Jyoti Lakra, "Korain Duba"
Translated from the Hindi from the following site:
https://hindikahani.hindi-kavita.com/Koraeen-Dooba-Jyoti-Lakra.php
Tags: Jharkhand, Chattisgarh, Munda culture (Korwa subgroup), Folk music, Folk dance, Traditional Agriculture
The following translation was assisted by ChatGPT.
The river, growing up in the lap of the mountains, matured slowly and gently. The life that flowed from the mountains was the life in which she learned to rise and sit, to dance and sing, and to live. For her, the murmuring and rustling sounds of the mountain river are music, and the trees along its banks, wrapped in greenery, are the living embodiment of a home.
Goon...goon...goom.
Haan...haan...haanay.
Kil...kil...kilkil.
Dham...dham...dhamdham.
Gedo...gedo...gedogedo.
Jhjh...jhjh...jhjhjhjh.
This echo, this sound, is music to Kario — a natural melody that plays day and night. A song submerged in Korain Duba Dah (a local water body), a love, a tradition — it feels as though this body of water carries within it an age-old, rich legacy, flowing on and on. And Korain Duba itself has become a story.
Kario, immersed in her dance and song, became one with the heritage of folk music, offering her youth to the pursuit of great artistry, and in doing so, gave birth to a noble tradition. Her love was pure, natural. Her lover, Sahju Kunwar, was the living image of innocent love. Their companions, like heavenly nymphs, brought paradise to earth.
The Kanhar River, marking the boundary between Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh, flows through many regions and when it reaches the village of Salo Badani, it crashes into tall, grand rocks — a symbol of dignity — and from this collision, a stream of music spontaneously bursts forth. This was the haven of Kario and Sahju Kunwar’s love. Salo Badani village is surrounded by dense forests, with towering trees like sal, mahua, kendu, piyar, saanan, and gambhar. On the ground, countless vines like bendo and kewati bend the branches of trees and whisper to the wind. Sahju would make swings out of bendo vines hanging from tall bahera trees, and Kario would decorate and make them cozy with bendo leaves. The two would sit on the swing and pull a vine hanging from a far-off tree towards themselves, then let it go. This would give the swing momentum, and it would start whispering to the wind. They would swing for hours and weave many dreams together. Pointing toward Ghagh, Kario once told Sahju:
"If this were our home, we both would live here."
Sahju burst out laughing and said:
"Oh Kario, your home — this house sings day and night!"
Seeing him laugh so much, Kario became upset.
"You’re joking, and I’m speaking the truth."
Then Sahju laughed even more:
"Oh Kario... your home... it sings... it keeps singing… ha...ha...ha!"
Angrily, Kario said:
"What’s so funny? It does sing. You sing, I sing. That’s the truth. Then why can’t it be my home? Just watch — I will make it my home one day. My home sings, and it will keep singing our song for ages and ages!"
Little did Kario know what direction the future would take, and where the past would lie submerged in pain and sorrow.
Kario was a 15- or 16-year-old vivacious and spirited Korwa girl. Her body adorned with traditional tattoos. Thick, wide lips, dark kajri eyes, a necklace of silver coins strung on black and red threads, hair tied in larachha style, a parting down the middle with dozens of clips fastened above each temple. Bidyo earrings in her ears, red bangles on her wrists. A blue sari with a wide border reached her knees. When she laughed, her neatly lined teeth looked like kernels of ripe corn and could be seen from afar.
Kario lived across the Kanhar River in her maternal grandmother's home. Sahju Kunwar also lived in the same village, spending his days herding his many cattle. By evening, he would take them to drink from the Kanhar, and then drive them back to the bathan (cattle shed), because he alone knew how to tie the jori — the rope that binds one leg of each cow together. Who else knew which animal belonged next to which? After tying them up, Sahju would enter the house and tilt the mouth of the full water pitcher kept on the ghadsari (a raised platform). As soon as he did, a stream of water would gush out with a splash. Hearing the sound, his mother would begin serving the evening meal. As soon as Sahju sat down on the mat laid out in the dalan (veranda), his mother would serve jaw ghatha machhari tian — a curry made with small fish and wild grains.
Meanwhile, the sound of mandar drums could be heard from afar—
“Hungry all day, hungry all day...” came the beat from the nagada (drum).
“I’ll eat slowly, I’ll eat later...” came the reply.
And when this sound echoed, resonating off the mandar (another type of drum) hanging from the peg on the wall, it felt as if the sound was emanating from the mandar itself. Sahju would quickly finish eating and start getting ready to go to the akhra (village dance ground). First, he’d tie his dhoti tightly, then take the wide leather belts adorned with large jingling bells to wrap around his waist and back, securing them with rope. After that, he’d sit on the mat, take out half a dozen anklets (paijan) from the shelf, wear three on each foot, and tie ghungroos (ankle bells) to both feet. Then he would stand, adorn his back with a peacock feather fan (jhal peti), tying its strings across his chest and wrapping the other ends around his fingers. Taking out a new five-yard dhoti from the chest, he would wrap a wavy turban (muretha) around his head. With a nagada around his waist and a mandar slung across his shoulder, he would tuck in his flute and bhatena (a kind of percussion stick) into the mandar and head toward the akhra. On the way, he’d meet Guna Lohra from Khajuri village, Amirwa Bhuihar, and Chilgu Mahto from Gothani village. All four would beat their mandars in rhythm:
“Ask me for the moon, ask me for the moon — I’ll give it gently, I’ll give it slowly...”
As they played, they’d sing:
“Mahua under the tree’s shade — will you eat it or come play with me?”
(Hinting at the low-grade boiled mahua served for dinner: “Oh beloved, would you eat this or come dance?”)
Hearing the songs, the girls—Jogni, Mohni, Sukhni, Rijhni, Karyo, Phoolo, Jhano, Raniya—would reach the akhra. As dusk settled, the murli (flute), dhol (drum), mandar, nagada, dafli (tambourine), and the rhythm of songs would fill the air. Pairs of dancers (rasika and rasikin, male and female performers) would gather, and the akhra would come alive. As each watch of the night passed, the songs and dances would change accordingly. This was the fourth watch of the night. Emotional songs were playing, and teasing was going on between the performers:
“Where are you from, beloved? What language do you speak?
Your sweet voice—my heart never tires of hearing it.”
As they beat time to the melody, the string tied to the peacock feather fan on the dancer’s back would pull tight, causing the feathers to flare out like a dancing peacock. When the male dancer would sway his hips, the fan would ripple just like a peacock does when it dances. Taking a few steps forward, he’d approach his favorite dance partners, singing and dancing with emotion. The girls would respond with such grace, as if peahens trying to pick up the peacock’s call. The nagada players, sitting in the center, would bounce in their seats as they played, trying to woo the dancers. The swaying feet of the performers, alive in their seven-colored songs, created a marvelous sight, and as they danced, sang, and played instruments, the fourth watch of the night passed. The morning star rose in the east—everyone now sensed this was the final song. The cowherds had to untie their cows, and the buffalo-tenders their buffaloes, since this wasn’t the season to leave cattle untied in the forest. The dancers exchanged farewells and made their way home.
At home, Karyo would fill the tumba (a water container made from a dried gourd), sling a basket across her shoulders, pick up her nachu basan (collection basket), and pack makai lata (a food made from roasted maize and mahua that could be stored for days) into her sari’s front knot (khoycha), then call out to neighbors to join her and her grandmother for mahua picking in the forest. Behind her, Phoolo, Jhano, Rijhni, Sukhni, their sisters-in-law, and mothers would also join in. The chirping of birds and the cooing of the cuckoo welcomed the charming dawn. As they crossed the banks of the Kanhar river and moved toward the Khaira hills, the calls of peacocks and howls of monkeys grew louder. The intoxicating fragrance of mahua and sanseehar flowers filled the air with a dreamy essence. Immersed in this fragrance, Kario and her friends would burst into sweet melody:
“Who made this beautiful land?
Such a beautiful land—Saaibonga (the creator deity) must have made it.”
They would sing and hum while picking mahua in their rows. The terrain of mounds and dips (called gadhaa deepa loranga) would unite them as Kario and her friends spread across the forest, calling out to each other in birdlike sounds. While filling their baskets, they’d snack on kend, piyar, and bhelwan fruits, and after reaching Amjhariya, would rest and eat lata, sattu, and mahua. After a break, they’d balance their nachu basan on their heads and head back home. To protect their feet from the hot sand, they wore kharpa—slippers made of wood and bark rope—which came in very handy. When the sun reached its peak, they would all return home.
Kario spread the rest of the mahua flowers in the courtyard, saving a few to cook. After washing her face and hands, she ate leftover rice with koinaar greens, spicy chutney of titir (a bird), and banana, then rested through the afternoon. As dusk fell, she picked up her batua basin and went to the Kanhar river. She scrubbed the batua basin until it shone, washed her clothes, bathed with mud-misni clay (a smooth, oily soil used for hair-washing), shaped a small water reservoir with her hands, splashed some water, and filled her pitcher and batua with clean water. Then, placing the batua on her head, the utensils on top of it, clothes on her shoulder, and pitcher tucked under her arm, she returned home—only to hear unfamiliar voices coming from inside.
Seeing a black, shaggy dog sitting outside the door, Kario guessed that there were new guests in the house. She gathered her things and stepped inside, greeted everyone by touching their feet, and got busy with kitchen work. There were two new guests in the house, along with her uncle and grandfather from the neighborhood. Kario could hear their conversation happening in the front veranda.
Her grandfather was asking:
"Kaise aali goye?"
("What brings you here?")
An elderly guest replied,
"Ihi dagar berhate-berhate Kanhar nadi ke sote-sote aali goye. Nadi kar machhari kanhon ni berhay se dahura-patai dabe-dhanke ke bichaar se aali. Raur manka sochiyal?"
("Just wandering along, we followed the riverbanks of Kanhar and came this way. We thought to lay down branches and leaves to trap the fish before they swim off. What do you all think?")
To this, Kario's grandfather said,
"Bese karli, ni dakhale-dhankle machhari thore basi."
("You did right—without laying branches and covering the water, fish won’t stay.")
Kario’s grandfather agreed, and the matter was settled.
Kario couldn’t voice her inner thoughts to anyone. But nowadays, her songs carried a hint of sorrow. Time passed, and Kario got married in the month of Magh. She left behind her home, the akhara (village dance ground), and her grandparents. Now Fagu was her whole world. She had become the new bride of Murli Mangrahi village.
Kario spent her days helping Fagu with his work, going to the forest, picking and sorting bamboo, and making household items like soop, daura, nachu, bichhani, and utensils. She cooked, cleaned, did everything. But for some unknown reason, evenings brought her a deep, dark sorrow. The moment she heard the sound of the flute, drum, mandar, nagara, and dafli, she would begin to feel anxious. Her heart would race. Kario would become restless.
As soon as the transplanting season ended, people began preparing for the Karma festival. Kario and Fagu also went to her grandparents' house for Karma. Sajhu was returning home, playing his flute, after sending the cattle to graze deep in the forest. Hearing her favorite melody, Kario stopped plucking dantun leaves and peeked in that direction. Their eyes met and sparkled with recognition. They walked toward each other and got lost in each other's eyes without saying a word.
Breaking the silence, Sajhu asked,
"Kaisan aahis? Kahiya aale?"
("How are you? When did you come?")
"Theek aahon, kail sanjh bera," Kario replied.
("I’m fine. Yesterday evening.")
"Toyan kaisan his?" Kario asked.
("And how are you?")
"Theek aahon," said Sajhu.
("I’m fine.")
"Koi chhondhi khush aale ki nahi?" Kario asked playfully.
("Did you fall for any girl or not?")
"Khush aay aahon ni," Sajhu said.
("Yes, I have.")
"Kahan?" Kario asked.
"Ihin," Sajhu said.
("Right here.")
"Ihin!" Kario was surprised.
"Haan, ihin. BheTabe ukar se," Sajhu said with a smile.
("Yes, here. Want to meet her?")
"Haan, bheTaboon. Kakhon bheTawabe?" Kario asked eagerly.
("Yes, I will. When will you introduce me?")
"Adhiriye, aihe ghari," Sajhu laughed.
("Right now, this very moment.")
Kario understood his hint and blushed. She looked down and began scratching the soil with her toe. Sajhu kept smiling. After a brief pause, Kario started the conversation again.
"Tab aij kail akhara kaisan jamel? Rati karma khele aaboon."
("So how’s the akhara these days? I’ll come to dance in the Karma tonight.")
"Aab akhara mein pahile tari ras kahaan! Tohin sab chhondhi haamin ke chhoid ke chail gela to haamin tura hoy geli aur akhara hoon suna ho jaye he," Sajhu replied.
("Now the akhara isn't like it used to be. You girls all left us. We became lonely boys, and the akhara became deserted.")
"Akhara kaisan soon ho sakela? Akhara mein to ek se ek navaan peedhi jutate rahyan. Asal rasika-raskin ta sat-sat gaon ek rait mein nachayan," Kario said.
("How can the akhara ever be empty? New generations keep joining. The true dancers and music lovers used to come from seven villages in a single night.")
"Toyan sang debe to moyan roje akhara sohaan karboon. Kah debe ni?" Sajhu said.
("If you’re with me, I’ll go to the akhara every day. Will you come with me?")
Kario was caught in a dilemma. What could she say?
Sajhu added,
"Toyan aabe chahe nahi, main roje murli, dhol, mandar, nagara bajay ke toke bolaboon."
("Whether you come or not, I’ll call you every day with my flute, drums, mandar, and nagara.")
"Theek hay, aij akhara mein bataaboon."
("Alright, I’ll tell you at the akhara tonight.")
With that, Kario turned to go home, and both went their separate ways.
In the evening, Sajhu reached the akhara early. Kario’s return had stirred a deep restlessness in him. He began to play the mandar so beautifully that all the singers and dancers started following his rhythm. The melodies from the akhara echoed in all directions, drawing people in. Kario too grew restless and began trying to convince Fagu.
"Chal ni akhara jaab,"
("Let’s go to the akhara.")
"Tony ja, moyan nakhon jaat," Fagu replied.
("You go, I’m not coming.")
"Tony ni jaabe ho le moyan ekle ka lakhay? Jaaboon sab torey ke khojay," Kario said.
("If you don’t come, how can I go alone? Everyone will be looking for you.")
"Moyan mandar bajayak aur nache ni jaanon, akhara jaay ke ka karboon? Toy chhail ja," Fagu made excuses.
("I neither know how to play the mandar nor to dance. What would I do at the akhara? You go ahead.”)
But Kario didn’t listen. In the face of her insistence, Phagu had to give in, and the two went to the akhara (folk gathering place). At the akhara, after greeting everyone with folded hands and exchanging pleasantries, Guna suddenly hung the mandar (a traditional drum) around Phagu’s neck. A wave of emotion stirred inside Phagu at the sound of the songs and music of the akhara. Smiling, Phagu beat the mandar and found his place in the gathering. Seeing Phagu dance, Kario too joined in. Phagu realized that although he hadn’t wanted to come, he was now completely immersed in it.
That night, everyone was so engrossed in the singing and dancing that no one was aware of who was beside whom. Hands were entwined with hands, and everyone was dyed in the same color. Ego dissolved, and time became meaningless. Man became divine, and the divine became man. At that very moment, the village goddess came to dance. Song after song played, in beautiful melodies and rhythmic dances. Whoever was dancing in whatever way at that time, kept dancing in that flow, filled with emotion. The grip was so strong, it was like a fist had formed. When the goodness inside a person reaches its peak, a divine form emerges. The akhara is the natural expression of this. While dancing there, the village goddess, Kario, Sahju, and her companions became one. It became difficult to tell who was divine and who was human.
By the time morning arrived, they were still dancing. Kario returned from the akhara and got busy with her household chores. The akhara continued all day with dance and song. In the evening, the Karam deity was immersed in the Kanhar river. The deity came, brought blessings of timely rain, abundant harvest, healthy livestock, and a happy life—and then returned.
Kario and Phagu also returned to their village, Murli Mangrahi. Evening fell. Hearing the sound of the murli, dhol, mandar, and nagara, Kario mustered courage and persuaded Phagu, “Let’s go dance.” As always, Phagu agreed to Kario’s request.
But going to dance in one village or another every day was not something Phagu could manage. So Kario started going alone. Her frequent dancing didn’t sit well with some villagers. They started provoking Phagu:
“What kind of man are you, who can’t control your wife? If you can’t handle her, say so!”
Hearing this felt like someone poured hot oil into Phagu’s ears. He lost his temper. That evening, for the first time, he scolded his beloved. He said:
“Now you stop this dancing and singing and stay peacefully at home.”
Kario was filled with surprise. She hesitated, but then bravely asked,
“What happened to you today that you're talking like this?”
“I’ve said what I’ve said,” Phagu replied, drawing a line in stone.
“Why do you think like this?” Kario asked calmly.
Phagu, now angry, shot back,
“Why do you even go to the akhara, tell me?”
He scolded Kario and warned her:
“If you go to the akhara again from today, you’ll see.”
Kario, equally stubborn, replied,
“Everyone goes to the akhara, I’ll go too.”
“If you go to the akhara, you’ll see.”
Phagu stood up shouting in anger.
Every evening, jackals would climb the village hills to eat tender corn and after a full meal, they would howl. But today, instead of howling, the jackals were jumping and making sharp “fen fen fen” sounds across the village—an ominous sign.
Behind the greyish twilight, black darkness was lurking—but Kario was unaware. As always, she tried to finish her chores quickly. But today, everything seemed to go wrong. A storm was raging inside her. Should she go to the akhara or not? But the river of unrestrained love breaks all dams. Who can hold it back forever?
It was a full-moon night in the month of Bhadon. The moon played hide and seek with the clouds—just like Phagu was playing with Kario.
Kario went to the riverbank. The deep Kanhar river in Bhadon is hard to cross. So she headed toward her familiar crossing point—a spot known as Ghagh—where she had once dreamed many dreams with Sahju. She reached near a bahera tree and, touching the hanging bendo vines, tried to find the one she knew. Her hand grasped a smooth, thick vine. She rejoiced, kissed it, looped it under her arms, and began walking backward. She kept pulling until the vine stretched tight. The bahera branch bent under tension, and the vine began to pull her forward. Kario used all her strength to resist but could not go back further. So she swung on the vine and, like wind, crossed the river in a single moment. On the other side, she quickly loosened the rope, tied it to a mahua tree, and headed straight to the akhara to dance.
Unbeknownst to her, Phagu had seen her crossing the river. Furious, he thought, “No vine, no crossing.” He partially cut the vine.
Kario, unaware of any of this, danced and sang her heart out. At dawn, she left the akhara to return to her in-laws’ village, singing as she went:
“If you help me cross, I’ll give you coral and pearls,
"And I’ll give you the voice of my mouth.”
She approached the river and, as usual, slung the loop of the stretched vine over herself and swung. But as the vine reached mid-river, it snapped in two. With a splash, she plunged into the river. The river's flow continued—splashing, rushing, unstoppable. Kario was swallowed by the endless water.
Seeing Kario drowning, Phagu suddenly came to his senses. In regret, he muttered, “What have I done? Kario... Kario...” Her name echoed within him. Then, suddenly, he shouted:
“Kario!”
His cry echoed through the forest, bushes, rivers, fields, and village paths.
The villagers mourned Phagu’s sorrow. Some eyes welled with tears, others were disturbed by the tragic sight.
Where had Kario gone? What happened to her?
Kario had become one with the river.
Even today, when the Kanhar river floods, from the submerged Korain land, the eternal songs of Kario and Sahju’s love and loss echo:
Goon... goon... goonm,
kil... kil... kilkil,
ghedon... ghedon... ghedon...!