Lambadi Puku Kathalu ◎
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 .
That is the Puku Katha . It has no end. Because the puku — the entrance — is also the exit. You go in. You are changed. You come out. And you realize: you were never outside the story to begin with.
In the shimmering heat of the Deccan plateau, where the scrub forest meets the dust-churned edges of a highway bypass, a grandmother unties a knot. It is not a knot in a rope, but in her memory. She sits on a worn cotton quilt, her ghaghra — a mirror-studded, crimson-and-indigo skirt — pooling around her like a map of her ancestors’ journeys. The children gather. The women, their brass bangles clinking, settle on their haunches. The men, back from herding goats under a solar-powered streetlight, light a beedi and lean in.
“There was once a woman who had no name. She was the last keeper of the Adi Puku — the First Hole. It is the hole from which all stories came. One day, a king came with a bag of gold and said, ‘Sew me a ghaghra that contains every story in the world.’ The woman laughed. ‘I cannot sew what is already unstitched,’ she said. And she opened her mouth. And the king looked inside her mouth. And what do you think he saw?” Lambadi Puku Kathalu
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.
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.
The Puku Katha follows a distinct, almost sacred geometry. It begins not with “Once upon a time,” but with a ritual phrase: “Jaag, veeran…” (Wake, O desert…). It is an invocation to the spirits of the road, to the ancestors buried under unnamed cairns, to the devak (clan deity) who rides a black goat. Every stitch is a syllable
She calls it a Puku Katha . In the Lambani language — a dialect of Marwari infused with Kannada, Telugu, and the syntax of survival — Puku roughly translates to “a hole” or “an entrance.” But in the oral tradition of India’s most storied nomadic community, it means something else entirely:
Enter carefully. The puku is waiting. This feature is dedicated to the oral storytellers of the Lambani-Banjara community, whose names are not in any history book, but whose voices echo in every stitch, every salt trail, and every hole in the dark where a story lives.
One of the most famous Puku Kathalu is (The Hole of Truth). In it, a young bride is accused of witchcraft by her husband’s family. They throw her into an abandoned well. But the well is a puku — a threshold. At the bottom, she finds a kingdom of snakes who were once Lambani women. They teach her the language of roots and weather. She emerges three days later, not as a victim, but as a Gor (a spiritual healer). The story does not end with her revenge. It ends with the snake-queen weeping, because the surface world has forgotten how to listen to the earth. A line of white dots across a black field
“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.”
This textile-narrative is not decorative. It is legal evidence. In intra-community disputes, a naik (chief) would unroll an old woman’s odhni (veil). The pattern of mirrors and knots would remind everyone of the — a story about a man who lied about a buffalo and was swallowed by the earth. The embroidery is the precedent.
Unlike linear Western narratives, a Puku Katha is circular. It spirals inward. The “hole” is the plot’s center — a well, a cave, a stolen glance, a womb. You enter the puku of a jealous co-wife’s heart, or the puku of a mountain that hides a monsoon. Inside, time folds. A woman who died two hundred years ago speaks to a girl who is hungry today. A bullock cart that carried salt across a princely state transforms into a constellation.
Silence. A baby cries. A dog barks at a distant train.
In the last five years, a quiet revival has begun. Young Lambani poets — writing in Telugu and English — are translating Puku Kathalu into spoken word. Feminist scholars are rediscovering the radical core of these tales: women who leave husbands, who poison kings, who turn into rivers. And in the digital space, a handful of grassroots archivists are recording the grandmothers, frame by trembling frame.
