Mermaids, wandering trees, birds that cry: Inside the world of lesser-known Indian folktales
A filmmaker and a playwright, both passionate about stories, are saving tales from across the country in an archive of videos, flipbooks, podcasts and more.
Why do certain stories survive?
The best tales — the ones that endure — contain a bit of humour, pathos, the element of surprise and, often, a quick, pithy lesson in what it means to be human. Those that do it best, couch all this in entertaining metaphor.
And so a tale about mermaids in Puducherry becomes a parable on the power of the sea. A story about why trees stopped roaming around and grew roots instead, told in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, offers a curt reminder that there is a price to be paid for turning a forest against you.
The tales that live on the longest tend to encapsulate our deepest desires and greatest fears, our flaws, follies and misdeeds.
In India, such stories include legends of rivers that overcame their arrogance, tribes bonded to the tiger by blood, careless fathers who were turned into cursed birds; tales that the Centre for Contemporary Folklore (CCF) is now in the process of pulling together, onto a single platform.
This isn’t easy to do, given India’s vast geographic and linguistic scale.
So far, over 18 months, 20 volunteers have gathered 250 stories and uploaded them to the archive’s website in English. Ten have been adapted as videos and posted to the Centre’s YouTube channel. A total of 28 digital flipbooks and five podcast episodes are also now online. A printed anthology and more podcast episodes are in the works.
What sparked it all off was a sense of personal urgency, say co-founders Dheeraj Dubey, 31, a filmmaker from Delhi, and Nikhita Singh, 29, a playwright from Mumbai.
Dubey, born in Kolha village in Madhya Pradesh, was losing touch with his Bagheli roots. He barely speaks the language anymore, he says. Singh, from Jaunpur in Uttar Pradesh, only half-remembers the songs in Bhojpuri and Awadhi that she grew up listening to.
“It’s not just the risk of loss or the draw of nostalgia,” she says. “Folktales also have a wonderful way of sparking critical thinking and leading us to new modes of storytelling.”
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As they began their gargantuan effort, which will likely stretch out over years (and is funded, incidentally, by one small grant so far, and a host of small donations), they had to decide how to define “folktale”.
Typically, this is any story passed on within a population, by word of mouth. But if they were determined to represent a certain aspect of Indian culture, where would they draw the line? Would they, for instance, include ghost stories and urban legends?
“The answer we settled on was that it must be temporal, rooted in a specific place,” says Ashmeen Bains, 28, an art curator in Chandigarh and director of editorial strategy at CCF. “We look for little clues that ground a story in local culture: Does it mention a village, a lived ritual or describe a type of architecture, cuisine or textile? What does it have to say about native flora and fauna?”
Part of the joy of their search, Bains adds, has come from hearing echoes of the same tale in different regions. “As people have wandered across the country, they have taken their stories with them, blending narratives in the most surprising ways,” she says. And so, in Tripura and Arunachal Pradesh, for instance, solar eclipses are attributed to a dog biting the sun (though the reasons vary).
The CCF archive is searchable by theme, so as to reveal just how extensively the subjects of our informal oral histories overlap. Within the Animals section, for instance, tales of the crow explore how differently this creature is viewed across different regions.
In a story told by Madhya Pradesh’s Dhanwar tribe, the crow is a benevolent companion, alerting a farmer to impending disasters, including an attack by a horde of pests. In a Tamil Nadu tale, it is a trickster, stealing food from a generous sparrow. In Uttar Pradesh, the bird stands in for dishonesty and laziness, and suffers a bad end.
As it acquires new layers, the crow as a symbol endures, because we have coexisted with it for so long that it is an easily recognisable metaphor. Vitally, its intelligence serves as a handy metaphor for our own.
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It isn’t all metaphor. Sometimes a tale contains plain information, instruction or warning.
In Maharashtra’s eco-sensitive Kaas Plateau, ancient stories say humans must not enter the forests and plains during certain months. These months coincide with a delicately poised pollination season in which meadows fill with flowers, some of which bloom once a year, some once every seven or eight years.
“Folklore has been key to understanding the past,” says anthropologist and historian Lopamudra Maitra, author of two books on folktales, creation myths and modern lore across the subcontinent, The Owl Delivered the Good News All Night Long (2021) and How the World Was Born: Wondrous Indian Myths and Legends (2024). “If one looks closely, there are also details of shifts, migrations, even discrimination, in these seemingly innocuous tales.”
In a sense, they represent an early body of foundational information about the first things we interrogated, interpreted and understood. Common sense was distilled as folk tales; so were norms, superstitions, history and early ideas.
“By treating water bodies as sacred, for example, folktales helped keep rivers pure,” Maitra says. “Today, stories like these raise pertinent new questions, such as: What has led to their current state of neglect?”
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Andaman and Nicobar Islands: The rooting of the trees
Myths from around the world have depicted trees as wanderers. They walked and ran, played games and fought over favoured spots in which to stand and rest.
In the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, myths recall a special bond between trees and humans. They once served as gentle transporters of weary travellers, the story goes.
Then, a group of greedy villagers dug up riches in a forest, almost destroying it, and tried to force the trees to carry the precious resources back to their homes. The tree rebelled, refusing to move. And they have stood rooted to the spot ever since.
Forcing humans to carry the weight of their own burdens.
Quite a telling tale, with remarkable contemporary relevance.
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Sikkim: Two rivers in love
Rivers often act as witnesses to love and tragedy, in folktales. In Punjabi lore, for instance, the Chenab serves as the backdrop of the tales of the star-crossed lovers Sohni and Mahiwal, Heer and Ranjha and Mirza and Sahiban.
A story told by the Lepcha people (of Sikkim, Darjeeling and Kalimpong), however, features two rivers, Rangeet and Rongnyu aka Teesta, as protagonists.
The two were created by the mother goddess Itbu-moo as lovers, the story goes. They were sent to Earth as two rushing bodies of water, and decided to race each other to Peshok (near Darjeeling), where they were destined to meet.
Rangeet was guided on his route by a distracted bird, and so he lost the race to Rongnyu, whose navigator was a calm and trustworthy snake. In his anger and disappointment, Rangeet rushed back and, in doing so, flooded the valley. The Tendong hill, through great effort, raised itself above the waters and saved the Lepcha people.
Even today, the community celebrates their salvation with the festival of Tendong Lho Rumfaat (Prayer to Tendong Mountain). Meanwhile, with Itbu-moo’s blessing, the lovers were eventually reunited too, flowing side by side across the plains, meeting and parting, largely peacefully, as they go.
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Meghalaya: How the peacock got its tail
Among the Khasi tribals, the iridescent feathers of the peacock are referred to as Ummat Ka Sngi (Tears of the Sun Goddess), and are a symbol of heartache and love.
It is said that all peacocks were once a dull grey. One day, a particularly vain and ambitious bird named U Klew flew all the way to the abode of the lonely sun goddess Ka Sngi. Thrilled at the prospect of companionship, she lavished attention on him, neglecting the Earth.
Seeing this, a clever woman on Earth planted a mustard field in ways that created the likeness of a golden woman, and tricked the vain U Klew into leaving Ka Sngi and returning home.
The sun goddess was so distraught when he left that her tears rained down after him, creating vibrant spots in the peacock’s feathers, a lasting reminder of her love. For the good of the Earth, the peacock can no longer take long flights. But he can still be seen greeting Ka Sngi every morning, spreading his feathers out under her warmth.
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Arunachal Pradesh: The story of tears
There are so many tales told about tears. In Inca myth, silver was born from the tears of the Moon (and gold came from the sweat of the Sun). In Greek myth, pearls were born of the tears of Aphrodite, the goddess of love.
In folktales told in Ladakh, the tears of forlorn fairies crystallise into gemstones.
But it is in Arunachal Pradesh that we get a story about how humans learnt to cry.
There was a time, it is said, when death did not exist. The old withered away unendingly, and suffered, while the young scrambled for food in an overcrowded world. The local king, Raja Kachu, decided to take himself out of the equation at least, so as to leave more for his people. And so he secretly buried himself alive in a forest. When a loyal subject went looking for him, it was too late. The king had died; death had been born. And a bird and a hornet were weeping at his grave. Moved by their grief, the subject took some of the soil back to his people, along with the newfound ability to die, and to mourn.
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Nagaland: The discovery of the king chilli
The Bhut Jolokia or Naga king chilli is famous for being dangerously fiery, but a story told locally about how it was discovered is a heart-warming tale of empathy and the interconnectedness of all living things.
It is said that a man named Panmei stumbled upon the bright red chilli in the jungle, mistook it for a fruit and ate it, causing himself excruciating pain. As he writhed in agony on the forest floor, a bird flying overhead decided to help. It dropped raw paddy on him, and he ate it, soothing his stomach.
Once he had recovered, he took both the chillies and the grains home, and the people of this region have grown both, and eaten both, ever since.
It isn’t clear which species of bird saved that ancestor’s life. But even today, clans within the Rongmei Naga tribe observe a period of abstinence in which they do not hunt certain birds, in a gesture of thanks to the featured creatures of sky and forest.
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Nicobar Islands: Why the coconut grows in Car Nicobar
Legend has it that Car Nicobar, the northernmost island in the Nicobar archipelago, was once a desolate place. With no streams or wells and just the vast sea around it, sweet water was hard to come by. Inhabitants had been known to die of thirst.
One man, Asungi-Tosung, had the extraordinary ability to conjure fresh water, and he held the key to the people’s survival. When his friend, Yanalo, asked him his secret, he refused to share it. In a fit of rage, Yanalo beheaded Asungi-Tosung, and buried his body near his home on the southwest coast.
Unable to bear his loneliness and guilt, he soon left the village and wandered to the east coast, where he settled down and started a family.
Six years later, he returned home for a visit, only to have his daughter fall gravely ill. Desperate, he wandered around the village, looking for something that might save her.
At the spot where he had buried his friend, he found a tall tree with fruit that resembled a human head. The refreshing water from the fruit saved his daughter’s life. To this day, islanders revere the life-giving coconut palm.
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Himachal Pradesh: Why the chataka cries all summer
When the first Jacobin cuckoo (or chataka) is spotted on the Indian subcontinent, birdwatchers know the rains aren’t far behind. The migratory bird uses the southwest monsoon winds to propel it across the Arabian Sea, from Africa to India.
Because of this long flight it undertakes, in the hottest months of the year, the chataka has in India been a symbol of patience, resilience, and longing.
In tales told about this bird, it is said that it will perish on the banks of a river rather than drink anything but the first drops of rain.
In Himachal Pradesh, a tale is told to explain what ties this bird to the Indian monsoon.
On a scorching summer day, the story goes, a selfish and cruel woman overworked her buffaloes and then abandoned them, to attend a village fair. Parched and exhausted, the animals died of thirst, cursing her in their final moments. As a result, she was reborn as the chataka, doomed to thirst eternally, crying out for water through the summer, and only quenching her thirst when the rains finally arrive.
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Tripura: The hornbill’s curse
The majestic hornbill is so distinctive that it features in tales told across Asia and Africa.
In parts of Malaysia, it is considered a sacred messenger between humans and the divine. In African Zulu and Bakgatla traditions, it is said to symbolise optimism because of its steady upward gaze.
Tripura has a darker take. Here, the bird is said to be the result of an ancient curse.
One day, the story goes, a Tripura man was so absorbed in playing with his flute that he neglected to watch over his child, allowing a bear to snatch the child away. When his wife discovered what he had done, she cursed him to be reborn as a bird with a beak like a flute, and a harsh intolerable voice.
That wasn’t all. This bird, she said, would be the one to care for its entire family. He would gather food for his mate and their young, while the female stayed in the nest with the chicks. To this day, male hornbills foraged for food alone, while females watch over the nestlings, keeping them safe until they are large enough to fly.
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Madhya Pradesh: Where tigers are kin
There is something about tigers that has long entranced humans, to the extent that folktales told across India tell of kinship and shared ancestry. The Mishmi tribals of Arunachal Pradesh believe tigers and humans were born of the same mother. In Nagaland, a similar story details how the human brother tricked the tiger into leaving their village, sending him forever into the wild.
Among the Baiga of Madhya Pradesh, the bond takes a different path.
It is said that a man named Latiya once used a magic spell to conjure a tiger and tigress out of a tree, hoping they would eat his unwanted son. The animals instead adopted the baby and raised him with great care. As the tiger and tigress aged, the boy began to care for them, even learning to hunt so he could bring them food. This unexpected bond forged a kinship between the animal and the tribe that endures. To this day, the Baiga will not harm a tiger.
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Puducherry: The mermaid’s siren song
Legends of the mermaid go as far back as, well, the oldest legends we know.
In Ancient Mesopotamia, over 5,000 years ago, tales were told of a mystical fish-like deity named Oannes. By 1000 BCE, the earliest recognisable mermaids were appearing in Syrian myth. The half-human-half-fish goddess Atargatis was worshipped as a protector of seafarers and coastal cities.
This siren appears over and over, in different forms, with different names: in African folklore, Scottish myth, Celtic tales and Philippine folklore.
In Puducherry, it is said that half-human-half-fish beings dwell in the Bay of Bengal, calling out to local fishermen in captivating tones. If they treat her with respect, the enchanting song simply lulls the fishermen to sleep, and they wake to find their nets filled with an abundant catch, and perhaps see the shimmer of a tail vanish into the distance.
As for those who disrespect her songs, they simply never return.
Where do these tales come from, and why do they recur with such persistence?
Some believe that the mermaid is a figment of a salt-induced haze in seasick fishermen. Others believe men can get so lonely in the vastness of the ocean that a seal can take on the allure of a beautiful woman.
Perhaps it is much simpler. Perhaps those who have been out there simply return with an abiding and terrifying sense of the capricious power of the sea.
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