“Oh, Ramya! It just so happens there’s a lunar eclipse today! Do you remember the hare and snake story I told you?” She exclaimed.
“Shall I tell it again? You can record it this time.” And so I did.
“What is the Toda language called?” I asked her later that day.
“It’s called Awlwoll, which simply translates to man or human being. So I suppose you could say it is the language of man?” She said, thoughtful.
To me, the language of man sounded like a primeval language of genesis and wisdom. One that reached the deepest of roots that connected man to the vast, coexisting networks of sentient beings.
In Vasamalli’s world, language was a tool for expression and storytelling that went beyond the use of words. It defined the subtle contours of a culture, identity and belonging. Such languages presented diverse, inclusive ways of seeing, where extensive knowledge and stories were captured beautifully in myth, ritual and memory. These were both personal and collective, extending well beyond personal experience and representing a shared reality.
Though hopeful, she wasn’t sure if the younger Todas would process the ancestral knowledge in the same way that her generation still did.
“Nowadays, there are calendars.” She said.
“We didn’t have them, but we could predict everything—seasons, eclipses, etc. It was all learning from nature—you must listen and live deeply to learn from nature.”
It occurred to me that the aspect of listening featured heavily in our conversations. The kind of knowledge coded into languages with more listening than speaking, undoubtedly holds the key to addressing the crises we face today. With indigenous languages like this already becoming endangered, we run the risk of losing both experience and regenerative imagination in our responses to the climate and ecological crises we are fraught with.
How can we create a platform for the knowledge and experiences of minority and endangered language holders so that their words and wisdom reach new audiences? I asked her about this.
“My education was wholesome,” she said thoughtfully. “I had the best of both: I learned from the elders alongside my mainstream syllabus, which included traditional knowledge too. See, we had no lights, and we had nothing much else to do late evenings but listen to the stories the elders told us. My grandchildren, who are entirely mainstream educated, don’t seem very inclined to hear these stories. Not yet, at least.”
“We just have to keep trying to reach these to them, though. In fact, it is necessary that we do. With opportunities and technology now available, we should document these stories and Traditional Indigenous Knowledge in ways palatable to this generation. Or else all this will be lost not long after me. We could, for instance, record all the stories vocally in our language as you suggest, and in Tamizh and English too, perhaps.”
We finished our lunch and settled on the couch when she noticed a beautiful throw adorned with Toda embroidery. It was a birthday gift I’d received from a dear Toda friend, Seeta.
“All traditional motifs.” She said.
I then told her about a project I had been working on, which involved casting the stunning Toda art in a new light. A small group of Toda women artisans and I were exploring possibilities of working with better, newer fabrics, moving away from the typical coarse cotton they were used to.
The Toda women embroider abstract, nature-inspired motifs into red and black geometrical designs on the cotton cloth, which allows the threads to be counted easily. No embroidery frame is used, and the women count the threads with their fingers. Thread-counting forms the basis for executing a specific design with the appropriate stitches. The cloth, needles, and the black and red cotton yarn they now use are locally procured.**
“Did you know that the needles were made of twigs from a specific Shola plant at one time? And the cotton too was woven locally. Plant fibres perhaps—I’m not too sure. Cloth was extremely scarce, you see. It was precious—even as recent as some decades ago.
“I’d describe the Toda embroidery more as an ethnic art with no commercial significance in those days. I mean, we didn’t need any of our ways to become economic practices. You see, we did not need money––why would we when everything we needed was abundantly available from our land and forests? Eventually, ghee became the product that was exchanged for goods, and the embroidery coming into the economic mainstay is very, very recent.”
Now GI tagged, thanks to the concerted campaign by the Toda Nalvazhvu Sangam, Keystone Foundation, and the Toda community itself, the Toda embroidery is perhaps the only enterprise from the community which has received its due recognition the world over. Sadly, only a few hundred artisans from a community of no more than 1700 people practice it making it an art form that needs thoughtful and continued preservation.