Eras Through Her
A Reflection on the Feminine Timeline of Nagarparkar
by Areesha Khuwaja (Pakkhee)
In South Asia, the feminine is more than just a symbol. It's a true vessel: carrying memory, wisdom, and survival. Women here don't merely observe time; they embody it. Their very bodies hold the echoes of the land. Their rituals quietly encode deep resilience. And their stories, often unspoken, pass on truths too intricate for any rigid historical timeline. From soft lullabies to energetic ritual dances, from profound silences to vivid sensory memory, women are the keepers of our folklore, our losses, and our sacredness. They hold multitudes, contradictions, and amazing transformations, just like the earth itself.
Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai, Sindh’s revered poet-saint, understood this deeply. He wasn't simply a poet; he was a curator of living memory. He never collected objects; instead, he gathered winds, hushed silences, and the subtle imprints of footsteps. This powerful tradition stretches right across South Asia. Think of Meera Bai: her devotional songs carried a lineage of longing and surrender. Heer’s defiance in love became a compelling parable of personal agency. Mai Bhago’s sheer valor preserved spiritual courage. Nagarparkar’s own Hothlal Pari, a mythical guardian of the springs, embodied feminine protection and transformation. Shakuntala’s story, so entwined with natural memory, gave form to both loss and triumphant return. In the Mahabharata, figures like Gandhari and Kunti profoundly embodied grief and dharma through their silence. Even in Punjab and Sindh, the Sehras sung at weddings become living vessels. They transmit not just immediate joy, but deeply inherited truths. And in Sindh’s seven Surmiyoon, Bhittai presented us with warrior-princesses who beautifully blurred the lines between myth and lived experience, grounding profound metaphysical truths in real landscapes. Through women like Marvi, he truly showcased the soul of Sindh: its fierce love for the land, its strong resistance to temptation, its absolute refusal to forget. In this brilliant way, Bhittai managed to archive the unspeakable within his verse. But what happens if these subtle archives remain unread by those who actively shape our dominant narratives?
Karoonjhar, too, acts as a curator. Its ancient granite slopes have witnessed the rise and fall of countless empires. Yet, through figures like Parvati, Sita, Draupadi, and Kali, it has witnessed the passing of time not as a sequence of rulers, but as profound shifts in consciousness, ethics, and our sense of belonging. Each Yuga, or cosmic age, finds its reflection through a feminine embodiment within this powerful landscape.
Parvati and Ganesha at Karoonjhar - Mixed media by Pakkhee. Background photograph of Karoonjhar Mountains by Dileep Permar. This illustration imagines Parvati, the mountain’s daughter and a symbol of Satya Yuga’s harmony, seated with her son Ganesha amid the ancient pink granite of Nagarparkar - a sacred landscape of memory and myth.
At the Krishna Mandir in Palan Bazaar, we met Pandit Chaturlal Nanjimal Lohano. He is an elder, a true keeper of memory, and a gentle guide through Nagarparkar's vanished worlds. His words carried the calm conviction of someone who had deeply experienced silence, yet remembered everything. It was Pandit Lohano who shared stories of a time when Jain women bathed at Kajlasar before sunrise. Their kohl would leave faint black trails on the sacred water, tangible signs of a feminine devotion gracefully etched into the very land.
In the beginning, there was simply harmony. Satya Yuga stands as the age of truth, perfect balance, and wholeness. This is truly Parvati's era, embodying the daughter of the mountain, the deep stillness found within stone. Her essence isn't about conquest; it's about pure union. Here in Karoonjhar, her presence is palpable in the granite's quiet strength, and in the surprising desert blooms after a cleansing rain. Her energy radiated powerfully through the Jain philosophy that once flourished so profoundly in this place.
The Śvetāmbara Jain community, deeply anchored in radical non-violence, beautifully mirrored Parvati's inherent gentleness. Their belief system was so refined, they wouldn't even strike metal. Jainism in this region wasn't merely a religion; it became a complete mode of being, a profound flowering of existence. Their temples, built of white marble, rose elegantly against the pink rock, and their rituals seamlessly wove into the daily lives of Nagarparkar’s people. Here, the sacred wasn't something separate or above life. It was intricately woven within it.
“She Who Refused” animation by Pakkhee. Sita shapeshifts into Marvi — myth into memory, exile into rootedness.
Treta Yuga: Sita and Marvi: The Sacred Refusal
Treta Yuga saw the emergence of doubt, exile, and profound trial. This was Sita's age. Though unjustly banished, she remained steadfast in her grace. Her timeless story finds a clear mirror in that of Marvi, as beautifully curated by Bhittai. Where Sita once walked through deep forests, Marvi traversed the vast desert. And just as Sita famously refused the deceptive comforts of Ravana's palace, Marvi bravely rejected the alluring seductions of Umar.
Bhittai’s portrayal of Marvi truly marked a revolution. He presented us not with a distant princess, but with a simple village girl whose love for her land genuinely surpassed all material riches. Her connection to place felt deeply sensual: the smell of her people, the cool water drawn from a well. These were never mere symbols; they were her undeniable truth. I see Sita and Marvi as powerful echoes of each other. They constantly remind us that the sacred feminine finds its core in remembering. This refusal of false dignities, of empty attachments, extends beyond just land.
Think of Mirabai, whose ecstatic, 'mad' love for Krishna meant she utterly refused any worldly 'shame' or conventional 'dignity' that society expected. He devotion crossed all eras and borders and it's now a core part of Nagarpakar's folk memory. And then there's Kabir, a lotus rising from the mud of the marketplace, singing of non-attachment in a way that truly shakes you. These figures, too, embody a profound refusal: a spiritual defiance against what pulls us away from their individual truth.
One remarkable local story that embodies this is that of Kasu Bha Sodho, a local farmer and true custodian of this very land. He steadfastly refused to migrate during Partition. When his entire family chose to leave for India, he simply stayed behind. People remember him saying, "If you want to take me to India, then take Karoonjhar along with me." His words weren't just poetic sentiments; they reflected a profound truth held deep within the soil of this place. Just like Marvi, he saw no value in wealth if it meant abandoning his beloved land. His stance, quiet yet incredibly firm, resonated with the very essence of both Sita and Marvi. For him, love for land was never just symbolic. It was a lived reality, fully embodied.
“Defiant Flame” animation by Pakkhee. Draupadi burns, eyes unyielding — a fire that remembers and refuses.
Dvapara Yuga — Draupadi and the Turning of the Age
Dvapara Yuga is an age defined by fire, injustice, and ultimately, awakening. Draupadi, a figure literally born of fire, perfectly embodies this era's complex moral landscape. Her story isn't one of quiet refusal. Instead, it's a powerful narrative of public defiance. Her brutal humiliation in court didn't break her; it ignited a fierce spark. That spark eventually burned through entire empires.
In Karoonjhar, this Yuga strongly mirrors a crucial turning point: the moment when traditional stewardship tragically morphed into harsh control. The Jain exodus, for instance, wasn't just a singular event. It represented a truly painful shift, largely driven by Thakurs who imposed heavy taxes and bullying that made life utterly untenable for many.
Later, after Partition, a second wave of departures followed, as numerous Hindu villages chose to leave the region. Among them were the Lohanos; their 24 villages gradually emptied, with just two managing to endure for a while longer. Pandit Chaturlal vividly recalls these monumental changes. For him, these are deeply lived experiences. He says truth will remain through Draupadi’s fierce spirit and Kali's rage.
“Fierce Mother" animation by Pakkhee. Kali hovers over Karoonjhar in her wrathful form — keeper of the sacred amid forgetting.
Kali Yuga: Kali and the Light in the Dark
As for me, I animate these stories because I simply hear them. I walk this land, and it speaks directly to me. Through animism, I strive to help others see what I see: that this mountain is not just background scenery. It is kin. This land needs not owners, but patient custodians. Not extractors, but loving stewards.
One story in particular deeply resonates with me. It's about a woman from Vikasar, who married across the border in Gujarat. She was tormented by an unrelenting migraine, a pain no treatment could cure. It was only when she tasted a simple lentil from her homeland that her body remembered. What her mind couldn't articulate, her body knew. Her powerful journey back to Sardharo, specifically to return the skull of a deer that had been entangled in her spirit from a past life, is so much more than a healing tale. It's an active gesture of ecological memory. The pond at Sardharo is still spoken of as sacred. Not because of any grand structure built there, but purely for what was remembered there. The water itself seemed to hold her grief, her arduous return, her eventual resolution. This is exactly what sacredness in Kali Yuga looks like: quiet, profound recognition. Not rituals strictly imposed, but deeply felt gestures of belonging, beautifully restored. Even now, the hills around Sardharo are home to the last Chinkara gazelles. Their very presence carries not only immense ecological importance, but also the heavy weight of story. Their survival isn't just a matter of conservation; it is fundamentally a matter of cultural memory. And when locals protect them from hunters, they aren't just defending animals. They are defending an entire world.
During this residency, we reflected on locality not as a limiting boundary, but as a living relationship. We actively worked with the land, never on it. We truly listened to what the rocks had to say. We intentionally blurred the lines between human and non-human, not to disappear, but to deeply belong. Because in belonging, the sacred always returns. And in every Yuga, through every woman, it always has.
Artist Statement
Areesha Khuwaja (Pakkhee) is a visual ethnographer and artist whose work traces memory, myth, and land-based knowledge through animation, illustration, and storytelling. In Echoes of Karoonjhar, she approaches the mountain not as a symbol, but as an ancestral presence and a living archive shaped by time, ritual, and silence.
Her practice during the residency centered on listening: to wells, to songs, to the subtle gestures that carry collective memory. From the sacred feminine of Jain stories to the poetic resistance of Rajput oral traditions, her work weaves multiple timelines into a visual language that resists disappearance. She is particularly drawn to the women who appear at the edges, like Shamoon Kohli, who dances freely, embodying the mountain’s rhythm without permission or stage.
Through hand-drawn animation, zines, and site-responsive design, Areesha’s contribution to Echoes of Karoonjhar is an invitation to remember what the land already knows. It is a practice of reanimating what has been silenced — with care, with myth, and with deep attention.