World Storytelling Day (March 20) was a reminder that the art of storytelling is slowly but surely disappearing. Now television attracts the young and sidelined mothers and grandmothers have little to do in the late evenings, except staring at TV screens. It’s a sad commentary on our mundane times when children are being robbed of innocent pleasures that inculcated in them a sense of wonder. However in the Walled City, compared to the posh areas, the tradition has not completely died down.
Passing by Kucha Dilwali last week, one stopped by to hear a group of patriarchs chewing paan and talking of the days when Turkman Gate became a haunted place after 9 p.m. It was all due to the apparition of a young woman who beguiled passers-by. “Who was she?” asked one oldie. “The spirit of a murdered prostitute,” was the answer he got. “Why doesn’t she appear now?” asked another. “She does but in those odd hours when few are around even on Asaf Ali Road.” “Have you seen her yourself?” asked the third man. “Yes, many years ago when I was fond of going for night shows at Delite Cinema,” replied the commentator. “It was a scary encounter that left me half-dazed. For three days after that I did not venture out,” he added. Well here was a story, short and simple which sent the hearers home with a flea in the ear.
Travelling storyteller
Some 80 years ago, Ballimaran boasted of Mir Baqar Ali Dastangoh. In the day he would cycle about selling his stories for a few paise and in the evening, after Isha prayers, he would stand on the terrace of his house and relate never-ending tales to a large number of people gathered below. When the time came for them to disperse, they would collect a few rupees from among themselves and hand them over to the dastangoh as the fruit of his labour. In Lucknow there was Muzzam Lucknavi Dastangoh, whose son is now the sole survivor of the vanished tribe. Some of the dastangohs took the help of opium to bring them into the mood to relate the Dastan-e-Amir Hamza, Laila Majnu, Hatim Tai, Shirin Farad, Rustam Aur Sohrab and such other legends from the land of the Arabian Nights. Now it is all in the past though the Delhi Urdu Academy has rendered a signal service in recording the tales of the dastangoh in three or four volumes. The dastangoh was akin to a gup-baaz in some respects because his tales too were leavened with gossip and anecdotes. The ones by Muazzam Lucknawi are recorded in about eight volumes.
In Mughal times, boasting matches were known as ‘gup-baazi’. Akbar was fond of this pastime and Jehangir even fonder. Mullah Asad occupied the post of Gup-Baaz during his reign and he honoured him with the title of Mahfuz Khan. Mullah Asad was also rewarded with an elephant, a horse, a palanquin, a dress of honour and a cash award of ₹ 1000 (a very big amount in those days).
In the harem the services of women gossipers were utilized to keep the queens and princesses amused though they sometimes entertained the Emperor too in his private apartment, but that was mostly during late Mughal rule. In the heyday of the Empire, the gup-baaz and his counterpart in the harem were an institution par excellence whose stories sometimes lasted several days.
Haunting experience
Here’s another recent story: Some bandsmen had come from Dev Nagar to distant Subhash Nagar. As they smoked bidis their surroundings suddenly became dark because of a power-cut. To pass the time before the baraat assembled, the oldest of them with a grey beard, told this tale: “I last came to play here years ago. There were hardly any shops then…just a few houses, in one of which lived a trader who did business in the Walled City. I was a young man and the bandmaster did not quite like me because I was a poor player. So he used to send me on odd errands. That night I had to fetch cigarettes for him. I looked for them everywhere but couldn’t find a vendor.
‘‘As I was returning disappointed, I passed by a ber tree; there were several growing then even on the roadside. I stood under it to ease myself and all hell broke loose. A parrot screeched, a cat whined, an owl flew overhead and an invisible hand slapped me so hard that tears came to my eyes. I ran as fast as I could and when I reached the bandmaster he noticed that my face was swollen up.’’
Just then the lights came on. The bandsman was still pointing at his face to others and in the direction of the tree. It was no longer there. Only the gym wall stared at them as they prepared for the baraat to start, while the white horses of Hiro Nand Sindhi’s Ghori, Buggy, Baja, Gaslight ensemble neighed to welcome the bridegroom, swaying to the tune of “Mera yaar bana hai dulha” and putting any lurking spectre to flight.
