Daastaan Ki Technique

Nowhere was the tradition of *dastan-goi* (storytelling) more celebrated than in Lucknow. Twenty or twenty-five true friends and agreeable companions would gather at a spot during the night—the veil of lovers. Someone is peeling sugarcane; another is sharpening a knife on a thick stalk. Here and there, opium is being dissolved in small cups. Truth be told, the art of dissolving opium and peeling sugarcane is a specialty of the people of Lucknow. Somewhere tea is brewing, and the *dastan-go*, with a melodious, David-like voice, proclaims: 'But the high-starred daughter of the bloodthirsty Zulmati, Queen Taus of the fairy face, exceedingly beautiful, formidable even in magic, intoxicated by the wine of her own beauty, was gracing her palace when she received news that the captive talisman-breaker was arriving under the veil of darkness.'

'She had come to sit in her palace. The fire-breathing guards brought Asad into the Fortress of Darkness, mounted on a cart. Reaching the square, Asad dropped anchor. The cart halted. The sun-like gaze of the fairy-faced Taus fell upon the renowned Asad. She fell in love. She spent her nights tossing and turning in agony. Suddenly, she heard the news that the day after tomorrow, the talisman-breaker would be executed outside the Fortress of Darkness. As mentioned, she had come to sit in a palace. The moment arrived when Asad was placed beneath the gallows. Taus was frantic, wondering how she could save this lion.' At every single sentence, praises of *Subhan Allah* and *Wah Wah* ring out, and the storyteller’s imagination soars past the highest heavens to bring back tales from the great beyond.

Literature created and nurtured in such an atmosphere cannot possibly possess subtlety, depth, or complexity. To understand and appreciate such qualities requires deep reflection and keen observation. However, in a setting where someone is peeling sugarcane, another is sharpening a knife on a thick stalk, opium is being dissolved in small cups here and there... somewhere tea is brewing, deep reflection and keen observation simply cannot survive. The *dastan-go* is consciously or unconsciously aware of this reality, which is why he generally avoids incorporating elements into his tale that require deep thought to comprehend. He presents all literary merits so clearly on the surface that even a fleeting, casual glance can catch them. He leaves the bride of eloquence unveiled; he brings all his intellectual capital out into the open marketplace. The audience, much like children, desires a superficial, fragmented, and immediate kind of beauty because that is the only kind they are capable of appreciating. They do not look at the broader context. They simply want whatever is immediately before them to be entertaining, with details that are attractive and easy to grasp. Take the first sentence, for example: But the high-starred daughter of the bloodthirsty Zulmati, Queen Taus of the fairy face, exceedingly beautiful, formidable even in magic, intoxicated by the wine of her own beauty, was gracing her palace.

High-starred daughter is the first fragment that likely drew cries of *Subhan Allah* and *Wah Wah*, even though it is a phrase that could occur to anyone and requires no extraordinary intelligence or insight. Then, there are three descriptive phrases regarding the fairy-faced Queen Taus: exceedingly beautiful, formidable even in magic, intoxicated by the wine. The first phrase, exceedingly beautiful, is entirely ordinary and, much like high-starred, is a cliché belonging to the public domain. It would immediately come to anyone's mind and lacks any trace of innovation, subtlety, or individuality. Regardless, this same idea is repeated in the third phrase, where the word *mast* (intoxicated) is introduced simply to rhyme with *zabardast* (formidable), and the remaining words are arranged to accommodate *mast*. On the surface, this phrase seems to possess more literary flair and individuality than exceedingly beautiful, but it ultimately falls into the same category as high-starred. Formidable even in magic is merely the statement of a fact, nothing more. The arrangement of the words is clean and the phrasing is tight, but any educated person with a basic knack for writing could produce this kind of prose. If there is any beauty here, it is purely superficial. Having heard or read it once, one feels no desire to experience it again; and even if it is revisited, its beauty does not deepen, nor are any new merits discovered. The audience revels in this superficial charm. Just as the sugarcane and tea provide a fleeting pleasure to their palate, their minds derive a similarly transient pleasure from the *dastan*.

This same standard of immediate, superficial beauty governs the arrangement, progression, selection, and proportion of the plot's events. The issue is not the nature of the events themselves—which often represent the absolute extreme of an unbridled imagination—but rather the organization and mutual relationship of these events. These incidents also possess a fragmented beauty that instantly captivates the audience, prompting cries of praise. The events are straightforward, and the narration certainly contains enough artistry for the mind's eye to visualize them easily. However, there is no subtlety, complexity, depth, or elegance in how they are selected and organized. They simply appear before the audience one after another. Every scene is visually striking, but none lingers for long. While there may be a link between two scenes, this connection is never articulated with any detailed exposition. The primary objective is simply that every scene should be dynamic and entertaining, offering pleasure to our eyes and ears. Time and space seemingly cease to exist, posing no narrative constraints. Two consecutive scenes might be separated by a gap of many years and a distance of hundreds of miles. There is no perceived need to build a bridge across this chasm of time and space.

A somewhat similar technique is found in the *dastan*. Take *Gulzar-e-Naseem*, for example. Its various sections bear a certain resemblance to the different scenes of a motion picture. Consider the headings of these sections: The Tale of Taj-ul-Muluk and Zaid-ul-Muluk, King of the East; The Departure of the Four Princes on the Advice of Kamal in Search of Gul-e-Bakaoli; The Enslavement of the Four Princes After Playing *Chausar* with Dilbar the Courtesan; Taj-ul-Muluk Defeating Dilbar the Courtesan and Leaving Her to Resume the Search for Gul-e-Bakaoli; Taj-ul-Muluk Reaching Bakaoli’s Garden by Digging a Tunnel and Returning with the Flower; Bakaoli Wandering in Search of Taj-ul-Muluk; Taj-ul-Muluk Arriving at the Shrine of a Blind Faqir and Testing the Flower; The Meeting of the Four Princes and the Snatching of Gul-e-Bakaoli from Taj-ul-Muluk; The Restoration of Zain-ul-Muluk’s Eyesight... Here, every scene is so vivid that it could be painted in a picture. In the first scene, Zain-ul-Muluk goes blind. The scene shifts, and now a massive army is marching across a battlefield. The scene shifts again, and the city of Firdous appears before us. Dilbar the courtesan executes a cunning trick, only to fall into her own trap. When the scene changes next, a desert emerges where:

*Saye ko pata na tha shajar ka*

*Anqa tha naam janwar ka*

[The shadow had no trace of a tree,

The very name of an animal was as rare as the mythical Anqa.]

*Murghan-e-hawa the hosh rahi*

*Naqsh-e-kaf-e-pa the reg mahi*

[The birds of the air had lost their senses,

Footprints vanished into the dunes like sand-fish.]

*Woh dasht ke jis mein par tag-o-do*

*Ya degh-e-rawan thi yadah rahro*

[That desert where, in the struggle to move forward,

Only the shifting sands or the traveler's heart were in motion.]

Here, a battle with a demon ensues. Then, with the demon's help, Taj-ul-Muluk reaches the demoness Hamala in Iram, and with the assistance of demons, he finally obtains Gul Bakawali. Time and space are traversed rapidly. Who knows how many years it would naturally take to travel from the East to Firdous (Paradise) and then to Iram, how much distance would have to be covered, or how many hardships would arise. Yet, all these stages are crossed in the blink of an eye, as easily as the turning crank of a film projector. This same phenomenon is observed across all *dastans*. The audience, much like moviegoers, are delighted when they see these imaginary pictures moving, talking, and passing by at a rapid pace. They want this sequence of captivating, fleeting images to continue, becoming so engrossed in these fascinating, ever-changing scenes that they remain completely oblivious to the world around them. They demand nothing else; superficial words and these engaging moving pictures are their only desire, and this desire is readily fulfilled.

If one were to analyze *Gulzar-e-Naseem* or any other *dastan*, its structural components would become clear. Like other forms of fiction, a *dastan* features a hero who serves as the center of the narrative, alongside one or more heroines. The thread that connects the various events revolves entirely around the persona of the hero. This hero is usually a king or a prince, most often a king's youngest son. This specific choice injects a certain grandeur and splendor into the *dastan*. Furthermore, the prevailing belief—which was true to some extent—was that a king's life possessed greater vibrancy and diversity. Kings were thought to have more opportunities to experience the extremes of battlefields and royal courts, and their lives offered more impactful portraits of the vicissitudes of time. And so, this prince gathers his courage and embarks on various expeditions. He is exceptionally brave and valiant. Divine support is always on his side, which is why he ultimately always succeeds, though this success is not the sole culmination of his life.

He is an unparalleled being. All human virtues are concentrated within him, and no one can rival him in beauty. Whether his name is Benazir, Taj-ul-Muluk, or Jan-e-Alam, he is a perfect entity, entirely free from flaws. He is a being whose equivalent is simply impossible to find in this incomplete and imperfect world. No sensible person could accept this flawless figure as a living reality, nor does he possess any distinct individuality. He is merely a symbol of perfection, as the foundation of the *dastan* rests on idealism rather than realism and factual truth.

While this perfect being must conquer various quests, he must also navigate the arduous path of love. Naturally, he succeeds in this quest as well. Love is perhaps the most crucial element of the *dastans*. While it heightens the audience's interest, it also presents challenges for the storyteller. The social fabric of India is distinctly different from that of the West. Here, men and women are not entirely free but are bound by societal constraints. Therefore, portraying love while shielding it from accusations of mere lust is a formidable challenge. The awareness of this difficulty gave rise to a specific literary convention. While this convention might be considered unnatural and ridiculous in our enlightened age, it is precisely because of it that we find many elements in the *dastan* that would otherwise be impossible. Love, and all the trappings of romance, are the gifts of this tradition. Various emotions—affection, hatred, rivalry, longing, desire, despair, hope, sorrow, anger, and joy—immensely enhance the color and charm of the *dastan*.

In any case, the hero—that is, the prince—falls in love with a beautiful princess. However, this love is rarely the result of a meeting, a prior connection, or personal interaction; it is usually a blind infatuation. The prince falls in love upon merely hearing tales of the princess's beauty, or the emotion is sparked by seeing her portrait. Sometimes, an unexpected encounter occurs, and the moment their eyes meet, the arrow of love pierces the heart. In other words, it is love at first sight, as in the line: The gaze of the fairy-faced Taus fell upon the radiant beauty of the illustrious Asad, and she fell in love. If we examine this trope closely, it is not as unnatural as it is often assumed to be. In a society where men and women cannot mingle freely, and where their spheres of life generally remain separate, the mere fame of someone's beauty, a portrait, or a sudden encounter can easily serve as potent and overwhelming triggers for love.

This quest for love is not accomplished easily, nor should it be, for otherwise, the *dastan* would end right there. The story would simply be: there was a prince, he fell in love with a princess, they got married, and lived happily ever after. While the ultimate conclusion of every *dastan* is exactly that, how could the storytellers be content with such brevity? Therefore, they devised a strategy: they placed hurdles in the path of the lovers' union. The beloved or her parents might impose a condition that is incredibly difficult to fulfill, something beyond the capability of an ordinary man, requiring extraordinary courage, strength, or intellect. Alternatively, an event occurs that separates the lover and the beloved, leaving the lover to wander lost, distressed, and bewildered, or he is subjected to harsh imprisonment, only to solve the dilemma or escape captivity after a long period of suffering.

Sometimes, both the lover and the beloved are beset by calamities, and after enduring various hardships, they finally reunite and live out the rest of their days in happiness. If this were not the case, the *dastan* would conclude prematurely, devoid of any real charm. Therefore, these obstacles, difficulties, and sufferings make the narrative complex, heighten its intrigue, and provide opportunities for the expression of many human emotions that would otherwise remain unexplored.

These obstacles often arise through the interference of a supernatural entity, and truth be told, the *dastan* is heavily dominated by such elements. Generally, the presence of the supernatural is considered sufficient proof of the *dastan*'s inferior literary value. However, this trait is not exclusive to *dastans*; it is found in almost every language and perhaps every literary genre in some shape or form. Therefore, it is unfair to condemn the *dastan* solely on this basis. If *dastans* contained the refined, profound, and powerful exploration of life, human experience, and thought found in, say, Shakespeare's plays or Dante's *Divine Comedy*, then these supernatural elements would not be dismissed as ridiculous or blameworthy. Nevertheless, there is an undeniable abundance of the supernatural in *dastans*. One reason for this is that people in the past genuinely believed in such things. They believed that God had created another realm alongside our world and its inhabitants—a realm populated by beings who are invisible to us, but who can reveal themselves at will and meddle in our affairs.

One name for this world is Koh-e-Qaf, where fairies reside. It is true that this belief was not the living faith that the Greeks had in their gods and goddesses, but a kind of belief—however faint or weak—certainly existed. Furthermore, this alternate world and its inhabitants ignite the curiosity of the listeners or readers and spur their imagination, while simultaneously adding color, complexity, variety, and interest to the *dastan*. Then, when we see these jinns, *devs* (demons), and fairies talking, laughing, crying, loving, and hating like humans, and being moved by emotions of sympathy, pity, or rage, we feel a kind of satisfaction. We begin to feel more confident in our own emotions and thoughts. These alien beings do not seem different from humans, but rather like humans, only more advanced. The difference is merely akin to that between the primitive tribes of Africa and Western nations. If a Western nation, equipped with its latest inventions, were to encounter a tribe that has had no prior contact with civilization or civilized nations, that Western nation would likely appear as jinns and fairies in the eyes of that primitive tribe.

The point, therefore, is that dismissing *dastans* outright because of this specific element is far from wise. We may not welcome it, but we should accept it. If jinns, *devs*, and fairies appear, let them appear, and let us see what they do. They are similar to humans. Sometimes they create obstacles in the *dastan*, and sometimes they resolve difficulties. Sometimes a jinn falls in love with a princess, and sometimes a prince is drawn to a fairy. Magic, enchantments (*tilism*), and the marvels of magical objects are omnipresent. In short, all these elements are utilized and serve a variety of purposes. Sometimes they introduce complications into the *dastan*, and then, with their help, those very complications are unraveled. When the storyteller (*dastan-go*) faces a narrative difficulty, instead of relying on natural means, he employs these unnatural, unexpected, and unimaginable devices—and he is entirely within his rights to do so.

In any case, a gathering of twenty to twenty-five true companions and agreeable friends listening to a *dastan* is one thing, and studying it carefully in one's leisure time is quite another. When we read with deep reflection, when we focus our full attention on a subject, we are no longer satisfied with merely superficial or obvious elements. We desire something more, and we bring artistic and aesthetic standards into play. The storytellers were aware of this reality, and they treated the art of storytelling with artistic rigor within their own parameters—meaning they kept certain principles in mind. Someone has articulated these principles in the following words:

It is evident that certain conditions are necessary and obligatory for the essence of stories and tales... First, a lengthy and elegant narrative, the introduction and construction of which should be free from the repetition of themes and statements. The listeners should remain eager for the conclusion for a long time. Second, apart from a well-crafted intent and an engaging subject, no ear-grating or frivolous themes... should be included... Third, elegance of language and eloquence of expression. Fourth, easily comprehensible prose, which is essential for the art of storytelling. Fifth, the introduction of the story should evoke the exact pleasure of past histories; there should be absolutely no discernible difference between the imitation and the reality.

From these sentences, it is clear that storytelling, in addition to being an engaging pastime, also held an artistic status, and not just anyone could become a storyteller. Unrestrained imagination in a *dastan* is considered a major flaw, but this lack of restraint would not ruin the narrative if it was consistently ensured that the introduction of the story should evoke the exact pleasure of past histories; there should be absolutely no discernible difference between the imitation and the reality. These words prove that there was an awareness of the most crucial principles of storytelling. To make a story credible, a style and tone must be adopted that gives the impression that a real event is being recounted. The beginning should contain details grounded in the utmost reality, devoid of anything improbable or impossible. Once a credible atmosphere has been established, the narrative can move forward and introduce imaginary tableaus. We cannot claim that storytellers always kept this principle in mind, nor that they were always successful in creating an authentic atmosphere, but it is commendable enough that they were not ignorant of this principle and sought to apply it within their limitations. Even today, this principle holds the same importance as it did in the past.

The second important point relates to the engaging nature of *dastans*, and storytellers were well aware of this aspect too. I have already mentioned that a *dastan* is a long, complex, and voluminous form of a story. Due to its length and complexity, there is the risk of a specific flaw: repetition. Whether verbal or situational, the repetition of anything quickly wearies the listeners or readers, and this repetition need not always be blatant. The explicit and pointless repetition of a word, phrase, or sentence causes tedium. Similarly, recounting a specific event over and over creates monotony. Often, this repetition is not obvious—meaning a single word, sentence, or event is not presented repeatedly—but rather, the repetition is veiled to some extent. This is done by expressing the same kinds of things with slight variations. Yet, despite this disguise, a sensitive mind immediately detects the defect. In any case, whether repetition is explicit or veiled, it is a flaw, and it was recognized as such.

That is why it was stated that the introduction and construction should be free from the repetition of themes and statements. Such repetition causes a significant decline in interest, whereas the cardinal rule of storytelling is that it must be engaging, engaging, and endlessly engaging. It must be so captivating that the listeners remain eager for the conclusion for a long time, constantly asking, What happened next... what happened next...? We cannot say that storytellers were always successful in this objective; repetition, in particular, is a flaw they could rarely escape. The same kinds of situations and similar types of events occur continuously, making repetition inevitable. The truth is that in a lengthy *dastan*, avoiding this kind of repetition is exceedingly difficult, though storytellers certainly made efforts to veil it by varying their vocabulary.

Dastan narrators took a special interest in words. As much as possible, they sought to achieve elegance of language and eloquence of expression and similar merits in their prose. They knew that words are the medium of expression and that even the most fascinating event can seem dull if not described in beautiful, well-chosen words. At the same time, they kept their listeners or readers in mind, using vocabulary that could be easily understood. This is why it is said that the prose should be quickly comprehensible. Perhaps for no other literary genre is this characteristic as important as it is for storytelling. If every detail is not easily understood, maintaining interest in the story becomes difficult, if not impossible. Often, however, this pursuit of easy comprehension turns into superficiality, and dastan narrators begin playing with words much like Urdu poets. Consequently, elegance of language and eloquence of expression devolves into mere verbosity.

In any case, dastan narration is an art, and despite its limitations and flaws, it is a fascinating one. It is certainly not so devoid of value that we can dismiss it outright. It is unfortunate that in the present era, there is no one left who knows and practices this art. It no longer holds the status of a living art in the literary world, and no other literary genre can serve as its substitute. If we act upon the words of Coleridge, we can derive immense pleasure from dastans. If we willingly suspend our disbelief, and if we temporarily place our trust in this illusory product of the imagination, the door to a fascinating world will open for us. A journey through this world will not be a mere waste of time; rather, it will bring freshness and joy to our imagination, our minds, and our souls.

Nowhere was the tradition of *dastan-goi* (storytelling) more celebrated than in Lucknow. Twenty or twenty-five true friends and agreeable companions would gather at a spot during the night—the veil of lovers. Someone is peeling sugarcane; another is sharpening a knife on a thick stalk. Here and there, opium is being dissolved in small cups. Truth be told, the art of dissolving opium and peeling sugarcane is a specialty of the people of Lucknow. Somewhere tea is brewing, and the *dastan-go*, with a melodious, David-like voice, proclaims: 'But the high-starred daughter of the bloodthirsty Zulmati, Queen Taus of the fairy face, exceedingly beautiful, formidable even in magic, intoxicated by the wine of her own beauty, was gracing her palace when she received news that the captive talisman-breaker was arriving under the veil of darkness.'

'She had come to sit in her palace. The fire-breathing guards brought Asad into the Fortress of Darkness, mounted on a cart. Reaching the square, Asad dropped anchor. The cart halted. The sun-like gaze of the fairy-faced Taus fell upon the renowned Asad. She fell in love. She spent her nights tossing and turning in agony. Suddenly, she heard the news that the day after tomorrow, the talisman-breaker would be executed outside the Fortress of Darkness. As mentioned, she had come to sit in a palace. The moment arrived when Asad was placed beneath the gallows. Taus was frantic, wondering how she could save this lion.' At every single sentence, praises of *Subhan Allah* and *Wah Wah* ring out, and the storyteller’s imagination soars past the highest heavens to bring back tales from the great beyond.

Literature created and nurtured in such an atmosphere cannot possibly possess subtlety, depth, or complexity. To understand and appreciate such qualities requires deep reflection and keen observation. However, in a setting where someone is peeling sugarcane, another is sharpening a knife on a thick stalk, opium is being dissolved in small cups here and there... somewhere tea is brewing, deep reflection and keen observation simply cannot survive. The *dastan-go* is consciously or unconsciously aware of this reality, which is why he generally avoids incorporating elements into his tale that require deep thought to comprehend. He presents all literary merits so clearly on the surface that even a fleeting, casual glance can catch them. He leaves the bride of eloquence unveiled; he brings all his intellectual capital out into the open marketplace. The audience, much like children, desires a superficial, fragmented, and immediate kind of beauty because that is the only kind they are capable of appreciating. They do not look at the broader context. They simply want whatever is immediately before them to be entertaining, with details that are attractive and easy to grasp. Take the first sentence, for example: But the high-starred daughter of the bloodthirsty Zulmati, Queen Taus of the fairy face, exceedingly beautiful, formidable even in magic, intoxicated by the wine of her own beauty, was gracing her palace.

High-starred daughter is the first fragment that likely drew cries of *Subhan Allah* and *Wah Wah*, even though it is a phrase that could occur to anyone and requires no extraordinary intelligence or insight. Then, there are three descriptive phrases regarding the fairy-faced Queen Taus: exceedingly beautiful, formidable even in magic, intoxicated by the wine. The first phrase, exceedingly beautiful, is entirely ordinary and, much like high-starred, is a cliché belonging to the public domain. It would immediately come to anyone's mind and lacks any trace of innovation, subtlety, or individuality. Regardless, this same idea is repeated in the third phrase, where the word *mast* (intoxicated) is introduced simply to rhyme with *zabardast* (formidable), and the remaining words are arranged to accommodate *mast*. On the surface, this phrase seems to possess more literary flair and individuality than exceedingly beautiful, but it ultimately falls into the same category as high-starred. Formidable even in magic is merely the statement of a fact, nothing more. The arrangement of the words is clean and the phrasing is tight, but any educated person with a basic knack for writing could produce this kind of prose. If there is any beauty here, it is purely superficial. Having heard or read it once, one feels no desire to experience it again; and even if it is revisited, its beauty does not deepen, nor are any new merits discovered. The audience revels in this superficial charm. Just as the sugarcane and tea provide a fleeting pleasure to their palate, their minds derive a similarly transient pleasure from the *dastan*.

This same standard of immediate, superficial beauty governs the arrangement, progression, selection, and proportion of the plot's events. The issue is not the nature of the events themselves—which often represent the absolute extreme of an unbridled imagination—but rather the organization and mutual relationship of these events. These incidents also possess a fragmented beauty that instantly captivates the audience, prompting cries of praise. The events are straightforward, and the narration certainly contains enough artistry for the mind's eye to visualize them easily. However, there is no subtlety, complexity, depth, or elegance in how they are selected and organized. They simply appear before the audience one after another. Every scene is visually striking, but none lingers for long. While there may be a link between two scenes, this connection is never articulated with any detailed exposition. The primary objective is simply that every scene should be dynamic and entertaining, offering pleasure to our eyes and ears. Time and space seemingly cease to exist, posing no narrative constraints. Two consecutive scenes might be separated by a gap of many years and a distance of hundreds of miles. There is no perceived need to build a bridge across this chasm of time and space.

A somewhat similar technique is found in the *dastan*. Take *Gulzar-e-Naseem*, for example. Its various sections bear a certain resemblance to the different scenes of a motion picture. Consider the headings of these sections: The Tale of Taj-ul-Muluk and Zaid-ul-Muluk, King of the East; The Departure of the Four Princes on the Advice of Kamal in Search of Gul-e-Bakaoli; The Enslavement of the Four Princes After Playing *Chausar* with Dilbar the Courtesan; Taj-ul-Muluk Defeating Dilbar the Courtesan and Leaving Her to Resume the Search for Gul-e-Bakaoli; Taj-ul-Muluk Reaching Bakaoli’s Garden by Digging a Tunnel and Returning with the Flower; Bakaoli Wandering in Search of Taj-ul-Muluk; Taj-ul-Muluk Arriving at the Shrine of a Blind Faqir and Testing the Flower; The Meeting of the Four Princes and the Snatching of Gul-e-Bakaoli from Taj-ul-Muluk; The Restoration of Zain-ul-Muluk’s Eyesight... Here, every scene is so vivid that it could be painted in a picture. In the first scene, Zain-ul-Muluk goes blind. The scene shifts, and now a massive army is marching across a battlefield. The scene shifts again, and the city of Firdous appears before us. Dilbar the courtesan executes a cunning trick, only to fall into her own trap. When the scene changes next, a desert emerges where:

*Saye ko pata na tha shajar ka*

*Anqa tha naam janwar ka*

[The shadow had no trace of a tree,

The very name of an animal was as rare as the mythical Anqa.]

*Murghan-e-hawa the hosh rahi*

*Naqsh-e-kaf-e-pa the reg mahi*

[The birds of the air had lost their senses,

Footprints vanished into the dunes like sand-fish.]

*Woh dasht ke jis mein par tag-o-do*

*Ya degh-e-rawan thi yadah rahro*

[That desert where, in the struggle to move forward,

Only the shifting sands or the traveler's heart were in motion.]

Here, a battle with a demon ensues. Then, with the demon's help, Taj-ul-Muluk reaches the demoness Hamala in Iram, and with the assistance of demons, he finally obtains Gul Bakawali. Time and space are traversed rapidly. Who knows how many years it would naturally take to travel from the East to Firdous (Paradise) and then to Iram, how much distance would have to be covered, or how many hardships would arise. Yet, all these stages are crossed in the blink of an eye, as easily as the turning crank of a film projector. This same phenomenon is observed across all *dastans*. The audience, much like moviegoers, are delighted when they see these imaginary pictures moving, talking, and passing by at a rapid pace. They want this sequence of captivating, fleeting images to continue, becoming so engrossed in these fascinating, ever-changing scenes that they remain completely oblivious to the world around them. They demand nothing else; superficial words and these engaging moving pictures are their only desire, and this desire is readily fulfilled.

If one were to analyze *Gulzar-e-Naseem* or any other *dastan*, its structural components would become clear. Like other forms of fiction, a *dastan* features a hero who serves as the center of the narrative, alongside one or more heroines. The thread that connects the various events revolves entirely around the persona of the hero. This hero is usually a king or a prince, most often a king's youngest son. This specific choice injects a certain grandeur and splendor into the *dastan*. Furthermore, the prevailing belief—which was true to some extent—was that a king's life possessed greater vibrancy and diversity. Kings were thought to have more opportunities to experience the extremes of battlefields and royal courts, and their lives offered more impactful portraits of the vicissitudes of time. And so, this prince gathers his courage and embarks on various expeditions. He is exceptionally brave and valiant. Divine support is always on his side, which is why he ultimately always succeeds, though this success is not the sole culmination of his life.

He is an unparalleled being. All human virtues are concentrated within him, and no one can rival him in beauty. Whether his name is Benazir, Taj-ul-Muluk, or Jan-e-Alam, he is a perfect entity, entirely free from flaws. He is a being whose equivalent is simply impossible to find in this incomplete and imperfect world. No sensible person could accept this flawless figure as a living reality, nor does he possess any distinct individuality. He is merely a symbol of perfection, as the foundation of the *dastan* rests on idealism rather than realism and factual truth.

While this perfect being must conquer various quests, he must also navigate the arduous path of love. Naturally, he succeeds in this quest as well. Love is perhaps the most crucial element of the *dastans*. While it heightens the audience's interest, it also presents challenges for the storyteller. The social fabric of India is distinctly different from that of the West. Here, men and women are not entirely free but are bound by societal constraints. Therefore, portraying love while shielding it from accusations of mere lust is a formidable challenge. The awareness of this difficulty gave rise to a specific literary convention. While this convention might be considered unnatural and ridiculous in our enlightened age, it is precisely because of it that we find many elements in the *dastan* that would otherwise be impossible. Love, and all the trappings of romance, are the gifts of this tradition. Various emotions—affection, hatred, rivalry, longing, desire, despair, hope, sorrow, anger, and joy—immensely enhance the color and charm of the *dastan*.

In any case, the hero—that is, the prince—falls in love with a beautiful princess. However, this love is rarely the result of a meeting, a prior connection, or personal interaction; it is usually a blind infatuation. The prince falls in love upon merely hearing tales of the princess's beauty, or the emotion is sparked by seeing her portrait. Sometimes, an unexpected encounter occurs, and the moment their eyes meet, the arrow of love pierces the heart. In other words, it is love at first sight, as in the line: The gaze of the fairy-faced Taus fell upon the radiant beauty of the illustrious Asad, and she fell in love. If we examine this trope closely, it is not as unnatural as it is often assumed to be. In a society where men and women cannot mingle freely, and where their spheres of life generally remain separate, the mere fame of someone's beauty, a portrait, or a sudden encounter can easily serve as potent and overwhelming triggers for love.

This quest for love is not accomplished easily, nor should it be, for otherwise, the *dastan* would end right there. The story would simply be: there was a prince, he fell in love with a princess, they got married, and lived happily ever after. While the ultimate conclusion of every *dastan* is exactly that, how could the storytellers be content with such brevity? Therefore, they devised a strategy: they placed hurdles in the path of the lovers' union. The beloved or her parents might impose a condition that is incredibly difficult to fulfill, something beyond the capability of an ordinary man, requiring extraordinary courage, strength, or intellect. Alternatively, an event occurs that separates the lover and the beloved, leaving the lover to wander lost, distressed, and bewildered, or he is subjected to harsh imprisonment, only to solve the dilemma or escape captivity after a long period of suffering.

Sometimes, both the lover and the beloved are beset by calamities, and after enduring various hardships, they finally reunite and live out the rest of their days in happiness. If this were not the case, the *dastan* would conclude prematurely, devoid of any real charm. Therefore, these obstacles, difficulties, and sufferings make the narrative complex, heighten its intrigue, and provide opportunities for the expression of many human emotions that would otherwise remain unexplored.

These obstacles often arise through the interference of a supernatural entity, and truth be told, the *dastan* is heavily dominated by such elements. Generally, the presence of the supernatural is considered sufficient proof of the *dastan*'s inferior literary value. However, this trait is not exclusive to *dastans*; it is found in almost every language and perhaps every literary genre in some shape or form. Therefore, it is unfair to condemn the *dastan* solely on this basis. If *dastans* contained the refined, profound, and powerful exploration of life, human experience, and thought found in, say, Shakespeare's plays or Dante's *Divine Comedy*, then these supernatural elements would not be dismissed as ridiculous or blameworthy. Nevertheless, there is an undeniable abundance of the supernatural in *dastans*. One reason for this is that people in the past genuinely believed in such things. They believed that God had created another realm alongside our world and its inhabitants—a realm populated by beings who are invisible to us, but who can reveal themselves at will and meddle in our affairs.

One name for this world is Koh-e-Qaf, where fairies reside. It is true that this belief was not the living faith that the Greeks had in their gods and goddesses, but a kind of belief—however faint or weak—certainly existed. Furthermore, this alternate world and its inhabitants ignite the curiosity of the listeners or readers and spur their imagination, while simultaneously adding color, complexity, variety, and interest to the *dastan*. Then, when we see these jinns, *devs* (demons), and fairies talking, laughing, crying, loving, and hating like humans, and being moved by emotions of sympathy, pity, or rage, we feel a kind of satisfaction. We begin to feel more confident in our own emotions and thoughts. These alien beings do not seem different from humans, but rather like humans, only more advanced. The difference is merely akin to that between the primitive tribes of Africa and Western nations. If a Western nation, equipped with its latest inventions, were to encounter a tribe that has had no prior contact with civilization or civilized nations, that Western nation would likely appear as jinns and fairies in the eyes of that primitive tribe.

The point, therefore, is that dismissing *dastans* outright because of this specific element is far from wise. We may not welcome it, but we should accept it. If jinns, *devs*, and fairies appear, let them appear, and let us see what they do. They are similar to humans. Sometimes they create obstacles in the *dastan*, and sometimes they resolve difficulties. Sometimes a jinn falls in love with a princess, and sometimes a prince is drawn to a fairy. Magic, enchantments (*tilism*), and the marvels of magical objects are omnipresent. In short, all these elements are utilized and serve a variety of purposes. Sometimes they introduce complications into the *dastan*, and then, with their help, those very complications are unraveled. When the storyteller (*dastan-go*) faces a narrative difficulty, instead of relying on natural means, he employs these unnatural, unexpected, and unimaginable devices—and he is entirely within his rights to do so.

In any case, a gathering of twenty to twenty-five true companions and agreeable friends listening to a *dastan* is one thing, and studying it carefully in one's leisure time is quite another. When we read with deep reflection, when we focus our full attention on a subject, we are no longer satisfied with merely superficial or obvious elements. We desire something more, and we bring artistic and aesthetic standards into play. The storytellers were aware of this reality, and they treated the art of storytelling with artistic rigor within their own parameters—meaning they kept certain principles in mind. Someone has articulated these principles in the following words:

It is evident that certain conditions are necessary and obligatory for the essence of stories and tales... First, a lengthy and elegant narrative, the introduction and construction of which should be free from the repetition of themes and statements. The listeners should remain eager for the conclusion for a long time. Second, apart from a well-crafted intent and an engaging subject, no ear-grating or frivolous themes... should be included... Third, elegance of language and eloquence of expression. Fourth, easily comprehensible prose, which is essential for the art of storytelling. Fifth, the introduction of the story should evoke the exact pleasure of past histories; there should be absolutely no discernible difference between the imitation and the reality.

From these sentences, it is clear that storytelling, in addition to being an engaging pastime, also held an artistic status, and not just anyone could become a storyteller. Unrestrained imagination in a *dastan* is considered a major flaw, but this lack of restraint would not ruin the narrative if it was consistently ensured that the introduction of the story should evoke the exact pleasure of past histories; there should be absolutely no discernible difference between the imitation and the reality. These words prove that there was an awareness of the most crucial principles of storytelling. To make a story credible, a style and tone must be adopted that gives the impression that a real event is being recounted. The beginning should contain details grounded in the utmost reality, devoid of anything improbable or impossible. Once a credible atmosphere has been established, the narrative can move forward and introduce imaginary tableaus. We cannot claim that storytellers always kept this principle in mind, nor that they were always successful in creating an authentic atmosphere, but it is commendable enough that they were not ignorant of this principle and sought to apply it within their limitations. Even today, this principle holds the same importance as it did in the past.

The second important point relates to the engaging nature of *dastans*, and storytellers were well aware of this aspect too. I have already mentioned that a *dastan* is a long, complex, and voluminous form of a story. Due to its length and complexity, there is the risk of a specific flaw: repetition. Whether verbal or situational, the repetition of anything quickly wearies the listeners or readers, and this repetition need not always be blatant. The explicit and pointless repetition of a word, phrase, or sentence causes tedium. Similarly, recounting a specific event over and over creates monotony. Often, this repetition is not obvious—meaning a single word, sentence, or event is not presented repeatedly—but rather, the repetition is veiled to some extent. This is done by expressing the same kinds of things with slight variations. Yet, despite this disguise, a sensitive mind immediately detects the defect. In any case, whether repetition is explicit or veiled, it is a flaw, and it was recognized as such.

That is why it was stated that the introduction and construction should be free from the repetition of themes and statements. Such repetition causes a significant decline in interest, whereas the cardinal rule of storytelling is that it must be engaging, engaging, and endlessly engaging. It must be so captivating that the listeners remain eager for the conclusion for a long time, constantly asking, What happened next... what happened next...? We cannot say that storytellers were always successful in this objective; repetition, in particular, is a flaw they could rarely escape. The same kinds of situations and similar types of events occur continuously, making repetition inevitable. The truth is that in a lengthy *dastan*, avoiding this kind of repetition is exceedingly difficult, though storytellers certainly made efforts to veil it by varying their vocabulary.

Dastan narrators took a special interest in words. As much as possible, they sought to achieve elegance of language and eloquence of expression and similar merits in their prose. They knew that words are the medium of expression and that even the most fascinating event can seem dull if not described in beautiful, well-chosen words. At the same time, they kept their listeners or readers in mind, using vocabulary that could be easily understood. This is why it is said that the prose should be quickly comprehensible. Perhaps for no other literary genre is this characteristic as important as it is for storytelling. If every detail is not easily understood, maintaining interest in the story becomes difficult, if not impossible. Often, however, this pursuit of easy comprehension turns into superficiality, and dastan narrators begin playing with words much like Urdu poets. Consequently, elegance of language and eloquence of expression devolves into mere verbosity.

In any case, dastan narration is an art, and despite its limitations and flaws, it is a fascinating one. It is certainly not so devoid of value that we can dismiss it outright. It is unfortunate that in the present era, there is no one left who knows and practices this art. It no longer holds the status of a living art in the literary world, and no other literary genre can serve as its substitute. If we act upon the words of Coleridge, we can derive immense pleasure from dastans. If we willingly suspend our disbelief, and if we temporarily place our trust in this illusory product of the imagination, the door to a fascinating world will open for us. A journey through this world will not be a mere waste of time; rather, it will bring freshness and joy to our imagination, our minds, and our souls.