Villages around Hazaribagh in West Bengal (page 1 of 3)

Wednesday, April 1st

Hazaribagh I’ve got a meet-up with Adam Iman, a guide and painter. He picks me up from the hotel at 10 AM. Another traveler from Bangalore is supposed to join us, but while we wait for him to arrive, Adam takes me to see the paintings his mother and sister created at Hazaribagh station. The town became famous thanks to these murals, which can also be found in several surrounding villages. This art form has earned recognition and is now protected, a sign of its cultural importance. Once the visit is over, we go to pick up the other traveler and then head to our first village: Belwara, where Sohrai art is practiced. At the entrance, a sign proudly announces that we’re entering an artists’ village, where this art is created by women organized into micro-enterprises. Some even offer workshops for those who’d like to learn this tradition.



Sohrai art is tied to the harvest season, from October to mid-November. The motifs, in natural colors, celebrate fertility and abundance. The artists use pigments from the earth: red oxides, ochre, white kaolin, and black manganese. On the walls, you’ll see animals, fish, birds—all symbols of life and prosperity. As I look closer at the murals, I start to realize that each motif tells a story. Large animals like cows or bulls often take center stage. Their bodies are filled with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. They symbolize wealth and prosperity for the household, as well as the deep respect for cattle, which are essential to daily life. On some facades, elephants stand out—massive and decorated with the same precision. They evoke quiet strength and protection. But it’s when I stop in front of one of the houses that I really take the time to look. The wall, a soft ochre, is entirely covered in murals. Two large animals stretch out on either side of the door, their elongated bodies fitting the length of the wall. Their silhouettes are filled with geometric patterns and incredibly fine curved lines, as if every space was patiently filled. Around them, stylized plants, flowers, and small decorative elements fill every gap. The door, dark and worn, becomes almost the silent center of the composition, framed by these living, protective forms. To the right, a more colorful motif catches the eye—a flower or a stylized lamp—like a touch of light on the earth. The whole thing gives an impression of perfect balance, between the rigor of the patterns and the freedom of the gesture.



Elsewhere, birds and freer forms bring movement. Peacocks, recognizable by their stylized silhouettes, embody beauty and vitality, while fish symbolize water, fertility, and the continuity of life.

On some paintings, the scenes become almost narrative: you can make out figures, everyday gestures, like a memory of the village inscribed in the walls. The decorative frames around the doors aren’t left to chance either—they symbolically protect the house, like a boundary between the inside and the outside world.







During the Sohrai festival, cattle are led into the jungle in the morning. Meanwhile, the women finish the *aripans*—these floor paintings—and continue the wall murals. Around noon, the animals return to the village, and the bulls’ horns are anointed with oil and vermilion in a gesture of gratitude, amid the vibrant colors adorning the houses. We visit several artists, including Parvat Devi, a well-known woman who has received many awards. Her arms are adorned with intriguing tattoos, which I’ll talk about in more detail later.



On another wall, the style changes completely. Here, no massive animals—just birds occupying the space, light and graceful, as if caught in mid-movement. Two silhouettes face each other, their long necks arched almost like mirrors, while their outstretched wings seem to vibrate with the patterns that compose them.



The design is more graphic, almost airy. The lines are smoother, more fluid, as if drawn in one confident stroke. The birds’ bodies aren’t solid—they’re filled with repetitive motifs like scales, stylized feathers, and spirals, giving a sense of continuous movement. Around them, everything comes to life: flowers burst open, arabesques swirl, and even the simplest shapes seem alive. What strikes me here is the sense of lightness. Where the large animals evoked stability and grounding, these birds bring something freer, almost joyful. They seem to embody movement, the circulation of life, like a breath flowing through the village.



The colors remain the same—deep reds, intense blacks, and chalky white—but the rhythm is different. Faster, more spontaneous. As if each wall had its own personality, while still speaking the same language.

That’s probably why I’m so moved. I’d heard about these paintings from my friend Raja, and last year, I saw an exhibition in a village near my home. That first encounter made me want to come here. But seeing them in person is a whole different experience. These paintings are unique. This ancient art is passed down from mother to daughter, or mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, in a quiet, deeply living continuity. At first glance, it might seem almost childlike in its simplicity and pared-down forms. And yet, everything is thought out, balanced, mastered. Nothing is left to chance.



That apparent simplicity, combined with such rich symbolism, touches me deeply. There’s something sincere and essential in these walls—and that’s what moves me.

We're returning to Hazaribagh, and Adam takes us to his home. No sooner have we arrived than we're greeted by about twenty women who, with warm smiles, immediately start dancing to welcome us.



Even before entering, my eyes are drawn to the outer buildings of the house. Their walls are entirely covered in Sohrai paintings. On the facades, stylized animals—buffaloes, birds, felines—stand alongside human silhouettes and plant motifs. The shapes are both simple and powerful, the natural colors—ochres, blacks, and whites—giving the whole a striking harmony. These paintings seem to tell the story of life, nature, and beliefs in an ancestral language.



In another open room, the walls are also decorated, but with more geometric and floral patterns. The space, with its earthen benches and central hearth, exudes an atmosphere that’s both understated and deeply artistic. Even everyday places here become canvases for expression.





They spent the whole morning preparing a real feast of Jharkhand specialties. A large buffet is set up with a multitude of dishes in different colors and flavors. We’re invited to taste everything, and each discovery is a delightful surprise.





After this first tasting, Adam shows us the family museum adjoining the house. We enter a huge room, almost surprising in its size. The walls are covered with paintings and documents, and the space is filled with objects, souvenirs, and testimonies. We discover the legacy of his grandfather, who discovered the region’s rock caves, as well as that of his father, who dedicated his life to preserving this art. This place tells more than just a family story: it embodies a deep commitment to passing on and safeguarding a fragile heritage.





Then the meal continues with lunch. The women proudly present the large pots in which they cooked, and once again, we’re invited to taste everything. The dishes are numerous, flavorful, and incredibly generous. It’s a real treat, even if it becomes hard to do justice to all these preparations.



While we eat, the cooks sit a little apart to have their own meal, in a simple and peaceful atmosphere. After this almost gargantuan meal, it’s time to discover their paintings. They show us their works, all magnificent, with their traditional motifs and great artistic richness. Most, however, are very large, making them difficult to transport and frame once back in France.



Before we leave, the women start dancing again. This time, I join them. The moment is joyful, spontaneous, and full of emotion. I wish this moment of sharing could have lasted much longer. On the way back to the hotel, I then explore the neighborhood, still carried by this encounter and the beauty of these paintings that seem to extend life onto the walls.

namaste !!

Thanks for this beautiful account, these images, these words—I’ll come back to look at them and read them again, more slowly. Those women, those murals, this invitation to travel, to meet, to share...!!! It makes me want to be there too, to soak it all in, and it reminds me of the mural paintings created by the women of Oualata in Mauritania.

I’ve decided to stop flying, but it’s hard to resist the longing you’ve inspired!

(I’ve decided to stop flying, but it’s hard to resist the urge you inspire)

Hi Christine,

I hope this travel journal gives you the urge to go back and visit this area. I don’t know if you read the first part, but I passed through two villages earlier—Amtoudi and Chirudih.

Thanks for following along!

Hi Marie Jo, who knows, I might return to India one day. I spent 4 months volunteering in JAIPUR, JAISALMER, and traveled as far as Rishikesh and Manali. It’s true, you’re making me want to go back. You mentioned the village of Amtoudi—I know one in MOROCCO! I’ll keep reading your posts. Have a lovely day, Christine

You mentioned the village of Amtoudi—I know one in MOROCCO! I also know it for its beautiful granaries. Oops, I made a mistake here—it's Amadubi. 🙂

🙂 I just discovered Amadubi here and it's gorgeous too!!! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANc-qD1pU2Y

Thursday, April 2 Today, we set off to discover Khovar art, a monochrome art form deeply rooted in ancient traditions. These paintings are closely linked to the rock art of the Isko and Satpahar ranges and symbolize fertility, prosperity, and divine blessings. Khovar marks the start of the wedding season, which runs from January until the monsoon arrives in June. The word itself is evocative: “kho” locally means chamber or cave, and “var” refers to a married couple. These paintings once adorned nuptial chambers. Historical sources on the origin of Khovar are scarce, but historians draw a strong connection to the rock art of the Hazaribagh region, particularly at the Isko and Satpahar sites in the New Karanpura valley. Discovered in the 1990s, these rock shelters contain paintings dating back to the Mesochalcolithic period (around 7000 to 4000 BCE). The similarities between the motifs—geometric shapes, animal figures—and today’s murals reveal a striking continuity. These shelters, also called *khovar*, are considered ancient bridal chambers. The technique used is fascinating. A manganese-rich clay, almost black, is first applied to a prepared wall. Once dry, a layer of lighter clay—white kaolin (*charak maati*), cream-colored earth (*dhudhi maati*), or yellow ochre (*pila maati*)—is spread on top. While this layer is still wet, women scratch it with combs or their fingers to reveal the designs. Though this technique also exists in Sohrai art, Khovar stands out for its more limited palette and themes: forests, abstract shapes, local wildlife, and geometric patterns. Among the Kurmi, you’ll also find representations of female animals carrying their young and scenes of confrontation between humans and animals. But this art is now under threat. With traditional mud houses gradually being replaced by cement, the very medium of Khovar is disappearing. Communities also face pressure from large industrial projects. To preserve this heritage, some artists are adapting their techniques to paper and canvas. In 2019, Khovar and Sohrai paintings received the Geographical Indication label from the Indian government, an important recognition.



Along the way, we pass a massive coal mining operation. As far as the eye can see, installations transport the black material to a gigantic enterprise. Mountains of coal rise before us—a striking sight that leaves little doubt about the country’s energy future.





We continue toward the Isko caves. The site is surrounded by sal forests, and at the entrance, women are drying mahua flowers on the rocks. They’ll be used to make alcohol sold in markets, as well as for cooking and cosmetics.



The Isko site, identified in the 1980s, only really caught researchers’ attention in the 1990s. Jesuit priest Tony Herbert was one of the first to highlight its importance, followed by studies from the Archaeological Survey of India. In 1991, ecologist Bulu Imam, Adam’s grandfather, helped bring these shelters to a wider audience. Analyses reveal several phases of human occupation. The oldest paintings, attributed to the Mesolithic period (8000–4000 BCE), depict simple geometric shapes and animals, reflecting the lifestyle of hunter-gatherers. Discoveries of stone and copper tools confirm continuous human presence. Yet the site isn’t protected, and the paintings are slowly fading away.



We then head to a village with painted houses before returning to Malo Devi’s home for lunch. I notice her tattooed arms again, covered in symbols. Some motifs immediately remind me of those I saw in the caves. The connection strikes me.



Adam explains their meaning. In the Isko rocks, these motifs—zigzags, circles, triangles, solar shapes—aren’t just decorative. They reflect an understanding of the world based on the elements: water, earth, fire, and ether. It’s a true visual cosmology, a way of mapping life, fertility, and the balance of the world. What’s remarkable here is the continuity of this language. You find it in Sohrai and Khovar paintings, passed down from mother to daughter. This memory isn’t written—it’s transmitted through gesture and repetition. It’s also inscribed on the body. *Godna*, the art of tattooing, repeats these same motifs. The body becomes a living memory. These tattoos mark important life stages, like puberty or marriage. They accompany the individual into the afterlife, according to some beliefs. So, from rocks to walls to skin, the same vocabulary endures. Women are its guardians, artists, and keepers of this tradition. As we leave the school, children come running toward us in cheerful excitement.



Malo Devi’s granddaughter plays with her brother, pushing him in a wheelbarrow. Her smile contrasts with a certain gravity in her gaze. She’s already learning to paint from her grandmother.



Lunch, made up of local specialties, is delicious. Some dishes remind me of yesterday’s meal. Before leaving, Adam asks them to sign their drawings to guarantee authenticity. They don’t know how to read or write; instead, each presses her fingerprint onto the paper as a silent but deeply personal signature. The gesture is simple, almost solemn, and repeated on every piece. Adam makes sure all the women we meet today leave their mark—a tangible trace of their work and identity.

Before leaving, Malo Devi and her daughter-in-law give us a demonstration. On a wall, they wet the surface, apply a fresh layer of clay, then, without waiting for it to dry, start drawing with a comb. They work side by side, without consulting each other, yet the pattern takes shape with natural harmony. Little by little, a peacock appears: head, body, tail. Their movements cross without ever getting in each other’s way. Malo draws a second one, with astonishing precision. I realize once again how lucky I am to witness these moments.





We then visit another village.



An artist shows us her works on paper; I pick one that’s easy to slip into my bag.





Another woman presents her embroideries, featuring the same motifs.





Back in Hazaribagh, I stroll through the hotel neighborhood. The cooks at the dhabas are already busy: parathas, samosas, pakoras… everything looks delicious, but it’s still too early to give in to temptation. I’ll come back tomorrow morning to buy some puris for my breakfast.

Friday, April 3 and Saturday, April 4 As we visit and listen to the explanations, the patterns painted on the walls are no longer just decorations. They tell a story, a world of beliefs where every shape has meaning, where every line extends an ancient memory. At first, I catch myself looking at these circles and spirals differently—what I had found so decorative. Adam explains that they’re among the first figures drawn by humans. The spiral, in particular, carries strong symbolism: it evokes the movement of life, its eternal renewal, evolution, and procreation. The concentric circles, meanwhile, form something like a labyrinth, depicting the journey of the fetus from conception to birth. Little by little, the walls become a language. The betel leaf, often paired with lotus stems and flowers, creates a powerful erotic metaphor. In the bridal chambers, its roots stretch out, discreet but present, like a reminder of the link between union and fertility.



Birds appear everywhere, painted with a freedom and variety that reflect the richness of the surrounding nature. They symbolize love, but so much more. A legend tells that the first man and woman were born from two bird eggs laid on grass planted by a god. Listening to this story, I realize the bird isn’t just a motif: it’s tied to the very birth of humanity, just as the tortoise is to the birth of the earth. The peacock, in particular, stands out brilliantly. A symbol of fertility, it’s omnipresent. I’m told its eggs are said to contain reptiles, proof of its mysterious power. In spring, before the monsoon, when villagers repair their mud houses, women paint peacocks to call for good harvests. The same bird also appears during funeral ceremonies, reminding us of the special link between the dead and the fertility of the fields.



The lotus, which I recognize immediately, belongs to the sacred realm. In the Adivasi imagination, it embodies the feminine principle, the cradle of creation. Some even say the world was created from a lotus leaf. Everywhere on the walls, its presence responds to that of bamboo, its masculine counterpart, in a silent balance. Some motifs, however, remain surprisingly pragmatic. The fish, always depicted vertically, as if standing on its tail, often appears near doors or hearths, sometimes accompanied by a kitchen ladle. Bulu Imam, Adam’s grandfather, found that it wasn’t painted for any particular symbolism but simply for its nutritional value—a familiar, almost everyday presence. Other figures, though, clearly belong to the sacred and protective. The tiger, powerful and silent, is a guardian deity of the village. The elephant, which we instinctively associate with Ganesh, carries a different story here. Adam tells me about Queen Rani, who rode an elephant from Badam Fort to the Isko River to bathe and drowned there. Since then, she’s often depicted riding her mount, as if the memory of that tragedy still lives on the walls.



I also notice zebus and cattle, already present in rock paintings but then depicted as wild. Today, they’re domesticated and celebrated during the Sohrai festival, at harvest time, as a tribute to fertility and abundance. Finally, the horse appears, often ridden by a male figure. Alongside the bull, it embodies vital energy, strength, and the prosperity of the home. It’s linked to Pashupati, the lord of animals, and symbolizes the sacred union of spouses.



Taking the time to listen and observe, I realize these paintings aren’t just beautiful. They’re alive. They speak of birth, desire, death, protection, and cycles. In their own way, they tell everything that connects humans to the earth and to time.

We’ll visit eight villages over the course of the day. From the very first stop, I realize each place has its own identity, its own way of telling the world’s story.

This first village specializes in Sohrai art. The wall panels immediately catch the eye: symmetrical, curvilinear patterns painted in white on a deep red ochre background. These abstract shapes, elegant and refined, evoke stylized lotus flowers or intertwined lifelines. Behind their graphic beauty, they carry a strong meaning: protection of the home, prosperity, and fertility of the household. In front of one of these murals, a woman artist stands, discreet but proud, like a guardian of this knowledge passed down from generation to generation.



A little further on, another wall pays homage to wildlife and livestock. You can make out a large bird, perhaps a crane or a peacock, with rounded shapes, its body filled with dotted patterns, and beside it, a mammal resembling a feline. The bird, a central motif in Sohrai art, is depicted here with great simplicity: a black heart on its side, sturdy legs. It symbolizes both the connection to the natural world, freedom, and abundance. It’s said to be a messenger of rain, bringing good harvests to come.





Stepping back a bit, the entire house appears as a work of art. A continuous frieze runs along the walls, alternating stylized animals—cows, bulls, guard dogs—and floral and geometric patterns. It’s a true open-air art gallery, alive and inhabited.



Then, as we move from village to village, I discover another universe: Santhal art. The contrast is striking. Here, colors dominate, shapes multiply, and scenes tell stories. Where Khovar is monochrome and nuptial, where Sohrai celebrates the earth and harvests, Santhal art is narrative, exuberant, and deeply rooted in daily life. The walls become stories: scenes of dance, hunting, representations of the clan and nature. Some images particularly stand out, like these symbolic unions between fish and birds, or these animal couples sharing the same head. Strange and fascinating images that reflect a cosmic harmony, a worldview where everything is connected. Santhal art goes beyond the walls of houses: it also extends to painted scrolls that recount myths, the afterlife, and festivals. Here, painting isn’t just decorative—it’s memory, transmission, and speech. Themes repeat, but always with infinite variations. Union and fertility appear through entwined human or animal couples, symbols of the clan’s continuity. The forest, ever-present, unfolds into trees, birds, and fish, embodying ancestral wisdom and respect for natural forces. I linger over certain motifs. Long flowering vines—the lata—snake across the walls. Large stylized flowers, close to the lotus or hibiscus, bloom there, connected by continuous waves. The vine symbolizes the continuity of life, growth, and the bonds between generations. The flowers, meanwhile, evoke joy, purity, and welcome.



Further on, inverted motifs and repeated semicircles create a sort of visual barrier, almost protective. The downward-pointing tips evoke the earth and feminine fertility, while the undulations recall the movement of water. At the center, the outdoor kitchen—the chulha—fits naturally into the composition. Here, art doesn’t separate from life: it frames daily gestures and essential activities.



Another motif catches my attention: a textured cross shape with four branches, evoking a wheel. They tell me it’s the chakra, the wheel of time and seasons. It symbolizes the eternal cycle of nature—sowing, harvests, monsoons—while above, wavy lines represent the sacred rivers, essential to life. Finally, some newer elements appear, signs of a subtle but real evolution. The art continues to live and adapt without ever breaking from its roots.



As we move from village to village, I realize these walls tell much more than artistic traditions. They speak of the deep connection between the inhabitants, nature, the seasons, and their ancestors. They turn every house into a story, every facade into a living memory.

We take narrow paths to reach these villages lost in the middle of sal and blooming palash forests. The journey itself is already an immersion. The light filters through the foliage, and little by little, I understand that these trees aren’t just scenery—they’re an essential presence. For Adivasi communities, the tree is much more than a landscape element: it’s an ancestor, a provider of life, a sacred symbol. The sal tree, in particular, holds a special place. It’s the most sacred tree. While the mahua nourishes the body and the palash awakens the senses, the sal shelters the spirit. It embodies spirituality, cultural identity, and the tribe’s endurance. It’s said to symbolize moral uprightness, resilience, and the strength of the soul. Beside it, the mahua and palash trees rhythm daily, ritual, and artistic life. Mahua flowers, carefully gathered and dried in inner courtyards, are a symbol of abundance and resilience. They evoke nature’s generosity and the tribe’s ability to live in harmony with it, despite hardships. The palash, meanwhile, doesn’t go unnoticed. Its orange-red color literally sets the forest ablaze this season. It’s called the flame of the forest. The official flower of Jharkhand, it heralds spring, renewal, and the triumph of life over death. Where the mahua evokes grounding and protection of the home, the palash brings light, passion, and a joyful energy that permeates all of nature.



I think back to the paintings we’ve seen. When a Santhal woman paints her wall, nothing is left to chance: the mahua represents food, stability, and the memory of ancestors; the palash, meanwhile, infuses color, life, and the energy of natural cycles. The landscape becomes hilly, and in the distance, the first houses appear. They’re remarkably clean, as are the surroundings. Here, closeness to nature isn’t just a concept—it’s lived daily, with a strong awareness of the need to respect it. But I also notice a change. Since the first day, I’ve seen it from village to village: brick houses are gradually replacing earthen ones. And with them, the painted walls slowly disappear. Fewer surfaces to decorate, fewer visible traditions. An inevitable evolution, no doubt, but one that leaves a slight melancholy.

We’re stopping for lunch at a small restaurant—a simple break in the middle of this packed day—before hitting the road again toward other villages—villages even Adam hasn’t visited yet. I love that idea: moving toward the unknown, even for him. As soon as we arrive, I notice something different right away. The walls tell a different story. The friezes have changed. They don’t look like the ones we’ve seen so far.





I stop in front of a first house, bathed in soft light. The wall, a warm ochre, is structured by wide painted bands that frame the facade carefully. Inside these bands, stylized flowers bloom, simple but expressive, with rounded, regular petals. The colors remain harmonious, without excess, as if each shade had been applied with restraint. At the center, an old wooden door draws the eye. It’s slightly worn, marked by time, and contrasts with the freshness of the paintings around it. All around, the patterns seem to form a symbolic protection, a kind of sacred threshold between inside and outside. The whole thing gives off an impression of instinctive balance, almost silent.





A little further on, another house has a very different presence. Here, the colors are bolder, more assertive. The wall is animated by a continuous frieze made up of successive panels. Each section is distinct, like a series of small juxtaposed paintings. You can see floral motifs, but also more pronounced geometric shapes, sometimes repetitive, creating a visual rhythm that’s almost musical. The shades—blues, greens, pinks—seem to interact with a certain boldness. At the foot of the wall, everyday life is right there: a few objects placed directly on the ground, utensils, and especially that scooter leaning against the facade, which anchors the scene in the present. This contrast between the mural art and modern objects gives the whole thing a very lively, almost familiar dimension.





Further on, I discover a facade that intrigues me even more. The motifs here are more enigmatic, less immediately readable. They repeat with precision: structured geometric shapes, sometimes inverted, creating an almost hypnotic effect. The lines are sharp, the contours bold. You can sense a compositional intent, a precise organization of space. These symbols seem to follow their own logic, perhaps tied to a particular tradition or a more personal interpretation. Unlike the more spontaneous flowers on the other houses, everything here seems more codified, almost abstract. This gives the facade a different presence, more mysterious, as if it carried a language I don’t yet understand.



What strikes me as I move from house to house is this diversity within such a close territory. From one wall to the next, the styles change, the colors vary, the intentions shift. Each facade becomes a unique expression, a personal way of telling the world’s story.



I keep observing, paying attention to these details that gradually come together. Behind these new friezes, I sense influences, evolutions, maybe even a desire to experiment. And yet, despite these changes, something remains: that deep need to decorate, to protect, to tell stories. These walls, once again, speak. And I understand they’ll never stop doing so, as long as someone takes the time to look at them.



We stop by Devi’s place again. In one room, several women are sitting on the floor, gathered in a circle, focused on their work. In front of them, large sheets of drawing paper gradually come to life with familiar shapes: animals take form under their precise movements. The lines are confident, fluid, as if each movement were guided by an ancient memory.



I linger to watch them. There’s no staging, no effort to explain—just the calm of the work, the repetition of gestures, and that silent transmission passing from one to another. Time seems suspended. We stay there a long moment, almost without speaking, simply watching these figures come to life, continuing, in their own way, the paintings on the walls. Then it’s time to leave. My stay in Hazaribagh ends after this packed day, filled with colors, encounters, and discoveries. An unforgettable day, one I don’t even try to hold onto entirely—I already know it’ll stay with me, intact, like a gentle imprint I now carry in my heart.

Thank you, Marie Jo, for this poetic, colorful, fragrant, joyful journey to the heart of these villages where it seems paradise has settled—at least through your eyes, your emotions, and the smiles of these women and their warm welcome. How could we not be marked for life? These symbolic paintings and this cosmology remind me of the Dogon country...

Thanks, Christine, for your comments. You’re the only one who chimed in—this topic’s never been covered before, so I guess people only care about the basics on this forum these days. 🙂 Anyway, I’ll finish the travel journal; I’ll have some great memories from it. 😉

If you no longer go out to meet the world, the world will come to you.

If you ignore its hidden wonders, remote places, tucked-away corners, and preserved traditions, they’ll burst forth here in vibrant colors and a thousand astonishing details—thanks to an intrepid and tireless traveler, Indomaniaque, who always returns to the same place without ever taking the same journey twice.

From this vast country so dear to your heart, you bring back a piece of its lesser-known history each time: meticulously documented stories, anecdotes, snapshots of life that come alive through your keen eye as a delicate anthropologist, and images... small, colorful fragments that slot into the previous ones, waiting for the next. Like the irregular pieces of a puzzle that doesn’t need to be finished to reveal the richness of its final design.

Hello,

I’ve been following your wanderings through these little-known regions/states with great interest and joy.

You find artistic—and spiritual—wonders in the most remote places, far from any hustle and bustle, on the simplest of surfaces.

A huge thank you for introducing me to places, landscapes, and ways of life I never knew existed.

Calaf

Hi Marie Jo

I started writing a long message yesterday to tell you how amazing your posts about the Hazaribagh region are—both the photos and your writing—but the message glitched right before sending, just as I was fixing typos!

I’ve been following your travels closely, as you can probably guess, though I don’t reply often. I’m already excited to see these wonders for myself soon. Thanks for exploring this still-undocumented state for us.

Your trip isn’t over yet, so I can’t wait for your next post...

To add to the previous message, it’s clear you were deeply moved by your stay in Hazaribagh and would’ve happily extended your trip. Seeing those tribal houses in person—what a joy! What an emotion! I’ve admired two or three at the Bhopal museum, never imagining I’d get to wander among dozens in villages like you did. Maybe it was a completely different region of India because I think there are painted houses in many tribal areas. In Bhopal, women from various regions come back every two or three years to the Tribal Museum (it’s a gem, but you know that...) to repaint or redo the roofing, covering the walls with "cow dung." Some were there during one of my visits. I admired their skill without realizing the stories behind the designs.

Hi Marie Jo, The VF members have woken up, and we all unanimously agree—your travel journal is STUNNING and takes us far from the ordinary, even if, in their own way, these worlds are extraordinary. Thank you for being the messenger of so much beauty and warmth...

Hello Marie Jo, the VF members have woken up, and we’re all unanimous— your travel journal is STUNNING and takes us far from the ordinary, even though, in their own way, these worlds are anything but ordinary. Thank you for being the messenger of so much warmth.

I’m sending a group message to thank you, Kola, Calaf, Chris70, and Partirester. I feel less alone😎 This place is so extraordinary and fascinating that I thought it was a shame—and sad—that no one seemed interested. Given how much time I spend devoted to it, it wasn’t exactly encouraging. Now I’m reassured—I can keep describing my discoveries.