The Evolution of the Fool in Folklore
We grew up surrounded by a pantheon of jesters and tricksters. Our storybooks and Sunday supplements carried the escapades of Andare, Nasreddin Hoja, and Birbal. They were the clever ones who turned every trap into a triumph. Their tales taught us some early art of deduction, a village version of Sherlock Holmes’ logic, told in laughter and metaphor.
But then there was another figure called Mahadenamutta. He was no court wit. He was no philosopher in disguise. He was nothing but a bumbling old man who seemed to misunderstand everything. I grew up laughing at him, but then later felt sorry for him. Why was he made to look so foolish when his peers (contemporaries such as Andare, Nasreddin and Birbal) were so wise? The question stayed with me. Surely, there must be a reason.
An Unexpected Ancestor
Professor Sunil Ariyaratne points us to an unexpected ancestor of Mahadenamutta – Paramartha Guru, the Tamil counterpart of our fool. Guru Paramartha or Gooroo Paramartan was a fictional monk created by the Catholic missionary Constanzo Beschi, known among Tamils as Veeramamunivar. His book Paramarthaguruvin Kadhai (The Adventures of Guru Paramartha), published in 1728, presents a series of satirical tales about a teacher and his five foolish disciples: Matti (dull-head), Madayan (fool), Pethai (ignoramus), Moodan (moron), and Milechan (lowly dull-wit).
To this day, Guru Paramartha is used as a synonym for fool. These tales were later adapted into other South Asian languages. Mahadenamutta in Sinhala is a case in point.
Folk Humour and Historical Roots
Beschi’s stories drew on an older stock of folk humour. While in South India, he gathered accounts of foolish deeds and framed them around a Hindu monastic setting. However, Aravindan Neelakandan notes that Beschi did not invent these stories. When Benjamin Babington of the East India Company translated them into English in 1822, he observed their similarity to the tales of the Wise Men of Gotham in English folklore. The Wise Men of Gotham are the inhabitants of Gotham, Nottinghamshire, featured in a collection of English folklore tales and a nursery rhyme about their feigned stupidity to avoid King John’s royal visit in the 13th century. By pretending to be fools, the villagers successfully deter the King from traveling through their town and establishing a public highway there, leading to their reputation as ‘Wise Men of Gotham’ despite their ridiculous actions. Babington concluded that the Tamil and English versions either shared a common source or that one tradition borrowed from the other.
Neelakandan traces one of the central ‘counting’ stories, where the men cross a river and forget to count themselves, to a Hindu philosophical source. The Panchadasi, a Vedantic text, uses this same tale to discuss direct and indirect knowledge and the nature of ignorance. Beschi’s version, however, turned this spiritual parable into satire.
A Polemical Intent
According to Neelakandan, Beschi’s intent was not philosophical but polemical. He aimed to ridicule Hindu monastic life by portraying monks as fools and laymen as tricksters. The Missionaries viewed the rich Hindu tradition as a barrier to conversion. What began as a lesson on wisdom was recast as an allegory of ignorance. The missionary message of ‘civilizing’ the local faith had to take subtle root through such storytelling.
Intended Tone
When Babington translated the work, he rendered the guru’s name as Gooroo Noodle, and his disciples as Blockhead, Idiot, Simpleton, Dunce, and Fool leaving little doubt about the intended tone.
Take both Guru Paramartha and Mahadenamutta. The term Paramartha Guru means “teacher of the ultimate meaning.” Maha denamutta should be read as “the great sage” or “one well-versed in many things.” In both cases, the title carries respect. It refers to a figure of learning, a village elder or monk. They are sought for counsel. In pre-colonial India and Sri Lanka, such elders held intellectual authority within the community.
However, as Neelakandan suggests, when India and Sri Lanka were colonised, such figures became a stumbling block for missionary enterprise. The monastic and elder traditions, which nurtured independent thought and cultural continuity, stood in the way of religious conversion and cultural subjugation. Thus, we could hypothesise that the figure of Maha Denamutta was deliberately recast as a fool to ridicule and erode the authority of indigenous wisdom.
A similar process can be observed in how certain place names or cultural symbols were redefined to mask historical truths. Take Angoda, for example. Today it is used in reference to the Mental Hospital, making us forget that it was once the site of a Sinhala victory over the Portuguese. In both cases, ridicule served as a convenient colonial tool, a way to erase memory through mockery.
The Symbolism of the Fool
Seen this way, Mahadenamutta is more than a village buffoon. His image may have been shaped by forces beyond folklore, by history itself. What began as a colonial mockery of the village sage evolved into a local tradition of self-ridicule. Yet, over time, this borrowed caricature was reabsorbed into folk culture and given new meaning.
Fool’s Hands
It is from this point that the question deepens: why was Mahadenamutta made to appear a fool, and what purpose does this foolishness serve within our own tradition?
With wisdom placed in a fool’s hands, these tales deny monopoly of intelligence to the learned. Andare’s wit rests on education, Birbal’s, on courtly skill and Nasreddin’s on spiritual insight. Mahadenamutta’s wisdom, however, rises from simplicity. It belongs to no class or caste.
His clarity comes from honesty and plain observation. The unlettered villager or the innocent child may see truth more directly than the scholar lost in theory.
Mahadenamutta’s stories also mock those who think too much. The learned fail through over-analysis, while the fool succeeds by keeping to what is plain. The simpleton enjoys a freedom the wit cannot. Andare risks punishment for bold words. But Mahadenamutta cannot be blamed, for he knows no better. His innocence shields him. He may expose corruption or folly under the cover of ignorance. The fool becomes the safest truth-teller.
When the clever defeat the powerful, it is a contest of equals. When the fool wins, the blow cuts deeper. The proud lose not only their argument but their dignity. Mahadenamutta’s victories humiliate arrogance and strip away false authority. His foolishness becomes a weapon against pride.
Mahadenamutta’s life belongs to the village, not the court. His problems are those of fields, neighbours, and daily survival. His humour comes from the earth. He speaks for the peasant, not the prince.
Andare stands for wit, Birbal for reason, Nasreddin for insight. Mahadenamutta stands for none of these. He shows that wisdom does not depend on skill, learning, or doctrine. Sometimes, to see clearly, one must not try to be wise at all.
And so, Mahadenamutta remains. Not a clever trickster, not a polished sage, not a masked philosopher, but a simple man.
Somewhat painfully, he also reminds us that our age-old tradition was mocked. When we laugh at Mahadenamutta – for not counting himself after crossing the river, for instructing to demolish the wall along with the goat’s neck, or for crushing the pot while following orders – we laugh because someone wanted us to laugh. We laugh at our own ancestors. We laugh at the distorted wisdom of our villages and elders. We laugh, in a way, at ourselves.
