saris and panches borrowed from villagers to create improvised costumes. By the 1970s, however, they faced a formidable threat: cinema. Yet the community pushed on. With the advent of satellite television in the 1990s, they lost cultural relevance in rural society. “On the one hand, the agrarian crisis swept through the villages, leaving people with no grains to spare. On the other, TVs and VCRs put an end to traditional performances,” Nagaraja explained.

Many in his community now eke out a living by hawking odds and ends. “Seeking alms was not beggary. It was an act of forgoing the ego and seeking alms in the name of god. It was a performance by Dasas, servants of god,” he said. The word ‘dombi’ loosely translates to ‘noise’ in Kannada, while ‘dasa’ reflects their spiritual devotion. They are followers of Vishnu.

Nagaraja, now 63, did not follow his family profession as his mother insisted he study. When he sought admission to class 8 in Hunsur, a clerk shouted at him: “Dombi Dasa? I have never heard of it! Why do you people enrol and give us so much trouble?” Nagaraja, then 12, was left sobbing. He never told his friends his caste, and asked his parents not to visit the school. He feared being ridiculed. “We were often called ‘henna veshadavru’ — men who played women in dramas,” he recalled.

A BCom graduate, Nagaraja retired as a Group A officer in the Karnataka government’s treasury department. He knows of no one else from his community who has held such a high-ranking position. He was also associated with All Karnataka Association for Nomadic Communities for nearly three decades.

The members of Kolebasava community roam sings in exchange for alms.

Visibly invisible

My 2018 meeting with Nagaraja grew into a collaboration. I went on to translate his book into English as ‘Ekathaari: An Autobiography of a Nomad’. I teach English at a government PU college in Hunsur. I wanted his story to be heard. I was intrigued by the duality of belonging yet not belonging, of being visible yet not visible.

In August this year, I watched a person of nomadic origin crying his heart out on TV. He was protesting the Karnataka government’s refusal to implement a separate 1% quota for nomadic and semi-nomadic castes, as recommended by the Justice Nagamohan Das Commission. “We are orphans in this numbers-driven democracy. We have neither the numbers nor the political clout to explain our pain to this vast society,” he said. According to the commission’s survey, 59 of the 101 SC castes have been categorised as ‘most backward’. Most of these 59 castes are nomadic and semi-nomadic.

Fighting prejudice

The status of nomadic and semi-nomadic castes varies; some were once considered untouchable.

Growing up in a small village near Tumakuru, I often saw groups of 20-25 people living under two large banyan trees on the outskirts. When I asked my elders who they were, they would say “alemarigalu” (nomads). I must have been seven when I saw them come to our door for alms, singing and playing the harmonium. Every day, I passed those banyan trees on my way to school but the elders had strictly warned me not to speak to these families.

By the time I reached my teens, the neighbouring city of Tumakuru had absorbed our village, and the people camping under the banyan trees had vanished. I often looked for them. I had so many questions. While I lived under an asbestos roof, with separate rooms for cooking and sleeping, they cooked, ate, and slept under the tree canopy. When it rained, they took shelter in temples and abandoned buildings. They carried a few things, like aluminium and clay pots, mats, and old saris that they would tie to tree branches to cradle their infants. I never saw the older children go to school or play with others from the village.

In my late teens, I started reading books on caste and social inequality. Around that time, I met a person of nomadic origin at a study camp organised by a group that took inspiration from socialist leader Ram Manohar Lohia. He belonged to the Handi Jogi community. One day, our conversation turned to his family. “My people tend pigs. People love our pork and come looking for it. Our homes are on the fringes of villages. Their eyes fall on the pigs, but they never notice how small our huts are,” he said. The year was 1995. By then, he was studying law, and I was pursuing a course in literature. He credited his father’s “foresight” and “daredevilry” that allowed him and his two elder brothers to get so far in their education.

In the late 1980s, his family lived on the outskirts of a large village near Chikkamagaluru. As far as he could recall, it was their fourth or fifth temporary home. His brothers were bright students and had managed to continue their schooling despite “gaps here and there”. This time, they were particularly fortunate. Their settlement was near a government high school, and a teacher had taken an interest in them. Both brothers cleared their Class 10 public exams.

Their success, he recalled, angered some upper-caste families whose children had failed. “How dare a pig herder’s children pass! If they are not taught a lesson today, who knows what may happen tomorrow?” — such warnings began circulating in the village. His father got wind of it. Under the cover of darkness, the family slipped out of the village. They walked all night, boarded a train, and reached Tumakuru, about 250 km away. My friend joined a government high school, and his brothers enrolled in a government PU college. One of his brothers went on to complete his MBBS, becoming the first medical doctor from the Handi Jogi caste. My friend is now an advocate practising at the Karnataka high court.

Two members from the Budbudike community.

Cut off from society

The Dombi Dasa community, Nagaraja says, was content with a nomadic life. However, changes in the 1970s and ’80s, such as land grants to landless families, housing sites for the homeless, and assistance to build homes, disrupted their way of life. “Our people didn’t know how to till the land. They lacked the knowledge to become farmers. Even when the government allotted land to us in the late 1980s, many didn’t claim it; it went against their traditional way of life. The unclaimed lands were later distributed to poor families from other castes,” he explained.

This reluctance to accept land was also rooted in centuries of marginalisation. For instance, Nagaraja’s family feared that accepting government benefits would anger the dominant castes who had been ‘kind’ to them, without recognising that such kindness existed within
a status quo that kept communities like theirs in poverty.

Even schooling clashed with their nomadic lifestyle. Shivanna, who has taught children from nomadic communities at state-run residential schools in Hunsur for almost three decades, recalled: “In the 1970s, no nomadic students came to our school. Later, one or two arrived, often only after officials persuaded their families to send them. Reaching these families was difficult. They moved every few days. For the children, interacting with others in a school setting was terrifying. Many would run away within a day or two. Some were withdrawn by their parents as they prepared to migrate again.”

Folklore expert Kuruva Basavaraju describes nomadic communities as “the eternal orphans of our society”. Those who relied on animals for entertainment, like the Dombaru and Kardiyatadavaru, suffered when such practices were outlawed. Communities that performed mythological roles and sought alms, like the Hagalu Veshadavaru, struggled against modern entertainment and the shrinking of public spaces where they once performed. Some turned to selling bindis, picking rags, and repairing umbrellas, but even these livelihoods are becoming obsolete. “With newer models of gas stoves and umbrellas entering the market, those who took up repair work are struggling again,” said Nagaraja. He added that the nomadic communities who were once deemed untouchable have suffered the most. As a result, some groups became disconnected from the rest of society.

This reality was brought home to me by a student two years ago. She hailed from the nomadic Hakki Pikki community, which now sells herbal medicines — their traditional occupation of bird hunting was outlawed in the 1970s. Occasionally, a few girls from this community enrol at the college where I teach, but most drop out. They are forced to travel to distant places, as far as Africa, with their parents to sell medicines. Unlike most, this girl was about to complete her studies. She was bright. When I asked about her future, she said, “I won’t continue my education, sir. We have loans to clear. My mother says education doesn’t help us. No one from our colony has a government job. Neighbours in the village won’t accept us if we take up jobs.”

Her colony was set up by the government in the late 1970s near Hunsur to rehabilitate Hakki Pikkis. Half a century later, the community still lives as an island unto itself. The globe-trotting Hakki Pikkis face other challenges as well. Their traditional medicine is not legally recognised, often putting them at odds with authorities and leading to legal problems. Her mother was imprisoned in an African country; efforts to secure her release were underway while the girl wrote her exams. Her marks card still remains unclaimed.

Where’s the proof?

Modernity itself is hardly nomad-friendly, demanding identities and proof that they exist. “Many lack documents like ration cards and Aadhaar because they have no permanent housing. Even those with documents struggle. Mistakes during enumeration can place them in entirely different categories. Dombi Dasa, residing primarily in south Karnataka, is classified as a backward caste, while Chenna Dasa, primarily in north Karnataka, is listed as a scheduled caste,” Nagaraja says.

For Venkataswamaiah, a Dombi Dasa elder in his seventies, the struggle for recognition is not merely bureaucratic. Since childhood, he has captivated villages with puranic tales, passing on their teachings through his art. Today, he is one of only three practising performers left in Shanubhoganahalli, a village he describes as a cultural hub for his community. Yet when he approached the Kannada and Culture department to avail of its artiste pension scheme a year ago, he claims he was asked to provide proof: photographs of performances and attestations from cultural organisations. “Can’t they see I am an artiste? This is not my profession but my way of life. What’s there to prove?” he asked, dejected, gazing at his ekathaari, the one-stringed instrument.

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