I am a Kathakali Dancer

I am a Kathakali dancer

Kayalvizhi gazed at the piece of paper pasted on the mahogany-framed mirror in front of her. The words rang like the rustic bell in the Anglican church amidst a pin-drop silence of the devotees.

She was a phantom of delight. When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent, To be a moment's ornaments. Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all other things about her are drawn. From Maytime and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and to waylay. I saw her upon nearer view. A spirit, yet a woman too!

(By William Wordsworth)

Kayal sat gently on a white, golden embroidered stool. She pulled the stool nearer to the mirror. She stared earnestly at herself in the tall mirror, reminiscing about the words of her favourite poet William Wordsworth. His words echoed loud in the silence. She was alone in the eclipsed room. The room was slightly lit by oil lamps and candles. A cosy feel of home. She likes it that way. Soothes her eyes too.

Her wrinkles, fine lines, and freckles were a clear sign of responsibility and overwhelming fame. Responsibilities that were unwelcome and uncalled for. And fame—a treacherous, illusory world where demons and angels dance with one another.

She took a white, wet cotton soaked in icy cold water. She dabbed her face gently with the cotton. Her oval-shaped face looked tired but glowed. Luminous. It's a big day today. Big show. Hundreds will gather to witness the celebration of 'Love,' a triumphant sacrifice so divine to save humanity.

Kayal’s table was filled with paints: red, yellow, black, white and green. She took a brush, dipped it in, and started painting her forehead with a bright apple green. The brush caressed her cheeks, upper lip, nose, chin, and forehead, ensuring no space was left untouched. Her under-eye circles and puffiness from yesterday’s tears were concealed by the refreshing apple green. She saw a new face emerging right in front of her.

We are a centre of attraction. Goddesses. A handful of women tread this field. We are pioneers, rare gems. She mused at her achievement, smiles escaping the small corners of her mouth, which were to be painted cherry red shortly. Pride, not arrogance, in the rich arts, traditions, cultures, and country of the ancestral residues.

My father stopped me, saying it was a distraction. My brother, a political campaigner, said, "Do whatever you desire." My campus-mates mocked me and said it was a waste of time. Aaron said nothing; he observed silently. The noises were too much at times. Ah! What do they know? Nothing. It doesn't take a genius to enjoy us. Just a pure heart and soul, a thirst for ancient stories, a sincere effort to preserve heritage, and ample patience and time. Time. Time is a boon and a curse. The treacherous scheming is done either to unite or disintegrate you. To bring love or to bring agony. Time—I have another 4 hours to dress up!

Times have evolved. In the 90s, I used to wear accessories on my forehead, ears, neck, and hip. A ludicrously lengthy pleated hair dangled at my hips while I danced to the tune of Jathiswaram or Thillana (Indian classical songs). The make-up was like a second skin. A perfect bride-to-be look, except for the large dancing bells on the legs and the 2-inch makeup. Bharatanatyam, the Indian classical dance viewed as a dance of the devadasis, or courtesans, is now deemed a top-notch global performing art. After mastering it from the age of 5, I decided to take up Kathakali. Kathakali, the art form from Kerala, is a writer’s unsatiating hunger for eternal storytelling. A story that chooses to avail forever. Why did you take it up? A common question from my colleagues. My answer: it is to feed my increscent love for art, a sanctimonious and yet sincere expression of self. Did they understand me? Not a word! All I received was a label saying "mischief" or "rebel." Kayal shook her head while biting her lips.

Kayal looked at her scarves and jackets. I need to wear the necklace, bangles, and the gilt breastplate and then the layers of the plaited skirts. A weary, deep sigh escaped her lips. The hefty preparation—it is not a burden, but the heaviness of the responsibility for today was immense. Not forgetting the anticipation. Anxiety was building in.

She looked at a plate of unni appam (a deep-fried sweet fritter) and ate a piece. A ritual right before the show to remind of Amma, or a coping mechanism disguised in distractions.

My Amma (mom) and my Acha (dad) introduced me to my first Kathakali show. They attended these musicals perhaps as a way to trace back to their origin. I slept through it, occasionally glancing from blurred eyes; it took 4 hours to end. Never quite understood the chaotic musical drama, the heavy make-up, the bulky 12 kg attire, and the noisy Chenda (drum). They either danced or fought. It mostly ended in the chapter called "Slaying the Demons," as per the Hindu Puranas (ancient scriptural parables). It was all confusing for an 11-year-old.

Today, at 48, I see that the sacrifices, time, energy, and money spent by a collective unit for an amazing theatrical performance were worth it. The rigorous training day after day, handling various temperaments to sync and stage in harmony, the repetitive practices that reminded the existence of every bone and muscle that was slumbering, and the sudden, unexpected dramas within the dramas are unforgettable. The tolerance the director and the crew need to have pre-, during, and post-performances is crazy - one has to satisfy the audience on the day and receive the critics the very next moment. I bet there's never a hundred per cent success or satisfaction guaranteed. It is a challenge and a milestone for each of them. A bigger responsibility awaits the following year, the year after, and the year after. For me, Kathakali is an uplifting and breathtaking masterpiece. Worth the toil. Purportedly done to enliven the culture and stories behind it. It is never a waste of money; it is worth every dime.

I love it!

Yes, I am a Kathakali dancer. The declaration sounds regal and majestic. Kathakali's origin traces back to Kerala, a South Indian state. The clans are known as the Malayalees. An exuberantly prideful community that thrives in deep-seated maternal honour and obedience, a patriarchal system rooted in autocracy (and make chauvinism nevertheless) and wealth of resources and grandeur, and thus Kerala is known as God’s own country.

Katha means story, and Kali means play. The language of the eyes, or the Nayanabhinaya, is everything in this art form. The dancer expresses wonder, comedy, love, repulsion, fear, anger, pride, compassion, and peace. The emotions are similar for Bharatanatyam, but the expressions are more intense and intimidating. Vigorous training. It takes years of practice for mastery.

Kayal examined her makeup. A myriad of colours awaited: red, green, yellow, black, and white, but Pacha (green) is the main one today. It represents royalty, divinity, and virtuosity.

Sometimes I feel like a drag queen. Ironic metaphor. But isn't a drag queen someone who expresses her gender either for performance's sake or as self-expression? A personal statement made for the world to validate. A persona created for self-fulfilment or to attract attention? Akin to the many roles we as women play in our lives. I wonder what masks we wear. Which is my persona, the colourful masked dancer or the plain, unmasked me?

Who is it that can tell me who I am? Shakespeare said in King Lear.

As a Kathakali dancer, I feel regal, elegant, and majestic. A composure and calmness that exudes confidence and carefulness. As if I've slain a demon and am about to rest—nay, waiting for another. Intermingled gracefulness and charm are visible to all but appreciated by a few. Eyes speak, but then again, not all see the window or the soul.

We play many roles as women: daughter, sister, wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother. Add the teacher and dancer to the list. Childhood to adulthood was a breeze; love was abundant. Then I became a single parent for 10 years. My late left behind lots of heartache, but an adorable son to compensate for it. My journey was a street of hard gravel roads, green pastures, burning bushes, and snow-filled mountains. Some respected our hands and breasts as a symbol of motherhood and strength, while some fondled them, a clear sign of their rotten manhood. I did not have a breastplate to hide it with. Dominant red emotions sparked and erupted at times. The green couldn’t hide the red eye. Kayal’s tears trickled down; she caught the second drop, careful not to smear her makeup.

'To be or not to be, that is the question. ' I've asked on many nights and woke up to a resounding ‘live another day’. There's a method to my madness.

Shakespeare consoles. William empowers. Kathakali does it all.

Fools! Some men are. If a woman falls, it is because of her brother, who failed to protect her; her absent father; her lover afar; and her husband, who washes his hands off her. That’s my theory. God entrusted us to bring life to the earth, a proxy to take over his job. A vessel to contain a living being. He trusted us not because we are biologically fit and chemically aligned but because he simply trusted us. He trusted us. Period. We are fragile. Whose job is it to protect, defy the common society, slay the demon, journey along, and elope if necessary to keep her safe? It is not a feminist rally. It's a reality quest.

Applaud! Applaud. Thunderous applause by the audience makes it up. Self-gratification to know one has mastered the art, and the artist lives one more day with good food. Purpose-filled life. It's lifelong learning. Not for the faint-hearted. 'Tis our lives too.

Kathakali is a saga of the sanctum sanctorum. An odyssey of the highest self. An ecstatic dance depicted as the winning of the divine over the demon within. Acknowledging our innate demonic nature and rising as the sun would. The sun did not suppress the darkness; the sun shone, the earth rotated, and the moon orbited, creating a veil with the various phases of the moon. The sun was there. The light was there. At all times.

'Hi, hey, it's time to wrap up. The lamp is lit, and the curtain is drawn. It will be up soon'. Aaron's voice was heard as his medium-built body entered the room, reminding them of the last details to complete. Jonas, my loving 7-year-old son, tagged along.

Aaron D'Cruz, my husband, worked tirelessly to secure the first-ever show in the nation; it's the story beginning with the entrance of Christ to Jerusalem, leading to the Passion. An Easter special, special for the audience and the team. An air of excitement and nervousness was seen as it was our first Christian-themed Kathakali. Breaking the sweats was easier, but breaking cultural and religious barriers was tough. Aaron, exuding his soft power, was natural in leading the way, supporting the art and artists.

'Yes, Chetta (hubby) . I have finished. ' I took a deep breath—inhale, exhale, inspiration, expiration. Made a cross sign while silently reciting Amen. Even Amen has a “men” in it. We need the Amen and the Men. Kayal chuckled.

Aaron bent down to help tighten my dancing bells around my ankle. He looked at me with a sweet smile and radiant eyes. With those limited movements, I bent slightly and touched his leg, and he quickly held my hand. ‘Bless me,' I said. He cupped the sides of my head with both his hands and said, ‘As always, I do.' The words that spelt love, adoration, and most of all, respect. He stood up and picked grand headgear, a beaded, intricately designed, radiant red crown, and adorned it on my head. Perfection. He looked at me. ‘Come, it's time'.

Kayal took her last gaze at the mirror. Adjusted her posture. Smiled and mouthed, ‘I love you.' Both to the reflection in the mirror and him.

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and to command;nd yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of angelic light.

(William Wordsworth)

Thus, my green world began.

I am Kayalvizhi D'Cruz, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a lecturer of engineering. And pridefully I am a Kathakali dancer!