In the village of Sankarpur, located in the Nadia district of West Bengal, a deep, dark blue sky looks down at the fields, trees, homes, rivers and lakes at four a.m. in mid-December. A crescent moon hangs low on the horizon, accompanied by the bright planet Jupiter. The world of toilers—who labour on the earth and the waters—comes awake.
The toddy tappers, known as shuilis, are already climbing the sugar palm trees, seemingly unaffected by the chill in the air. Some of them are bare-chested, while others wear vests, and all have folded dhotis. They begin to retrieve the mud pots that were hung the previous evening to collect the sweet, syrupy palm juice. As they ascend, their feet make a rhythmic tap-tap sound, and as they descend, the pots clink together, producing a khud-khud noise. Below, smoke hisses from earthen pit ovens fuelled by thin twigs, and the dancing flames sputter. When the fresh palm juice is poured into large, flat metal vats on the stove, it fizzes and bubbles, releasing woody, fermented aromas. Wooden ladles make smacking sounds as they stir the thickening juice. This mixture must be boiled for four hours to yield two distinct products: nolen gud, liquid molasses, and patali gud, solid molasses. This process marks the climax of their day’s work, creating a symphony of sounds and flavours.
In a similar fashion, shivering farmers keep a vigilant watch over their gently flowing rice paddies, known as boro dhaan. Some have transplanted seedlings into the fields after nurturing them in a nursery, while others have sown seeds directly into the soil. Meanwhile, other farmers work diligently in their mustard fields, which undulate gracefully and smear their vibrant yellow hues across the landscape. Additionally, some farmers are harvesting their green peas and flowers for the haats, including roses, tuber lilies, chrysanthemums, marigolds, and sunflowers, each flower swaying to its own unique rhythm.
Beyond the fields at the edge of the village lies the homes of taat community, renowned for their exceptional weaving skills. Under a dim bulb, each weaver begins crafting handwoven muslin jamdani, tangail, and naksha par saris and dhotis in their homes. The harness and heddles, which lift and lower the warp threads, create a rhythmic clickety-clack as they move. The shuttle produces rapid rap-trap-rap sounds, while the beater generates a steady khat-khat-khat as it pushes the newly inserted weft thread firmly against the existing fabric. Meanwhile, the foot pedals add a subtle thud-thud sound as the weavers use them to separate the warp threads. In this way, the song of their looms fills the air.
At a distance, on the shore of the Churni River, fishermen, undaunted by the as yet dark sky, spread their gillnets, cast nets, and bamboo baskets that swish, whoosh, and splash in hopes of making early fish catches—hilsa, rohu, catfish, and prawns. Near the beels, inland ponds, fishermen place bamboo rods baited with bait, patiently waiting for the tell-tale gulping sounds that signal a fish has taken the bait. Fishing amidst the wavering waters, whistling winds, and rustling reeds, even while fishing boats rest lazily, is their way of singing their world awake.
Into this world of ordinary people, of labour and toil, of gentle melodies and accustomed routines, an acoustic power bursts – a surging, roaring, startling, pulsating, unapologetic rendition of joy that shakes the ground, causing ripples in the brown, sand-silt Gangetic alluvium soil. It takes the form of a song—raw yet sweet, powerful yet measured, and sensual yet soulful—one that can also almost be seen, tasted, smelt and felt.
The celebrant is a woman, a baulani, a mystic minstrel.
Fair, tall, fifty-ish, light-eyed with hair that falls below her waist, she is dressed in a saffron sari. Unlike the women in this village, she wears no necklaces, earrings, bangles, bindi, vermillion on her forehead or any adornments. But she wears anklets. She boldly gestures for everyone to follow her, a display that would be considered daring for a conventional woman.
As she sings with a voice clear as temple bells, she plays her hand-held duggi—a small drum that hangs at her waist, suspended by ropes from her neck—with her right hand, while her left hand strums the ektara, a single-stringed instrument. Dancing barefoot, she is a whirling, jingling presence, her anklets as vocal as her voice; a sight that is as captivating as leaves swirling in the wind.
If you fail to recognise
your own heart,
can you come to know the great unknown?
The furthest away will be the nearest to you,
and the unknown
within your knocking
Fill up your home
with the world,
And you will attain
the unattainable.
Her song raises questions: is it a longing, a statement, a heartbreak, a prayer, a complaint, a requiem, or perhaps all of these emotions at once?
The labouring men pause their routines as her searing song in rustic Bengali, a language they understand and that feels free from elitism, stirs something elemental within them. They are in thrall of her lyrics and hurriedly abandon their work to join her.
"We accompany Basundra baulani for a distance each time she enters our village, and sing with her. It makes our hearts sing along with our song, for she is a musical experience and the musical experience is her," says Khokan Das, a shuili, to Ananta Mondol, a visitor who has arrived from the city and is unaccustomed to village life, its pace, its social interactions and equations and the itinerant lifestyle and customs of bauls and baulanis. While Khokan Das is clad in a chequered dhoti and is bare-chested, Ananta Mondol wears black pants and a blue shirt.
"Come, join us," Khokan Das calls to Ananta Mondol, waving his gamcha to get his attention. "See how she allows you to immerse yourself in her spirit and be filled with wonder through the messages in her songs!"
"Does she come here often?" asks Ananta Mondol.
"Yes," replies Khokan Das.
"How do her visits fill you with wonder?" Ananta Mondol inquires curiously.
"Our life here, in this land of our ancestors, is the only life we know, as we have never set foot outside our village. While we enjoy the daily happiness it brings, we also endure its daily grind, frustrations, and the confines of our circumstances," explains Sameeran Biswas, a fisherman.
"But if Basundra baulani can find ecstasy without a home or possessions, it gives us hope. Her words open up possibilities for a new world for people like us who are illiterate—a magical universe, as she describes in her song, that lies beyond our harsh realities and poverty, where we can be equal, loved, and happy beyond measure," he finishes.
My skin and bone
Are turned to gold
I am the pool of love
Alive as the waves
As Basundra sings again, Bipul Gayen, a farmer, in a green dhoti and black vest with a matching black cloth draped tightly around his head, says, "She is our refuge in hardship, giving us a way to find love within ourselves and an ability to find meaning in our suffering. If she is able to see fortune in our poverty, we, too, are then able to view our impoverishment as part of a larger divine plan, which connects us—dirt-poor as we are—in a sense of oneness within our community."
Sudhir Patra, a weaver, dressed in a patterned handloom shirt and dhoti with a thin, white cotton scarf around his neck, has another take on her. "To us, she is neither a vagrant nor a vagabond to be dismissed. She is a wayfarer who has chosen a precarious path, yet she is undeniably part of our community—our didi, our sister—who transcends caste and social hierarchy. She reminds us of our shared humanity by singing of universal brotherhood and sisterhood, a message that our society often neglects by overlooking our existence and work every day. 'I am neither a Vaishnava Hindu nor a Sufi Muslim nor a Buddhist, as many believe bauls and baulanis to be. I am just me,' she has often told us," says Sudhir.
When Basundra enters the village, "Our Basundhara baulani is here!" the children cheer in delight, awakened by her melody. They are excited by the prospect of a break from their routines. Their mothers quickly join them outside, leaving their earthen cooking utensils on the mud stoves unattended, eager to gather and listen. The scene is vibrant with the women’s saris adding colour.
The sun shines as an orange ball as if in competition with them.
"What does Basundra baulani teach you women?" Ananta Mondol demands of the group of huddled women,
Rina Mahanta, a woman in her thirties wearing a red sari and a full-sleeved blouse, has her pallu draped over her head and a sparkling red bindi on her forehead. She is the first to speak up. "Basundra is our soul sister. Her vibrant words—neither religious teachings nor stories from scripture—reveal experiences and emotions we have never known before, igniting sparks within us that we have never set alight. She encourages us to aspire, to discover parts of ourselves that we don't yet know, to reclaim our identities, to be our own gods, and to embrace our freedom."
"As women, we often find ourselves confined within our homes and family structures, but she encourages us not to be limited by these boundaries. Her ideas are both enlightening and transformative for us," Kakali Das says softly. Her large, kohled eyes shine as she continues, "I remember the words from her song where she expresses:
All can see
when a forest is on fire
but none can trace
the fire in my heart
Shampa Mondol, wearing a blue sari adorned with shimmering gold sequins, adds, "Her songs encourage us not to be intimidated by culture, faith, or men, but to seek our inner spirit—the sacred space of our Goddess Shakti—no matter how unconventional it may seem to others. I just found out that, interestingly, the male bauls grow their hair and wear jewellery to embrace their femininity, conveying that the path to God transcends gender roles."
From the back of the group, a shy and veiled Supriya Kundu, dressed in a demure grey sari and adorned with a striking trail of red vermillion on her scalp and a nose pin set with a glimmering red stone, steps forward to say, "She tells us that feminine shakti (power) is superior and far more powerful than male perfection, because shakti is the cosmic energy responsible for creation. In contrast, the male power remains still and lifeless without the feminine energy. What she means is that the shakti of an evolved and enlightened woman will always exceed that of a moner manus, an ideal man who bears his spiritual essence. Can you believe that?"
One more voice chimes in. Bhagwati Dhali, a sturdy woman dressed in a pink cotton sari and a mustard shawl, speaks in a gravelly tone: "Our texts instruct us to separate the heart from the soul, viewing the body as base and impure. However, Basundara baulani presents a different perspective. Through her songs, music, and dance, she teaches us that our bodies should be celebrated and seen as a means to connect with God, or that deeper sense of self that we refer to as God. While we may struggle to grasp the language of our religious leaders, we understand Basundara's words immediately."
Basundra baulani sings on, as if she is responding to Bhagwati’s words.
Don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch me love
Stay right there
Take a mirror and have a look at yourself
Red pan spittle is all over your face
Your eyes are red with sleeplessness
Stand there and look towards me
Let me gaze at this wonderful sight.
The women giggle at the uninhibited lyrics, and Mandira Pramanik, the oldest woman in the village at nearly ninety, explains their meaning. "This is a love song between Lord Krishna and Radha. Notice how Radha challenges male assertiveness? She is not shy; rather, she is the dominant partner, controlling him and making him an object of her gaze, unafraid of her own desires."
The women are astonished. "Basundra didi opens our eyes to things we would never imagine," they say.
"The word 'baul' comes from the Sanskrit word 'vatula,' which means mad. 'If breaking down the barriers between the holy and the unholy, the body and the soul, and sanity and insanity represents craziness, then that is who I am,' she has told us". This is according to Moumita Adhikary, a fifteen-year-old girl eager to become a baulani herself, ready to ecstatically reject the conventional and the rational. "Her way of life invites us to experience beyond accepted knowledge, to transcend the world we inherit and discover a hidden inner world," she says.
As if on cue, Basundhra sings:
Prophets and priests teach in words
Shatki’s essence cannot be taught
It is the living flame
It is innate, it is infinite
And cannot be known by learning
Basundara baulani exits the village and heads towards Panikhali village, Dattapulia, Dui Satin Mod and then she is headed to Bagula town where she will be welcomed by people as she has been in Sankarpur village. She will become their didi, their shakti, and an intimate, inextricable part of their lives.
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