He lapses into the silence maintained by the rest of the men around the fire. He watches the flames flicker and wonders over the sense of his friend’s betrayal, the meaning of the crocodile’s deceit.

The questions he asks of the world have no answer, but within the images of the story his thoughts may travel as far into its dark mystery as into the blackness of the night sky. He encounters elements eternal and absolute. Yet he is not lost. He hears the fire crackle. He hears the leaves rustle in the wind. There is no need to point to the fire or the tree to assure himself that his friends heard also. He does not need to say “rustle” or “crackle” to know that his friends understand these things. And in this there is comfort. The possibility exists in his language to share experiences that can neither be displayed nor dissected. Once spoken of, these elements become an integral part of our collective imagination, so that we can rise to infinite heights and still remain rooted in familiar soil.

Yet, the responsibility lies with the storyteller to prepare the soil properly. If he does not allow the material of his own story to wither and grow old with the passage of time, then he is not helping the regenerative process. If he does not first struggle to create new possibilities in his language, then the images will never be shared and the images will be lost. But this seed must fall into earth rich enough to nourish new growth. The soil can become fertile only when it contains a thick compost of decaying leaves and limbs. The old trees must die so the new can have a chance to grow. The storyteller must understand that the death of his story will mean the successive life of others. He strives to make his story the best he can so his culture may be enriched.

The true storyteller is dedicated first and foremost to his tradition. A writer may also be called a storyteller if he allows his work to fall away and inspire new stories. I found this out when I traveled to a village in the heart of Rajasthan and met Vijay Dan Detha. He reads avidly, collects stories from his neighbors, and writes them down with such care that their quality forces people to recognize them as literature. But his attitude toward his work earns him the right to be called a storyteller.

“The stories I have written,” he says, “many people in Rajasthan have heard. But it is the way I write that is important.” His books raise the standard of storytelling in the region and also help legitimize this traditional form in a changing world.

“I tell stories in the modern context,” he continues. “But the origin is the same. From this origin the story gets its depth, its history.