Bengal’s Bahurupi grapple with change

11 Sep 2018

Sometimes it’s the kids who are the family’s breadwinners, forgoing school and childhood friendships. Sometimes it’s the father of the family who does the song and dance and visual storytelling, resolute in his determination to give his kids a better life. It’s a brutally hard way to make a living, tramping mile after endless mile from village to village in the blazing heat, draped in ornate costumes and decorated in painstaking make-up, to bring home a few hundred rupees.

Tradition has it that the Bahurupi originated as disguised representatives of kings and chiefs, sent out to entertain their way into the courts of rival fiefdoms and bring home any state secrets that came their way.

These are the Bahurupi — literally, the people of many forms. Based in Bengal, India, they practice a folk-theatre form going back dozens of generations. Tradition has it that the Bahurupi originated as disguised representatives of kings and chiefs, sent out to entertain their way into the courts of rival fiefdoms and bring home any state secrets that came their way.

The essence of a Bahurupi performance is, as so much else in India, deeply rooted in Hindu religious beliefs and ancient writings. The artiste dons the form of a deity or demonological figure: Lord Hanuman, Lord Vishnu, Lord Shiva, Lord Ganesha, Ravana, Goddess Kali, Lord Krishna… there are many powerful character choices in the Hindu pantheon. Each of these has more or less standard earthly representations, making them instantly recognisable in both rural and urban contexts. With elaborate costumery and theatrical make-up, the Bahurupi artiste morphs adeptly between these personas, regaling his audience with song, dance, mime and story enactments.

The Bahurupi are no beggars: their theatrical skill and techniques, handed down from generation to generation, helps them eke out of a living performing for cash, food and clothing handouts from their mainly rural audiences. They own little or no land; if not performing, they earn as labourers, marginal cultivators, tenant farmers.

Ironically, for this tiny enclave of quick-change artists — they may number no more than a few dozen practicing families — it is change itself that threatens their way of life. Times have moved on: their street theatre must compete with omnipresent television sets, cheap smartphones and the digital distractions of WhatsApp and social media. And audience perceptions of the Bahurupi are changing too: increasingly, they’re seen not as talented theatrical storytellers but as colourful beggars.

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