The Colourful World of the Lambani Community

I noticed them instantly. On my many commutes to work, amid the sea of corporate suits and college tees, you see women in skirts and men in their vests and turbans ablaze with colour – deep reds, electric blues and sunlit yellows. You spot the Lambani community before they even come into focus.

Lambani women dressed in traditional embroidered attire. Image: Supplied/Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra

Amidst the dusty sprawl of Sandur, near the ancient ruins of Hampi, their kaleidoscope work unfurls. It spills out of humble homes, dances across fabric, and clings to the edges of a community that refuses to be pinned down. The Lambanis, also known as Banjaras, are a nomadic tribe scattered like bright confetti across India—Bihar, Odisha, Andhra Pradesh, Gujarat, Rajasthan, Karnataka, and beyond. They have stitched their restless spirit into an art form that hums with life. Theirs is a world of colour so unrestrained, it borders on the excessive, a maximalism that feels like a shout into the void of a monochrome modernity. Rootless, yes, but never adrift, they carry their culture like a banner, its threads dyed in the hues of memory and defiance. In Sandur, this work earned a Geographical Indication tag in 2008, a quiet crown for a craft that’s never bowed.

Their origins are as tangled as the stitches they sew. Some say the Lambanis are kin to the Romani of Europe, wanderers whose footsteps echo across continents. Others trace them to the Ghor province of Afghanistan, a lineage that drifted through Rajasthan and Gujarat before spilling south. In Bellary district, where Sandur sits, the story blurs further. “My grandparents were born here,” says Gauribai, an artisan at Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra (SKKK). “Some say we migrated from Rajasthan, but I don’t know much beyond that.”

A sample of some of the different stitches used in Lambani embroidery. Image: Supplied/Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra.

Back in the Mughal era, they were traders on the move, hauling grains and spices across dusty routes. The railways’ advancement was a barrier to their nomadic trade, leaving them obsolete as steam engines roared past. Over generations, origins diluted, pushing them into seasonal migration—cutting sugarcane in Maharashtra or breaking stones for roads in Karnataka. They became nomads not just by choice but by necessity, chasing work where it bloomed. Yet in Bellary, they’ve dropped anchor, growing from a group of five to a community of 500, mostly engaged in agricultural work. Because of organisations like SKKK, numbers are swelling as women thread their embroidery into days already thick with farm work and other hustles, their stitches now a paycheck that doesn’t demand they abandon the fields.

Women are predominantly involved in embroidery, while men take over tailoring, dyeing and khadi work. Most of them work from their homes, with each village having a designated coordinator who ensures pieces reach the SKKK centre. “It is now a well-oiled machine.” According to Gauribai, some of them start their embroidery work as early as 6am.

Lambani art is a riot, a refusal to fade into the background. Their embroidery uses fourteen stitches— Kilan, Vele, Bakkya, Maki, Suryakanti Maki, Kans, Tera Dora, Kaudi, Relo, Gadri, Bhuriya, Pote, Jollya and Nakra. Each of them is done freehand on mostly handloom cotton and are further studded with mirrors, coins and shells.

As Gauribai holds out the sarees and patchwork bedspreads to show me the stitches and patterns, she moves her hand across many of them and effortlessly shoots out the names of all of them. Ultodora, angdi makhi, nakra bakya, and kattadora are some of the 45 patterns that go into these pieces. Their repository holds no fixed tally of patterns—each alive only in memory and past stitches, clutched tight from generations, tweaked only with minor changes.

A single piece of Lambani embroidery may take days to complete. Image: Supplied/Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra.

A single piece might take days, and its design is never to be repeated unless a commercial order demands multiples, a rare bow to practicality in a craft that prizes singularity. From traditional dresses to bed sheets, table runners to wall hangings, their embroidery adorns multiple surfaces. However, their best work is displayed in the wedding attire that is gifted to a bride, the work for which begins as soon as she enters her teenage years.

At SKKK, 80 percent of the work uses the indigenous free-flowing and geometric stitches. The other 20 percent makes room for new motifs like fish, peacock and flowers whose outlines are traced and the insides handstitched.

Perhaps the first thing you will notice is the use of bold and unapologetic colours – hues of bright red, blue, yellow and green. Gauribai holds firm that red and blue must stay as an homage to the revered Sevalal, the Banjara’s guiding reformer, born to Bheema Naik and Dharamani Mata, who wove these tones into their soul.

"My grandparents told a wild tale," Gauribai says, "about Tippu Sultan's thwarted marriage plans. Apparently, he wanted to marry into our community, but the caste differences were insurmountable. So, the ancestors devised a clever defence—they dressed head to toe in such vibrant, bold patterns that Tippu Sultan was reportedly so dazzled he fled."

Mirrors are an integral part of their dress, a trademark in their attire. “If there are no mirrors, we don’t wear them,” Gauribai declares. In the olden days, when the members had to venture into the forests, prowling with cheetahs and tigers, the light reflecting off the mirror would ward them away. Apart from the mirrors and colours, it’s also the Ghunto, a traditional headwear and Topli, ornamental pieces that are worn on the hair fringes, that are unique to this community. “It frames our face and covers part of our forehead, which adds to our beauty and goes with the outfit,” Gauribai chimes in.

Lambani embroidery has a long and storied history. Image: Supplied/Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra.

This art doesn’t stop at the cloth. It spills into their homes. Historically, their mud-walled homes were painted with bold hues and blazed with motifs. Now, modernisation has crept in, and the coloured walls have remained but reduced, with only an embroidered thoran (a décor item hung on top of the door threshold) for garnish. “Across the whole village, there might be 20 homes that have these colours and designs," Umabai, another artisan, adds.

The threat of cultural erosion goes beyond the walls. Fast fashion floods markets with cheap shadows of their work—machine-made mimics that sell for a fraction of the time and soul they pour in. Money tightens its grip, pulling the young away, their needles traded for quicker cash.

Still, they’ve outlasted empires, and they’re not done yet. Organisations like the Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra and Banjara Kasuti have stepped in with purpose. In Karnataka’s hills, SKKK turns stitches into shawls and bags that hit urban shelves, while Banjara Kasauti in Hyderabad threads their work into global eyes. In 2023, 450 artisans nabbed a Guinness record at the G20 Culture meeting, stitching 1,755 unique patches—a loud defiance.

The Lambanis are a lively bunch – with not just colours but music and dance in their veins. As I was talking to Gauribai, she asked my name and broke into traditional songs with my name stitched in – clapping with a wide grin across her face. Across Karnataka, they carry this spirit to cultural events, their feet moving to tambourine rattles. “Kids these days cling to phones and screens, but we danced to our heart’s content—I still do, and I always will,” Gauribai adds.

Their history is a patchwork of grit. No one’s pinned it down, and maybe that’s the point: they’re not meant to be fixed. I see them as magicians, pulling colour from the dust of their travels, refusing to let the road dull their shine.

Banner image: Sandur Kushala Kala Kendra

Asia Media Centre