Imagine a vast open field under the night sky, where hundreds gather—not just for entertainment but for an experience that lingers long after the last act. There are no elaborate stage setups, no written scripts, and no printed materials to take home. Instead, the wisdom of centuries is passed down through spoken word, song, and performance, transforming the space into a sacred realm of learning and devotion.

This post is an afterthought following a remarkable performance by Balkrishna Gore Paramparik Dashavtaar Natyamandal, Kudal, who presented Dashavtar at Pune University yesterday. The play brought to life the story of Bhakta Pundalik, a devoted follower of Lord Vitthal.

The narrative explored the transformation of Pundalik, who, unaware of his wife’s mistreatment of his elderly parents, initially believes that she is being wronged instead. He perceives her as the ideal daughter-in-law who, despite being virtuous, is unfairly treated. Yet, as in all epics, realization dawns upon him, and he acknowledges his mistakes. Determined to make amends, he decides to take his parents on a pilgrimage himself.

However, his elderly parents are unable to walk, forcing them to rest along the way. It is at this moment that Lord Krishna appears and narrates the story of how he became Vitthal and how Pandharpur came into existence. What was truly mesmerizing was how, in mere moments, the performance created the entire city of Pandharpur before our eyes—without physical structures or elaborate set designs. And yet, we believed. We believed in the magic of the city being built, in Lord Vitthal’s eternal presence, and in the divine promise that he and Rukmini would remain there, guiding and protecting the devotees forever.

For the audience, these performances are a source of wisdom; for the performer, they are a lifelong journey of learning and refinement. The actors do not simply memorize lines—often, there is no written script at all. Instead, they carry an intimate understanding of the story’s essence, its key moments, and the emotions that must be evoked. The rest is instinct, improvisation, and an inherited knowledge of epics and traditions.

Each gesture, song, and movement on stage is shaped by years of observation and practice. The actor learns not only from books or teachers but also from his predecessors, absorbing their techniques and making them his own. The lines he speaks are not fixed; they evolve with each performance, influenced by the audience’s reactions and the energy of the night.

One of the most captivating aspects of folk theatre is its ability to integrate the miraculous into the everyday. The stage is often just a clearing in a village or the front yard of a temple, devoid of grand set pieces. Yet, through sheer conviction, the actors make entire worlds come alive.

A city is conjured in an instant—not through elaborate backdrops but through collective imagination. The audience willingly suspends disbelief, accepting that the space before them has transformed into a grand palace, a dense forest, or a divine temple. The magic lies not in mechanical stagecraft but in timing, presence, and belief. The audience knows what is coming, yet each moment still feels fresh, as if the story is unfolding for the first time.

A defining feature of folk performances is the presence of musicians who are both separate from and deeply embedded in the scene. Seated just beyond the performance space, they do not simply play their instruments; they listen, react, and immerse themselves in the unfolding drama. Their music is not just an accompaniment—it is a conversation, a rhythmic dialogue between sound and story.

Though physically apart from the actors, they are emotionally enmeshed in the performance. Their beats intensify moments of tension, their melodies carry the weight of grief, and their rhythms amplify the energy of joy. This dynamic blurs the lines between storyteller and spectator, reinforcing the communal essence of folk theatre.

What makes these performances so powerful is the unspoken understanding between the performer and the audience. There is an inherent trust—a shared belief that what is being presented is not merely a story but a lesson, a philosophy, a truth that holds relevance beyond the stage.

In a world where written texts were once scarce, the spoken and sung words of the performance served as primary sources of knowledge. These stories are not meant to be memorized but internalized. They do not end when the performance concludes; they live on in conversations, in debates, and in the moral compass that guides the audience in their daily lives.

Despite the changing times, folk theatre remains as mesmerizing as ever. It has adapted, absorbed new influences, and evolved, yet at its core, it continues to serve its original purpose—engaging, educating, and enthralling its audience.

Perhaps the best way to understand these performances is to witness them in their present form rather than view them solely through the lens of history. In doing so, we realize why they have survived for centuries and why they continue to hold a profound place in the hearts and minds of those who experience them.

Folk theatre is not just about preserving traditions—it is about keeping wisdom alive. It is a living, breathing conversation between past and present, between performer and audience, between faith and philosophy. And as long as there are stories to tell and lessons to learn, the stage under the open sky will never be empty.