Asian storytellers
Sri T.S.B. Sastrigal, India
He speaks seven languages, is an accomplished musician, and can quote about 30,000 poems and proverbs. He knows the major Hindu stories, the stories of South Indian saints, and daily scours several newspapers seeking more tales to pepper his telling. Shastrigal has been telling tales for 40 years, as a Harikatha bhagavatar, a storyteller in one of the world’s most demanding traditions. Yet he looks just like a friendly, modest Indian grandfather dressed in crisp white as he sits talking in his Madras home.
“The Indian storytelling forms were made to help people forget themselves, in order to remember the true and deep purpose of life. Storytelling can transform one,” he tells me, giving examples of the great faith, power, and purity of storytellers in the past.
“Yet so much has changed. In the old days, we had all night performances of storytelling. Now we have all night election coverage! And audiences today are so much more sophisticated and inquisitive. The other day, I told a story about the great demon Ravana who has ten heads. A little boy came up to me later, tugged at my sleeve and asked, ‘But sir, this Ravana, supposing he has a cold, what will he do?’”
Sri Sastrigal, who left his bank job to devote himself to his calling, starts each day at 4 A.M. with his private worship followed by reading and study. He travels throughout India - performing for large and eager audiences, usually working with three musicians.
His performances in temples, music society gatherings, and grand auditoriums usually last for several hours and he is in great demand because of his wit and talent. But his favorite storytelling times were his beginning programs when he told, alone, in the poorer parts of Madras: “For with those who lived so simply, I felt that I truly shared the real wealth of our land — the strength of our saints and the greatness of our people.”
(from interview, 1992; used in Jasmine and Coconuts: South Indian Tales, Libraries Unlimited; sadly, this great teller passed away in 2003>
Ito Takeyo, Japan
In the mountain’s shadow, the old farmhouse seems to float on rice fields. Ito Takeyo greets us at the door, dressed in traditional farmer’s cloth and wearing her 84 years proudly. We sit in a large, airy room, folding our legs on fresh smelling tatami mats. Near us, above a Buddhist altar, a scroll with careful calligraphy advises: “Have big ears to hear and a small mouth to speak little as you listen with kind eyes.”
An incredible table rich with fresh mountain ferns, mushrooms, and young bamboo awaits us, many of the vegetables picked by Itosan that morning. After we finish our feast, she begins to tell, in a quiet voice, her hands content with small gestures, her face sliding often into smiles. Her words float out as her grandsons, their eyes closed, urge her on with frequent responses –“Hah, ah ra, ra...” She tells the ghostly tale, “Mujina,” along with local legends from her beautiful Yamagata prefecture. When she finishes, her son begins, telling his tales a little louder, a little faster, and just as well.
After his tales, we walk to a nearby temple, then return for green tea and a marvelous finish. A young girl, all of 14 years and dressed in fashionable shorts, comes shyly into the room. She kneels behind her great grandmother and starts a tale, of the boy with the long, long name. As the words come out, the eyes in her great grandmother’s face close, but her lips move silently with the words of the tale. In this moment, story triumphs over time and flows from the past through this child into tomorrow.
(from interview, 1993; used in Asian Tales and Tellers, August House)
Finding Tellers
I have slid through rice fields and hiked up to mountain temples to find Asian tales and tellers. One memorable search began during monsoon season in Kerala state when I wanted to see the vibrant Ottan Thullal style. I asked around and was soon directed to “that drummer by the Kali temple” who might know. At last I found said drummer’s wife who told me, sadly, that her husband had just left to tell stories near Palghat.
Off we rushed to follow him, but no bus at the stand seemed to go to the right village. At last my husband and I were pushed onto a “maybe.” After we started, the driver asked everyone for directions and received various, conflicting suggestions. After a while, we were left near endless rice fields and pointed in the right direction. Just then, I saw a festive arch at the roadside that I was certain said “Storytelling Festival” in the Malayalam language. Eagerly, we went under the arch, slipped through much mud, crossed a river, and at last climbed steps to a temple.
There we saw a good sign: a temporary tea stand set up to keep listeners alert through long storytelling sessions. We enjoyed an evening of storytelling then had to stay the night in the temple, since the river was flooded. The next morning, when we finally made it back to the road, I asked a man there to read me the words about storytelling on the arch. He looked at the arch, back at me in confusion, then said, “Madam, it says nothing about storytelling. It only says, ‘Vote Communist!’”
(collecting trip, 1984, used in Asian Tales and Tellers, August House)
