“He passed through two villages on the way and they all called out to him: what brings you here, Girdhariji? He replied, ‘Someone needs me, otherwise a calamity will happen.’ When he arrived at the village in question, he went straight to the headman, saying, ‘Bring the boy that is ill to me in the shrine of Pabuji immediately.’ By this stage the boy was very swollen, but they brought him to my father on a stretcher, weeping and wailing as they were sure he would die. But my father took some bitter leaves from his pouch and fed them to the boy, assuring him and his family that all would be well. By the following morning, the boy was completely cured.
“There were many stories of this sort about my father. He was a great healer: headache, body ache, stomach ache, indigestion: he could cure any of these with a night reading of the phad and a handful of herbs.
“I am not the healer he was. But people still come to me, especially for curing their animals, and for exorcising djinns. I find this work very easy. I don’t do much with the animals: just open the phad, give it some incense, put a tanti of Pabu around the neck of the animal and let Pabuji do the rest. It is the same with exorcism: it is not so much me as the phad of Pabu that does the work. As soon as I spread open his phad, all the djinns and bad spirits fly away from its power. Some djinns take longer than others, and several times it has taken a full recitation of the epic to take the spirit out of the person; but I have never yet come across any who can resist its power completely. Sooner or later, I will touch the person with the phad and the spirit will flee, shouting out, ‘I am burning! I am burning!’
“Because of the power of the phad, we are careful never to treat it casually. To make sure it is never damaged, we keep it rolled up most of the time. I do not perform during the rains, in case the phad gets damaged with water. When I am home, I hang it rolled up above my bed, so that dogs or cats or rats cannot hurt it. That way it also blesses our family. If we ill-treat the phad, or make some mistake, Pabuji will usually appear in a dream and inform me of the wrong I have done. The following morning I will offer a coconut and ask for forgiveness at his temple. If it is a more serious matter, I will also offer thirteen pounds of jaggery to the cows of the village.
“Some of the more educated people in the village these days like to show off, and say they do not believe in the healing power of the phad. Also there is some vet in Bikaner who has begun telling people not to summon the bhopas, and who says that it’s just superstition and faith healing. Maybe in part they are right: maybe faith and trust do play their part. But most people here just laugh if someone tells them that a doctor or a vet has more power than Pabuji. I certainly do. Ha! Show me the doctor or even the vet who could bring camels all the way from Lanka.”
That evening, after sunset, Mohan continued his performance of the epic. The first night had taken the story up to the episode of Goga’s wedding to Kelam. The second opened with the story of the she-camels.
Watching the epic performed in a village setting where everyone was familiar with not just the plot but the actual text of the poem was a completely different experience to seeing it done before the sort of urban, middle-class audience I had previously seen Mohan perform to.
The farmers and villagers were all sitting and squatting on a red and black striped durree under the awning of the tents, and were wrapped up against the cold with scarves and shawls and mufflers. Rather than sitting back and enjoying a formal performance, as the middle-class audience had done, the villagers joined in, laughing loudly at some points, interrupting in others, joking with Mohan and completing the final line of each stanza. Sometimes, individuals got up to offer Mohan a Rs 10 note, usually with a request for a particular song or bhajan.
Three generations of the family performed: as well as Mohan and Batasi, Shrawan was on dholak; the eldest son, Mahavir, also joined in with his ravanhatta; and Mahavir’s naughty four-year-old son, Onkar, Mohan’s eldest grandson, danced alongside his grandfather in a white kurta-dhoti. For three hours the family sang without a break, and the audience cheered and clapped.
“Because the phad is dedicated to our god Pabuji, we are never allowed to get up in the middle,” said the village goldsmith, who was sitting next to me. “Until the bhopaji gets tired and stops for chai, we have to sit and listen out of respect—even until dawn.”
“But now that we have TV our children don’t like to listen so much,” added Mr. Sharma, one of the village Brahmins, who had earlier insisted on taking me away for what he called “a pure vegetarian dinner.” “The younger generation prefer the CD with the main points of the story. It takes only three or four hours maximum.”