The jeep passed his hutment. Malik and his wife were standing in front of it chatting with a couple of friends. Even from a distance, he could sense that the tourists sitting inside the jeep turned their necks. Some of them were discreet. But everyone wanted to catch a glance of the oddity in front of them. Malik and his wife were nothing other than oddities for them.
His wife’s and his curly short hair stood out – his wife’s tied with colourful beads. Round faces, flat noses, pouted lips, raised cheekbones, and most of all, black skin. No one believed, at first glance, that they belonged here. No one felt that their fathers and mothers were sons and daughters of this very soil. No one knew that the five generations before them had been here before most others. Their dress, language, customs, food, which were now like locals, didn’t make any difference. All that mattered was they looked different.
Malik had heard the migration had happened more than four hundred years back. The first batch of his ancestors had come here, the farthest tip on the western coast of India, from Africa then. Some said more – his forefathers were here some eight hundred years back. They said the local kings and traders needed strong people to load and unload the goods from their ships. They found his forefathers capable of it. No one knew for sure of their origins. History didn’t have any significant mention of them. He didn’t care about it. All he knew was that he and his tribe now belonged here.
But no one else seemed to know or care. Tourists passed their tribal village in Talala, next to the Wild Life Sanctuary, like a zoo. He and his tribespeople attracted as many, if not more, looks than the lions in the forest. For Malik Siddi, this was a common occurrence. He felt being a lion might have been better. At least, they were local and provoked fear.
But he and his tribe were still outsiders and provoked awe, curiosity, and suspicion. Sometimes, they evoked laughter, on rare occasions, insults. But almost without exception, he got looks of oddity. That was a predicament he and his tribe faced even so many generations after coming here.
He had fought those looks all his life. His heart had ached many years back when he encountered them for the first time. But he couldn’t change how he looked, and how others looked at him.
By now, in his thirties, he had given up fighting them, and settled into the life of a tribal dancer. The practicalities of living and making a living had taken over.
Later that evening, at around 4 PM, he got a call from the manager of the Jungle Resort.
“Your dance is at 8.30 PM,” he said.
“How many tourists?” Malik asked.
“Around Twenty-five.. The rate is on the lower side. The season has only started,” the manager said.
Malik didn’t ask for more. He knew his time would come, once everything opened up again.
He assembled his troupe. He pooled in another dancer like him. His wife and partner in dance was a permanent fixture on the show – the only woman. Two men who played the drum raised their hands. Everyone had the same look, like him. Marriages outside the tribe had been very rare.
He put on the feathered headgear. It had shades of orange, blue and green. He wrapped the colourful piece of cloth around his waist. She wore her favourite headwrap and neck rings. Malik passed on her waist beads which she tagged on. He put on some paint on his muscular torso.
The drummers wrapped the drums in a multi-colour covering. They put on the white coloured paint below their eyes. The other dancer carried a weapon that made him look like a hunter. It added a flavour of the wild.
The troupe was ready. They reached the resort on time for the show.
The buffet spread was on the right corner of the open ground. There were dim lights on the sides and candles on the dining tables. A raised platform in the centre was the place for their performance. The manager had kept a few chairs and village cots in front of it. A small bonfire added some warmth to the cold evening. A few tourists in stylish winter wear had started having their dinner. A couple of them with mufflers sat on the chairs with soup.
Malik and his troupe walked with their drums and makeup to the platform. They heard a few hushes in the audience. They waited for the audience to settle down. After ten minutes, Malik took the mike and introduced the troupe. He announced that they would start in five minutes.
Malik provided a background on themselves, their tribe, and their special dance form. He spoke in Hindi as well as in Gujarati, the local language. The sight and sound of an Indian dialect from a negroid body made everyone drool. It filled them with surprise – an expression that Malik had come to expect.
The dance, though worth seeing in itself, was not the point. The novelty was the skin of the people who called themselves Indian. They performing it in African style mixed with Indian ethos and language was unique. The entire feel of Africa in an Indian forest was the attraction. Malik knew that very well.
Over the years, he had introduced many elements to the dance. That had made the performance a perfect cocktail of Africa and India. In all honesty, he didn’t know much about the African elements. He was as Indian as everyone else, except for how he looked. But he learnt them and introduced them for the audience.
It was a gimmick that had worked. Today was no different. People in the audience were always astonished that something like that was Indian. They felt proud of their diversity. It was a stark irony.
While he danced, Malik’s mind went to his days from the past. His wife tried to snap him out of it.
When Malik was younger, he had tried going to the city. He wanted to pursue a livelihood elsewhere. He had found it difficult to find a house there. Many landlords felt he might be some sort of drug dealer. Some heaved a sigh of relief when he spoke in the local language. When he wore clothes like locals and ate local food of dal and rice, like he had always done, some of them felt more at peace. After much effort, a landlord gave him a home, albeit with some hesitation.
But when he stepped outside, everyone mistook him to be a foreigner. Wherever he went, people asked for an ID. He made no new friends, till everyone realised how well he spoke the Indian languages. But even that didn’t help in interactions with strangers. He convinced everyone that he was as Indian as everyone else, despite how he looked. Sometimes his name became an impediment. The only jobs he could manage to get after a year of struggle were of a driver and a security guard. He couldn’t keep either of them for long due to misgivings.
When he came back home to get married and took his wife with him, things got even worse. He had learnt to tolerate the looks he had got. But he couldn’t bear the stares she started getting. After a fight with someone, he lost his third job. His wife felt it was time for them to go home. The only home they knew and called their own was this small village in Talala next to the sanctuary. That’s where they came back.
Here, in a sense, with all his tribe around, they felt at home. No one gave him any looks.
Except for the tourists who came to the sanctuary. For them, they were a novelty. An oddity. A rare sight. Like the lions.
A forest guide once realised its business potential on a safari. He spoke to a resort owner who called Malik.
The king of the jungle attracted tourists to Talala. Malik Siddi and his tribe added to the jungle experience with their tribal dance. People loved it. The resorts amplified the story.
That evening, like all others over the years, Malik and his wife danced with intensity. Their chemistry on stage was spellbinding. But more than that, their makeup, the sounds of the drums, the looks of the drummers held everyone’s attention.
Being in a sanctuary, close to the lions, with a tribe that looked African but was Indian, made it unique. The urban tourists had never experienced anything like that before. Seeing this in their own country was special. The atmosphere in the wild life resort was electric. It gave goose bumps to many in the audience.
After the dance, someone from the audience walked across for a brief chat with the tribal dancers. They were always surprised on listening to them speak in the local language. This was something the resort manager had introduced over the past few years. It worked well especially with Malik’s troupe, the most presentable of the tribe. He said it made the tourists feel close to the grassroots. They clicked photographs with Malik Siddi and his troupe. For some reason, the tourists liked it.
The same thing happened tonight.
“Why don’t you come to the city?” the tourist asked, after the photos.
Malik shared a furtive glance with his wife. For a moment, the question tempted him to tell the truth.
“We are happy being close to our roots,” he replied instead. “Near our culture, our tribe.”
“That’s true. This is your home. But then, so is the entire country,” the tourist said.
Malik and his wife felt a lump in their throat. A few silent seconds passed.
“Yes, of course…,” Malik then said. “We go there to enjoy.. Like you come here to enjoy,” he added.
The tourist broke into a big laugh. He didn’t get the joke, or did he? Malik wasn’t sure. He told Malik to call him if he came to the city, anytime – to catch up. Malik thanked him.
When the show was over, Malik, his wife, and their troupe sat in a corner and had their dinner. He told his fellow dancers and drummers what the tourist told him.
One of the drummers who was a senior man in his sixties gave a wry smile. “Times have changed. Earlier, we tribal people went to the city to see them and earn money. Now the city folks come to the village to see us and spend money,” he remarked.
Malik and his wife didn’t say anything. After the dinner, he collected his payment from the resort manager and went back to his village. Once he reached the hutment, he had a quick bath. His wife got rid of all the makeup. They changed to their regular Indian dresses. Sleep wasn’t easy to catch despite a tiring evening. They lay on their bed waiting for it.
Malik asked her what he should do with the card that the tourist from the city had given him.
“Things have now opened up. The season has only started,” she said. She then smiled, cut the card into four pieces, threw it away, and hugged her husband.
Malik had a broad grin on his face. He stared at their colourful dance attire lying behind her. Then he held her close tight and pulled over the blanket.
If life gives you lemons, you might as well make lemonade.
***