Hit in Japan, Dahanu's Warli artists test Mumbai waters

Ganjad's adivasi siblings giving Warli art modern language spur discussion on how far we've moved away from nature.

January mornings in Dahanu’s Ganjad village can be bitingly cold. Even the warmth of the winter sun, mostly hidden in the blanket of fog, escapes you. This is the time of the day, when the village usually empties out. The sounds of hurrying feet and clinking cycles are everywhere, as locals make their way to the closest bus stop or railway station to leave for Mumbai, 125 km away, or the nearby industrial areas of Palghar and Boisar. Those who remain, busy themselves in the bazaar, where fresh river catch and poultry are sold. 

The day we arrive, zilla parishad schools have opened, almost 10 months after they first shuttered following the Coronavirus-induced lockdown. Everyone is in a rush.

Tushar Vayeda and Mayur (right) work on a cloth canvas smeared with gobbar paint, which they make on their farm. They prefer using white water colours, over the traditional paint made from rice powder.

But, the Vayeda brothers from Devgaon pada of Ganjad are impervious to this frenzy. At 8.30 am, they are in their modest two-storey home, which was once an ashram shaala. They have returned from tending to their cows. If not for our intrusion, they would have already been at their studio, on the first floor, inking a cloth canvas smeared with gobbar (cow dung) paint, which they are readying for an exhibition at The Gallery of Modern Art (GOMA) in Queensland, Australia. 

Tushar and Mayur Vayeda are Warli artists, whose ingenious exploration of their tribal roots is making waves abroad, especially in Japan, where the brothers have attended two artist residencies in the past. The duo’s just-released book, The Deep (Tara Books), is a visual, autobiographical travelogue that looks back at their journey, from Ganjad to Mumbai, before they made it to Japan’s Awashima Island, a place where, for the first time, they were “closest to the sea”. What did the Japanese see that Mumbai, just about three hours away, didn’t?

Mayur and Tushar's parents Nandkishor, a retired mechanical engineer, and Vanita, a zilla parishad school teacher, were initially reluctant about their children’s artistic pursuits

The Warlis don’t paint, they ‘write’ pictures and paintings,” says 28-year-old Mayur. Their tribe speaks Varli, which doesn’t have a script, and so they use drawings to “share knowledge and pass down stories about their traditions, rituals and culture”. 

“Warli art, hence, is not only an art, but also a language. A lot of people’s emotions and feelings are attached to it. Today, Warli art has taken different directions, and because, it is being commercialised, its importance is being diluted,” he feels.

The Vayedas

While the likes of late Jivya Soma Mashe, who also hailed from Dahanu, popularised Warli tribal art in the late 1970s, exploring how the ritualistic tradition could be used for artistic pursuits, closer home, the Warlis were slowly moving away 
from their own visual language. 

The Vayedas can’t really put a finger on when or why this happened, but they are keenly aware of this change.

Vikas Bongya collaborated with Japanese artist Ohkojima Maki to create a “cave mural” that narrated the story of where they came from, as part of the Setouchi Triennale in 2019

Somewhere around the time that Mashe had become a phenomenon, villagers of the indigenous tribe in Dahanu were also simultaneously being threatened by an influx of “outsiders,” who were usurping their land and forests, mostly in the name of development. Mayur’s late grandfather, Vasudeo Rajaram Vayeda, a local land rights activist and reformist, saw education as a tool to empower his people. “At the time, Ganjad didn’t have a local school. And so, in the late 60s, my grandfather started a school in this very home, where we now live. The ashram shaala used to house classrooms. Since we didn’t have a pakka rasta then, teachers and children even lodged here,” shares Mayur. Vasudeo was also instrumental in familiarising people outside the village with the Warli culture. He and wife Indumati, now in her 90s, travelled across India, taking local artists with them, so that they could showcase their art at exhibitions. The traditional Warli hut, exhibited at the Indira Gandhi Rashtriya Manav Sangrahalaya in Bhopal, was built by Vasudeo and his fellow villagers, Mayur says.

While the school shut down by 1997, it left a deep impression on the brothers. “Education was always a priority,” recalls Tushar, 33. “My father [Nandkishor Vasudeo] was a mechanical engineer, and my mother [Vanita] still teaches at a zilla parishad school, so we were expected to take the same path,” he adds. This didn’t mean that the family was disconnected from its roots. “We are all farmers. It’s not a profession, but a way of life. Land is at the heart of everything we do. So, no matter what we pursued, we were still expected to come back to it,” says Mayur.

Their new book, The Deep (Tara Books), is a visual, autobiographical travelogue that looks back at their journey, from their humble roots in Ganjad to the chaos of Mumbai, before they made it to Japan’s Awashima Islan

As children, they were introduced to Warli art by their father’s sister, Meenakshi Vayeda, who they say, is a skilled artist. “She taught us some basic shapes. During vacations, we would also accompany her to local art camps. Her role was crucial to our journey,” says Mayur. Traditionally too, the brothers say, its Warli women who mostly practiced the art form, especially during weddings, where their paintings depicted the rituals of marriage. Today, it’s the other way round. “Most Warli women are shy by nature, and don’t like being in public gaze. I think, what happened is that, as cameras started being used at weddings, they became uncomfortable. It definitely affected the art,” feels Mayur.

When the brothers finished schooling, they pursued their higher studies in Mumbai. Tushar, who was the more artistically inclined, went on to do 3D animation and multimedia from Arena Academy in Andheri, and Mayur pursued a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree in Management Studies from the University of Mumbai.  “We would travel daily to college, and mostly, half the day, would be spent on the train. This was a completely different experience for us,” says Mayur. “On the one hand was the wow factor—seeing tall buildings and development all around us. But, on the other hand, it also made us aware of how different we were,” he adds, remembering, “I wasn’t comfortable speaking in English, because I studied in a Marathi-medium school. So, at business school, I rarely got to participate in group presentations. Nobody would try and communicate with me. That was affecting my personal journey and relationship with the city.” Tushar adds, “I think the more we engaged with the city, the more we realised the importance of going back to our roots.” 

Indumati Vayeda, grandmother to Mayur and Tushar, accompanied her late husband Vasudeo Rajaram Vayeda, a local land rights activist, at several exhibitions

Between 2013 and 2016, the brothers participated in over 15 group art shows and tribal conclaves in Ladakh, New Delhi, Himachal Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh, and even Karla in Maharashtra. “By this time, I was confident that I wanted to become a Warli artist, so I read up more about it and started learning on my own,” says Tushar. Mayur followed after him. Initially, their parents weren’t convinced about their choice of career. “I had done some drawings here and there. But, until then, none of us in the family had taken up Warli art professionally,” recalls Vanita. “We had spent so much on their education, so naturally, as parents, we were worried about their future.” Nandkishor, who spent most of his work life shuttling between Dahanu, Palghar and Mumbai, was a little softer on them. “Meri bhi kalpana thi ki woh kuch bane [I also had a wish that they do well].” Looking back, he is glad that they supported them. He feels it did the art, which by then was only resurrected at certain celebrations, a whole lot of good.  

The inspiration for the brothers’ artwork was “home”. Drawing on an analogy, Mayur says, “We have a chikoo farm, but I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed the chikoos from our trees. The same could be said about our art. While we had stories  around us, we hadn’t explored it enough, till we started painting.” Growing up, they spent most of their time either on the farm, or in the jungles, where leopards, foxes, snakes, and peacocks roamed blithely in the wild. “During the rice harvest season, the entire village would participate in the tarpa dance; we’ve been part of it ourselves. When we bring the dhaan [grain] home, we have another ceremony, where we pray to our ancestors’ spirits,” says Mayur, adding that all of these elements began to seep into their drawings.

Sisters Srushti and Mamta Bongya, who live in the neighbouring pada, are currently being trained by the Vayedas at their home studio

Since Warli art is also about “telling stories”, the brothers say they decided to recreate some of the lesser-known folk tales, myths and fables on canvas. As a starting point, the two visited their relatives in Ganjad and began documenting oral stories, which had been passed down by their families. Tushar says that they would even attend rituals in the temple, carefully listening to the recitations of the priest, who implored and prayed to the spirits and their “gao dev”. The duo found a friend and partner in Vikas Bongya, a villager, who lives in the neighbouring pada. Bongya joined them in 2011, and has since, been assisting the brothers at the studio.  

In 2015, a group of Japanese architects visited Ganjad, as part of the Noco Project, spearheaded by non-profit organisation Wall Art Project, to promote sustainable housing. In a workshop, they built a Warli home using traditional materials like sticks, red soil and cow dung, and Japanese interior design. The Vayeda brothers were part of the initiative, too. It’s here that they got in touch with Japanese artists, and were later invited to participate at the Wall Art Festival in Inawashiro, Fukushima in 2016. Two years later, in 2018, Mayur attended the Awashima Art Residency. He was joined by Tushar and Bongya the following year, and the trio spent the next six months on the island.

Sisters Srushti and Mamta Bongya

During that time they also participated at the Setouchi Triennale, a contemporary art festival held every three years on a dozen islands in the Seto Inland Sea (Setonaikai) that Awashima is part of. Here, they collaborated with Japanese artist Ohkojima Maki to create a “cave mural” that narrated the story of where they came from—Warli painting is said to have its origins in the Bhimbetka caves in Madhya Pradesh. To make the cave, they used old newspapers, plaster, glue and water on timber, and abandoned houses of Awashima.

The island also inspired their new book, The Deep. Gita Wolf, publisher of Tara Books, got interested in the project, when the brothers showed her a large mural they had created with “different fish in the depths of the ocean of Awashima Island”. “We asked them to re-draw the mural in a smaller format, and combined it with the image of two fishermen, one Indian and the other Japanese, fishing in the water,” says Wolf. The fishermen, says Tushar, reflected the exchange of ideas. Wolf took the first manuscript to Frankfurt Book Fair, and through feedback, realised there was something wanting. The present book was developed following several extensive interviews with the brothers. It’s a glimpse of their journey from the traditional to something more 
innovative, she shares.

“Japanese culture is a lot like ours,” says Tushar. Their belief in spirituality, ancestor worship, and nature, had parallels to their own. “In Warli art, you will mostly see rivers or river-related activity in the drawings, because most of our settlements are built around it. This was the first time that we were residing near a sea and that too, for such a long time. In Mumbai, because of our hectic lives, we never got to spend time on a beach,” recalls Mayur. Living so close to the sea also meant becoming acquainted with its marine life. “Until then, we had never seen creatures like starfish, octopus, planktons and sea fireflies,” adds Tushar. While re-imagining Ganjad for the book, they stuck to traditional shapes and designs. The art takes a life of its own, when they create geometrical blocks to show the trains they travelled in, and the skyscrapers they witnessed, while in Mumbai. Their drawings of Japan are more surreal. “Giving the sea creatures form in Warli art was an interesting challenge, because we don’t have those kinds of shapes in our drawings. But, we see Warli art as a language that is constantly in need of new grammar,” says Mayur. 

The brothers, almost always work together on a canvas. “It’s very difficult to plan a canvas. We usually have an idea in mind, and then the two of us begin work,” says Tushar. Mayur adds, “We don’t decide who will work on what. Very often it has happened that I am working on one side of the canvas, and after lunch, I change positions with him, and it doesn’t affect the rhythm. Since we have had very similar life experiences, it reflects in our work. We play to our strengths.”

Everyone in the studio has specific tasks at hand. Bongya, who has been learning Warli art from the brothers for nearly 10 years now, is responsible for making gobbar paint—made by mixing cow dung in water to make a paste, and straining it several times—for which the gobbar is sourced from their own farm. “This is the base that we most prefer working with, because unlike red soil, which is most commonly used, it doesn’t crack so easily. But, we have to choose the cow dung carefully,” says Tushar, adding, “In the rainy season, cow dung that you get is usually greener than usual. By winter, the grass turns a pale green, which is why you get a green-greyish tint. In summer, because the leaves have dried, the dung is dark brown. We choose the shade, based on the story we want to tell.”

The brothers recently got Bongya’s sisters, Srushti, 23, and Mamta, 19, to work as interns with them. Both of them are students of Jamshed and Shirin Guzder College of Visual Art in Dahanu. “Earlier, we just saw these drawings as random patterns. Now, we understand the stories they convey,” 
says Srushti.

The brothers hope to nurture more talent from their village. They are building a new home, not very far from their farm, where they grow everything from rice to organic vegetables, and fruits. “We are planning to open a bigger studio there, and encourage more children to join and learn from us,”  says Tushar. Like the circular pattern, ascribed to the ancient tribal art, their life, they feel, will only come full circle, when they—like their dada Vasudeo—will give back to society.

Coming up: The Mumbai debut 

If all goes as planned, the Vayeda brothers will be exhibiting their paintings at ARTISANS’ in Kala Ghoda in September this year. Radhi Parekh, founder-director of the gallery and store, who recently was in conversation with the duo during a virtual launch of the book, says, “As I see more and more of their paintings, I’ve come to realise that their work is very conceptual and transcendental. They have a bigger picture on their art, which leads to an abstraction, be it their subjects or their narration. What stands out [for me] is how pictographic Warli art is. They are constantly adding to the vocabulary and grammar of the art form, and this, without really abandoning its visual language. I think they have benefitted a lot from [seeing Warli art from a] distance, and the mentoring they’ve received from artists they have worked with in Japan. The finesse of their rendering is just superb. It’s a beautiful coming together of concept, technique, skill and execution. And therefore, their art is worth taking note of, as it develops.” She adds that though the Vayedas come from a place that is not too far away from Mumbai, “they’ve had their exhibitions everywhere, except here”. “In recent years, Warli art has been mired in [a lot of] commercialism, and has almost become imitative, because it’s a language that is so easy to learn. But, then you see the works of Tushar and Mayur, and you know this is different.”

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