The Glow and the Struggle: Tales from Dhenkanal’s Gajalaxmi Mela
SHWETA RAJ | IIMC Dhenkanal | Oct 10, 2025, 22:23 IST
The Gajalaxmi Mela dazzled with lights, colors, and sounds. But behind every smiling visitor and every glittering stall, there was a story of endurance, sacrifice, and quiet resilience. Jackie and vendors like him were the invisible heartbeat of the festival—carrying their dreams on weary shoulders, facing the glare of suspicion, and braving the storms of both weather and society. Their struggles were real, their contributions invaluable, and their humanity undeniable.
The sun was just beginning to rise over Dhenkanal, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, as the first crowd trickled into the Gajalaxmi Mela. The air was thick with excitement—the fragrance of street food mingled with the sweet scent of flowers, and laughter echoed through the busy lanes. Colorful stalls stretched as far as the eye could see, selling everything from sparkling toys to intricate handicrafts. The city was alive, vibrant, and welcoming—but behind the glittering façade, another story quietly unfolded.
Among the throng of visitors and traders was Jackie Solanki, a fortyfive-year-old vendor from Guna district, Madhya Pradesh. Jackie had arrived with his wife, children, and his brother’s family, traveling across states to reach this festival. Like many others, his livelihood depended on fairs like these. For six months every year, he journeyed from one festival to another, carrying his dreams in small wooden boxes, plastic sheets, and baskets. Yet, for all the joy the fair brought to the crowds, the reality for Jackie and vendors like him was harsh and unforgiving.
They were treated as outsiders. Local vendors and townsfolk often cast suspicious glances, whispering doubts about their presence. “They think we might steal, or cheat, or cause trouble,” Jackie said quietly. Each day, he laid a thin sheet on the hard, uneven street to sleep, shielding himself and his family with a plastic cover when the rain came. The blazing sun turned the pavement into a furnace by day, and by night, the cold and uncertainty made every moment a test of endurance. There was no support from authorities, no proper accommodation, no safety net.
Jackie’s story was not unique. Small vendors selling toys, street food, jewelry, or local handicrafts came from distant corners of India—Rajasthan, Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, and beyond. They brought with them not just goods, but culture, stories, and the magic of their craft. Without them, the mela would lose its charm, its vibrancy, and its soul. Yet, despite their vital contribution, they remained invisible, surviving in the shadows of the festival’s brilliance.
The bureaucracy made things even harder. To avail government support or assistance from the mela committee, vendors had to submit an array of documents, a near-impossible task for families like Jackie’s, constantly on the move. “We travel for months; where do we keep all these papers?” he asked, his voice tinged with exhaustion. The system, meant to protect and support, seemed to overlook those who kept the festival alive.
The Gajalaxmi Mela dazzled with lights, colors, and sounds. But behind every smiling visitor and every glittering stall, there was a story of endurance, sacrifice, and quiet resilience. Jackie and vendors like him were the invisible heartbeat of the festival—carrying their dreams on weary shoulders, facing the glare of suspicion, and braving the storms of both weather and society. Their struggles were real, their contributions invaluable, and their humanity undeniable.
As night fell and the lights flickered on, painting the fair in golden hues, Jackie tucked his children under a thin sheet, shielding them from the cold. The festival roared with life, but in the quiet corners, the echo of hardship lingered—a reminder that behind every celebration, there are countless untold stories of courage, hope, and survival.
Among the throng of visitors and traders was Jackie Solanki, a fortyfive-year-old vendor from Guna district, Madhya Pradesh. Jackie had arrived with his wife, children, and his brother’s family, traveling across states to reach this festival. Like many others, his livelihood depended on fairs like these. For six months every year, he journeyed from one festival to another, carrying his dreams in small wooden boxes, plastic sheets, and baskets. Yet, for all the joy the fair brought to the crowds, the reality for Jackie and vendors like him was harsh and unforgiving.
They were treated as outsiders. Local vendors and townsfolk often cast suspicious glances, whispering doubts about their presence. “They think we might steal, or cheat, or cause trouble,” Jackie said quietly. Each day, he laid a thin sheet on the hard, uneven street to sleep, shielding himself and his family with a plastic cover when the rain came. The blazing sun turned the pavement into a furnace by day, and by night, the cold and uncertainty made every moment a test of endurance. There was no support from authorities, no proper accommodation, no safety net.
Jackie’s story was not unique. Small vendors selling toys, street food, jewelry, or local handicrafts came from distant corners of India—Rajasthan, Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, and beyond. They brought with them not just goods, but culture, stories, and the magic of their craft. Without them, the mela would lose its charm, its vibrancy, and its soul. Yet, despite their vital contribution, they remained invisible, surviving in the shadows of the festival’s brilliance.
The bureaucracy made things even harder. To avail government support or assistance from the mela committee, vendors had to submit an array of documents, a near-impossible task for families like Jackie’s, constantly on the move. “We travel for months; where do we keep all these papers?” he asked, his voice tinged with exhaustion. The system, meant to protect and support, seemed to overlook those who kept the festival alive.
The Gajalaxmi Mela dazzled with lights, colors, and sounds. But behind every smiling visitor and every glittering stall, there was a story of endurance, sacrifice, and quiet resilience. Jackie and vendors like him were the invisible heartbeat of the festival—carrying their dreams on weary shoulders, facing the glare of suspicion, and braving the storms of both weather and society. Their struggles were real, their contributions invaluable, and their humanity undeniable.
As night fell and the lights flickered on, painting the fair in golden hues, Jackie tucked his children under a thin sheet, shielding them from the cold. The festival roared with life, but in the quiet corners, the echo of hardship lingered—a reminder that behind every celebration, there are countless untold stories of courage, hope, and survival.