One fine afternoon in the early 1990s, Guruji sat in a moving bus of the then APRTC, gazing out at a distant uru (village in Telugu).
His attention was suddenly drawn to a man in the distance. Adorned in a vibrant pink turban, carrying a peculiar musical instrument, and exuding an air of mystery, the figure disappeared into the maze of mud walls and narrow lanes before Guruji could investigate. Amma, sitting beside him, limited his ability to leap off the bus and chase after the man at that moment.
Curious, I asked Amma, “Phir kya kiya?” (What did he do next?)
She replied in her own way, “Phir kya!—Gaye bhaag ke, do-teen din baad dhoondhne ko.” (What else—He went back, a few days later, to search for him.)
A few days later, he returned to the area and began making inquiries. The villagers responded with a knowing smile. “Ahh, – Dakkal Gopal anukunta”! (You must be talking about Dakkal Gopal,”) said Rajanna. “He’s not around right now, but he’ll return perhaps in a day or two.”
True to his nature, Guruji returned and found colorful Gopal wandering through the village, sitting down with him, Guruji struck up a conversation over a shared smoke, forging a bond with the man. And so, Dakkali Gopal—a man from the Kinnera community known for their vibrant singing and narration of the Jati- puran for Madiga’s (leather craftsman community)—became a cherished part of Guruji’s circle and a frequent visitor to the ashram.
Gopal kaka was unforgettable. His attire—a simple dhoti, kurta, and a colorful turban—was punctuated by a magnificent mustache and yellowed eyes that looked like a lot of dust had settled in his sclera through his wanderings. Over his shoulder, he carried a well-worn jhola, and in his hand, he held his Vaadya (Dakkali Kinnera)—a remarkable instrument crowned with a handcrafted peacock that seemed to come alive with every tune he played.
Whenever Gopal arrived at the ashram, it was as though a festival had descended upon us. We, the children, would flock to him, eager to experience the magic of his performances. With the very first note from his Dakkali Kinnera, he’d instruct, “Arre, Moora! Zara naach k dikha bachhon ko!” (O Dear peacock, show these children some moves!) And, as if enchanted by his command, the peacock ornament atop his Kinnera seemed to spring to life, its vibrant feathers quivering in perfect harmony with the rhythm.
Mesmerized, we would clap and cheer, utterly lost in the moment. But mischief was our constant companion. One of my cousins, a notorious prankster, saw his chance when no one was looking. Grabbing the Kinnera when no one was around, he mimicked Gopal’s dramatic stance and declared, “Arre Moora, bahut hua tera- ab zara breakdance karke dikha!” (O peacock, now show us some breakdance moves!) The room exploded with laughter, the ashram ringing with the pure, carefree joy of our childhood.
Initially, Gopal would only come to sleep at the ashram, always declining food. “I have my own people,” he’d say proudly. “They’ll feed me.” And indeed, he would march into the homes of nearby Maadhiga (Leather craftsman) families, who welcomed him with unquestioning warmth. Over time, however, Amma’s cooking won him over. Soon, he was savoring her sabzi, achar, and full meals, always bringing a pumpkin or some wild variety of Jujuba as a humble gift for the children.
One evening, after Guruji had left for his family home, Gopal and Ushanna Tata were the only ones at the ashram. Wrapped in a blanket, Gopal ventured outside but was unfortunately bitten by a dog. The next morning, Guruji and Amma wasted no time. Amma took Gopal to the hospital, where she insisted that he receive a full course of rabies injections.
Though Gopal complied, he remained uneasy. A day or to later, Guruji asked, “What’s troubling you, Gopal? Why do you still seem anxious?”
“Maharaja,” Gopal replied with conviction, “I haven’t found my medicine. If I find it, I’ll survive. Without it, no injection can save me.”
“What medicine?” Guruji inquired, intrigued.
“There’s an insect that comes and lives on the Tuvvar plant (Pigeon pea/Arhar),” Gopal explained. “If I find and eat just one, nothing will happen to me.”
And so, he went searching for this elusive remedy. When he returned after a few days, a triumphant smile lit up his face. Guruji enquired – “Dorkinda ni mandu” –(Did you find you medicine) to which Gopal replied “ Andukey kada bratakiunnanu swamy“ (I found it, Swamy! That’s why I’m alive now,” he declared, his faith restored).
Fast Forward: Kishtu’s Saline Fix
Years later, a new generation of Kolam artisans arrived at the ashram – Guruji identified them from his school and brought them to Ashram. Among them Kishtu, a young craftsman of exceptional talent. Though polio had taken his left leg, Kishtu’s spirit remained indomitable. His hands, as strong as his will, transformed raw blocks of wood into masterpieces of craftsmanship.
I spent six months working alongside him and others like Shyam Rao, Tulsidas, and Vasant. Our evenings were filled with Prarthana, music, and spirited challenges. Shyam Rao and Tulsidas would beat rhythms on the dhol, while Kishtu, defying all expectations, would walk on his hands, daring anyone to match his feat. No one ever could.
Those days, in the bloom of my early teens, were nothing short of magical. I was an active participant in the myriad activities that unfolded at the Ashram, and the Turning-Wood workshop, in particular, was a truly enriching experience. A wooden block, fixed between nails, would rotate as we skillfully smoothed its surface and shaped it with a sharp-edged tool. Lac, heated over coal until it began to melt, was then mixed with natural colors and set aside to solidify. This lac, once applied to the crafted pieces, imbued them with vibrant colors that, when polished with a special long leaf, shone with an almost ethereal brilliance.
Kishtu, with remarkable aptitude, soon mastered the craft. His creations were impeccable, exhibiting perfect symmetry, a flawless polish, and exquisite finishing. We experimented with various methods, from turning the wood on motorized machines to hand-turned fixtures, and even ingeniously creating a turning machine by pedaling a bicycle. All these efforts were made in a bid to adapt the work to the resources available to us.
In time, Kishtu found his path to livelihood, establishing his craft in his village of Khadki. People came to him from far and wide, seeking his expertise for various requirements, as his reputation as a master craftsman spread.
One day at ashram, Kishtu fell ill. It was nothing serious—just a fever—but his recovery was slow. Herbal remedies by Ushanna tata brought him back to his feet, yet a shadow of fatigue lingered. “I still feel weak, Amma,” he confessed.
Guruji, sensing his unease, asked, “What would make you feel better, Kishtu?”
Shyly, Kishtu replied, “If I get a saline drip, I’ll be fine.”
Understanding his psychological requirement, Guruji arranged it. As the saline coursed through his veins, relief washed over Kishtu. Within days, he was back on his hands, defying gravity and playing the dhol with renewed vigor.
A Reflection on Belief and Change
It is fascinating to consider how two individuals, Gopal and Kishtu, both bearing names derived from Shri Krishna, reflected vastly different beliefs. Gopal anchored himself in ancestral remedies, drawing comfort from the enduring rhythms of tradition. Kishtu, separated by a generational gap of 30 years, found solace in the modern precision of a saline drip.
Gopal felt incomplete without his insect cure, while Kishtu remained restless until the saline restored him.
The essence of Krishna lived on in both—one dancing to the tunes of a peacock, the other walking on his hands to the beat of a dhol. Over time, their belief systems reflected a subtle shift: one Krishna (Dakkali Gopal) relied on the certainty of his own knowledge, while the other (Kishtu) placed trust in someone else’s wisdom. Both found healing in their unique ways, yet their beliefs seemed to have quietly traded places over time.
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