In the forests of Sindhudurg, during the reign of the warrior-king Shivaji, a band of spies was inducted. They were to roam the villages of the Maratha empire and report back if they found trouble was brewing — whether at the hands of rival kings, colonial powers or the great nemesis: the Mughals.

PREMIUM

It is unclear exactly when this tradition began. But Shivaji lived from 1630 to 1680, and as he ruled over a fast-expanding empire, the spies became an integral component of his guerrilla warfare.

The artist-spies were masters of Chitrakathi (Stories told in Art). Traditionally, they painted episodes from mythological tales on paper, and presented these during musical performances that were often accompanied by puppetry. As spies, they continued to perform at temples, then visit village homes for meals and alms. And, as they made their way from home to home, they simply listened in, and reported back to their handlers.

They used their community’s dialect, Thakarvi, and a coded system of hand signals, to pass on messages. “It was an exciting time for our community,” says Parshuram Gangavane, 70.

He is now among the last of a dwindling tribe, but his efforts have kept his community’s art form, and its unique history, alive. His work to preserve and promote Chitrakathi tell such a remarkable story, in fact, that he was awarded the Padma Shri for his efforts, in 2021.

It all began, he says, when his father, Vishram Gangavane, died when he was 12. Many Thakar families had already given up the art form. It had been folded into temple rituals, but there was no patronage, little demand, and there were many better-paying jobs available.

In the immediate aftermath of his father’s death, his three elder brothers moved to Mumbai. Two found work as government employees; one went into business as an electrical works contractor. Their sister married and moved away too.

It was his mother Bhagirathi Gangavane who first decided she would keep her husband’s beloved art form alive. She began taking the teenaged Parshuram to temples to perform.

“As time went on, people were less and less generous,” Gangavane says. Because the family belongs to a scheduled tribe, there were snide comments and sometimes overt insults. “We were invited into the temple to perform, because they considered our art a sacred ritual. But we were not allowed inside the villagers’ homes to eat. We would eat outside, and would be told to clean the place where we had sat with cow dung when we were finished,” Gangavane says. “In the early years, there was so little money that we couldn’t even afford footwear.”

Soon, his brothers began helping to support the family, and the young man had a choice to make. He could give up the art form and find work, or struggle to keep his heritage. He chose the latter. “I didn’t want the family and the community’s unique heritage to be lost,” he says.

By his 30s, he was introducing newer themes to performances, to make them more resonant. He wrote puppetry acts about HIV and leptospirosis prevention; sung songs about the benefits of the polio vaccine. The local government began to approach him, to conduct shows across villages and to represent the state at cultural events in Delhi and Udaipur.

That wasn’t enough for Gangavane. He began to be haunted by the idea that the art form would die with his generation, and became determined to set up a Chitrakathi museum. After all, his family alone had a collection of paintings and puppets going back 350 years.

Despite repeated setbacks, he held to this mission. In 1985, at 31, he was injured in a road accident. In 1997, aged 43, he was left severely injured in a motorcycle accident. Gangavane recovered both times, driven by a determination to keep performing and to build his dream museum.

In 2006, art entrepreneur Rashmi Sawant provided the final boost. She commissioned Chitrakathi paintings worth a total of ₹1 lakh, and with these funds, he opened the Thakar Adivasi Kala Aangan Museum and Art Gallery in a cowshed on his family’s land in Pinguli village, Sindhudurg. Sawant also helped him display the art and create signage and curatorial notes in English.

Gangavane and his sons, mechanical engineer Eknath Gangavane, 37, and software engineer Chetan Gangavane, 35, now conduct guided tours of the art and hold Chitrakathi workshops here. The workshops involve learning how to paint, write songs, play the tabla, harmonium and sitar; and learning the Thakar versions of mythological stories. “We believe that as forest-dwelling Adivasis, our community witnessed the Ramayana unfold and didn’t just hear of it,” Chetan says.

The number of visitors to the museum has risen sharply since the Padma Shri. Students from the National Institute of Design, National Institute of Fashion Technology and other institutes across the country have visited, staying at the attached homestay run by Chetan.

The award has meant the world to him, Gangavane says. It shattered him when doctors said that, because of his gall bladder ailments and his diabetes, he had to stop performing. But when the call came about the Padma Shri, “I couldn’t stop weeping with joy”.

The day after the awards, he returned from Delhi a hero and was greeted with a celebratory rally. People from all castes and political parties congratulated him, he says. “That was the best day in my life, in the life of a so-called untouchable. The only unfulfilled wish I have is to perform outside India’s borders,” he adds. “I want my family’s art to be known to the whole world. That is now a dream my sons must fulfil.”