When Sri Ramachandra Pulavar and Group from Palakkad walked in to perform Tholpavaikoothu, the only thing much of the audience knew was ‘traditional leather puppetry’. Mats were laid, makeshift theatres were assembled, and much suspense was built as screens and black cloth began to emerge. What is going on? What is all this for? Who are these people? Much before the artists took their place behind the screen, the murmuring was everywhere.
The performance itself was a beautiful mix of past and present, tradition and colloquialism, what was and what could be. The story chosen was from the Ramayana, the Kamba Ramayanam to be precise. Yet, it was a Ramayana with a twist. It was one where Vali and Sugreevan called each other ‘da,’ where Ravana did a little jig with all his ten heads, where the ultimate insult from one character translated to ‘brinjal-face’. There were somersaulting deer, preening peacocks and, to top it all off, dialogue between warring characters on the nature of their fight! Shall we use the mace now? How about a tree? What if we fight with our fists? By their depiction, war was an act of consent and consensus.
War was also an act of drama. There were plumes of fire in moments of intense anger or conflict, a secret something being thrown into the lamps behind the screen. There was loud, melodramatic percussion accompaniment, and voice and intonation were wielded intelligently. Whether one understood the peculiar Malayalam-Tamil mix or knew the nuances of the story was immaterial. This was not a performance that could be ignored.
Yet for those behind the screen, this was not just a performance. It was an act of worship. Lamps were lit, divinity was invoked, and a certain commitment was maintained. Despite being shielded by a screen for the entirety of the act, a traditional dress code was maintained, complete in the Malayali hues of cream and gold. The troupe had a rich lineage in the art form. The 13th generation of puppeteers and performers, their ancestors had travelled from Thanjavur and surrounding parts of Tamil Nadu to neighbouring Kerala. Today, the art form is receiving active patronage and encouragement in the state. The troupe had travelled to over 40 countries telling the tales that ranged from the animals of Panchatantra to social awareness entreaties, from the story of Jesus Christ to that of Kambar’s Rama.
An hour of enraptured viewing later, punctuated appropriately with gasps of glee and peals of laughter, the show came to an end. The troupe demonstrated a couple of moves in front of the screen, drawing applause for how effortlessly they handled the puppets and made them dance to their whims. Throughout the show, they were a picture of efficiency, jumping roles, passing puppets and, at the very end, changing into casual clothes even before the vote of thanks had come to an end! The puppets themselves were many hundred years old, they explained, and made of deer skin. Turmeric is used as preserving agent and special containers are deputed for their transport. The puppets, their maintenance, and the reverence that accompanies performance is all passed down from generation to generation, taught to children as young as six years in an effort to preserve a shared heritage.
On Thursday morning, a troupe of puppeteers performed for a young audience. They sang and danced and entertained. They put their history up on display and proudly told their tale. Somewhere in the middle of the ooh-ing and aah-ing, the chuckling and admiring, one among the audience off-handedly made a comment that perhaps best summed up the morning. “When there were no TVs or the Internet, this must have been a big deal. Yet even today, look how involved they are in their work! This is not ‘just an art’.”
When the audience walked in that morning, they knew it was a traditional puppet show. An hour later, the dancing deer and raving demons became a way of life, a testament to generations of artists. Tholpavaikoothu became the living history of a community.
