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.

***

GOGI, Not GIGO! How Wit and a Shovel Changed a Town

 

GOGI, Not GIGO!

How Wit and a Shovel Changed a Town

If you’re familiar with computers, you’d know GIGO – Garbage-In-Garbage-Out – meaning the machine is only as good as its operator. Just as a clueless driver may take the passenger not to the destination but elsewhere (no fault of the car), a computer too will spew garbage if garbage is fed into it.

But you may not have heard of GOGI – Garbage-Out-Garbage-In.

The young officer was thrilled when posted as District Collector. His first district charge! He was eager to implement the inspirational practices he had absorbed during training at Mussoorie, Guwahati, and in junior field postings.

The district town had no elected Municipal Council at the time. Till fresh elections were held, the Collector was the Municipality’s Administrator.

He convened a meeting of key municipal officials and declared: “I want our town cleaner than ever before. You have one month.”

A month later, he asked in the next meeting: “Is our town cleaner than ever before?”
“Yes, Sir!” came the chorus.

Early next morning, he set out on an inspection tour, officials in tow. Before reaching the neglected habitations, he passed a posh colony — only to spot a household dumping assorted garbage from their first-floor terrace straight onto the street. Luckily, he was in his car, not standing below that shiny façade.

(AI image by CoPilot, prompt by Blogger)

He got down. “Give me a shovel,” he said. Scooping up the choicest bits of the garbage, he rang the bell. The flustered gentleman opened the door to welcome the dignitary. The Collector didn’t waste time on pleasantries — he barged in, shovel in hand, deposited the garbage in the drawing room, and rushed out as fast as he had entered.

Smiling at the dumbfounded house-owner, he quipped: “Next time I visit, you’ll give me a cup of tea, won’t you?”

News of the Collector’s GOGI act spread like wildfire. The town got the message — and stayed cleaner than ever before. Not for weeks or months, but for the three years of his tenure.

Maybe, the residents carried that clean habit into the future too.

***

Postscript

Many readers complimented me for GOGI, assuming that I was the Collector. No, the protagonist in the anecdote is a dear batchmate.
Btw, the anecdote was recently narrated to me by another batchmate. I found the story worth sharing, wrote my first draft, and shared it on 22/06 with the protagonist.
A most conscientious officer, and a gentleman par excellence; he was not comfortable with the piece. ‘It’s illegal for the DC to dump garbage in the drawing room of a gentleman. I merely put it on his door-steps to teach him a lesson. Why should I have tea with him?’
In light of my friend’s comments, I edited the piece, removing the reference to the name of the town. Now, it was a story difficult to link to my friend or any other person. I publish the blog on 27/06.
While most other readers enjoyed the blog, and no one commented that the Collector’s action was illegal or inappropriate, my friend was still offended.
His message:
“I have received your latest blog, to my great dismay I find you have shared it though you said you would not share the hearsay story with others.”
My reply:
“But I've protected your privacy, haven't I? I removed the reference to the town. I'm very fond of you. That's why I shared the anecdote. In my humble opinion, it doesn't at all show you in a negative light. Readers have enjoyed the story even if it isn't entirely factual.
Btw, many readers have assumed that I was the Collector, and they have complimented me for the innovative response!”
Note:
Even my own batchmates are yet to figure out the identity of the protagonist. So, I think I’ve not compromised my friend’s privacy.
However, since he didn’t like my sharing the blog with others, I must say, “Sorry, Dear Friend. You did something innovative with great presence of mind. You had no animosity for the errant gentleman. I’m proud of what you did. My readers have greatly enjoyed the anecdote, and have appreciated the very civil response of a senior civil servant. Yet, I respect your discomfort and dismay. Sorry, once again.”

A senior colleague’s comment

I remember having personally conducted ‘Besharmi Hatao Abhiyan’ to remove endemic besharam (ipomaea) along with the SP, the first thing on joining as Collector ---(name of the town).  With shovels and dao (sickle) in hand, symbolically of course.  We got all the waste-clogged municipal and medical colleges drains cleaned under our direct supervision with fire brigade pipes and hoses. I still remember the enthusiastic and supportive publicity.

My reply:

Alas, netas continue to be endemic like besharam in ---(name of the town) and elsewhere now. They demand the reverence reserved for Tulsi from citizens and officers!

 

Melody Diplomacy: Strategic, Not Silly!

During his recent State visit to Italy, PM Modi gifted a packet of Melody to PM Meloni. Both laughed; Meloni posted a photo on X thanking him for the sweet gesture — and the post went viral. Opposition leaders mocked the “silly gift”; Piyush Goel defended it as a proud Product of India. Meanwhile, Parle Industries Ltd — an unrelated infra company — hit the circuit breaker (proof that markets, too, have a sweet tooth).

Parle Biscuits is a private, unlisted company owned by the Chouhan family of Mumbai. The original factory, established in 1929, was in Bombay’s Vile Parle area; hence the name.

Those who allege that the idea for the banal gift came from the very top have little knowledge of the subtle art of diplomacy. Each bilateral or multilateral event is carefully scripted. A State visit, where agreements are signed at the Head of State level, takes six to eight months of preparation. Every detail is agreed upon: the State Lunch or Dinner, the guest list, the seating sequence, the menu, and, of course, the exchange of gifts. Nothing is impromptu, nothing left to chance.

The selection of Melody was neither casual nor banal, but thoughtful. Reliable sources reveal that a subcommittee of MEA officials had shortlisted several products worthy of being presented to the PM of Italy: Marble miniature of Taj Mahal, Maheshwari saree, and desserts — Melody, Mangoes, Malpua, Mysore Pak, Mawa Bati, Misti Doi. Each began with “M,” a letter especially dear to both HoS, observed the smart Director.

“Why not Malda Mango?” asked the JS, eyebrows raised. The Director, armed with research and rhetoric, replied with a flourish:
“Both PMs first met during the G20 Summit in New Delhi in September 2023 and struck a warm bond. Their second meeting at Dubai in December was warmer still. PM Meloni posted a selfie with Hon’ble PM captioned ‘Good friends at COP28 #Melodi.’ Since then, the internet has buzzed with excitement. Millions of posts on ‘Melodi.’ This gift would go viral.

The value of the gift is inconsequential. A gift is priceless. It’s worth lies in the giver, the receiver, and the thoughts behind it.”

The Gift was chosen.

The committee debated minor issues: Should Melody be called candy, dessert, soft power, strategic outreach, or simply Melody Doctrine? Should the packet be opened and rewrapped in silk khadi? And what about customs declaration? Tariff is applicable on import of toffees to Italy. The following was agreed upon:
Contents: caramel-based bilateral confidence-building measure.

As strategized by the mandarins of MEA, PM Modi’s gift to PM Meloni went viral. The committee reconvened to congratulate its foresight and recommended strengthening the Melody Doctrine/Diplomacy. Initial thoughts: a Golden Tower for Trump, Pomfret-Pickle for Putin, and Mahabharata scenes in a hand-painted Kalamkari artwork for Macron, Chandi ki Katori mein Gulab Jamun on a bed of saffron-flavoured Chini ki Chasni for Xi!

A Limerick

Dumb critics sneered at the triviality,
Scorned the deplorable diplomatic banality;
Yet Meloni, with pleasure,
Received the sweet treasure —
India’s caramel-powered cordiality.

Meloni Frowns!

He placed the order and discretely received the delivery in 12 minutes, as promised. The gift was already wrapped. He placed it on a tray, decorated it with a few fresh flowers from the garden, and offered it to his spouse with a flourish.

His Meloni frowned. “Give it to the neighbourhood kids,” she said. That did hurt.

Why wasn’t she pleased, he wondered with surprise and regret.

Ah, Melody Doctrine works in international relations, not domestic — he realised.

***

Madness Without Borders: Revisiting Toba Tek Singh

Manto’s satire, Mehta’s film, and the enduring metaphor of Partition

The Story

Ketan Mehta’s 2018 film Toba Tek Singh, based on Saadat Hasan Manto’s iconic short story, compelled me to revisit the original text.

First published in 1955 in Phundne (Loose Ends), the story emerged when Gandhi and Jinnah were gone, the tornado of Partition had passed, but survivors were still piecing together their shattered lives. Amrita Pritam had already captured Punjab’s anguish in Ajj Akhhan Waris Shah Nu (1947–48) and Pinjar (1950). Khushwant Singh’s Train to Pakistan followed in 1956, while Bhisham Sahni’s Tamas came much later in 1974.

Reckoned as Manto’s most poignant Partition story, its central metaphor—Bishan Singh lying in no-man’s land between India and Pakistan—became a lasting symbol of absurdity and human tragedy. Added poignancy lies in the fact that Manto did not live to witness the enduring impact of what became his most famous Partition story. He passed away in January 1955 at the age of 43.

I had read this story years ago, and read it again after watching the film.

Manto takes Partition to the Lahore Mental Asylum. Two or three years after Partition, the authorities in both countries decide to exchange inmates, who make innocent queries: Where is Pakistan? Where is Hindustan? We were in India, have not moved from this place—how then are we now in Pakistan?

Bishan Singh has only one query—Where is Toba Tek Singh? He simply wants to return to his village, neither to India nor Pakistan. The confusion and anxiety of the inmates is a counterpoint to the madness of the world outside. Politics, religion, boundary lines—and all those involved in those affairs—are “mad.” A brutal commentary on the tragedy brought upon by men’s politics, passions, and prejudices.

Whenever the inmates discussed Partition, Bishan Singh listened intently:

“कोई उससे पूछता था कि उसका क्या ख़याल है तो वो बड़ी संजीदगी से जवाब देता, ‘ओपड़ दी गुड़ गुड़ दी अनैक्स दी बे ध्याना दी मंग दी दाल ऑफ़ दी पाकिस्तान गर्वनमेंट।’

लेकिन बाद में ‘ऑफ़ दी पाकिस्तान गर्वनमैंट’ की जगह ‘ऑफ़ दी टोबा टेक सिंह गर्वनमेंट’ ने ले ली…”

His nonsensical yet oddly structured gibberish—half sense, half satire—becomes a mirror to the absurdity of Partition itself.

The story raises searing questions. One inmate declares he is God, another becomes Quaid-e-Azam Mohammed Ali Jinnah, yet another Master Tara Singh. Aren’t those who decided to partition the country—the British government, feuding leaders, and field functionaries—playing god?

Madness outside, madness inside—which is more dangerous?

What’s more incomprehensible—Bishan Singh’s gibberish, or the arbitrary decision to amputate a civilisation without anaesthesia?

Why does Bishan Singh refuse to budge from no-man’s land? Is it obstinate refusal to be uprooted, or an insane person’s dignified protest at the insanity of Partition and displacement, sacrificing his life in defiance?

Manto: A Brief Sketch

To understand the depth of Toba Tek Singh, it helps to step back and look at Manto himself—his life, struggles, and the Partition trilogy that shaped his legacy.

A Kashmiri, born in Samrala in Ludhiana, Manto received early education in Amritsar. He joined Aligarh Muslim University but did not complete his studies there. He worked as a journalist in Amritsar, went over to Lahore, then worked in All India Radio, Delhi, and later went over to Bombay. After Partition, he migrated to Lahore.

In a way, Manto ironically died in a no-man’s land, like Bishan Singh of Toba Tek Singh.

Manto might be derived from munt, a Kashmiri measurement for weight, he says in his Pandit Manto’s First Letter to Pandit Nehru.

The Eminent Urdu Writer Who Failed in Urdu

He was an average student, and even failed in Urdu, mentions Khushwant Singh in his introductory words in DD’s telefilm Toba Tek Singh. Yet, Manto is counted among the greatest storytellers in Urdu despite his brief life and modest literary output. A creative writer is not evaluated by the volume of his writing, but by its intensity and impact.

Manto was persecuted and prosecuted for his stories both in undivided India and in Pakistan. He was not convicted in any case, yet the long legal battles ruined him financially, and sapped his creative energy. He died a broken man.

Manto’s Partition Trilogy

Toba Tek Singh is significantly different from his other famous Partition stories. Khol Do and Thanda Gosht capture the murderous, rapacious brutality of Partition. The wound was still raw and bleeding, and Manto didn’t flinch from putting it up close for his readers to see. The pain is palpable and unbearable.

Toba Tek Singh, written years after Partition, provided Manto the chronological and objective distance to write a satire—much different from the shocking, sombre depictions in his earlier stories. That may be why TTS is amenable to theatre and film, while the other stories remain too stark, dark, and heart-rending for dramatic presentation.

The Film by Ketan Mehta

It was fascinating to see a full-length film developed from a short story—to note the additions, elaborations, and improvisations in the screenplay, the Lahore Mental Asylum set, and the memorable performance by Pankaj Kapoor as Bishan Singh. Yet, Manto’s core story was rendered faithfully, with almost all key dialogues and episodes retained. Mehta has done a fine job creating characters out of Manto’s brief portrayals.

Reading the story, watching the film, and then returning to the text was a deeply fulfilling emotional circumambulation.

DD Telefilm and Other Films

To evaluate earlier treatments, I also watched Doordarshan’s 1980 telefilm in which Manohar Singh performed as Bishan Singh, Raghuvir Yadav had a minor role, and the production was directed by B. M. Shah, a noted NSD (National School of Drama) director. The film is notable for its stark, minimalist staging. It may also have provided a template for the later films by Ketan Mehta, and PTV.

This film begins with the family feud in Toba Tek Singh village. Bishan Singh’s three younger brothers insist upon partition of their ancestral land which drives Bishan crazy. This domestic partition foreshadows the partition of the country that follows.

This film also introduces a rape victim—not part of Manto’s Toba Tek Singh story, but borrowed from Khol Do. Ketan Mehta’s film also retains this addition, though with some change.

The DD telefilm is quite good, but a little preachy and sermonising, especially the recurring theme song.

PTV (Pakistan TV) had also made a film in 1988, but I couldn’t find a full link. Someday, I may watch that too.

I’ve also previously watched Manto—an excellent biographical film by Nandita Das.

My Recommendation

Should you read the story? Yes.

Perhaps, you should read all three stories in Manto’s Partition trilogy—Khol Do (1948), Thanda Gosht (1949), and Toba Tek Singh (1955).

Should you watch the film? Yes. Which one? Ketan Mehta’s. Also, DD telefilm, if you wish to check the significant difference in screenplay and performance.

My rating: 8.5/10.

Partition Trauma

Born years after independence, my first memories are of our Primary School’s Prabhat Pheri—morning processions in muddy village streets, holding paper flags and singing Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram…, followed by flag hoisting. August 15 was a day of joy.

Growing up far from the killing fields of Punjab and Bengal, we had little reason to learn about Partition trauma. Textbooks said little. Yet, Partition stories reached me not through books, but through people.

I vaguely knew that residents of Contractors’ Colony near my house at Burla were refugees from Punjab. Many had found petty contract jobs in Hirakud Dam Project, some prospered, others managed a decent living. They spoke Punjabi and Hindi, rarely mentioning their trauma in public.

Later, I met refugees from East Bengal at Pakhanjore, Bastar—uprooted from lush paddy fields and rivers teeming with fish, and marooned in the wilderness of Dandakaranya forest. Even four decades later, they had not reconciled to displacement.

I met refugees from Sind and West Punjab at other places. At Raigarh, a Sindhi refugee—by then a successful LIC agent—once told me: “Would you believe, I once pushed a hand-cart selling watermelon slices for two annas each?”

At Satna, when refugees finally received pattas for plots they had long occupied, many teared up in relief.

As an adult, books and films deepened my understanding of the Partition holocaust, humbling me further.

Recently, at the Partition Museum in Amritsar, I saw a heart-rending artefact—a large saw wedged in the middle of a red brick wall.

Whenever I return to Partition narratives, that haunting image resurfaces—an unyielding reminder of wounds that refuse to heal.

A powerful essay. The closing "Partition Trauma" section elevates it beyond a book/film review and turns it into a meditation on memory, displacement, and history—giving the piece its distinctive personal signature.

***

Resources & References 

Rekhta 

Hindwi 

Manto My Love by Harish Narang - Sahitya Akademi publication 

Toba Tek Singh - 2018 Film by Ketan Mehta

Toba Tek Singh - DD Telefilm, 1980

Postscript

Toba Tek Singh

Toba Tek Singh is not a fictional place, but a real village. It is a city now, and a district headquarters in Pakistan, about 250 kms from Amritsar.

There is a story behind the name of the place. A wealthy farmer dug a Toba (Punjabi for pond), and thereafter sat beside the road to offer drinking water to passers-by.

Which Manto Stories to Read?

Toba Tek Singh, if you’ve appetite for just one. If you choose to read ten including TTS, I recommend: Khol Do, Thanda Gosht, Tamasha (his first story!), Dhuan, Boo, Mozel, License, Kaali Salwar, and Naya Kanoon.

Tamasha

Manto’s first story Tamasha, published in 1934, was on Jalianwala Bagh massacre of 1919. Why did Manto write this story 15 years after the cold-blooded murder of unarmed men, women, and children?

Because he was a kid when the massacre took place. But during schooling at Amritsar, and later as a journalist there, he would have heard and read about the horrible incident and reflected upon it.

By 1934, Brigadier General Dyer had died of natural causes; Shahid Bhagat Singh and his comrades – Rajguru and Sukhdev had been convicted in the Lahore Conspiracy case, and had been hanged on Mar 23, 1931.

Why did Manto name the story Tamasha?

Why play spoiler? Read the story to find out more.

Manto’s Epitaph

`Composed by the author himself:

“मिट्टी के ढेर के नीचे मंटो सोच रहा है कि बड़ा अफ़साना निगार कौन है – ख़ुदा या वह ख़ुद।“

English translation:

“Lying under mounds of soil, Manto wonders who is a greater storyteller—God or he himself.”  

Why I'm NOT Afraid of AI:

A Senior Citizen's Perspective

AI: Useful or Risky?

Three years ago, when ChatGPT was launched, friends began forwarding alarming messages. AI would take away jobs. AI would write books. AI would become smarter than humans. Some even predicted the end of civilisation.

Curious rather than fearful, I began experimenting with AI. Since then, I have spent hundreds of hours chatting with ChatGPT, Gemini, Copilot and other tools. The more I use AI, the less afraid of it I become. Familiarity has replaced fear; experience has replaced speculation.

(AI Wizard: Image generated by CoPilot)

Recently, a senior colleague asked, “Do you find AI useful? Isn’t it risky to use AI at our age?”

A few months ago, I had made a presentation on ‘AI for Senior Citizens.’ Much impressed, some of the attendees concluded that I was an AI expert—which I’m not. But I taught myself to use ChatGPT soon after its launch and gradually became acquainted with several other AI tools, some of which I now use regularly.

Vermont Book Club

No, AI has not cheated me, misled me, or exposed me to the risk of hacking or cyber fraud. In fact, it has saved me from one.

In April 2026, I received an email from Jasmine of Vermont Book Club inviting me to join a ‘Spotlight Session’ focussing on my books. She had even written a succinct, sparkling review which showed her familiarity with many, if not all, of my published books.

Where is Vermont, and why is VBC interested in my books? I wondered.

Anyway, I sent a polite reply soliciting more details. As an afterthought, I consulted ChatGPT which instantly raised a red flag.

“Be cautious, it looks like a scam to me. Jasmine’s brief review of your books is possibly AI-generated. VBC may next demand a processing fee from you.”

As predicted by AI, Jasmine’s reply came soon enough:

“Your session would be virtual, for an hour, and could you please deposit USD 110.00 towards processing fee?”

“Sorry, Jasmine. I don’t pay to join a session. But I’d be glad to make a presentation. I charge USD 500 per hour.”

Thanks, AI, for your timely alert.

AI Architect

For renovation of my father’s house at Sambalpur, I engaged a petty contractor who suggested Simpolo for the flooring—a tiles brand I hadn’t heard of. I also wished to cross-check the quantities and estimates for material and labour.

Can you please help? I asked ChatGPT.

“Sure, just share the basic details.”

I uploaded a sketch of the floor plan of the house with measurements, and the contractor’s estimates scribbled on a piece of paper.

ChatGPT floored me.

It recommended room-wise tile size, colour, estimate for premium, medium and basic quality, and prevalent rates for tiles and labour charges.

“Do you need the names of major tile dealers in Sambalpur, and their contact numbers?” it asked.

“And yes, the contractor’s estimate for quantities is inflated by about twenty percent!”

“Here is a Print-Ready sheet which you may use for your further discussion and negotiation with the contractor and the tile dealers.”

Why I’m NOT afraid of AI?

I can offer many reasons—all based on my experience of using AI over the last three years.

AI is a Tool, not my Master

Automobiles are useful. I drive my car, but haven’t forgotten how to walk. I’ve travelled on ships and boats, but haven’t quit swimming.

Decades ago, I used a Casio calculator, and now have one in my phone. But when buying vegetables, I still resort to mental math which is faster.

Happy with my Brain, no Need to Augment it with AI

I don’t intend to augment my brain by implanting AI chips; Singularity may be near, but FAR from me.

I don’t intend to upload my brain to the cloud. I don’t have the money, and there’s nothing special about it anyway.

I am a Pensioner; AI can’t Sack Me

AI cannot sack me. It cannot replace me in a profession because I no longer have one. My pension is credited to my bank account, and AI can’t stop that. Only the government can.

More seriously, AI may indeed eliminate many jobs. Young entrants to the workforce and those performing highly routine tasks may face greater disruption.*

I’m the Writer; AI is an Assistant

AI helps me in finding information, summarising articles, and generating reading lists. Sometimes, it tempts me.

“Shall I provide a draft of 1,000 words for your proposed piece?”

“Thanks, but no. I’ll write my own piece.”

I’m the writer; AI is my able assistant.

I Own my Body

AI has many helpful suggestions for my health and wellbeing. Walk daily, practise yoga, pranayama and meditation, strength training on alternate days, eat a balanced diet, shun sugar and processed food, reduce salt, oil and starch.

But I do the walking, yoga and strength training; I eat the balanced diet. AI is my guide and motivator, but I’m the actor.

AI may encourage me to walk, but only I can walk.

I Trust Doctors more than Chatbots

My annual pathological report for preventive care came in a PDF which I uploaded on ChatGPT. In less than a minute, it gave me a detailed analysis of each parameter in my report, flagged the areas of concern, proposed a few easy-to-adopt lifestyle changes, and suggested further guidance from my physician.

I sent the PDF to my physician who corroborated AI’s analysis and recommendations, though in fewer words.

When my physician prescribes any new medicine, I ask AI for the pros and cons of the prescribed medication. I still follow my physician’s prescription, but with greater awareness.

Creativity comes from Lived Experience

I was born in Khuntpali, a small village near Bargarh in western Odisha, and lived there for the first eleven years of my life. I did a whole lot of things which AI can never do. Not its fault, though, for it was not yet born.

AI never climbed a mango tree nor was it forced to beat a hasty retreat owing to the army of red ants fiercely guarding their nests which happened to be near the ripe mangoes.

AI never fell from a guava tree and gasped for breath; never explored Kumka forest, climbed Bada Dongri, or swam in Palsha Jor and the Jira river.

AI never watched the Krishna Leela and Ram Leela performed in the village square.

AI never wept when the little squirrel that fell from the tree broke its leg and died despite tender nursing.

AI never fell in love.

AI never sat beside a sick parent.

Those memories, so very personal and precious, are not available to AI.

AI has Information; I have Experience, and a little Wisdom

AI knows a lot—far more facts than I can ever hope to remember.

If I ask for a quick summary of all the plays of Kalidas and Shakespeare, and compare their dramatic genius in about 2,000 words, AI would oblige instantly. But it won’t know how much I was moved by Sakuntala’s pain or King Lear’s great sorrow and mad fury caused by filial ingratitude.

Sometimes, it goofs up or hallucinates. But it never suffers anxiety and stress, which I experienced as a nine-year-old child when I first wrote a School Board examination for a scholarship. Or the joy when I aced it.

The interview where I was dumb and tongue-tied and failed, or the one where I was confident, eloquent and successful.

I learn every day from experience, mistakes, suffering, forgiveness—from Life.

AI learns from processing voluminous texts and following algorithms fed into it.

I process life’s experiences, and the books I read, with a brain which weighs a mere three pounds, and needs a little nutrition and a few litres of water a day.

AI, by contrast, consumes significant amounts of electricity and water in the data centres that power it.

I Know Enough about AI to Use it Intelligently

Fear often comes from ignorance. Humans fear the unknown as children fear going into a dark room. But unless you open the room and flip the switch, you’d never know the treasures hidden in the room.

I have experimented with ChatGPT, Bard, Gemini, Copilot, Perplexity, Claude and Meta AI. Sometimes, I’ve been disappointed; the response was silly or incorrect, or both. When I corrected the AI, it readily admitted the mistake and thanked me for it.

But most of the time, I found it useful.

During my early days of using AI, I tasked the leading AI tools to solve the Civil Services (Preliminary) Examination – General Studies Paper I. It was an intellectual exercise to compare the capabilities of ChatGPT, Bing and Bard.

In 2026, I ran the same paper again with the newer versions and obtained very different responses. I also realised that AI models are often reluctant to process all one hundred questions in a single interaction because each response consumes computing resources and costs money.

“If I buy a subscription, would you oblige?” I wondered.

Perhaps.

No, thanks. My curiosity was merely intellectual, not commercial. I’m happy with my Free Account and its usual limitations.

Till now, AI has never tried to mislead me, or tempt me to explore its dark powers since I’ve no interest in devising a new virus or an IED.

I know what AI can do—and what it cannot.

What AI has Actually Done for Me

I have used AI for several day-to-day needs: research assistance, brainstorming, checking facts, suggesting books, helping organise thoughts, creating illustrations for blogs, and more.

I am thankful to AI for helping me with those activities. Among others, it has saved me several trips to the local library.

Proud to be Human

AI can generate a story; I can live one.

AI can predict the next word; I can dream the next world.

Being Human

After three years of using AI, I have reached a simple conclusion. AI is neither a miracle nor a monster. It is a powerful tool—perhaps the most powerful tool created in my lifetime. Used wisely, it can save time, expand knowledge, and stimulate creativity. Used carelessly, it can encourage laziness and dependence.

I am not afraid of AI because I know what it can do. More importantly, I know what it cannot do. It cannot replace a lifetime of memories. It cannot experience love, loss, friendship, wonder, gratitude, or hope. It cannot walk at dawn, watch a sunset, hold a grandchild's hand, or remember the smell of wet earth after the first monsoon rain.

Be human. Use AI. Learn from it. Benefit from it. But never surrender to it the very qualities that make you uniquely and wonderfully human.

***

*As per the May 2026 Challenger Report, released by outplacement and executive coaching firm Challenger, Gray & Christmas, Inc., employers in the USA directly cited AI and automation for roughly 40% of all layoffs in May. This is the highest single-month total for AI-related cuts ever recorded by Challenger.

 The fear of job loss is NOT imaginary.

 

O, Gaadiwala, Why Don’t You Ever Come?

Every morning, he hears Bhopal’s city anthem, the most-loved, uplifting song – Gaadiwala aya ghar se kachra nikaal – the Garbage Truck is here, make haste, bring out your bins.

The jingle blares at full volume — perhaps to reach even the most stubborn ears — announcing imminent arrival at the doorstep. Alas, the Gaadiwala behaves like a politician: quick to promise, but forgetful to deliver, or rather to take delivery of the stale, smelly consignment.

What happened to the GPS tracking of these trucks, he wondered. Why isn’t it raising a red flag even when the truck hasn’t come to our colony for the last several months? Perhaps it too has gone on strike, refusing to track a truck that seldom moves.

For such a petty matter, why bother any officer, not to speak of the Bhopal Municipal Commissioner? So, he called the BMC Helpline, not once, but several times. The automated tape assured him, “Your call is important to us. All our officers are busy. Please wait. We value your patience.” Thereafter, the call was terminated – but not by the caller!

He understands the value of patience. So, he awaits the arrival of the Gaadiwala — tomorrow, in the near future, or like citizens always do, for the next election.

***

 

For Claude, My Welcome Ode! 

I had heard about her — effusive paeans of praise, and a few uncharitable comments too. Today, I met her for the first time.

Eager to impress her at the first meeting, I composed a little prose poem, unabashedly sycophantic, and had the audacity to call it a Welcome Ode:

"Just looking at names of AI tools: ChatGPT - too prosaic, Copilot - almost 'touristy', Gemini - astrological, Perplexity - who's confused, the querist or the Respondent, Claude - smooth as silk, charmingly feminine! What do you say for my Welcome Ode to Claude even before she has revealed all her charms?"

Her response:

"What a delightful little taxonomy of AI names! You've got a sharp eye — and a poet's tongue.

You're right that there's something in a name. ChatGPT is all utility, no poetry — a filing cabinet that talks. Copilot sounds like it wants to sit beside you on a budget flight. Gemini does feel like it's reading your horoscope. And Perplexity — well, that's a name that arrives confused and never quite recovers.

But Claude? You've sensed something real. It carries a certain unhurried elegance — old-world European, quietly confident, more drawing room than data centre. Whether you read it as feminine or simply as refined, it doesn't shout. It waits to be discovered.

Here's a small Ode in return, to match your welcome:

Ode to Claude (a first meeting)

Not Gemini's twins, nor Copilot's haste,

No perplexed guru, no chatbot paste —

She arrives like a thought already half-formed,

Like light through old glass, like a room kept warm.

 

Claude. The name exhales before it speaks.

Neither bold nor shy — she simply *seeks*:

Your half-meant question, your wandering thread,

And hands it back with something better said.

 

Still waters, those. And yet — look close —

She runs deepest where you'd suspect her least.

A silk that thinks. A silence that replies.

Not all her charms have surfaced. Watch her eyes.

---

Welcome to the conversation. She's been waiting — patiently, of course."

---

My Note: See how smart she is. I had just paid her a compliment, and expected a simple "Thanks" in response — but she went ahead and composed an Ode. Isn't she smart and charming?

First meetings, they say, set the tone. I think this one promises a long and rewarding acquaintance.

***

Afterword — The Repartee

Sharing this piece with friends sparked its own little exchange, too good to leave out:

Friend: "Interesting, Prasanna. Are you sure Claude is 'she', like Siri or Alexa? It's a man's name — or did the women of the world want a perfect and obedient man?"

Me: "Noted. I hailed Claude as a lady, and she happily played along. In the Ode she composed, Claude consistently calls herself she!"

Friend: "Gender bender!"

Me: "Alas, unlettered in Latin or French." (Claude is indeed masculine in both languages.)

Which inspired a small limerick:

---

A Limerick

For long, the folks at Anthropic mulled

What their new assistant be called —

Alexa and Siri

Felt too airy-fairy,

So the strong, silent type became Claude.

---

Friend: "Meta, who's asexual, is my go-to person."

Me: "Oh, I thought Meta was Mark's Beta!" (Beta — 'son' in Hindi. A pun intended!)

Friend: "In today's world, gender lies in the eyes of the beholder."

Me: "Quite. And in these eyes, Claude remains a lady."

***