FOLK ART: Sounds of Silence

The lyrical and visual genius of patachitra folk artists is poised at a threshold of being and nothingness 

Aritra Bhattacharya Medinipur/Kolkata (West Bengal) 

A shy, mischievous smile lights up Suman Chitrakar’s face as he recalls the fights that he’s had with his wife, Rupsona, over their ‘work’. “I might have begun painting a snake with the intention that I would make the eyes open upwards, signifying anger,” says Suman, who is visiting his in-laws in Naya village, located in the Medinipur district of West Bengal. “But when I was taking a break, Rupsona might have finished the painting, giving it a gentle peaceful feel by making the eyes open downwards.”

Such fights are common between them, he says: one-half of the husband-wife duo might have begun a painting with a specific idea, only to end up with the final image a sharp dislocation from the beginner’s intention, courtesy of finishing touches by the other half. Perhaps every image they create together has a similar back-story about painterly intention, creative disagreement, and mock domestic discord. At the same time, it is also a repository of local myths, symbols and stories; and a link to collective memory and tradition.

As patachitra artists or patuas, they follow a long line of ‘folk’ artists whose occupation is to paint patas (long, vertical, scrolls) and compose verses; in the past, patuas would go around from village to village, singing along as they unfurled their scrolls. These wandering minstrels were among the earliest artists to bring together the aural and the visual to narrate powerful tales, almost 2,500 years before cinema perfected the art of audio-visual storytelling.

The ancient roots of patachitra are attested to by the fact that one of the contemporary religious rivals of early Jainism (sixth century BCE) is described as the son of a mendicant who showed religious pictures and sang to them. Among numerous other references to the wandering singer-artists is their depiction in the 10th-century Mukteshwar temple in Bhubaneswar. The exquisite carvings of female figures holding patas on the temple precincts points to the art form’s popularity and continuity.

The lyrical and visual genius of patachitra folk artists is poised at a threshold of being and nothingness

Despite the popularity, however, patachitra was never part of any aristocratic or courtly tradition, neither was it canonised or even recognised as ‘art’ till a few years ago. The artists, consequently, existed on the margins of society, dependent for their living on the kindness and willingness of fellow villagers.

“We would leave home at sunrise with our scrolls,” says Ajoy Chitrakar, taking a deep drag of his bidi, as if it were a link to his memory of the years he spent as a child, ferrying tales with his father and uncles. “We would go around villages showing the patas and singing in groups. In return, we got rice and dal.”

As Ajoy grew up, and then married and ‘settled down’ in Medinipur’s Naya village, the returns from his trade hardly changed. “He would typically gather two kilos of foodgrains in a day, of which he’d sell one kilo in the market, and buy vegetables and groceries with the money from it,” says his wife, Karuna Chitrakar, recalling the ‘hard times’ in their lives.

The coming of television further plunged patuas’ fortunes. Their hand-painted images and voices sans the embellishment of musical instruments were no match for the sophistry of expensive studio-produced fare. Many families moved to other occupations, where at least one meal a day was guaranteed.

Ajoy’s son, Rahim Chitrakar, remembers those years of struggle. “I would keep asking father why he stuck to being a patua despite so much poverty,” he says. As he speaks, a power cut plunges the village — home to 52 patua households — into darkness. “We did not have enough to eat, and despite my father saying that working as a patua meant holding on to our tradition and respecting our forefathers, it did not make sense to me.” At the age of 16, like many others in his community, Rahim migrated to Howrah to earn a living as a zari worker.

These wandering minstrels were among the earliest artists to bring together the aural and visual to narrate powerful tales, almost 2,500 years ago

Moyna Chitrakar flinches while recalling how non-patua villagers would treat them during those years. “When we went around villages singing with our patas, people would grudgingly give us some grain and say, ‘You are not physically handicapped, then why don’t you work?’ What we were doing was not work, certainly not respectable work, for them,” says Moyna, her face distorted in imitation of ‘those people’.

Then, an incredible thing happened that completely changed the way these other villagers looked at the artists. “Some patuas were featured on television, and on seeing this, the same villagers would go out of their way to call us. They would offer us puffed rice, and say, ‘You people have become big artists, being featured on TV; why don’t you sing something for us...,’” says Rani Chitrakar.