A fine, subtle spark runs through us when, by sheer chance, we happen to see one of those animals, which we imagine as perpetually moving in herds, sitting in solitude, lost in its own world. Upon entering the auditorium, I saw a monkey sitting at the center of the stage, all alone by itself, instantly drawing my attention—a young one with a flushed red face. The cold was only mild, yet it suddenly began to shiver. With a little wonder, it kept turning its hands over and over, looking at the fur that had bristled up in the chill. At first, its fingers began to tremble lightly. Soon, its hands, its body, its hip—everything—started to shiver. Yes, the kind of shivering that hits after spending a whole day on a bus along a pothole-strewn road, when every part of our body seems to tremble and shake itself loose! After a long spell of shivering, as if trying to soothe itself, the monkey began to rub its hands together and pressed them on the spots where it felt the cold more sharply. Rubbing its hands briskly, it lifted them to its ears, and when it placed them on the back of its neck, that gentle warmth seemed to spread to my own neck as well, bringing me back quietly into the real world. Yes, I was watching, completely absorbed, a small segment of the Balivadham episode from Koodiyattam in Bengaluru, with Srihari Chakyar playing the monkey.
Koodiyattam (combined act of elaborate drama, dance, music, and ritual) is my favorite performing art. In Koodiyattam, language is minimal. Even in an all-night performance, the spoken text seldom exceeds two pages. There is no Bhagavatar to sing, and the songs themselves are not sung by the performers. This raises the question: how does the play go on until dawn? Indeed, it’s through abhinayas! The abhinayas that the actors perform can be experienced in many ways—through the dialogues conveyed by pure gesture, through scenes appropriate to each narrative moments such as the act of entering the stage, and through performative elements that follow the conventions of the theater. Here, language is merely a side accompaniment to the main feast. Koodiyattam and Koothu (ancient South Indiant folk theater tradition from Tamil Nadu and Kerala) are mainly performed in Koothambalam (the traditional temple theater), and mizhavu and idakka are the primary instruments used. They intertwine with the actors, making the night brim and overflow with emotions. Mizhavisai (the resonance of mizhavu) , Chakyar Koothu, Koodiyattam, Nangiyar Koothu are all collective art forms once presented in the koothambalams of Kerala’s temples. You could say that they are parts of a single performing tradition, though they later grew apart into distinct forms. To put it simply without any exaggeration, they are like distinct languages that branched out and evolved from a single original mother tongue.
The Koodiyattam unfolding on the stage held me wholly in its spell. Sugriva’s face glows a fiery red. Driven out by his elder brother and stripped of his kingdom, he wanders the forest—shivering in the cold and scorched by the sun. Solitude, exhaustion, and despair trailed him like shadowed companions. Wondering whether a favorable moment would ever arrive, Sugriva plucks a leaf from the tree where he perches and flicks it away, reading its fall as an omen. He plays a game of heads or tails with the falling leaf. A premonition strikes him: enemies lie on every side. The scene shifts gently, and Sugriva, hearing the sound of a deer moving, turns his gaze in that direction. Now, the monkey, sitting in solitude, transforms into a deer, running and leaping at the sight of grass and grazing upon it. Hearing the sudden twang of a bowstring, the deer springs up in alarm. Dodging the hunter’s arrows, it races into a cave. Before it can fully exhale in relief, it sees a lion slowly rising from within the cave. There is no way forward and no way deeper inside.
Burdened by remorse, Sugriva plucks yet another leaf. He caresses it with tenderness, speaks to it in the solitude of his mind, and pleads for mercy. Then he flicks it again. This time he finds himself caught between two forces—conflict on one side and friendship on the other. Somewhere in the forest, a serpent glides through, and a shadow of vast wings sweeps over it. In the upraised serpent’s eyes, an image of a hawk becomes sharply visible. Feeling a gaze upon it from the heights, the snake slithered away. The hawk does not let it go. It pursuit continues unbroken, and the snake slips into a hole to conceal itself. Then, at that moment, Hanuman arrives before Sugriva. Fears stirs within Sugriva, yet he soon perceives his friendship and clasps him in a warm, trusting embrace.
Again Sugriva plucks a leaf. He invokes every god, and the leaf spins as it falls. In its gentle descent, he reads the omen—that no hostility remains and a safeguard surrounds him on all sides. Thereupon, a beautiful peacock, delighted by the sight of dark, rain-laden clouds, dances in sheer delight. But then a forest fire breaks out. Terrified, it flies up and perches on the highest branch it can find, unable to bear the scorching heat, with nowhere higher left to go. Unexpectedly, rain pours down, quenching the forest fire. The peacock’s joy knows no bounds; it cries out and unfolds its magnificent plumes in a jubilant dance. Now Rama and Lakshmana arrive. On seeing them, Sugriva instructs Hanuman to call them over. He entreats Rama and Lakshmana as well. Rama kindles the sacrificial fire and solemnly affirms his friendship. Courage restored, Sugriva leaves for Kishkindha to summon Vali and confront him in battle. Beholding the wounds upon his body, he flares up in rage and swears to defeat Vali in combat.
After moving to Bengaluru, I started attending such performances. This small segment of Balivadham in the Koodiyattam repertoire was performed at the Bangalore International Centre. Srihari Chakyar from Nepathya played Sugriva. Nepathya is an organization dedicated to Koodiyattam, led by the renowned artist Margi Madhu Chakyar. From Balivadham, which is performed over many days, Srihari Chakyar presented this small portion in an hour and a half. He is only twenty-three years old, yet an experienced artist who began performing on stage from his childhood. He is the son of the acclaimed Koodiyattam artistes Margi Madhu and Indu. Hari’s artistry shows a subtlety beyond his years, while his youthful vigor enables smooth and quick scene transition. Together, these qualities offer the audience the promise of a fresh and distinctive experience. Of the many possible paths that exist, only a few artists journey toward the heights of their art—either through conscious pursuit or through an unseen guiding instinct.
Sugriva is a natural example of a king. Yet, he lacks the effortlessly granted role of the “ideal king” that epics sometimes easily bestow. He is the one who is humiliated, who flees in defeat, yet rises time and again to face the battle anew. He is the man who grasps every chance to reclaim his throne, yet once enthroned forgets the promises he made to his friends and loses himself in revelry, only to awaken later to the reality of his situation. He is the one who unleashes his full strength in battle. Only a character with such swings of fortune and mood can remain grounded; all others are mere flight of the epic poet’s fancy.
Choosing Srihari to portray Sugriva was an excellent decision, for he had to transform seamlessly into a variety of animals and birds—from a monkey to a deer, lion, peacock, snake, and hawk. The ever-shifting movements of his body carry us deep into a wilderness. The peacock’s almost overwhelming exuberance, the deer grazing in serene absorption, the hawk spreading its wings and seeming to “laugh” at the snake—the artist conveyed all of these with remarkable precision through his body. The stage, like a painted sea, slowly shifted and unfolded into a forest wilderness. Amidst this interplay of outward and inner realms, I must convey yet another truth—only through art can one feel another person’s emotions with such precision and embody them completely. One can shift through a hundred forms. As a spectator, you too can become part of the unfolding event and blend into the artist’s inner world through the performance. Once again, I find myself winding my way into the wilderness. On a rock, I perch, struck by a solitude I have never felt before.
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