Of folk tales and the threats they are facing

Sandeep Sinha

Folk tales are oral traditions passed on from generation to generation, capturing the aspirations, values, history and popular culture of their time. India has a rich oral tradition, evident in the way the Vedas were first preserved, handed down verbally through the ages by the system of Shruti and Smriti, which is heard and memorised. Culture is a learned behaviour and every state, every region has its own tales, much like the axiom in journalism that wherever there are people, there are stories, rich in content, entertaining and reflecting the yearnings of the people. No wonder author Nalin Verma, a journalist, has gone on to explore the subaltern aspect of daily life in his state of Bihar, weaving tales that he heard like many others in his childhood and committing them to the written word so that they are preserved and do not get lost when the colourful raconteurs are no more and their descendants go for a different calling.

The noted Hindi poetess, Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, wrote, “Maa keh ek kahani, Raja tha ya rani!” Indeed, a child’s basic initiation into the outer world and his heritage is through the stories he hears from his family and village elders, and the five main languages of Bihar — Bhojpuri, Magahi, Angika, Vajjika and Maithili — abound in it. Collecting them is quite a task and the author has gone about it well.

The introduction to the book is a gripping account of how folk culture reflects the sentiments of people. Here’s an example. It was the 1971 war, and the villagers sympathise with one of their own who had migrated to Dhaka, sweeping its streets, and rejoice over the defeat of Yahya Khan. The narrator, too, is a Muslim and mocks the Pakistan dictator, “Ahiya ke pahiya phaans gaeel baate Bangal ke Khadi mein…” (Yahya’s wheels have got stuck in the Bay of Bengal).

Then there is Basudeo Lal who would extol Hitler, “Arjun ke avtar Hitler, duniya ke hilaule ba…mauga Gandhi chhod ke Bose ke dost banaule baa.” (An incarnate of Arjun, Hitler has shaken the world, shunning an effeminate Gandhi, he has befriended Subhas Chandra Bose). The frustration over the British rule was evident in these lines. Then, there is the love story of Saranga and Sadabrij, told by Patru Ahir who sang it in his mellifluous voice, drawing village youths like a magnet.

The author mentions Bhikhari Thakur, described as the Shakespeare of Bhojpuri, whose fame had travelled beyond the borders of Bihar. His dramas Gabarghichor and Beti Bechwa were a hit. It was Lalu Prasad Yadav who explained the stories of Thakur to this writer. Thakur also expressed the feelings of the Bihari migrant: “Piya, piya karat karat, piyar bhail dehiya, tabo nahin aile piyawa more,” sung by the wife of a migrant.

There is an account of Microsoft’s Bill Gates crossing the river Kosi in a boat, along with the author of this book. The boat is hit by turbulence in the swollen river, and the boatman breaks into a prayer song to propitiate the river god. At that very moment, the thought of using technology to preserve folk tales struck the author.

There are lessons to be learnt from the stories — how to be wise and ingenious in a challenging situation. Above all, there is concern over the disappearance of the balladeers and their calling in the face of urbanisation and modernisation. The author is worried over the stories getting lost in the fast-changing times as pagdandis make way for concrete roads and TV sets replace village chaupals. The change is best typified in the lines — Peepal ke patte gol, gol; kuch kehte rehte dol dol— even as a tree swayed outside. The lines are still learnt but the peepal tree has disappeared.

It’s a good effort, evocative and lucid and a positive attempt at dastongoi to sustain a region’s culture.