​

 

“Anybody there?” My voice cracked as I called out. I tried again. And again. Each time, my voice grew weaker. Fear gnawed at me, but desperation drove me to keep going. My fingers brushed against something different—roots. I grabbed them with all my might, yanking them free. Like a starving animal I chewed the fibrous strands, rough and tasteless against my tongue. But I kept gnawing, forcing myself to swallow.

 

I didn’t know what else to do. My mother’s face flickered in my thoughts. A wave of anguish surged through me, and I screamed. My voice echoed within me, bouncing off the hollow spaces of my exhaustion.

 

And then, darkness. Sleep took me.

 

When I woke up: a rabbit was peeling sweat glands from my flesh. A dog sniffed meticulously at each exposed gland, inspecting them one by one. I had no idea what was happening.

Then a fox appeared and asked the dog, “Did you find any plants or trees hidden in his glands?”

 

“I think I’m almost done,” the dog replied, “but let me collect the remaining ones. I might have missed a few.”

 

How foolish these animals were! Searching for plants and trees in my glands? I scoffed to myself. My stomach, however, had other concerns. My mouth watered at the sight of the rabbit, raw and ready. My hunger intensified as more creatures appeared—hens, porcupines, monitor lizards, peacocks, deer, and countless others.

 

I watched their chaos unfold, amused by their strange antics. A deer, wearing a magnifying glass on a necklace, approached and peered into my right eye. Lifting the lens, she gasped, “Oh… infinite ailments are battling within him.”

 

“Then he must be poisonous,” a squirrel chimed in.

 

“Not just him—all humans are poisonous,” another squirrel added.

 

“The real issue isn’t whether he’s poisonous or not,” a voice interrupted. “What matters is that he is the last man on this planet, and we must conduct a critical study of him.”

​

My mind reeled as I tried to piece together how I ended up here, and what had happened to the rest of the world.

​​

​

2

 

​

It was my final year of studying Journalism and Mass Communication in college. In five months, my course would be complete. The head of our department had tasked us with submitting articles that could serve as a guide for future generations.

 

Our team consisted of five members, including me. We brainstormed topics and decided to meet our professor for approval. When we arrived at his office, he looked uneasy.

​

It had been a year since his elder brother, Professor Kumar, had been arrested. A respected academic at a central university, Kumar had been accused of having ties with Maoist groups. The court sentenced him to life imprisonment, branding him a threat to national stability. His crime? Teaching indigenous and Dalit communities to question authority—a dangerous act, as it could erode faith in the government.

​

Two months before his arrest, a movement had erupted among indigenous groups: We want to rule ourselves. We don’t need government bodies to control us. Their demands had made international headlines.

​

Sensing his uneasiness, we decided to meet our professor in the canteen one evening. Just as we were about to leave his doorway, he noticed us. His eyes flickered with recognition, and he summoned us to his table.

​

“I assume you’ve all chosen your topics?”

​

“Yes, sir,” Shalini responded, stepping forward.

​

He pulled out a notepad and pen from his desk drawer and looked at us expectantly, “Alright, let’s hear them.”

​

Shalini cleared her throat. “No more homes for gods, and no more development.”

​

The professor raised an eyebrow but said nothing, nodding for the next person.

​

Jagadish spoke with a smirk. “We need a new science to purify blood based on gods and caste.”

​

A sharp silence filled the room. Our professor let out a slow breath before motioning to Seeraj.

“Celebrities and Media,” Seeraj said, shrugging.

​

Urmila didn’t hesitate. “Freedom of sex for animals—insemination and sexual violence.”

​

The professor paused, tapping his pen on the desk. “Interesting choices,” he murmured before turning to me. “And you, Joorsingh?”

​

I hesitated. “Sir, I’m still a bit confused about my topic.”

​

“What are your options?” he asked, adjusting his glasses.

​

I read from my notes:

​

1. Do indigenous people have freedom of speech?
2. Why are indigenous communities still labeled as criminals? Why are they perceived as cold-blooded murderers?
3.Why do they destroy or fence our frontiers?
4.The Romani Holocaust.”

The professor leaned back in his chair, considering. “All four topics are solid. What’s confusing you?

​

“I’m not sure which one to pick,” I admitted.

​

“Then choose whichever speaks to you the most, Joorsingh.”

​

I hesitated. “Sir, why don’t you pick for me?”

​

He smirked. “That’s not how journalism works.”

​

“Then let’s leave it to chance,” I said, tearing a sheet of paper into four equal slips. I wrote down each topic, folded them tightly, and mixed them up.

​

I held them out. “Sir, you pick one.”

​

The room fell silent as he reached forward, plucked a slip, and unfolded it. My heart pounded.

His eyes skimmed the words before he read aloud: “The Romani Holocaust.”

​

I was a little surprised—the very topic I had in mind had been chosen. A surge of excitement bubbled within me, but I held it in.

​

The professor looked at me with interest. “Joorsingh, this is a good topic. But why did you choose this? What connection do Indians have with the Romanis?”

​

“Sir, we do have a connection. Let me explain,” I said, leaning forward. “While researching Romani Gypsies, I came across a few notable names—Ian Hancock, Charlie Chaplin, and Bronisława Wajs, better known as Papusza. As I dug deeper, I found historical evidence that the most hated and persecuted communities in European countries were Romani Gypsies and Africans. The Romanis, originally from Rajasthan, are descendants of the Banjara people.

​

“So, I want to write a few articles about these figures and the Romani experience. Whenever the world talks about the Holocaust, it focuses on the Jews, but rarely does anyone mention that Hitler also targeted and massacred the Romanis. I want to connect these dots and document their forgotten suffering, sir.”

​

The professor folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “I see. But I need to hear more before approving it. Convince me, and you have my approval. If I do, you must finish your research and submit your work on time.”

​

He turned to the others, signaling them to present their topics.

​

Urmila stepped forward. “Sir, recently, a horrific news story surfaced—a man raped a street dog. He tied its mouth with metal wires, restrained it, and brutally assaulted it. The injuries were so severe that the dog bled profusely and died. Calling it rape might sound strange, but that’s exactly what it was.

​

“This isn’t an isolated incident. The same brutality happens to women across India. At the same time, for profit, humans artificially inseminate cattle, stripping them of any choice in reproduction. In the animal kingdom, there’s no freedom of sex; everything is forced, manipulated, and turned into hybrid breeding. I want to explore this cycle of control and violence.”

​

I listened intently. Urmila’s topic was disturbing but important.

​

Yet, as she spoke, my mind drifted back to my own topic. The Romani Holocaust needed deep research. Without it, how could I bring justice to my words? How could I truly understand the pain of my Romani brothers and sisters—those who struggled, suffocated, and perished in the gas chambers? I kept wondering how it happened, why it happened.

​

A sudden gust of wind drifted in through the window, carrying a strange, acrid scent—the imagined smell of burnt bodies.

​

“Hey, Joorsingh!” Jagadish’s voice jolted me back to reality. I blinked, realizing the discussions had ended.

​

We all greeted the professor and left his office, heading to our usual spot—a small shack behind the university premises. Kamal, the shack owner, handed us ginger chai.

​

“Saar, why are they planting so many trees around the university?” he asked, setting down my cup.

​

I shrugged. “Maybe some politician is visiting.”

​

I settled on a brown rock and took slow sips of chai. My friends finished theirs quickly, but half of mine remained. Without thinking, I downed it in one gulp.

​

We dispersed to our homes, but my mind was still restless.

​

A week later with our fellowship money credited, we all gathered to plan a research trip. We decided to finish writing our articles during the trip.After much discussion, we settled on Rajasthan—where the roots of the Romani people lay—and promptly booked our tickets to Jodhpur for the next month.

​

​

3

 

As soon as our flight landed, I received a text from a local guide who had been assigned to us by one of our classmates.

​

We took a quick group selfie inside the flight before heading toward the baggage claim area. Once we had everything, we walked out of the airport into the warm Rajasthan air.

​

I pulled out my phone from my pocket and saw eight missed calls. I immediately called back.

​

“Hello?”

​

“Sir, I am your guide. I’ve been waiting outside in my car. The number is 1234.”

​

I turned to my friends. “We need to find a car with the number 1234.”

​

Shalini scanned the parking area and spotted it instantly.

​

Jagadish smirked. “Women are sharper than men. Their eyesight is as keen as an eagle’s.”

​

No one reacted to his comment.

​

Near the car, the driver noticed us and waved. We walked up to him.

​

“Ram Ram, saab!” he greeted us with folded hands.

​

“Ram Ram,” I responded, then asked his name.

​

He spoke quickly, and I could only catch one thing—his name. Dhananjay Jadav.

​

Curious, I asked, “Are you Banjara?”

​

“Yes, sir,” he nodded.

​

Excited, I attempted to converse with him in my Telangana Banjara dialect, Gorboli. He understood only parts of it and responded in Hindi. I could tell he was slightly uncomfortable speaking in Gorboli, perhaps because he wasn’t fluent in it.

​

We loaded our luggage into the car and set off. Hours passed as we drove through the rugged Rajasthan landscape. Eventually, we stopped near a desert camp.

​

Camels lounged lazily in the sand, while tents stood clustered together. Women, dressed in colorful traditional attire, were busy cooking over open fires. The air smelled of smoke and freshly baked roti.

​

We walked toward them. Offering some money, each one of us took a roti.

​

Something about this place felt familiar to me. It felt like home.

​

The others, however, were mesmerized by the intricate embroidery on the women’s dresses, their ivory bangles, and their heavy jewelry.

​

Urmila turned to me. “I don’t think your people wear clothes like these, do they?”

​

“Not exactly like these, but similar,” I replied.

​

She and Shalini lingered, engaging in a conversation with the women, while the rest of us stood back, taking in the atmosphere.

​

Dhananjay, our driver, leaned against the car, quietly smoking a cigarette.

​

Jagadesh and Seeraj were busy capturing the scene—the setting sun, the hardworking men and women, the camels resting near the tents, and the children dancing on bullock carts.

​

I wandered a little away from the camp, drawn to the melancholic beauty of the evening. A strange feeling stirred inside me. As I gazed at the sun, my vision blurred, and for a fleeting moment, I saw people melting in the fire. They were running out of the sun, flames consuming their bodies, their silent screams echoing in my mind.

​

Nearby, a thin vapor hovered, appearing like a delicate veil of water, shrouding the fading light and creeping darkness. I rubbed my eyes and looked again—groups of people were running toward me, their faces distorted in agony. Each time I blinked, they seemed closer.

​

A sudden chill ran through me. I turned on my heel and rushed back to the car, where my friends were already waiting. Without a word, I got in, and we resumed our journey.

​

“Such a beautiful life they lead,” Shalini murmured, still mesmerized by the camp.

​

“Don’t your people live like this too?” Urmila asked, turning to me.

​

I simply nodded.

​

Seeraj leaned forward, intrigued. “Could you tell us more about your clan?”

​

I sighed, collecting my thoughts. “Our people don’t always know who they are or where they come from. But historians tell us that about 3,500 years ago, we left Rajasthan and spread across India, helping others with transportation, using packs of bulls and bullock carts. We used to trade lavana—salt—which is why we were called Lamani or Lambadi.

​

“But not all of us stayed here. Some families were taken to European countries as slaves by the kings of that time. Those people came to be known as Romanis or Gypsies.”

​

I paused, looking at their fascinated expressions. “There’s a lot more to tell. But we have many days ahead of us—I’ll share more as we go.”

​

They were captivated by the idea of a nomadic lifestyle. That night, as we drove through the desert, a thought struck us.

​

“Why don’t we live like nomads while we’re here?” someone suggested.

​

The idea thrilled us. We decided to embrace the experience fully.

​

​

4

 

It was around 2 a.m. when I nudged our driver. “Bhaiyya, is there any place where we can see people singing and dancing?”

​

He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Yes, but you’ll only find that at camps or hotels.”

​

I leaned back, remembering movies where nomads danced under the open sky, lost in the rhythm of nature. My friends had all drifted into a deep sleep, but I couldn’t.

​

Pulling my phone from my shirt pocket, I opened Facebook. A post on a celebrity’s page caught my eye.

​

The post was about the mass killing of monkeys. The caption read: We are near to it… Next, we will be the monkeys. This planet is at its brink. I was always drawn to such discussions, so I scrolled down to the comments. The first comment contained a YouTube link to a video showing monkeys attacking humans—snatching food, scratching, biting, creating havoc. The second comment was more emotional: Jai Shri Ram, Jai Hanuman. Bhagavan Ram won’t spare those who did this. They will face their fate. Below it, a heated discussion had erupted.

​

Arey bhai, what will Ram do? We need to think about it. Why were so many monkeys killed? It’s our fault—we didn’t even leave a forest for them.

​

No, no, this was intentional.

​

Yes, bhai, for us Hindus, this is a matter of pride.

​

Arrey, you’re taking the discussion in the wrong direction. Think practically—it’s all about nature. (A journalism student’s comment.)

​

Someone even tagged the celebrity, asking: What should we do now?

​

The debate was endless. I kept scrolling, my mind growing heavier with each passing comment.

The celebrity replied: We should stop constructing buildings and factories. Instead, we must focus on reforesting as much as possible.

​

A satirical reply quickly followed: Then why don’t you demolish all your properties and start planting trees?

​

The comments kept piling up—same old debates, same old arguments. I got bored. This wasn’t new in India.

​

I swiped up and came across another post—it was about a writers’ strike. I sighed. Writers and poets always romanticize everything, turning every disaster into a metaphor. Not in the mood for that, I skipped the post.

​

Closing Facebook, I switched to Instagram.

​

The first post was from a page called EVERYONE DESERVES TO BREATHE. It focused on endangered animals and tribes. I scrolled through their posts—each one dedicated to a different species, listing their dwindling populations in various countries. I read about their diets, comparing them with similar species in different regions.

​

Suddenly, the car jerked to a halt.

​

“What happened?” I asked.

​

“An animal crossed the road, sir,” Jadav replied.

​

“Oh, okay. Be careful,” I muttered.

​

Jadav nodded, took a sip of water, and restarted the car.

​

The sun had almost fully risen, casting a golden glow over the desert. The earth stretched like an endless brown carpet, with the sun resting at the horizon—a breathtaking sight.

​

“How long until we reach the hotel?” I asked.

​

“Another hour or two, sir.”

​

“Oh, this is taking forever,” I thought, sinking back into Instagram.

​

A video caught my attention.

​

A newborn baby, lifeless, floating in the Musi River. People stood around, filming, but no one stepped forward to pull the body out. The comment section was flooded with RIP Humanity.

​

A wave of nausea hit me. I shut Instagram immediately. The image of the floating baby lingered in my mind, unsettling me.

​

I closed my eyes and leaned my head on Shalini’s shoulder.

​

​

5

​

In the darkness behind my eyelids, a surreal vision took over.

​

Desert ants scurried across my body, their tiny mandibles nibbling at my flesh. Black scorpions crawled over me, smearing their bodies and their newborns against my skin. Wild garden lizards slithered across my wounds, their tongues licking up the blood.

​

I wanted to scream, but my voice was trapped inside me. The creatures kept moving, their tiny feet and slimy bodies covering me entirely. The desert swallowed me whole.

​

Suddenly, the car jerked violently. A loud thudding sound echoed from the roof. A deer had crossed our path.The car filled with screams. The jolt threw me out onto the road. My head hit the ground. I drifted in and out of consciousness. My body felt weightless.

​

An accident. So all this must be an illusion—a side effect of heavy injury, I thought.

​

​

6

 

I opened my eyes. A giant screen floated in front of me, displaying magnified images of sweat glands. Two of them were split into halves, and inside each, a tiny plant was growing, covered in soil.

​

What nonsense is this? I turned my head to the right. A group of animals sat in a row, scribbling notes on notepads. I turned left—human skeletons, neatly arranged.

​

I strained to understand the animal language. Before my fall, they spoke in Telugu; now their speech had transformed into an alien tongue. Panic surged through me. I tried to break free from my restraints but failed. My breathing grew heavy. I looked up. A web of metal pipes crisscrossed above me, rumbling occasionally—perhaps, carrying water.

​

A group of porcupines scuttled past, their quills rattling. I almost laughed at the absurdity. Then, a baby porcupine tumbled from above, landing on my abdomen. Its sharp quills pierced my chest and stomach. Pain erupted through me.

​

I gasped. The shock jolted me awake.

​

​

7

 

I lay in the pit, now half-filled with sand. I clenched a fistful of it, sifting through bits of shattered bones.

​

Slowly, I stood up. Relief washed over me—I was alive.

​

Climbing out of the pit, I turned to see if anything had changed. Nothing had. The world remained as it was.

​

I walked toward the rising sun. Staring into its golden light, something stirred deep within me.

Without realizing it, I began to run. Faster. Faster. My feet pounded the earth. My breath grew ragged, but I couldn’t stop.

​

I glanced back—I had already traversed six or seven kilometers.

​

I willed myself to stop, but my body disobeyed.

​

Ahead, a column of smoke curled into the sky. I gasped for air, forcing my exhausted body toward the east.

​

Maybe there are people there. Maybe they’re roasting meat.

​

My sprint slowed to a staggering walk.

​

I dropped to my knees, pressing my nose to the earth three times in gratitude.

​

Thank you for keeping me alive. Thank you for holding my soul in place.

​

I was parched, yet I forced myself forward.

​

After a while, the ground changed. The sand grew darker—red soil. I bent down, sifting through it. Among the clumps, I found tiny conch shells and snail fragments. I tried to extract them carefully but crushed a few.

​

Memories flooded back. As a child, my grandmother mixed clay clumps into soured milk or sweet curd when vegetables were scarce. During droughts, we ate the very earth beneath us.

I placed a clump in my mouth. A familiar, earthy taste dampened my parched tongue.

Curious, I bent down and licked the soil directly.

​

I didn’t see the sharp shell buried in the dust.

​

A sudden sting .Saltiness flooded my mouth. Blood.

​

It gushed from my tongue. I spat, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. My mouth filled with a metallic tangI continued walking and tried to ignore it.

​

I walked for hours, searching the sky for birds. Nothing. Not even a dust swirl in the air.

I tried to recall different bird species, but only their wings came to mind—their forms eluded me.

​

After what felt like an eternity, I saw something—hundreds of bullock carts, clustered together.

Limestone, I guessed, seeing the pale chunks stacked high in the carts.

​

Hope flared in my chest.

​

I quickened my pace through the carts, calling out for help. No response. No people. Silence pressed against my ears.

​

I looked behind me at the golden sky. A gaping void, as far as I could see.

​

Moving forward, I saw steps carved deep into the ground, leading downward. I hesitated, then descended. A faint voice reached my ears.

​

Vettho…. Eka kaalo gatala…
Ori godema sutho ujjeka lalo gatala…
Dadero chendi vathalayi eka matala…

​

(Once there was a black hill, inside its embrace was another red hill. The shadow of the sky upturned a pot.)
 

The deeper I went, the clearer the song became. The melody was soothing, yet something about it unsettled me. A sharp itch spread across my body. My skin prickled. The discomfort grew unbearable. I turned to climb back up. My foot slipped. The darkness swallowed me whole, yet again. I felt a  numbing chill. My body was frozen. 

​

When I opened my eyes, my body was caked in watery clayt—I must have rolled down in the mud.

​

Somewhere nearby, voices drifted toward me. The sound echoed through the valley-like place. I turned my head to look. A group of people stood in the distance, their eyes locked onto me. One by one, they approached.

​

A woman stepped forward and asked in Gor Boli, “Where are you from?”

​

Her words stunned me. How did she know?

​

“How do you know that I’m Gor Mati?” I asked.

​

She pointed to my arms and legs. “The tattoos on your hands and calves.”

​

“Oh…” I murmured, glancing down at the faded ink on my skin.

​

“You still haven’t told me—where are you from?” she repeated.

​

“Hyderabad,” I replied.

​

Her forehead wrinkled. “Oh… is that a place?”

​

“Yes, it’s a city. There’s an area called Banjara Hills—our ancestors once lived there, but they left it long ago,” I explained.

​

The group exchanged glances, their eyes widening.

​

The woman’s voice turned firm. “How did you come here?”

​

I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

​

A man muttered, “He might be evil… or possessed. We should ward off the spirit.”

​

“No, no… nothing like that,” I protested quickly.

​

I tried to shift the conversation. “Where are you people from?”

​

The woman’s expression didn’t change. “We are from nowhere.”

​

“What do you mean? Don’t you have a tanda or a name?”

​

A man beside her shook his head. “No.”

​

Something about their blank responses unsettled me. “Then… what are you doing here?”

​

The woman answered, her voice calm yet firm. “We are digging the earth. Purifying its body.”

​

A chill ran down my spine. They’ve lost their minds. The woman who had first spoken to me reached for my hand. “Come with me.” she said.

​

I hesitated but followed her. The others dispersed, returning to their tasks.

​

As we walked, my body tensed. Then, I saw them. Baskets. Piles and piles of them. My hands started trembling like a bird caught in a trap.

​

“This is what we’ve been doing for ages,” she said.

​

My throat dried up. “What do you do with all these… bones?”

​

“We collect them. Separate the soil from the waste.”

​

I swallowed hard. “How long have you been doing this?”

​

“Thirty years.”

​

“Where do you eat, drink, sleep?”

​

Her reply sent a shiver down my spine. “We don’t do any of those.”

​

I stared at her in disbelief. “Then how do you survive?”

​

Her voice was eerily casual. “Whenever we feel hunger, thirst, or exhaustion, we just dig deeper. We work more. That is how we earn the right to live.”

​

She gazed at the land around us. “Even after all these years, we’ve barely made a dent. The earth is filled with bones—of humans, of animals. There are no seeds left to bring back the green. No fonts left.”

​

Her words clung to the air like a ghostly whisper. My stomach twisted. This was not a dream. This was a graveyard.​

​