The Forgotten Threshold - Bhikṣāvṛtti and the The Vanished Wisdom of India’s Wanderers

This is one of the first articles on the recent books, titled Bharat Gatha, published on the life and works of Sri Ravinder Sharma Guru ji. This book series has been edited by Ashish Gupta ji, and published by the Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts (IGNCA). Ravinder Sharma ji, known publicly as Guruji, was an Indian artist, craftsman, storyteller, historian, educationist, sociologist, and economist in the native Indian context. He founded Adilabad’s Kala Ashram and was awarded the Kala Ratna Award by the Government of Andhra Pradesh in 2014.

In the chaotic weeks leading up to the 2010 Commonwealth Games in Delhi, a decision was made that echoed with a strange finality—the beggars had to go. Along with the squatters, street dogs, and wandering cattle, they were deemed unsightly reminders of a reality the capital’s ruling class was desperate to conceal. The authorities swept through the city, vans appearing as suddenly as they disappeared, packed with men, women, and children pulled from street corners, under flyovers, and bustling market lanes. Thousands were unceremoniously pushed beyond the city’s limits, as though Delhi itself could exhale and erase them.

What prompted this act of expulsion? The government’s reasoning was simple: the presence of beggars, visible and persistent, would tarnish India’s image before the world. The beggars, they claimed, were a blemish on the nation’s shining visage, its dreams of global modernity. Yet to think of this as an isolated act would be naive. Over the decades, state authorities have routinely run ‘drives’ against beggars—as though poverty could be swept under carpets, or history could be willed away.

What is worse, the very act of bhikṣā – once sacred, once dignified – has been reduced to begging, a word that carries the weight of shame and suspicion. Society today looks at beggars with disdain, as unwanted relics of a bygone world, even subjecting them to violence.

But in dismissing them so, we lose sight of something precious. The act of bhikṣā (Bhikṣāvṛtti) was once the cornerstone of Indian civilization, an invisible but vital thread that bound the spiritual, economic, and social fabric together.

Today, as we sift through fragments of historical memory, the story of Bhikṣāvṛtti illuminates a society that thrived on cooperation, knowledge-sharing, and symbiotic living. But it also exposes the harsh realities of historical amnesia and epistemicide—the deliberate erasure of Indigenous knowledge systems under colonial rule. This story attempts to revive that legacy, told not as a lament but as a lesson for reimagining India’s civilizational wisdom.

A Society with Roles, Not Castes

India’s Bhikṣāvṛtti was an ecosystem in itself, with over 7000 sub-communities that seamlessly integrated into daily life. Far from being associated with poverty or destitution, Bhikṣāvṛtti was a source of pride. Those who practiced it served as educators, artists, historians, healers, performers, and spiritual guides. They were India’s mobile universities, community therapists, and keepers of heritage.

The wandering Jangams, for instance, carried with them the story of Bhuma Reddy, the first farmer, who sowed seeds into the earth and reaped the blessings of abundance. His tale was more than a narrative; it was a celebration of humanity’s connection with the soil—a reminder that all life springs from the land we nurture. Bhuma Reddy’s act of cultivation was seen as an offering, a sacred communion between humans and nature, inspiring communities to revere the earth as a giver of sustenance. For those who listened, this story was not just history but a lived philosophy, encouraging gratitude, hard work, and harmony with the natural world. Similarly, the Haridās awakened the sleeping world with songs at dawn, urging people to begin their day with joy and purpose. Others would arrive as healers or artisans, mending tools, crafting instruments, or sharing cures derived from bamboo, herbs, and plants—a living science rooted in Āyurveda.

These were not outcasts but essential threads in India’s social mosaic. The act of bhikṣā was reciprocal, deeply tied to dharma—a household’s duty to give and a seeker’s commitment to share, inspire, or heal. It was a system of mutual respect, where those who received were as dignified as those who gave.

Knowledge as Lived Experience

A fascinating feature of these wandering communities was their emphasis on producing jñānis (wise individuals) rather than mere scholars. Knowledge, in their hands, was alive, contextual, and accessible to the masses.

For instance, in Yelgandala, near Karimnagar, even women were expert astrologers. Other communities specialized in healing arts, particularly Āyurveda. The bamboo workers, for example, had remedies for ailments using the same material they crafted with. Among these remedies was a cure for rabies, derived from the larvae of the arhar plant – a cure passed down for generations.

This holistic knowledge extended to veterinary medicine too. The art of branding animals (सींग लगाना), treating wounds, and ensuring livestock health was an integral part of their contributions to rural economies.

The Bhikṣāvṛtti Economy: A Symphony of Skill and Service

The Bhikṣāvṛtti communities were economically self-reliant. In places like Dharwad in Karnataka, artisans still roam villages to repair musical instruments, a practice dating back centuries. These artisans form micro-economies, pooling resources earned during the day and sharing them equally. The Koli community in Adilabad, meanwhile, sustained itself by managing orchards and trading fruits – ensuring food security for the entire region.

Their work was often woven into the rhythm of life itself. At dawn, performers and storytellers like the Gosamallu or Bodasantulu would inspire people to begin their daily chores with joy. In the evenings, elaborate folk dances, narrative dramas, and performances such as Kolāṭṭam, Sīrpur Rāmāyaṇam, and Yakṣagāna brought communities together, ensuring both entertainment and moral instruction.

One such tale describes a story that lasted nine hours, with the protagonist – a heroine – preparing to cross a threshold (dehri). The crossing did not occur until the next night’s performance, highlighting the community’s patience, commitment, and anticipation for storytelling.

The Colonial Distortion: From Bhikṣā to Begging

The fall of bhikṣāvṛtti began with the arrival of colonial rule. For the British, a society as fluid and decentralized as India’s was incomprehensible. The informal networks of knowledge, art, and communication that sustained Indian life were seen as chaotic and threatening.

Beggars, itinerants, and storytellers were stripped of their roles and dignity. Under the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871, many such communities were declared criminals by birth, their movements curtailed, and their identities erased.

The colonial authorities imposed a new narrative: to wander was to be idle; to ask was to beg; to serve outside formal systems was to be useless. In their quest to categorize and control, they dismantled the organic systems that sustained India for centuries.

This erasure, what some scholars today call epistemicide, continues to haunt us. The modern mind, shaped by colonial education and values, fails to see bhikṣāvṛtti for what it was—a profound act of community-building, where the giver and the seeker upheld society’s balance.

The Kenyan author and language activist Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, in his seminal work Decolonizing the Mind, echoes these sentiments. Reflecting on the cultural devastation wrought by British colonization in Africa, he writes:

Imperialism disrupts the entire fabric of the lives of its victims: in particular their culture, making them ashamed of their names, history, systems of belief, languages, lore, art, dance, song, sculpture, even the color of their skin. It thwarts all its victims’ forms and means of survival, and it employs racism.

His words ring true not just for Africa but for India as well. Colonialism sought not only to control bodies and territories but to erase entire ways of life, making the sacred profane and the dignified shameful.

Beyond Begging: Reclaiming Bhikṣāvṛtti

The story of the beggars swept away from Delhi in 2010 is not merely about poverty; it is about a lost vision of society. It forces us to ask: How did we let bhikṣā, a practice so integral to our civilizational ethos, turn into a source of shame? How did those who once brought wisdom and healing come to be seen as nuisances?

The answers lie in our forgetting. We have forgotten that India once valued wisdom over wealth, that the wandering bhikṣu was the seeker of truth, and that the act of giving was sacred. We have forgotten that in our villages and towns, life was not divided into winners and losers, but shared by all who contributed in their way—be it through labor, song, knowledge, or prayer.

The task ahead is not to romanticize the past but to reimagine its wisdom for the present. The spirit of bhikṣāvṛtti still whispers in India’s heartlands—in the wandering folk singers, the artisans who repair tools, and the healers who work without clinics.

In remembering bhikṣāvṛtti, we remember a time when society’s purpose was not accumulation but connection—when the wandering seeker was a reflection of the community’s soul.

And perhaps, in that remembering, we can glimpse a path forward—one where dignity, reciprocity, and wisdom guide us once more.

Conclusion: From Memory to Movement

The story of Bhikṣāvṛtti is a powerful reminder that India’s strength lies in its plurality and its ability to weave knowledge, economy, and culture into everyday life. It challenges us to question the historical amnesia imposed on us and to resist epistemicide – the death of Indigenous ways of knowing.

Today, as we witness a resurgence of interest in India’s knowledge systems, Bhikṣāvṛtti stands as a beacon of how societies can coexist harmoniously, thrive economically, and live with dignity. Let this not remain a story of the past but inspire a movement to rediscover, restore, and reimagine the forgotten legacies of India.

In the words of Dharampal ji, “The recovery of our past is not for nostalgia, but for a vision that can guide our future.”