New Delhi
Recognition came steadily, but Teejan Bai never allowed awards to overshadow the tradition she represented. She often said that she was merely carrying forward what she had learnt from her grandfather. Yet, in doing so, she took Pandavani from village courtyards to the world’s most prestigious cultural platforms. Her performances became a bridge between rural India and international audiences who may never have heard of Chhattisgarh but found themselves enthralled by the timeless drama of the Mahabharata.
Over the years, the honours reflected the extraordinary arc of her career. She received the Padma Shri in 1988, followed by the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1995, the Padma Bhushan in 2003 and the Padma Vibhushan in 2019, India’s second-highest civilian honour. Universities conferred honorary doctorates upon her, while governments and cultural organisations celebrated her as one of the country’s foremost custodians of intangible cultural heritage. Yet those who interacted with her often remarked that she remained remarkably grounded, speaking with the simplicity of someone who still considered herself a village performer.
Her international tours further demonstrated the universal appeal of folk traditions when presented with honesty and conviction. Whether performing in Europe, North America, Australia or Asia, she rarely altered her style to suit foreign audiences. She sang in Chhattisgarhi, relying on emotion, gesture and dramatic expression to communicate the story. Remarkably, audiences unfamiliar with the language often responded with standing ovations. She had proved that great storytelling transcends linguistic barriers.
Perhaps the finest tribute to her artistry came from those who watched her live. Theatre directors marvelled at her command over space. Classical musicians admired the precision of her rhythm and voice. Scholars of folklore found in her performances a living archive of oral tradition. Younger artists saw in her a fearless woman who had broken conventions without turning her life into a political slogan.
“I learnt the Mahabharata from my nana,” she would say with characteristic humility, reminding audiences that knowledge often travels through affection, memory and listening rather than formal education.
That humility remained one of her defining qualities. Despite becoming one of India’s most decorated folk artists, she never portrayed herself as larger than the tradition. Instead, she insisted that Pandavani belonged to the people and that every performance was another opportunity to keep the epic alive for future generations.
An incident frequently recalled by cultural historians captures this spirit. During a performance before an international audience, an interpreter reportedly apologised that many in the hall would not understand the language. Teejan Bai is said to have smiled and replied that if the emotions were true, the audience would understand everything that mattered. By the end of the performance, the applause confirmed her faith in the universality of art.
Her career also altered the fortunes of countless folk performers. Before Teejan Bai, many traditional artists struggled to receive the recognition accorded to practitioners of classical music and dance. Folk traditions were often viewed as colourful but secondary, appreciated for their entertainment value rather than their intellectual and artistic depth. Through decades of uncompromising excellence, she challenged that perception. She compelled institutions, critics and audiences alike to acknowledge that India’s folk arts possess their own sophisticated aesthetics, philosophies and performance vocabularies.
For women, her legacy is even more profound. Without delivering speeches on gender equality, she quietly demonstrated what courage looks like. She refused to accept limitations imposed by convention and allowed her work to speak louder than any manifesto. By mastering the physically demanding Kapalik style, she expanded possibilities for future generations of women performers, many of whom now cite her as their greatest inspiration. Today, women performing standing Pandavani no longer appear extraordinary largely because Teejan Bai made it seem natural.
Her influence extended beyond performance into cultural policy as well. At a time when governments and heritage organisations increasingly speak of safeguarding intangible cultural heritage, her life serves as a reminder that traditions survive not through documentation alone but through practitioners. Archives can preserve recordings, museums can display instruments and books can analyse styles, but none of these can substitute for a living performer capable of transmitting knowledge through experience.
That lesson has become particularly relevant in contemporary India. Rapid urbanisation, migration and changing entertainment preferences have placed many oral traditions under pressure. Younger generations often gravitate towards digital media, while opportunities for traditional performers continue to shrink. In such circumstances, the loss of an artist like Teejan Bai is not merely the passing of an individual; it represents the disappearance of a living repository of artistic memory accumulated over decades.
The challenge now extends beyond paying tributes. It lies in ensuring that Pandavani continues to flourish through systematic training, institutional support and sustained patronage. Young performers need platforms, financial security and opportunities to learn directly from senior practitioners if this remarkable storytelling tradition is to remain vibrant. Teejan Bai herself often emphasised the importance of encouraging children to take pride in their cultural roots rather than viewing folk arts as relics of the past.
Her life also offers a larger lesson for India’s cultural imagination. She demonstrated that the country’s greatest artistic treasures are often found far from metropolitan centres, nurtured by communities whose knowledge has travelled orally across generations. In an age dominated by technology and rapid communication, her journey reminds us that memory, voice and human presence remain irreplaceable.
There is a temptation, whenever a towering cultural figure passes away, to describe them as the “last of their kind.” That would be an incomplete assessment of Teejan Bai. She never wanted Pandavani to end with her. Everything about her career—from mentoring younger artists to tirelessly performing well into her later years—reflected a desire to leave behind not simply memories but a thriving tradition.
That is perhaps why her passing resonates so deeply across India’s cultural landscape. It is not only because an extraordinary performer is no more, but because she represented a way of preserving knowledge that predates books, universities and recording studios. She embodied an India where stories travelled through voices, where performance served as education, and where communities safeguarded history by telling it again and again.
Future generations will undoubtedly remember the medals, the Padma awards and the international acclaim. But those distinctions, impressive as they are, remain secondary to her greatest achievement. She changed the way India looked at its own folk traditions. She erased artificial boundaries between folk and classical, between village and metropolis, between oral memory and written scholarship. She proved that artistic excellence has no hierarchy.
Teejan Bai did not simply keep Pandavani alive.
She expanded its horizons, reshaped its identity and ensured that an ancient oral tradition could speak confidently to the modern world without sacrificing its soul. That is why she became one of India’s most celebrated folk artists. That is why her voice will continue to echo long after the applause has faded. And that is why Indian folk culture has suffered not merely the loss of a legendary performer, but the departure of one of its greatest interpreters, innovators and torchbearers.
