You’ve probably heard this one over chāi or during a late-night ramble (if not yet, let this be the late-night ramble where you heard it first):
राम से बड़ा राम का नाम ।
The name of Rāma is greater than Rāma himself.
It’s not just a catchy line—it’s a clue.
Prince Rāma, the noble exile, was remarkable. Many know him as Lord Rāma or भगवान राम. He embodied dharma and divinity.
But “Rāma” the idea, the name hummed in prayers and blaring from TV speakers? That’s the one that echoes through time. Our ancestors were onto something: stories don’t stay still. They stretch, shift, and often outgrow the people they’re about. We’ve been watching this for centuries… we just didn’t have a name for it. Enter mythoscopy.
This is a neologism, from yours truly. The first part is “mytho” from the Greek root “muthos.” It denotes “traditional tales.” For us, this includes “traditional thought” and “intellectual status quo.” The second part “scopy” is from the Greek root “skopein.” Here, it helps to mean “to look at.”
So, simply put:
mythoscopy: n. An action aimed solely at observing traditional tales. Sometimes, it involves telling others what you observed.
So, what’s mythoscopy? It’s not some dusty term to bore you with—it’s a way of seeing how stories evolve. Think of it as tracing a tale’s journey from “this happened” to “this means everything.” It’s less about pinning down the “real” version and more about spotting how each retelling adds a new layer. Static stories fade. The ones that twist and adapt? They stick. Mythoscopy’s your lens to see that spark.
Shabari’s Story: From Simple Fruits to a Symbol of Devotion
Let’s delve into the Rāmāyana. It is a tale that kicks off around 1000 BCE with Prince Rāma, an exiled prince from Ayodhyā. It starts as a human drama but balloons into a divine epic with monkey warriors and a ten-headed demon. Mythoscopy thrives here, tracking how a story grows from fact to legend. And Shabari — the old ascetic Prince Rāma meets in the forest — is a perfect case. Her moment’s small at first… but it blooms.
In the Vālmiki Rāmāyana (1200–500 BCE), it’s simple. Here’s the Sanskrit (written in the celebrated 8-syllable anushtup meter), straight from Aranya Kānda, Sarga 74, Verse 7:
“पाद्यमाचमनीयं च सर्वं प्रददात् यथाविधि। तामुवाच ततो रामः श्रमणीं धर्मसंस्थिताम्॥”
(Aranya Kanda, 74.7)Translation: “She offered water for washing feet and for sipping, all as per tradition. Then Rama spoke to the ascetic woman, steadfast in dharma.”
Shabari’s been waiting for Prince Ram, offers him water. And that’s that. Quiet, no fuss — just devotion. No berries yet, just a humble welcome. It’s grounded… almost understated. Berries are mentioned to having being gathered by Shabari and offered to Rāma in Aranya Kānda 74.17 and 74.18. This, “as per tradition”, is given to guests along with water. There is no mention of Rāma eating it, or Shabari to have pre-tasted it.
By the way, at the end of this sarga (chapter), Shabari realized that her existence had fructified. She offered herself to the ceremonial fire and ascended to the divine plane. This part of a mythological story (may be history from a distant, yet remembered past) was reimagined (in a very senseless way… maybe) in another blog, but to bring attention to a news-story from a not-so-distant, yet almost forgotten past. Do read. The stories matter, the name of the author of that blog-post does not. Should not.
By the 15th century, Balarāma Dās in his Odia Jagamohana Rāmāyana makes a notable addition. It is also called Dandi Rāmāyana. This alternate name is based on the 14-syllable, more folksong-ish, meter it is written in. This reformer-poet Dās shakes things up. Shabari doesn’t just offer pristine berries—she tastes them first, handing Prince Rāma the half-eaten ones to make sure they’re sweet. No exact verse is widely preserved, but it’s recounted as:
ଶବରୀ ଖାଇଲା ଫଳ, ରାମକୁ ଦେଲା ଭଲ
transliteration: Shabari khailā phala, Rāma ku dilā bhala
translation: Shabari ate the fruit, gave the good ones to Rāma
In a society obsessed with purity and caste, Prince Rāma eating Shabari’s leftovers is a bold move. It’s devotion trumping tradition — Balarāma Dās playing it smart for his audience, pushing a message of equality through bhakti. It’s a twist that sticks.
Then, in the 1570s, Tulsidās releases his Rāmcharitmānas in Awadhi. It includes chaupāis, dohās, sorathās, and more interesting meter forms. He intensifies the emotion.
After offering water and delicious fruits, Shabari reminds Rāma of her “low birth.” Rāma, in turn, explains that it doesn’t matter. The text has no mention of the pre-tasting status of the berries.
Here’s an extract from Aranya Kānda, Dohā 35:
“पानि जोरि आगें भइ ठाढ़ी। प्रभुहि बिलोकि प्रीति अति बाढ़ी।।
केहि बिधि अस्तुति करौ तुम्हारी। अधम जाति मैं जड़मति भारी।।
अधम ते अधम अधम अति नारी। तिन्ह महँ मैं मतिमंद अघारी।।
कह रघुपति सुनु भामिनि बाता। मानउँ एक भगति कर नाता।।
जाति पाँति कुल धर्म बड़ाई। धन बल परिजन गुन चतुराई।।
भगति हीन नर सोहइ कैसा। बिनु जल बारिद देखिअ जैसा।।
नवधा भगति कहउँ तोहि पाहीं। सावधान सुनु धरु मन माहीं।।
प्रथम भगति संतन्ह कर संगा। दूसरि रति मम कथा प्रसंगा।।
गुर पद पंकज सेवा तीसरि भगति अमान।
चौथि भगति मम गुन गन करइ कपट तजि गान।।”Translation: “With folded hands, she stood before the Lord, her love overflowing. ‘How can I praise you? I’m of low birth, dull-witted. Among the lowly, women are lower, and I’m the most foolish of them.’ Rāma replied, ‘Listen, dear woman, I recognize only one relation—devotion. Caste, lineage, faith, pride, wealth, strength, kin, virtues, cleverness—without devotion, a person is like a cloud without rain.’ Then he taught her the nine forms of devotion: ‘First, the company of saints; second, love for my stories…’”
Tulsidas skips the berry-tasting but zeroes in on bhakti. Shabari’s self-doubt meets Prince Rāma’s grace—social barriers don’t matter, only devotion does. It’s a gut-punch moment… pure and raw, with Prince Rāma laying out what really counts.
Cut to 1987, and Rāmānand Sāgar’s Rāmāyana brings it to TV. Shabari, teary-eyed, offers half-eaten berries, saying something like, “I tasted them to make sure they’re sweet for you, my Lord.” Prince Rāma eats, smiles, and the audience loses it. It’s Balarāma Dās’s twist with an added ingredient.
This version of prime-time bhakti reached every second (or fourth) living room in India. I am not sure of the exact ratio. But almost all who could saw it during the first broadcast. Those who could not, saw it during the Covid lockdown.
I saw it in the first broadcast, alternately in the living rooms of two (out of the possible five) neighbours. We could not drop in every time in the same living room, right!
Mythoscopy’s point? Shabari’s story morphs from a polite offering to a radical symbol of equality and love. Vālmiki keeps it basic, Dās adds edge, Tulsidās pours in heart, Sāgar turns up the feels. Each shift fits its era… and keeps her alive.
Krishna: From Cowherd to Cosmic
Krishna’s another mythoscopy star… and what a ride!
He’s a village kid at first—stealing butter, dodging cows, pure chaos. Early tales hint at divinity with Baladeva and Vāsudeva in the mix. Check the vyuha-avataara concept from older texts. Additionally, explore the baladeva-vāsudeva-prativāsudeva concept in the Jain versions, if you’re curious. By the Mahābhārata (400 BCE–400 CE), he’s a warrior-strategist, schooling Arjuna on the battlefield with the Gitā. Then the Bhāgavata Purāna (10th century) goes big. His pranks are cosmic. He’s lifting Govardhana and flirting with gopis. He’s God supreme. Now, the Mahābhārata feels like his warm-up act.
Krishna’s arc is mythoscopy gold: folk roots to epic hero to divine icon. He’s whatever we need—trickster, king, deity. The cowherd who charmed Vrindavan becomes the architect of Kurukshetra, then the blue-skinned heartthrob of a million bhajans. That’s why he’s still kicking… still evolving.
There is an idea. It is highly suspect to have come from an intelligent mind. But what can you do, it takes all types to make a world!
There may be doubters. The doubt? That the same individual – divine or human – could have been so many things.
First a cow-herd folk-hero. Then a king-slaying martial returning heir. Soon after that, a peace-promoting chief (or part of a council of chiefs) of a wealthy trading city-state. And then a statesman-friend-philosopher-charioteer.
One such theme was slightly touched upon in another blog-post.
The author seemed to have been scared stiff that people will get hurt, or worse angry. So he heaped on too much code, and unnecessary humour. Forgive him. And more importantly do spare him. Again his name does not, and should not, matter.
Why These Stories Endure
These aren’t museum pieces—they’re breathing. Shabari’s berries spark talks on caste and devotion even today. Krishna’s flute fuels Janmashtami vibes and late-night debates on dharma—that slippery duty no single word fully grabs. Stories that don’t bend? They’re gone—lost to time like yesterday’s news. These adapt… they last.
Mythoscopy’s Aha Moment
Here’s the kicker. Mythoscopy isn’t just naming what we’ve always done — it’s seeing a story’s full arc. Look at the versions, their quirks, their time-stamps, and it’s like a puzzle clicking into place. Valmiki’s Sanskrit “original” māhākāvya version is no rival to Das’s Odia “translated” folksong version. Tulsidas’s Awadhi bhakti version and Sagar’s TV glow national-political-equation-changing magnum opus are not competitors either. They’re chapters. Each shows what the story needed then.
That’s the spark: differences don’t weaken a tale — they enrich it.
A story stuck in one shape dies slow. One that shifts with us? It’s eternal. Mythoscopy hands you the tools… and suddenly, those old tales shine brighter than ever.
Now, I’ve got a strong-ish take here: the beauty’s in the journey, not one “true” version. But hey, if you think there’s a single right telling and the rest are noise, that’s cool — I might be wrong! I respect your truth, just as I’d hope you’d respect mine. For me, it’s the evolution that lights me up… the way a story grows to meet us where we are. If that’s not your thing, no sweat. I’m just here for the ride, and I hope you are too.
Random Mythoscopy 