Gopadri, Northern Indian Peninsula - Circa 2nd Century
The hot summer’s day had left the soil, pebbles, trees and wood still throbbing with heat. What remained of the little light in the sky was just enough to get the cattle back to the sheds. All around, the village was settling down for the evening.
Most of the men were washing off the mud from the field, cleaning their tools, as they did themselves. The women were preparing the firewood for the evening meal.
This was Hari’s favorite time of the day. Throughout the day he lay beneath the shade of the mango tree by the dirt track that ran onward to Dilli. Once every few hours as a cart passed by with its hot and tired travelers, they would stop there for their noonday meal, to refresh and rest, as they would continue on their way before dusk.
He would befriend them, and help them water the bullocks, and give directions. Then he would sit with them and talk for a while. Asking them where they came from, what the places were like, what events had transpired on their journey thus far.
Some spoke of the kingdom they came from. About the courtesans, the town gossip, minor battles with neighbouring kingdoms. Local sport and hunting episodes, customs and traditions. Hari was a keen listener and absorbed all this.
By the end of the day he’d heard enough to narrate a full 2 hours worth after the evening meal. His vivid flair for story telling had recently begun to capture the imagination of young and old alike. “The flavour, not the facts” is what Hari believed people wanted. He was right.
It was now the season of Chaitra and since the Paush season last year he had begun telling his stories. Vibrant tales that he heard from travelers as they passed through.
It had now become a regular feature each evening, for the townsfolk to gather around the Pipal tree, as they sat around on the sun-baked dung spread thin on the ground.
Today was going to be special thought Hari excitedly. Just last week his friend Bhole the cow herd had crafted a new flute from the bamboo reeds, and it had produced a most delightful range of notes. Bhole had suggested that today’s story be told with more drama than usual, and the addition of some music during the session. Hari was hesitant at first then excited. “Do you think they’ll like it ?” he asked, half knowing the answer before the words were out of his mouth.
That night was like no other they had ever had. The night sky was their stage, the full-moon their lighting, and the crickets and the owls the ambient sounds. Bhole’s flute recital thrilled the villagers at each stage of the story. At first, somber then trilling, melancholic and wistful, then fiery and piercing like the battle conch.
The villagers spoke of it for many days after that, and had begun to warm up to Hari now, more friendly and eager for the next episode.
Most of the men were washing off the mud from the field, cleaning their tools, as they did themselves. The women were preparing the firewood for the evening meal.
This was Hari’s favorite time of the day. Throughout the day he lay beneath the shade of the mango tree by the dirt track that ran onward to Dilli. Once every few hours as a cart passed by with its hot and tired travelers, they would stop there for their noonday meal, to refresh and rest, as they would continue on their way before dusk.
He would befriend them, and help them water the bullocks, and give directions. Then he would sit with them and talk for a while. Asking them where they came from, what the places were like, what events had transpired on their journey thus far.
Some spoke of the kingdom they came from. About the courtesans, the town gossip, minor battles with neighbouring kingdoms. Local sport and hunting episodes, customs and traditions. Hari was a keen listener and absorbed all this.
By the end of the day he’d heard enough to narrate a full 2 hours worth after the evening meal. His vivid flair for story telling had recently begun to capture the imagination of young and old alike. “The flavour, not the facts” is what Hari believed people wanted. He was right.
It was now the season of Chaitra and since the Paush season last year he had begun telling his stories. Vibrant tales that he heard from travelers as they passed through.
It had now become a regular feature each evening, for the townsfolk to gather around the Pipal tree, as they sat around on the sun-baked dung spread thin on the ground.
Today was going to be special thought Hari excitedly. Just last week his friend Bhole the cow herd had crafted a new flute from the bamboo reeds, and it had produced a most delightful range of notes. Bhole had suggested that today’s story be told with more drama than usual, and the addition of some music during the session. Hari was hesitant at first then excited. “Do you think they’ll like it ?” he asked, half knowing the answer before the words were out of his mouth.
That night was like no other they had ever had. The night sky was their stage, the full-moon their lighting, and the crickets and the owls the ambient sounds. Bhole’s flute recital thrilled the villagers at each stage of the story. At first, somber then trilling, melancholic and wistful, then fiery and piercing like the battle conch.
The villagers spoke of it for many days after that, and had begun to warm up to Hari now, more friendly and eager for the next episode.
Mumbai, Western India - Present Day
He woke up suddenly to the loud air horn of the local train as it passed by, causing the old building to tremble and his small shanty room to rumble. He knew it was the 1.40 am Virar fast, as the motorman did that every night as he passed through.
“I must find a better flat" he told himself.... Then remembered that he was but a scriptwriter churning out trashy scripts for B grade Hindi movies. The pay was like the industry, cheap and common.
Somewhere from the dark recesses of his mind, Hari comforted himself knowing that the roots to his profession lay not in this mass produced entertainment industry that was Mumbai.
The source he thought to himself, was deeper, ……pristine, ……and as far back as time itself. The coming together of storyteller, musician & audience was part of the very fabric of human existence. The need was eternal, the imagination ever flowing.
Only the telling had changed.
