Aerya Lakshminarayan Alva: Footprints Before Bisu

On the 06th of December 2025, I released Season One of my coffee table book. Of the 49 invitations that went out, 45 people walked in. We gathered in the Westminster Hall of the ITC Windsor. The women wore their finest Bunt jewellery and sat like true Buntedis.

A Room That Belonged to Women

My mentor asked me, what do you mean by that, true Buntedi?

This is something I cannot explain with words alone. They walked tall, shoulders back. Most of them had a towering presence. Even those who were shorter could command a room without effort. They emanated beauty and carried a pride that resisted language. It was something you could feel rather than describe. Each woman was draped in silk or cotton sarees, elegant in her own way, the fabric falling into place as though it belonged only to her. Their faces were naturally beautiful. Even if there was a trace of foundation or tint, it disappeared into them. Nothing felt loud. Nothing was jazzy.

I cannot tell you how, but somewhere in that room I realised that I had finally inherited my father’s Bunt radar. I could tell. They were all Bunts.

Matrilineally bred, they carried the quiet, assured confidence of women who were kharbar, women who set their minds on something and moved toward it without hesitation. I knew, without doubt, that none of them would ever do anything untoward in their lives. They were deeply prideful women, and they bowed to no one. I fell in love with each and every woman who walked in that evening.

Yes, there were men, too. Nice ones. Some I knew. Some I did not. They would agree as well that the evening belonged to the women.

On Mentorship and Intellectual Lineage

We listened to Dr Hima Urmila Shetty, then Mrs Urmila Shetty, and then little old me.

Dr Hima Urmila Shetty is someone who knew me before I could talk or walk. I was beyond grateful that she agreed to speak at the launch. If you have never heard her speak as a Toastmaster or if you weren't her student, you have missed out on what I dare say is one of the most eminent orators, teachers, thinkers, and writers among the Bunt women of our time.

I cannot tell you about the relationship I share with her. It is too sacred to me, and I do not wish to share this secret with the world yet. But if I must try, I would say this. I have met many intelligent people. I have encountered thinkers who are sharper, larger than life, and far more accomplished than I am, often on foreign soil. I have lunched and dined with some of the greatest minds of our time. On rare occasions, I find someone with whom I can truly speak and feel understood. But none like Dr Hima Urmila Shetty.

I do not have to adapt myself around her. I do not have to hold myself back. Whatever I know, she knows more. I learn from her constantly.

Mrs. Urmila Shetty, who is the daughter of Mulki Sunder Ram Shetty kindly obliged to speak about her father. She delivered a poetic ode to her father and recited a few lines from the poem ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling that reminded us about the man he was. She was incredibly selfless in connecting me with the subject of this essay.

There were men, too. The women around us added to the discussion. They chimed in, thoughtfully and without hesitation. My focus, however, stayed on two Bunt women who went to the same school I did. I realised that if I anchored my attention on them, I would be less nervous. I was right. It felt like speaking to the girls I had grown up with. Another institution that quietly produced fearless, strong women who were ready to take on the world.

Power Without Performance

I am being rude. The men were indeed nice. They did not seek attention. They did not attempt to dominate the room. I will be honest. I was afraid of that. When we decided to release this book to a room full of Bunts, I worried we would have to invite men who demanded attention or tried to overpower a space. That never happened.

There were no chief guests. There were no main guests. There was no stage. It was simply a room filled with people we wanted there, and we wanted each one of them to feel special.

If I receive permission from the guests, I may release the video on this website for a short while, so you can see what I mean.

I digress from the men yet again. I know. I have spoken of three men for every woman. I am painfully aware that this ratio does not befit a matrilineal community. But there are countless women who embody Bunt traits and could fill pages of their own. Many of them have never stood in the spotlight. The truth is, these men would not be where they are without the women in their lives, and they seemed to know it. They enjoyed the spotlight, but they did not demand it.

Mr Hariprasad Shetty spoke of his father and stole our hearts with a story from his childhood that reminded me that men celebrated by the world can also be great fathers. Dr Karunakar Hegde, who knew not only my grandfather but my great-grandfather Domba, found time to be with us and shared stories about people and about Bunts that carried memory and warmth. The Bunt Sangha President of Bangalore, CA Ashok Shetty, spoke briefly about what the Sangha is doing for the community. CA Nitin J. Shetty spoke of the role Bunts play in the economy of Dakshina Kannada and Udupi.

I must apologise profusely to Mr Manjunatha Shetty, the president of BANA, who was to join us online. In today’s Sangha space, I believe he is making the most impact. Not only does he hear and listen, but he executes like a true leader. I believe the one I speak of today would have enjoyed Manju Uncle’s company greatly. Our technology failed us.

And then I met Mr Balakrishna Hegde, an introduction I owe to Mrs Urmila Shetty. He spoke only for a few minutes, as our moderator, Mrs Rashmi Shetty, kept us on time. But my goodness, what a few minutes they were.

The Gaps in Research

I want to be honest, I had heard of him during my research as Chartered Housing dhaar. But there are many moguls in real estate and development, and my sample size was under 45. I did not delve into that bucket deeply. It was not part of my research.

I did not plan on writing this note at all. But I felt compelled to, to give you the backstory to the essay I am writing now. This was not part of my research, and I could not wait until Bisu to share it with you. I had to write while it was still fresh, and I apologise if this gives you a little FOMO about the release of Season One.

I digress again.

Mr Hegde, whom I have now audaciously renamed Bala Uncle, spoke briefly about his mentor Mulki Sunder Ram Shetty. In just a few words, he revealed the magnitude of the legacy that man left behind, not only for his family but for so many others who were not. He spoke of mentorship, of responsibility, of how many successful families owe their foundations to Mulki Sunder Ram Shetty.

On Proximity, Elders, and Regret

Those who know me personally know that I rarely accept invitations from people I do not know well. It is a flaw I am working on. I find my comfort in academic circles, work circles, and among those who have known me from the ages of three to twenty. They have seen the worst of me and stayed anyway. That kind of loyalty matters.

I am not someone who gets starstruck. I am not easily awed. It takes me time to feel comfortable enough to speak freely. And yet, something shifted. I jumped shamelessly at an invitation for tea to meet Bala Uncle’s mother, Mrs Bhavani Hegde, who also happens to be the sister of Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva. Like the burnt toast theory, I would have deeply regretted letting that opportunity pass.

I had read about Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva as much as I had read about Kayyar Kinnyana Rai. I knew more of the latter, partly because my grandaunt was married to one of Kayyar’s brothers. Again, these were buckets with limited quantifiable data, and during my research, I paid them little attention.

As Voltaire says, “The more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing.”

Since that visit, Bala Uncle has utterly spoiled me with books by and about Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva. Though he went by Aerya Lakshminarayan Alva, I will continue to add Beedu to his name when I speak of him, and there is a reason for that.

Why This Essay Interrupts

This is not an academic essay.

This is two weeks of reading every page of books that have now found a home in my library. This is two weeks of being obsessed with a man I regret never meeting. This is two weeks of changing my own thoughts, shifting perspectives, and quietly debating with a man I believe I would have been friends with.

My mother got her hands on the book titled Footprints, the English translation of Hindina Hejje by Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva. She stole it and read it before I did. Yes, stole.

I was not without books, though. Bala Uncle had given me at least three when I visited him. I devoured every page.

I am not writing to you about each book, because many pages overlap and some arguments repeat themselves. Instead, I am writing to you about the man who was Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva from the little I’ve read in these few days.

This is not a biography. I will not tell you how he lived his life, nor can I fully speak of his impact, because that would require far more meticulous research than this essay allows. This is simply about what I learned from him.

Reading Buntaru: A Framework from Within

The first book I read was Buntaru, written in Kannada. It is a forty-page book, and I would say he wrote structurally before I did. It is an essay with clear subheadings, designed so that you can return to the parts that linger with you. He writes without bias. He gives an anthropological account of how the Bunts came to be.

Much of his theory and research overlapped with my own. He writes about nature worship, about the immigration of the GSB community, Brahmins, Christians, and Bearys, and about the proselytisation toward Jainism. Reading it was deeply validating to my own work. He also writes about culture and behavioural patterns of the time.

In his words, he explains the collectivism that Bunts possessed and the innate altruism that guided them. What the present generation labels as effective altruism came naturally to Bunts. He explains how self-sacrifice for the collective was embedded in the community.

If I remember correctly, and I write this from memory, so forgive me if I err, he gives four meanings of the word Bunt.

The first is the most literal.

(1) Bunta, the warrior.

The second speaks of innate selflessness. He explains how Bunts sacrificed themselves for the good of others.

He briefly narrates the story of Koti Chennaya and arrives at the second meaning.

(2) Bunta, those who sacrificed their lives for others, or simply put, martyrs.

The third meaning emerges through the story of Jumadi, the Bunt God.

(3) Bunta, the protector.

The fourth meaning overlaps with the third, which is why I doubted my own memory, but he expands it further. He writes of Bantetthu, derived from Bunta and Etthu, the ox.

(4) Bunta, the protector of the weak.

This essay, and I will call it an essay, is essential reading for anyone researching Bunts or even for those simply curious about how we came to be. He maps the geographical extent of where Bunts survived and settled.

What I appreciated most was that he does not write from a holier-than-thou standpoint, nor does he segregate derogatorily. Instead, he frames Bunts as a unifying people. We welcomed immigrants. We learned from them. He gives specific instances of Havyaka migration, of Jain influence, of Beary and Catholic communities.

This is where he provoked me to think.

From his words, I understood that Bunts were also seekers of new paths and new knowledge. We adapted. We welcomed what was new. He anthropologically dissects our history, but he also psychologically analyses why we sought greener pastures. He accounts for loss of land, loss of community, and places it within a historical context.

Like me, and I say this without comparison, he uses personal anecdotes to anchor the reader. I do this because I know no other way to explain myself, and because I have an incessant need to explain what triggered a thought. Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva seemed to carry a similar impulse, expressed differently.

He does not speak only of Bunts. He writes about all the communities that coexisted. Again, much like my own research suggests, he validates that we were divided and organised by skill and occupation rather than by faith. Before the immigration of the GSB community, Bearys, Brahmins, and Catholics, we all worshipped the same daivas and bhutas.

The Mogaveeras were coastal people whose trade was fishing. The Ranadhaguls were cobblers. The Odaaris were potters. The Nalike tribe, the Billavas, and the Mansa tribe were all communities, just as the Bunts were.

From a hierarchical standpoint, Bunts were feudal lords and landed gentry, not by divine right, but because their skills in administration, leadership, and protection naturally placed them in higher socio-economic positions. These skills allowed them to sustain that role across generations, just as other communities sustained theirs.

Structure emerged from skill and trade.

The Harijan or Dalit communities occupied lower socio-economic positions because their work rendered them untouchable. Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva was often called Harijan Alva for the work he did to uplift this community through various initiatives. Like many of his contemporaries, he was influenced by Gandhi and worked toward social reform.

This was not, in my opinion, a saviour complex. It was an understanding. He recognised that Dalit communities were subjected to inhumane conditions through historical order and occupational inheritance. They had no means to break the cycle for their children.

For Bunts and other tribes, there was often a way out of poverty through education, relationships, or access to opportunity. The Dalit community was denied this. Alva sought to create those pathways through awareness and action.

That, to me, is what stayed.

Through his work, and in an interview he once gave, he almost anthropologically predicts the disbandment of the traditional house structure and the slow erosion of community. He speaks of health, of how illness experienced within a shared household, surrounded by relatives, is profoundly different from illness endured within the confines of a nuclear home. Throughout his writing, he returns again and again to unity, to community, and to belonging. Themes that feel almost painfully relevant today.

I finally got Footprints back after it was stolen by my birthgiver. It was a terrible few days. Of course, my mother ruined things for me by praising his work excessively and pulling out quotes before I had a chance to read it myself. She knows fully well that my attention wavers when she relays something to me, because I trust her words completely. It was incredibly rude of her, and she quite thoroughly spoiled the book for me.

So when I finally sat down to read it, I found myself hunting for the parts she had already flagged. I tried, and then I outwitted my own brain. I read it in Kannada instead. Take that, Mum. Always trying to ruin things for me. She even forces me to sleep these days. There is truly no end to her cruelty.

Hindina Hejje, or Footprints, is again a must-read. I hope it is still in print, and I hope you manage to get your hands on a copy.

Who Gets to Tell a Community’s Story

Before I tell you what I thought of it, I want to share an opinion that has been forming slowly during my research.

I have read extensively about Bunts through the work of external researchers. I call them external not dismissively, but simply because they do not belong to the Bunt community. I know there are exceptions, but I remain convinced that most external researchers fail to capture the essence of the community. They may give you an account that is historically accurate and academically sound, but they do not breathe it. And I think that does a community a disservice.

This is not unique to Bunts. Even though I am deeply intrigued by the Khasi tribe or the Maori, I know that I could never capture their essence. Not in this lifetime. Even if I lived among them, even if I broke bread with them, there would always be a distance. Essence cannot be borrowed. It can only be lived.

The Bunts have been shaped by histories, fractures, and contradictions that no external researcher can feel as deeply as I do, or as deeply as Bunt scholars like B. A. Viveka Rai or Indira Hegde could. This does not demerit the work of external scholars in any way. I am deeply grateful for their contributions.

But this is why I ask you to pick up Hindina Hejje by Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva. He understood these nuances instinctively. Not only because he was, in my view, an excellent sociologist and anthropologist, but because he lived as a Bunt man.

The prose itself is not as lyrical or beautiful as one might hope, but that is the cost of translation. In Kannada, it is quite beautiful. That said, I must commend Prof. B. Surendra Rao for doing the translation justice. The author’s note is a must-read. In novels, I tend to skip it. In this book, you must not. The author-speak that appears in both versions gives you a glimpse into the inner life of a Bunt man trying, quietly and earnestly, to do some good.

There are two things Bunts experience but rarely speak of. The first is schadenfreude, the pleasure taken in the failure of others. The second is what scholars call common enemy intimacy, the collective act of ostracising someone. There is also a third, quieter phenomenon, one I cannot find a precise English phrase for.

In Tulu, it is adda batther.

You may say, Ammu, that simply means coming in the way. Or you may translate it as interference, or running interference. But it is much more than that. It is a social posture. A way of obstructing momentum without ever standing fully in the light.

Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva was kinder than I am, and far less rude in his prose. So he says it quietly, almost gently. Jannakulu Adda Batther. Jannakulu means people.

He was the President of the Sangha in Mangalore in 1969, a time when both my parents were toddlers, and I was not even a thought. You can tell that he genuinely craved making an impact. You can also tell that he was a greedy man. A very greedy man indeed. Greedy for knowledge.

Here, I can give you a brief glimpse into his educational background. He hated the four walls of a classroom. He dropped out of school. His education came from reading extensively and travelling widely.

As Francis Bacon said, “Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man.” Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva did not merely believe this. He lived it.

As Bala Uncle told me, his father-in-law believed only in Odhaata and Oddaata. Reading and travelling.

In Alva’s interviews, you can see this greed for knowledge plainly. He sought people out deliberately, just to learn from them. As President, he went down rabbit holes and unearthed information that even I, with a full team, could not have accessed.

Hindina Hejje is, again, a collection of essays. Essays on Bunts and education. He structures them carefully. He speaks first of men and their journeys through education and professional life. Then he speaks of women. You can tell this was a man deeply influenced by women. He was the only son, surrounded by sisters. He was also a girl dad.

His third essay examines Mumbai and hoteliers. His fourth explores Vijaya Bank. His fifth looks at journalism. His sixth discusses logistics. His first and last return to the Bunt Sangha.

But dear reader, I urge you to pick up this book not merely for its subjects, but to understand the formation of a different kind of society. To see how Sanghas formed anthropologically, and why they emerged the way they did.

What I love most about his work is his generosity. He gives credit where credit is due. He openly acknowledges the women who supported him, from Shambhavi Poonja to Shabari Shetty. He does not erase people. He situates them.

This is a book you must read. Even if you are not a Bunt. Even if you are simply interested in sociology or anthropology, it offers a comprehensive account of the formation of the society we now inhabit.

The second thing I love about his work is the way he paints a picture. He gives you specifics. Migration through the Agumbe Ghat. The cost of registration. Who presided over what? The backgrounds of individuals. He takes you back in time. He gives you dates. He quotes people. He explains the formation of hostels and what they meant for Bunt society. And he does all of this while acknowledging the contributions of non-Bunts as well.

He weaves the fabric of a society.

This book deserves an essay of its own. I will reread it and return to it.

The third book I read was a collection of letters from his guru, Sediyapu. Oh my god. I was obsessed. My obsession knew no bounds. I devoured every single letter.

Through Sediyapu’s replies, you can see the affection he held for Alvere, as he called him. Sediyapu himself admits that he had never written an affectionate letter before, but that he had to for Alvere.

This book provoked two thoughts in me. First, how fortunate I am to have found mentors in my life. Second, how much better our lives would be if more people my age found mentors like these.

Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva collected mentors like candy, at least in my estimation. He formed friendships easily. And yet, this greedy man almost bled them dry of knowledge. He consumed everything they gave.

That brings me to the next book I read, titled Aerya.

You may not be able to get your hands on this copy, but let me give you a taste. It is a collection of people writing about him, alongside an interview with him and reflections on his life.

And this is where I want to finally tell you why I insist on keeping the word Beedu in his name.

Beedu, Birth, and the Ethics of Privilege

It is important to understand the man he was and the family he came from. He states proudly that he belongs to Aerya Beedu, a Beedu house. If you have read my previous work, you already know how powerful the landed gentry Beedu families once were.

I read another book here on Aerya Beedu titled Noorara Nenapu, which is, in his own words, an account of life in a Beedu. Beedus were wealthy, agriculturally rich households. He was the only son born into a home full of daughters. He writes that he was born of a vow.

My grandmother, too, was a Parakke da Baale, which is why I immediately understood what he meant. In those days, parents often bargained with the gods. Vows were made in exchange for a child of a desired gender. My grandmother was born after seven boys, and among the Bunts who follow Aliyakattu, matriliny, women and daughters were of utmost importance. That does not mean men were unimportant. Men were essential as protectors of the houses of their sisters and wives.

So the matriarch of Aerya Beedu at the time made vows to beget Aerya Lakshminarayan Alva. He jokes that after his birth, the family had to travel extensively to fulfil all the vows his parents had made, which is why he believes he loves travelling. His sense of humour is something you cannot miss while reading him.

In an interview you can find on YouTube, his dark humour mirrors mine. He jokes about his own lack of teeth in old age in a way that leaves you uncomfortable. You are unsure whether to laugh with him, refrain out of respect, or worry about insulting him by not laughing. The interviewer clearly did not know how to react, and he did not. Poor lad.

I digress again. Do you see how difficult this was for me?

Bala Uncle spoiled me with books. I had such an overload of information and such an excess of thought that I could not find a neat, linear path through the life of Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva.

So why did I insist on keeping Beedu in his name?

This Parakke da Baale and I share something else. We were both raised by grandparents. My grandmothers will argue that I am a Dodda Thaankadina Pulli, like Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva, but I will confidently side with my late grandfather and tell you I was raised by my maternal grandfather. My grandmother had favourites. My family can argue with me, but it is true. My brother was hers.

This Parakke da Baale grew up in a Beedu where his parents were central to his upbringing, but so were his sisters and the household staff who raised him. He belonged to a house of privilege. He possessed wealth, so he did not crave it. Instead, he went in search of what he truly craved.

I often argue that academics are paid terribly, which is why I cling to a corporate job. And I get terribly bored. In old Oxonian days, those who became professors often had large trust funds that allowed them to pursue knowledge freely. Aerya Lakshminarayan Alva came from a Beedu that afforded him this freedom.

He was free to find purpose, find a deep sense of love for community, do much more than just be a Gadi Patthunar - the head of household, be nomadic and travel the world, hold salons and debates for intellectuals, and stay greedy in the pursuit of knowledge. You cannot separate where he hailed from from his name.

But in Tulunadu, many high-born sons squandered such privilege through gambling, alcohol, or hollow material pursuits. That is why it must be acknowledged that this high-born son chose instead to be a seeker of knowledge and an executor of impact.

The Man Revealed Through Others

Noorara Nenapu and Aerya offer a beautiful, almost secretive glimpse into the eventful life of Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva. His father, in my view, was the anchor of their groundedness. He writes of his father as a man who believed deeply in togetherness and unity and who made it almost mandatory that his children remain united.

He writes lovingly of his sisters. He writes briefly of his wife, Anandi. He writes very little about his daughter and grandchildren, aside from the family pedigree chart. But through the book Aerya, you begin to see the fuller man.

You see it through the voices of others.

When I saw that Veerendra Heggade had written about him, I expected a polite, generic paragraph. I was prepared for it. Instead, I was surprised. Heggade writes specifically, commending Aerya’s work in uplifting society through literature and awareness. He offers a glimpse into a friendship that was deep and genuine. Not an acquaintance.

Heggade even writes that, his wife, Hemavathi, scolds Aerya, for not bringing his wife Anandi along, when he visits Dharmasthala.

But it is not just Heggade. Every letter in the collection carries a personal anecdote. Each one reveals something Aerya did, something he stood for.

From founding Gram Dal to encouraging volunteerism and fight against illegal liquor and gambling. To his work in uplifting marginalised communities. To form friendships with writers who fed his insatiable hunger for knowledge. His philosophy of life. His mannerisms. His grandnieces and nephews wrote of a man who loved deeply. His constant effort to keep his family united.

My grandmother would often describe one of my ancestors by saying, “Loka kodikade malthondhu baidher, illa dakkaleg daala maldhajjer,” meaning he did a great deal for the world and nothing for his home.

In my opinion, this has been true of many so-called great men. Some quietly narcissistic, outwardly virtuous and inwardly hollow. But through this collection, it becomes clear that this was not true of Aerya.

You could argue that, of course, people would write kindly in a book dedicated to him. That is fair. But the specificity of these letters, the personal details and lived moments, reveal a man who genuinely wanted to do good and who desperately sought to create impact.

That is not to say he was without flaw. I am still looking for them. Perhaps I will write again when I find them. There were parts of his work I did not fully agree with, but many of those were shaped by the limits of his time. He wrote with the information he had. I write now with access to far more.

Before Bisu

What makes Aerya Beedu Lakshminarayan Alva matter sociologically and anthropologically is not merely that he documented a community, but that he did so from within it, as a participant-observer whose life was inseparable from the structures he was studying. He functioned as a keeper of collective memory at a moment when oral histories were collapsing under the weight of migration, land reforms, and institutional modernity. His work preserves not just facts but social logics: how kinship functioned, how power was negotiated, how altruism, hierarchy, and belonging coexisted without formal articulation. Where external scholars often freeze communities into static categories, Aerya captured Bunts as a living, adaptive system, shaped by ecology, economy, and moral obligation. He understood that societal formation is not only built through institutions like banks, sanghas, or schools, but through everyday practices of care, mentorship, debate, and disagreement. In recording these dynamics, he prevented a matrilineal, coastal society from being reduced to footnotes or romantic caricature. His writing does not merely describe history; it stabilises it, offering future generations a framework to understand how identity survives transition. In that sense, Aerya was not just an observer of social change, but an archivist of its internal grammar.

My greatest lessons have been to be greedy for knowledge like him, unabashedly. There’s too much to write about.

For now, I leave him here — not complete, but interrupting me in exactly the way good thinkers should.

More on him, after Bisu (New Year).

Disclaimer: I promise I'll try to stick to my Bisu timeline.