The bright yellow lights on the stage faded out and soft, somber music set the mood for something magnanimous. And magnanimous it was. My first tryst with a live Kathakali performance with a mind that was thinking, (as a child I remember wondering what the fuss was about. And my not-so-artsy mum couldn’t do much to explain) And at the cost of sounding like an intellectual snob, I must confess, I loved it.
Kathakali is said to be the oldest form of dance drama not just in my land Kerala. Google says it was probably the oldest in the world. But on second thoughts, there wasn’t anything ancient or anything I couldn’t “identify” with in the dance drama that I saw. Papa was more skeptical. He said it was “outdated”. He, who is 30 years older than I, couldn’t sit through the painfully slow performance!
Then how is it that this masquerade of dance, drama, religion, culture, and poetry appealed so much to me? Why did I “identify” with the green-faced, crown-headed, long haired, large butted character on the stage so much, that I actually walked up to the artiste who hid behind the masque to congratulate him? The man was pleased. His eyes shone with some kind of weird gratitude when I told him I was bowled by his grace. He smiled a warm, real smile and said, “THANG YOU”. Sans his pink painted face, red twisted mouth, and large black eyes with which he emoted so well, he looked more human. More approachable. More real. But I liked the older green noble man. The masked face was something my masked existence could identify easily with. The mask which I wore on with élan everyday like a second skin. Skin which had grown on me.
Sometimes I am the green-faced noble soul transporting my audience into an enchanted world. I tell stories with my eyes, which they believe. I prance around like a victor, they accept me. I pretend that I am a powerhouse of prowess, they are fooled. I am the empress with innumerous powers and they worship me. I pretend to be strong everyday, making them think I emerged out without a single scar. I secretly wish it wasn’t any mask. I secretly wish they knew just because I don’t scream, it doesn’t mean I don’t hurt.
When I am the seductress, the perfect woman, the perfect daughter, the perfect lover – I have the pink faced, glowing, and polished-to-perfection mask on. It’s pretty. It’s true. It’s the closest answer to me. It’s shocked, it’s hurt, it can love, it can lie, yet, it is every bit a beauty.
At other times I am the wicked women, the ashura, they would say in ancient terminology. My black, kholed eyed, my red luscious lips entice you to a trap. What I am today, I am not tomorrow. What you see is not what you get. What you believe is not what’s true. I rule the world of make-belief and make it almost true for you. That’s on the stage of life. If I were on the stage on drama, the deep black on my face, the red cheek bones and the elongated black eyes would give it all away. Sadly for my audiences, the world is no stage, and life, no play.
Kathakali is said to be the oldest form of dance drama not just in my land Kerala. Google says it was probably the oldest in the world. But on second thoughts, there wasn’t anything ancient or anything I couldn’t “identify” with in the dance drama that I saw. Papa was more skeptical. He said it was “outdated”. He, who is 30 years older than I, couldn’t sit through the painfully slow performance!
Then how is it that this masquerade of dance, drama, religion, culture, and poetry appealed so much to me? Why did I “identify” with the green-faced, crown-headed, long haired, large butted character on the stage so much, that I actually walked up to the artiste who hid behind the masque to congratulate him? The man was pleased. His eyes shone with some kind of weird gratitude when I told him I was bowled by his grace. He smiled a warm, real smile and said, “THANG YOU”. Sans his pink painted face, red twisted mouth, and large black eyes with which he emoted so well, he looked more human. More approachable. More real. But I liked the older green noble man. The masked face was something my masked existence could identify easily with. The mask which I wore on with élan everyday like a second skin. Skin which had grown on me.
Sometimes I am the green-faced noble soul transporting my audience into an enchanted world. I tell stories with my eyes, which they believe. I prance around like a victor, they accept me. I pretend that I am a powerhouse of prowess, they are fooled. I am the empress with innumerous powers and they worship me. I pretend to be strong everyday, making them think I emerged out without a single scar. I secretly wish it wasn’t any mask. I secretly wish they knew just because I don’t scream, it doesn’t mean I don’t hurt.
When I am the seductress, the perfect woman, the perfect daughter, the perfect lover – I have the pink faced, glowing, and polished-to-perfection mask on. It’s pretty. It’s true. It’s the closest answer to me. It’s shocked, it’s hurt, it can love, it can lie, yet, it is every bit a beauty.
At other times I am the wicked women, the ashura, they would say in ancient terminology. My black, kholed eyed, my red luscious lips entice you to a trap. What I am today, I am not tomorrow. What you see is not what you get. What you believe is not what’s true. I rule the world of make-belief and make it almost true for you. That’s on the stage of life. If I were on the stage on drama, the deep black on my face, the red cheek bones and the elongated black eyes would give it all away. Sadly for my audiences, the world is no stage, and life, no play.
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