Lambadi — Puku Kathalu
By A. S. Devarajan | Kurnool, Andhra Pradesh
Every stitch is a syllable. A crimson chain stitch is the blood of a martyr. A silver mirror is the puku — the eye of the story, the point of entry for the divine. A line of white dots across a black field? That is the trail of teardrops from the Puku Katha of the .
“The young ones want WhatsApp jokes,” says Sevanti Bai with a bitter smile. “Short. No puku . No entrance. A joke enters your ear and leaves from the other side. A Puku Katha enters your bones.”
“When I was a girl,” recalls 80-year-old Hombanna, his face a map of wrinkles, “we walked from Bijapur to Sholapur. 150 miles. My mother would start a Puku Katha at dawn. The hero would be chasing a blackbuck. By noon, the blackbuck would lead him to a puku — a cave. Inside the cave, a sleeping giant. By evening, the giant would ask three riddles. And just as the sun set and we made camp, the giant would open his mouth, and inside his mouth was… a whole village. That’s when she would stop. ‘Tomorrow,’ she’d say. ‘Tomorrow we enter the mouth.’” Lambadi Puku Kathalu
Silence. A baby cries. A dog barks at a distant train.
If you ever visit a Lambani Tanda — in Anantapur, in Gulbarga, in the outskirts of Mysore — do not ask for “folklore.” Do not pull out a recording device immediately. Instead, sit. Accept a cup of chai that is more sugar than tea. Wait for the evening. And when the first star appears, say quietly: “Jaag, veeran.”
Today, as Lambani embroidery finds its way into high-fashion runways in Mumbai and London, the deeper narrative is being lost. “They buy our mirrors,” says 45-year-old artisan Rukmini, threading a needle under a thatched roof. “But they don’t know the puku of the mirror. That it is there to catch a demon’s reflection. That it holds a story inside its silver belly.” The Lambani people are descendants of the Gor Banjara — the salt and grain carriers of medieval India. They were the logistics network of the Deccan sultanates and the Mughal Empire, moving entire ecosystems of bullocks, camels, and families across inhospitable terrain. A Puku Katha was the fuel for those journeys. A crimson chain stitch is the blood of a martyr
The mirrors on her skirt catch the headlights, and for one impossible second, the entire night sky falls into a silver hole, and somewhere, deep in the earth, a snake-queen turns in her sleep, and listens.
The grandmother will look at you. Her mirrors will catch the starlight. And then she will untie a knot you did not know you had.
The greatest threat is not technology, but . For decades, settled society labeled the Banjaras as “thieves” and “gypsies.” Missionaries and schools told Lambani children that their stories were “backward” — full of ghosts, magic, and immoral women. Many parents stopped telling the Puku Kathalu to protect their children from ridicule. That is the trail of teardrops from the Puku Katha of the
“He saw you,” she says, pointing at a five-year-old girl. “And you,” pointing at a boy picking his nose. “And every person who will ever sit by a fire and ask: What happened next? ”
This is the power of the Puku Katha . It does not resolve; it . It provides a model for surviving betrayal, drought, and the slow violence of settled society. Part II: The Stitch as Script To understand the Puku Kathalu , you must understand Lambani embroidery — the famous sandur work. Western art historians call it “mirror work.” Lambani women call it “likhari” — writing.
“A puku is not a hole you fall into,” says 24-year-old Anjali, a college student and a Banjara activist, scrolling through voice notes on her phone. “It’s a hole you choose to enter. That’s agency. My grandmother’s stories gave me more feminism than any textbook.” As dusk falls over the Tanda, Sevanti Bai begins her final Puku Katha of the day. The children have grown restless. The mobile towers blink red in the distance. But she lowers her voice to a whisper.
