As we began our research journey through the Kumaon region, one name kept coming up in conversations: a visually impaired folk singer who lived in a village called Dholchina, about two hours from Almora. The intrigue around them was immediate—no one seemed to have a phone number, yet everyone knew who they were. Their community played a central role in helping them connect with the outside world, assisting with show coordination and communication.
After some effort, we were fortunate to get in touch with a kind community member who offered to help us coordinate the recording. We were genuinely excited—this was unlike any folk group we had ever met before.
When we finally reached Dholchina, a serene village nestled in the hills, we were welcomed by our local coordinator, who had been incredibly supportive throughout. He led us to Santram ji’s home—a modest, single-room space that served as a bedroom, kitchen, and living area. Santram ji and his partner, Anandi Devi, were preparing for the shoot. Despite being visually impaired, they moved around with quiet confidence, carefully counting steps, locating items by touch, and guiding each other gently with words and hands.
Meeting them was deeply moving. They were warm, curious, and very happy to learn about the work we were doing to document and preserve traditional folk music. We waited patiently outside while they dressed in their performance attire, and when they emerged—Santram ji holding his hudka—we could feel something special was about to happen.
Thanks to Darban Singh ji, a longtime friend and supporter of the couple, we secured a beautiful, old government rest house for the shoot. The village itself felt like a timeless pocket of peace, and the locals welcomed us warmly. Many expressed pride and admiration for Santram ji and Anandi Devi, which only deepened our sense of purpose.
While we set up our equipment, the couple sat quietly and practiced, lost in their music. Their dedication and focus were a quiet reminder of the seriousness with which they treat their art. When everything was ready, Santram ji told us he’d like to begin with a few traditional songs.
As they started to sing, we were spellbound. Their coordination was flawless—each guiding the other through subtle touches and cues. But then something extraordinary happened. In the middle of the performance, we began to hear new lines—lines that described what was happening around us at that very moment. It was as if we were witnessing a live folk commentary. We later learned that Santram ji was composing on the spot, weaving in verses about a passing bus, the driver and conductor Madan—all while staying rooted in the folk form.
It was a breathtaking display of improvisation, intuition, and deep cultural knowledge.
After the recording, they told us that their song had captured what they saw—or rather, sensed—around them. It felt like magic. Their partnership, built on mutual respect, care, and deep understanding, was evident in every gesture and every note.
Saying goodbye after a shoot is always hard, but this one felt especially emotional. We had met not just two incredible artists, but two human beings whose resilience, creativity, and love for their art had inspired us deeply.
As we dropped them home and drove away toward our next destination, we carried with us more than just footage—we carried a renewed sense of purpose and the quiet inspiration of Santram ji and Anandi Devi’s world.
