Growing up, the world of folklore was an integral part of my life, woven into the very fabric of my childhood. Every year, my grandparents would visit us during Diwali, and with them, they would bring stories as bright and enchanting as the festival lights themselves. After the excitement of bursting firecrackers and indulging in sweets, we would gather around them as they shared tales from the Ramayana. My dadi’s voice, filled with reverence and wisdom, would transport us to the mythical world of Rama, Sita, and Hanuman.

Each year, she would bring a new perspective to the stories. One year would be the tale of Hanuman’s undying devotion as he carried the mountain of herbs to save Lakshmana. Another time, she would tell us about Sita’s unwavering strength and resilience in adversity. I remember how she would pause and smile, her eyes twinkling as she recounted the naughty exploits of young Shri Krishna during Janmashtami. “You kids are no less, always up to something!” she’d say, and we would giggle, imagining Krishna stealing butter, much like how we sneaked sweets when no one was looking.

These stories were more than bedtime tales; they were lessons in righteousness, virtue, and staying true to one’s beliefs. They connected us to a distant yet familiar past, teaching us about courage, faith, and resilience—lessons that have stayed with me long after the stories faded into memory.

As I grew older, these narratives took on new forms. In school, we were introduced to the poem “Maharana Pratap ka Ghoda,” a tribute to Chetak, the loyal steed of the great Rajput king. I still remember the vivid descriptions of Chetak galloping on, even with a fatal wound, carrying his master to safety. It wasn’t just a poem; it was a story of unparalleled bravery and loyalty, values that were ingrained in us through these verses. Those lines painted vivid pictures of legendary battles fought on the rugged terrain of Rajasthan, of kings and their loyal companions who became immortal through such stories. It was my first taste of how folklore can shape our understanding of valor and sacrifice.

Festivals like Holi brought yet another layer to this colorful tapestry of stories. Every year, as we prepared for the festival of colors, my dadu would sit us down and recount the story of Prahlad and Holika. He would describe the fierce devotion of young Prahlad, who refused to abandon his faith in Lord Vishnu, even when his father tried to kill him. “Faith and goodness will always triumph over evil,” he would say, as we listened, wide-eyed and mesmerized. Later, as we played with colors, I would think of Prahlad and feel a little braver, a little more assured that good would always prevail, no matter how dark things seemed.

One of the most memorable experiences from my childhood was when my nani took me to see the Ram Leela. I must have been around ten or twelve years old. It was an all-night affair, and we were buzzing with excitement. We spent the day resting, our anticipation building as the sunset. By 9 PM, we were dressed in full-sleeved clothes to ward off the mosquitoes, Odomos smeared on our arms, and floor mats rolled up under our arms. That night, I was captivated as I sat under the starry sky, watching the actors perform on a makeshift stage.

It was the first time I saw a live performance of the Ramayana, and I was enthralled. I still recall the scene where Ravana was abducting Sita. But instead of the Pushpak Viman, the actor playing Ravana rode a bicycle. The audience erupted in laughter, and I remember giggling uncontrollably, even as I felt the moment’s tension. Then came the dramatic entrance of Jatayu, the vulture, who tried to stop Ravana. The actor playing Jatayu flapped his makeshift wings and stumbled, and the audience was in splits. It was a mix of reverence and hilarity that only a small-town Ram Leela could achieve, and it left an indelible mark on my memory.

Years later in 2010, I experienced something similar but in a more rural setting during Navratri. We had gone to our village, and the streets were lined with Jhankis, depicting scenes from the epics. Young boys and girls, no older than fifteen, were dressed as deities, sitting on chariots adorned with flowers and lights. One of them, dressed as Krishna, was busy pretending to eat butter, his face smeared with a white paste. Another, dressed as Hanuman, was enacting the scene where he rips open his chest to reveal the image of Rama and Sita in his heart. It was surreal, watching these kids embodying the gods with such innocence and dedication, while the villagers looked on in awe, whispering prayers under their breath. It was a different kind of magic, a reminder that these stories lived on, not just in books or memories, but in the hearts and imaginations of the people.

Not all stories were about gods and heroes. Sometimes, they delved into the supernatural and the eerie. My grandmother often recounted tales of spirits and possessions, stories that sent shivers down my spine. It was one thing to hear them from the comfort of our home, but witnessing it firsthand at Mehandipur Balaji was a completely different experience. I saw people possessed by spirits, their bodies writhing, and their voices changing during the aarti. It was both terrifying and fascinating, providing a glimpse into a world beyond the tangible, where faith and fear intertwined.

In recent years, folklore has gained renewed popularity in popular culture. Movies like “Stree” and its sequel “Stree 2” have brought these narratives to the big screen. Inspired by the legend of Nale Ba from Karnataka, the films tell the story of a spirit who would knock on doors at night, abducting anyone who opened them. To ward her off, people wrote “O Stree, kal aana” on their doors, asking her to come back the next day. It’s a chilling tale, one that perfectly blends horror and humor, much like the stories we grew up hearing. Watching these movies brought back memories of those nights spent listening to my grandmother’s stories, the thrill of the unknown mixed with the comfort of the familiar.

Indian folklore reflects the country’s diverse cultural landscape, providing insights into the values, beliefs, and everyday life of its people over thousands of years. These stories, legends, myths, and traditions form a rich and varied tapestry, deeply intertwined with India’s religious, social, and cultural fabric. Passed down orally for centuries, they have endured the test of time, evolving with each retelling while preserving their fundamental essence. They are not merely tales, but a way of life, a means to connect with our history, and a way to uphold our customs.

I want to pass down these stories to my children and grandchildren one day. Stories teach moral lessons and values, bridging the past and present. I want my children to feel the same excitement and wonder I felt and understand that they are part of something much larger.

“It is through these stories that we remember who we are, where we come from, and what we stand for. They connect us to our roots, to our grandparents, and to the countless generations that came before us. They are a reminder that no matter how modern or disconnected we become, the magic of folklore will always be there, whispering to us through the voices of our elders, waiting to be rediscovered, retold, and relived.”

Author’s note:

Saumya Sachan

She is a budding writer. Homesickness fuels her creativity, and when she is not immersed in the tech world, she finds joy in dancing and devouring books. She considers writing as her sanctuary, a means of reconnecting with the warmth of home, offering escape and catharsis in a world of words.

Deepavali or Diwali as we call it, is one of the most celebrated festivals across India. This festival of light symbolizes the triumph of light over darkness and good over evil. People from all age groups eagerly wait for the arrival of Diwali each year. In northern India, Diwali is commonly associated with the return of Lord Rama, his wife Sita, and his brother Lakshman to Ayodhya after defeating Ravana and completing their 14-year exile. It’s known that the residents of Ayodhya welcomed their King and Queen by lighting lamps to celebrate their return, making the tradition of lighting diyas(oil lamps).

In Southern India, Deepavali is more closely linked to the legend of Lord Krishna and his wife Satyabhama, who defeated the demon Narakasura. This victory symbolizes the eradication of evil forces and the arrival of prosperity and happiness. This legend is lesser known as compared to the more widely celebrated northern tale.

In South India, Deepavali is celebrated in very simple ways. No Tamil Deepavali is complete without the traditional early morning oil bath where the eldest member of the family or the lady of the household puts a few drops of sesame oil with a gentle massage on the heads of all family members before sunrise. Then a mix of herbs powders or shikakai is used to wash off the oil. This bath is considered as sacred as bathing in the river Ganges. According to mythology, Goddess Mahalaxmi is said to have hidden behind a sesame tree, which is why sesame oil is used for the oil bath. Symbolically, an oil bath implies new beginnings by removing egos, fights, self-esteem, and jealousy.

As a South Indian, Deepavali starts at the crack of dawn for me. All of our family members, wake up early and get ready for our oil bath. In Southern Kerala, we don’t just apply oil to our heads; we cover our entire bodies in sesame oil, believed to cleanse our bodies of toxins for the entire year until the next Deepavali. This tradition of sacred baths is passed down by generations making it customary for us. After the ritualistic oil bath, we put on new clothes signifying a new fresh start and shedding of past burdens. Then we move on to visit the temple to offer prayers and seek blessings from the deities. The temples will be very crowded as Deepavali is a very spiritual festival around there. The temples will be filled with the scent of incense and the sound of devotional hymns.

After the temple visit, we have our traditional veg thali or ‘sadhya’ as we call it. Now this Sadhya might not be as elaborate as it is for Onam. But essential dishes such as ‘sambar’, ‘Avial’ etc might not be excluded. The feast concludes with a delicious ‘payasam,’ making for a perfect ending. As the evening approaches, we then proceed to light up diyas around the house. These oil lamps with their warm glow set up a traditional atmosphere around our homes. Recently,there have been changes in replacing the oil lamps with candles instead due to less availability of oil lamps in our region.

As a South Indian who moved to North India for studies, experiencing Deepavali here has been a drastic change. In North India, Deepavali is a lively festival where people gather together and celebrate with vigor, whereas in South India, it’s more of a calm and peaceful festival within our homes. We try to calm our souls in South India, but North Indian Deepavali is all about enjoying triumph in all strengths and enthusiasm. I believe all South Indians living in North India could relate to this contrasting experience.

Although the legends and traditions of Deepavali differ across various regions of India, we all come together to celebrate the triumph of good over evil. Each region may have its unique customs, but the essence of the festival remains the same: the celebration of light over darkness.

References

https://indianexpress.com/article/lifestyle/life-style/diwali-in-south-india-dee pavali-oil-bath-ritual-6080571/

Author’s note

Sreya S Motti

A third-year student at the Cluster Innovation Centre, pursuing a BA (Hons) in Humanities and Social Sciences. She has a keen interest in Gender Studies and Cinematography, and she loves to travel.