Today, like many traditional art forms in Bangladesh, Jatra stands on the verge of extinction. What once echoed through open fields and village fairs is now fading into memory. Last December, the Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy organised a month-long traditional Jatra (folk theatre) performance festival to celebrate and support artists striving to preserve the form. Yet such festivals and celebrations are too few and far between to create a lasting impact or bring meaningful change to the lives of these artists.
A theatre of the people
The word Jatra means “journey”, and the name fits well. Troupes travel from one district to another, performing on temporary open-air stages throughout the winter months. In its early days, Jatra drew heavily from myth and religion. By the late nineteenth century, however, scripts began to evolve. Social issues, political resistance, and rebellion increasingly came to dominate the stage.
During the colonial era, British authorities viewed these political undertones as a threat. As the struggle for independence neared its peak, Jatra’s social and political messages became a powerful voice for the oppressed. Another major transformation came with the introduction of women performers, a revolution in its own right.
Modhurima Guha Neogi, in her study “Jatrapala, the Foremost but a Diminishing Art of Bengali Culture,” noted that women’s entry into Jatra was fraught with ridicule and prejudice. For a time, only sex workers dared to step onto the stage. Over the years, however, women from all social classes joined, reshaping the identity of the art form itself.
Photo: Collected
A golden era remembered
For those who lived through Jatra’s golden years, the memories remain vivid. “I’ve been with Jatra for forty-two years,” said N. A. Polash, Secretary of the Bangladesh Jatra Shilpa Development Society. “When I started, every troupe had seventy or eighty people. We lived together like family.”
He recalled a time when lead actors earned nearly one lakh taka a month, and each performance generated substantial revenue. “Now,” he said, “a troupe barely has twenty-five people, and most of us have no work.” The decline, he explained, began slowly after the 1990s. “Back then, we didn’t have to beg for shows. Now, even getting permission to perform is a big hurdle.”
“We used to earn thirty to forty thousand taka a night,” Polash said. Today, most artists have taken up other jobs, running tea stalls, pulling rickshaws, or working as day labourers.
In many ways, Jatra has always lived on the edge—politically, socially, and legally. “We were chased by police,” Polash remembered. “They made laws to control us, to make sure we couldn’t perform freely. Those hurdles never really ended.”
The economics of decline
According to Md Haydar Ali, Assistant Director at the Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy (BSA), the collapse of Jatra is rooted less in culture than in economics. “No funds mean no shows, and no shows mean no audience,” he said. “People aren’t disinterested; they just have nowhere to go to watch a decent play.”
Government support has dwindled over the years. In the 2011–12 fiscal year, the state donated twenty-one lakh taka to the sector. “Since then,” Polash said, “nothing. Some artists now receive allowances, but it’s barely enough to survive—around sixteen thousand taka a year for those over forty. Even that is uncertain.”
A theatre without a stage
For Badrul Alam Dulal, former Secretary of the Bangladesh Jatra Unnoyon Parishad, the crisis is deeply personal. His troupe, Ceaser’s Opera, now performs only occasionally. “The members run tea stalls or pull rickshaws,” he said. “We’ve become informal workers, and if we get a show, we all come together.”
The decline, Dulal explained, was both moral and economic. “It shifted away from family-oriented shows to attract more money. Dance sections were added, sometimes indecent ones.” That stigma has endured. Today, rehearsals are often conducted under the label of ‘drama’ rather than Jatra to avoid public ridicule. “The tragedy,” Dulal said, “is that Jatra used to be an art of pride. Now it’s treated like a scandal.”
Training has also nearly disappeared. “Young people aren’t learning the craft,” he said. “The Shilpakala Academy organises workshops once in a while, but it’s not enough. Without new artists, the art can’t continue.”
Bureaucracy has further worsened the situation. To receive allowances or register as a Jatra artist, performers must navigate layers of paperwork, quotas, and approvals. Many genuine artists are rejected, while others exploit the system by posing as performers.
A voice from the stage
Few understand the soul of Jatra better than Milon Kanti Dey, a veteran actor, director, and writer who received the Bangla Academy Literary Award in 2022. Speaking from his home in Chattogram while battling cancer, Dey reflected on his six-decade journey.
“Jatra and its artists suffered the most during the 1990s and 2000s,” he said. “The government banned us with one hand and praised us with the other by holding festivals. We ran in circles, trying to survive.”
Those festivals did bring brief recognition. “Thirty-eight of us received national awards,” Dey recalled. “But soon, people with nothing to do with Jatra were enlisted to collect allowances. Now the art is full of impostors. Real artists are invisible.”
For Dey, the decline is not only financial but spiritual. “We’ve lost the soul of Jatra. There is no patriotism, no creativity, no literariness. We perform Kolkatan scripts while living in Bangladesh. It breaks my heart.”
What was once an art of resistance has become a struggle for survival. Jatra was never meant for elites or critics; it belonged to the masses. It was their mirror, their protest, their joy. As Milon Kanti Dey put it, “If we can bring back the heart of Jatra, the people will come back too.”
Jatra and its artists have survived prejudice, censorship, and poverty. They stood on stage to speak for those without a voice. Today, their voices are fading. A festival here or a token award there will not revive the art.
Actors now take whatever work they can find. Jatra has become a side hustle rather than a calling. A tradition that once stood tall in our culture is quietly crumbling, its songs and painted faces disappearing in the rush of modern life.
Ystiaque Ahmed, is a journalist at The Daily Star. He can be reached at [email protected].
