Daskathia: The Vanishing Folk Art of Odisha That's Fighting for Survival

From a village in Ganjam in southern Odisha, 68-year-old Sudarshan Padhi shows us his vibrant turban and clutches wooden clappers that have been polished smooth by decades of use. His weathered hands tell a story of their own—of countless performances under banyan trees, in temple courtyards, and at village festivals. When he strikes the clappers together and his voice rises in rhythmic incantation, he transforms from an elderly villager into a vessel of tradition that stretches back five centuries.

"If we vanish, a thousand stories will vanish with us," Padhi says quietly. "But if even one child learns and carries it forward, we will never truly die."

This is Daskathia—one of India's most distinctive yet endangered folk arts. A mesmerising duet of storytelling, music, and theatre performed by just two artists, it represents the cultural heartbeat of Odisha. Yet, as smartphones glow in the hands of village youth and television antennas sprout from thatched roofs, Daskathia performers find themselves increasingly performing to empty spaces.

The Art of Two Voices

Daskathia derives its name from two Odia words: 'Dasa', meaning devotee or performer, and 'Kathia', referring to the wooden castanets or clappers that punctuate the performance. What emerged in the 16th century as an offshoot of the more elaborate Pala tradition soon developed its own distinctive character—nimble, transportable, and reliant entirely on vocal prowess and dramatic timing.

Every performance is a carefully choreographed dialogue between two individuals: the Gayaka (lead narrator-singer) and the Palia (assistant). The Gayaka carries the narrative weight, unfolding tales from Hindu epics or local folklore with expansive gestures and modulated tones. The Palia serves as both chorus and comic foil, interjecting with commentary, questions, and witticisms that break the fourth wall and draw audiences deeper into the story.

"The relationship between Gayaka and Palia is the heartbeat of Daskathia," explains Prof. Abani Parida, cultural historian at Utkal University. "Their call-and-response dynamic mirrors the philosophical questioning in Hindu texts—one voice proposing, another challenging or elaborating. It's dialectical storytelling at its finest."

What makes Daskathia particularly remarkable is its economy of means. Two performers, dressed in simple but striking attire—dhoti-kurtas in saffron or white, complemented by turbans or garlands—create entire universes using nothing but their voices and wooden clappers. These clappers—the Ramatala for the Gayaka and Laxmantala for the Palia—serve multiple functions: keeping rhythm, emphasising dramatic moments, and physically expressing emotion through their varied striking patterns.

From Sacred to Secular: The Evolution of Themes

Dedicated initially to devotional narratives, Daskathia primarily communicated stories from the Ramayana, Mahabharata, Bhagavata Purana, and local myths around deities like Lord Jagannath. The performances served as accessible religious education in communities where literacy was limited.

"Daskathia performers were not just entertainers; they were moral commentators," says Prof. Parida. "They reflected the values, contradictions, and aspirations of rural Odisha, often using humour to veil sharp criticism."

Over centuries, however, the repertoire expanded. Colonial-era performances incorporated subtle critiques of British rule. Post-independence, Daskathia addressed social evils such as caste discrimination and dowry. Today's performers occasionally tackle contemporary issues from environmental conservation to gender equality, adapting ancient formats to modern concerns.

The verse itself remains deeply poetic, drawing from classical Odia literary forms like Chhanda, Bhajana, and Janana. Metaphor-rich and musically complex, Daskathia performances demand exceptional memory and vocal stamina, with shows historically lasting entire nights.

"In the old days, people would wait the whole year for a performance," recalls Sudarshan Padhi. "We were treated like honoured guests, given food, a place to stay, and tremendous respect. Villages would compete to host the best Daskathia troupes."

Modern Disruption and Economic Hardship

Today, that world seems impossibly distant. Most performers struggle to secure even a handful of bookings annually. Smartphones, television, and film have dramatically altered rural entertainment preferences. The communal experience of gathering under starlit skies to hear ancient stories now competes with the private consumption of digital media.

"The last time I performed in a village was over a year ago," Sudarshan Padhi admits. "Even temples don't call us anymore—they play recorded bhajans or host DJs during festivals. At times, only the government calls to us to showcase culture and once in an eon someone would call us during Lakshmi Puja or some other festival."

The economic consequences have been devastating. Where performers once received respectable patronage, they now earn a pittance—typically ₹200–300 for performances that require extensive preparation and physical endurance. Many senior artists survive on meagre government pensions or resort to daily wage labour between increasingly rare performances.

The reluctance is understandable. For centuries, Daskathia knowledge passed naturally from father to son or guru to shishya (teacher to student). Today, that chain of transmission is breaking. Few young people see viable futures in traditional arts, especially those with limited commercial appeal.

Between Extinction and Rebirth

The fate of Daskathia hangs in a delicate balance. On one hand, it faces the seemingly unstoppable forces of technological change and economic pressure. On the other, there remains something irreplaceably human about two performers conjuring entire worlds through voice and rhythm—a quality that even the most sophisticated digital entertainment cannot replicate.

"What we do creates community," explains Sudarshan Padhi. "When I perform, I see three or four generations sitting together, experiencing the same story, the same emotions. How many forms of entertainment can claim that?"

This may be Daskathia's strongest selling point in an increasingly fragmented cultural landscape. It represents not just artistic heritage but shared experience—the embodiment of community through storytelling.

For Daskathia to survive, it will need consistent funding, institutional support, and innovative approaches to attracting new audiences and practitioners. But most crucially, it requires recognition that preserving such traditions isn't merely about cultural nostalgia—it's about maintaining diverse forms of human connection and knowledge transmission.

As darkness falls completely over Ganjam village, Sudarshan Padhi's clappers fall silent. But the stories they've carried through centuries continue to echo, waiting for new voices to take up their rhythm.