Teejan Bai: When an Unschooled Village Girl Heard the Call of the
Mahabharata
On a humid
July morning in 2017, the drive from Bhilai to Ganiyari took twenty minutes.
Waiting at her home—Kaushalya Nivas—was Teejan Bai, one of India's greatest
storytellers. She welcomed me with the warmth of an old acquaintance. Within
minutes she had transported me—not merely to Kurukshetra, but to her own
childhood...
During our
hour-long chat, she happily narrated her chance encounter and lifelong affair
with Pandavani.
Pandavani
Pandavani
literally means 'the voice of the Pandavas'—the Mahabharata narrated from the
perspective of the Pandava brothers. Though unique to Chhattisgarh, it is part
of a pan-Indian tradition of sharing the epic through storytelling, song, music
and theatre.
Often,
neither the storyteller, singer, performer, nor the audience, was literate.
None had gone to school. Yet, since childhood, they had dipped into the
ever-flowing rivers of cultural memory that the epic represented. Everyone knew
these stories, yet every performer reinterpreted them according to their own
genius, and everyone in the audience made sense of them in their own unique
way.
India has a
long tradition of interpreters of sacred literature — from Buddhist monks,
Jaina saints, Alvars, Nayanars, Sufis, to Bhakti poets like Surdas, Kabir, Meera,
Tulasi Das — who shared moral insights
in familiar language and style.
They seldom
preached from a pulpit. They simply sat among villagers, told their stories,
and sang their songs.
Teejan Bai
belongs naturally in this long lineage. But she was not merely a storyteller,
nor simply a singer, nor just one who played the ektara; she was a
performer par excellence. Borrowing generously from Chhattisgarhi nacha
and the rich repertoire of tribal folk songs and stories, she emerged as an
icon of Indian folk theatre.
She refused
to sit on the stage and perform Pandavani in the sedate Vedmati style
considered appropriate for women. Instead, using just a little space on a
modest stage and almost no props, she strode like a colossus and made the Mahabharata
come alive for her audience.
When she
entered the stage with her signature declamation—"Bolo Vrindavan-Bihari
Lal ki Jai"—she instantly built an intimate rapport with her audience.
She was one of them, narrating familiar yet ever-fresh stories in her own
unique style. She loved her audience, and the audience loved her back.
Teejan Bai at Bharat Bhavan, Bhopal, 2015.
A Girl Finds Her Guru
"I
was about thirteen, and spent all day with my sahelis playing chupam-chupai,
gilli-danda and kabaddi. We had great fun. One evening, when I came home
totally smeared in mud, Mother screamed at me, forbade me to enter the house
and ordered me to go to the nahar for a proper wash.
I was
very hungry, and it was already getting dark. But what to do? With much
reluctance, I headed for the canal. Not very far from our house lived Nana—my
father's uncle. As I was walking past his house, I heard him singing. It was so
mesmerising that I stood there transfixed. My body shivered—'जैसे की मुझे करंट लगा हो'—as though I had received an electric shock. Nana was singing द्रौपदी चीरहरण – the
disrobing of Draupadi."
His small
thatched house had no door, only a stick-and-straw contraption to keep stray
dogs away. She sneaked in quietly, sat in a dark corner, and listened till he
finished.
"Every
evening, he sang to no audience but to himself. Every evening, I tiptoed in and
listened as the story of the Mahabharata progressed."
One evening,
Nana heard her enter.
"Who's
there?"
She remained
silent.
"Who's
there?"
"Nana,
it's me—Teejan."
"Billi,
what are you doing here?"
He fondly
called her Billi—cat. Her mother called her Chuhiya—little mouse.
Others called her Chhipkali—gecko.
"Just
listening to your kahani and geet. I love it."
"Since
when?"
"Since
the day you sang Draupadi Cheerharan."
That was
nearly a fortnight earlier.
"Come
here," he said.
She sat
beside him.
"For
you, I shall sing everything I remember—from Adi Parva to Swargarohan. But
first we must perform a little ceremony. Tomorrow bring two coconuts, a little
rice, turmeric, vermilion, a few incense sticks and five rupees."
"Nana,
you know I don't have money for coconuts and incense sticks. I'll gather
flowers and collect the rest from home."
"Very
well. I'll arrange the rest. You bring fresh flowers."
The
following day they sat facing each other on little straw mats. He performed a
simple puja, chanting "Vrindavan-Bihari Lal ki Jai." He first offered
a coconut to Vagdevi Saraswati; then she offered one to him. She prostrated
before him and touched his feet.
"From
today," he
blessed her, "you are no longer merely a listener. You are my shishya.
One day you will perform Pandavani and many others will listen to you. But you
must make one sacrifice. Give up playing childish games with your sahelis. You
have no time for them now."
From that
day, she stopped playing with her friends. She eagerly awaited the evening
sessions with Nana. Gradually, the stories seeped into her body and soul and
gave her a thrill beyond words. During the day, while doing household chores,
she replayed them—sometimes silently in her mind, sometimes aloud in a sonorous
voice, much to the amusement of her younger brothers and sisters.
Her mother,
however, was far from amused.
One evening
she stormed into Nana's house.
"चाचा, चुहिया अब शादी लायक हो गई है। काहे ये गाना-बजाना सिखा रहे हैं?"
"Uncle,
our daughter is now of marriageable age. Why are you spoiling her by teaching
her to sing?"
To spare
Nana further embarrassment, Teejan quietly returned home.
On another
occasion, while acting out the Keechak episode before her siblings, she let out
a mighty roar as Bhima.
Just then
her mother entered.
Startled by
the thunderous scream, she kicked Teejan so hard that, as she laughingly
recalled, "it could easily have felled Keechak."
"Hamari
naak kataegi, yeh dokri!" her mother lamented. "She will disgrace the
family."
Not Just an Ektara
One day Nana
gently dusted a musical instrument and placed it on her lap.
"This
is my ektara. I play it when I sing Pandavani."
The ektara
is a simple string instrument whose hollow gourd serves as its resonator.
"But,
Nana, I've never seen you play it."
"Billi,
can't you see? The string broke long ago. I haven't mended it yet."
The
following day she walked to the nearby village market.
"How
much?"
"Four
annas."
She bought
three strings for twelve annas—a princely sum for a poor village girl.
“I had
stolen one rupee from mother's savings.”
While Nana
was away selling handmade brooms from village to village, she tried to repair
the ektara herself.
"If
one string can create music, surely three strings can create even better
music," she
reasoned.
She
carefully drilled two additional holes but failed to fit the strings.
When Nana
returned, she expected a scolding.
Instead, he
quietly fixed all three strings, strummed them gently, smiled, and placed the
instrument back in her lap.
"Now
it is yours."
"But,
Nana, I don't know how to play."
"No
matter. Soon you will. And always remember, this ektara is much more than an
instrument. It is Krishna. It is Saraswati. Keep it beside you on the stage.
You will be blessed."
She learned to
perform Pandavani with the accompaniment of the ektara—which, thanks to her
youthful ingenuity, had become a teen-tara.
Later, in
her extraordinarily imaginative hands, the ektara became Arjuna's Gandiva,
Bhima's mace, Krishna himself, and countless other characters, objects and
symbols.
Near a
picture of Goddess Saraswati in a corner of her drawing room rested an ektara.
"Is
that the one your Nana gave you?" I asked.
"No.
The one Nana gave me died of old age. But Nana's soul lives in this one. He is
always watching me, urging me to perform better."
Defying
Discrimination
"After
several months of learning at the feet of my guru, my heart was full of song
and I was ready to render Pandavani. When I went to stay with a relative in a
village near Sakti, Bilaspur, I made many new friends among girls of my age,
whom I entertained by singing Pandavani. Unknown to me, the Zamindar's farm
workers sat under a large mango tree and listened while having their lunch.
One day,
the Zamindar himself heard me sing. He liked it so much that he organised my
first public performance in the village and rewarded me with eleven rupees.
That was a princely sum. For the rest of my stay, I sang every day from my
relative's little hut. The Zamindar, his workers and other villagers gathered
beneath the mango tree to listen."
Thereafter,
invitations began arriving from villages near and far, and she gladly accepted
them.
In her early
years, however, she also faced discrimination. She belonged to the Pardhi Bhil
community and was a young woman who dared to perform Pandavani in the vigorous Kapalik
style, long regarded as the preserve of male performers. Women were expected to
remain seated and sing in the gentler Vedmati style. Teejan Bai broke that
convention and, in doing so, permanently transformed Pandavani.
"Once,
in a large village, a Sadhu Maharaj had been invited to deliver Bhagavata
Pravachan during the long summer days. The organisers had invited me to perform
Pandavani in the evenings. When Maharaj learnt of this, he threatened to cancel
his Pravachan. He refused to share the same stage with an untouchable woman,
even though his discourse was during the day and my performance at night. He
insisted that a separate, smaller and lower stage be erected for me. The
organisers reluctantly agreed.
Before my
first performance, I went to seek Maharaj's blessings. I requested him to bless
a देहाती, गंवार, अनपढ़ लड़की—a rustic, ignorant and illiterate
village girl—who wished to narrate the Mahabharata in her own simple way, and
in Chhattisgarhi. I also requested him to hear me at least once.
Maharaj
blessed me.
He
attended my performance that evening—and every evening thereafter.
For
eighteen days Maharaj delivered his learned discourses in chaste, Sanskritised
Hindi, quoting verses from Vyasa's Mahabharata. For eighteen evenings, I
narrated the epic in Chhattisgarhi, from Adi Parva to Swargarohan. It was my
first major public performance."
Art had
quietly succeeded where argument may have failed.
Pandavani: My Life and Livelihood
"The
organisers and the villagers showered their appreciation upon me. Besides cash,
they gave me rice, dal, ghee, a milch cow and a heifer. My earnings were far
beyond anything I had imagined.
But when
I returned home with two bullock carts laden with provisions, we had an
immediate problem.
Where
would we keep them?
Our tiny
hut had only one room. It served as our living room, kitchen and bedroom. We
had never possessed enough to require storage. The monsoon was only days away,
and everything would be ruined if left outside. So, for the next few days, we
built a small thatched shed to store the grain and another shelter for the cow
and her calf."
Bharat Ek Khoj
Millions of
Indians first encountered Pandavani through Shyam Benegal's landmark television
serial Bharat Ek Khoj, based on Jawaharlal Nehru's The Discovery of
India. Broadcast from October 1988, Episode 5 explores the timeless appeal
of the Mahabharata and features Teejan Bai in one of her most captivating
performances. For many viewers, she became the living voice of the epic.
(Source: Bharat Ek Khoj, Episode 5, Mahabharata-Part I)
Unforgettable Episodes
Of her
several memorable performances, Draupadi Cheerhan and Dushashan Vadh
epitomise her iconic narrative and performative style.
Her
rendition of Draupadi's cheerharan is spellbinding.
Through an
extraordinary interplay of narration, gesture, voice and movement, she conveys
Draupadi's outrage at Yudhishthira's folly, the helpless silence of the other
Pandavas, the humiliation of a queen, the resolve to avenge the assault on her
dignity, and finally, her complete surrender to Krishna.
Dushashan,
endowed with the strength of ten thousand elephants, struggles to disrobe her.
But as the endless folds of her sari continue to appear, he collapses in
exhaustion and despair.
The entire
episode acquires extraordinary dramatic power in Teejan Bai's hands.
Among Teejan
Bai's most electrifying performances is Dushashan Vadh, one of the most violent
episodes in the Mahabharata.
Dushashan
had dragged Draupadi by her hair into Duryodhana's court and attempted to
disrobe her before the assembled elders. Dhritarashtra, Bhishma, Vidura and
even her five valiant husbands watched in helpless silence. Humiliated and
enraged, Draupadi vowed that she would leave her hair untied until it had been
bathed in Dushashan's blood.
On the
battlefield of Kurukshetra, Bhima wrestled Dushashan to the ground, tore him
apart and summoned Draupadi to fulfil her terrible vow.
Yet Teejan
Bai rendered this harrowing episode with such astonishing artistic sensitivity
that the violence never overwhelmed the drama. The gore remained vibhatsa, but
never became repulsive. She had never studied Bharata Muni's Natyashastra,
yet she instinctively knew how to evoke the appropriate rasa in her audience
with remarkable ease.
In the
Kathakali sequence in Bharat Ek Khoj (Episode 6), Bhima tears open
Dushashan—a powerful visual echo of Narasimha slaying Hiranyakashipu—drinks his
blood, and knots Draupadi's hair with his entrails. Yet, whether in Kathakali
or in Teejan Bai's Pandavani, the violence is never an end in itself. It serves
a larger moral and emotional purpose.
Age Cannot Wither Her...
"How
often do you perform these days?" I asked.
"Much
less than in my younger days, when I could perform throughout the night. I am
no longer as robust or agile. But once I step onto the stage, the audience
fills me with energy. My aching body, my stiff joints—everything disappears. I
perform for hours without feeling tired.
"I
cannot hear well now. I have tried three different hearing aids, but with
little success. Somehow, I manage."
"No
matter if you cannot hear well," I replied. "You are the narrator, the singer and the
performer. Your audience loves listening to you. May God keep you hale and
hearty and grant you a long life."
She smiled.
"This
house—Kaushalya Nivas—stands where my Nana's little hut once stood. It was here
that I learnt Pandavani at my Guru's feet. I built a new house on the same
plot. Now I live here with my joint family."
Transcending Linguistic Barriers
Teejan Bai
performed with great aplomb during the Festival of India in Paris in 1986-87
and later in many countries across the world.
Why were
audiences across languages and cultures spellbound by an oral performance in
Chhattisgarhi?
Perhaps she
did not merely retell the Mahabharata; she revealed its emotional and moral
architecture through an instinctive mastery of dramatic expression.
A Towering Cultural Icon
Had Teejan's
mother not sent her to the nahar that evening, she might never have
paused outside her Nana's humble hut. The Mahabharata's oral tradition—and
Indian folk theatre itself—might have been deprived of one of its greatest
voices. A trivial domestic incident became one of those magical moments that
quietly enriched and popularised the cultural history of a nation.
She heard
the irresistible call of Pandavani and walked into its embrace. The art
transformed her; in time, she transformed the art.
Teejan Bai at her home with a guest.
Note:
I had the
privilege of meeting Padma Vibhushan Teejan Bai at her home in Ganiyari,
Chhattisgarh, in July 2017. This essay is based largely on that conversation,
supplemented by published sources on Pandavani and her remarkable career.
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