“I don’t know when exactly it happens or even why, but every time I dance, there’s a line I cross — I’m no longer myself but an embodiment of Kali. Filled with so much rage, my eyes tear up. My name is Senthil Poosari and I’m a Kaliyattam dancer from Puducherry. For five generations, my family has practised the art of Mayana Kollai , from which, subsequently, the dance of Kaliyattam originated. My ancestors would enact the stories of goddesses written in the Puranas. They would tell the tale of the victory of good over evil, when a goddess descends on earth to defeat tyrant kings. In Kaliyattam, I play Kali, who first dances with king Mahishasura and then ultimately kills him.
Watching my father dance is part of my earliest memories. So, you’d think I was used to it but even until the age of 16, he’d scare me with his performance at times — those wide bulging eyes would pierce through me. He was just so into his character. I knew I had to be as good as him if I wanted to keep the art form alive.
Walking in my father’s footsteps was not an easy task. He was 45 when he won the Kalaimamani award for his contribution to dance. He has been all over the globe — the US, Hong Kong, Japan, Mauritius. The first time he came back from the US, there was a different air about him; he looked fancier somehow. I was 12 then, and decided that I too would perform in the US one day. I haven’t yet.
Painting the face and putting on elaborate costumes is a big part of the performance. I sit for two hours getting ready; it needs a lot of patience. The dance in itself is also very demanding as it is highly energetic and goes on for four to five hours. Being a man playing a woman, I realise that there needs to be some grace to it. But I’m playing the role of Kali, and since when has Kali been too feminine?
You can’t earn much by performing Kaliyattam on stages and for Government cultural programmes. Sure, you get to spread the word about this dance form but the real money is in the temple dances and rituals. We start each performance inside an Angalamman temple — there are more than 40 in Puducherry — by playing the udukkai .
It is believed that the beats of the udukkai invite the spirit of a goddess, who then gives permission for the procession to begin. For Mayana Kollai , which is celebrated on the night of Shivaratri, we enact the story of Angala Parameswari defeating king Vallala Kandan. We carry out a procession through the village, narrating stories of Angalamman’s triumph, and the women carry a karagam —a pot decorated with leaves and flowers and filled with rice that is later fed to the villagers.
The procession culminates in a graveyard that stands as a metaphor for the tyrant’s lost kingdom. I have danced in so many graveyards, the idea of death doesn’t scare me. The people you see today, you might see in those very graves tomorrow.
If it were up to me, I would have not learnt dance at all. I would have been a Carnatic singer. I can play five different instruments. But, fortunately or unfortunately, I have been chosen to dance. So, here I am.
Years before I started performing professionally, I used to be a music teacher at a Government school in Cuddalore. Once, I was singing to myself in an empty classroom and I noticed a teacher looking at me intently from the door. ‘You sing like SP Balasubrahmanyam,’ she said. She is now my wife and those were the first words she spoke to me. We’ve been married for 10 years now.
I am supposed to be this story-teller but our son, an eight-year-old-boy, isn’t interested in my stories. He would rather play games on his phone all day. I’m not going to force him to be a Kaliyattam dancer. It would be nice to uphold the tradition, but I want him to do whatever job is in demand. And by God’s grace, do it well.”
(As told to Sweta Akundi)