By and by, the far din, till now a diffused hum, gets more distinct.
You can recognize the resounding drumbeat. It is the first sign that we are close to our destination. Unable to contain the
anticipation, my little son canters ahead of me, crushing the dry leaves on the cart track. The village path is lit
only by a few stars. I look up: the monsoon has receded, the sky is a clear azure.
My thoughts go back to my schooldays.
* * *
I wrote ‘THEYYAM’ in bold letters at the head of
the page and underlined it. It was our English Composition period in Class VII. Easow Master had given us 30 minutes to write
an essay ‘When I Grow Up, I Want to Be A ….’
I ask myself: why do I want to be a Theyyam? They were indeed
powerful: they heard the complaints of the common folk and conveyed them to the Gods ‘recommending favourable consideration’
as you would say in Indian officialese. The Gods spoke to ordinary men and women through the Theyyams. One shared their
anxieties with him. You thanked God for His mercies by dropping offerings into the open palms of the Theyyam. The only persons
the karanavar, the presiding head of the family, bowed to in respect were Kunhappa and Ramunni when they donned the
garb of Chamundi. Did we need any more evidence that the Theyyam was all-powerful?
*
* *
“There, I can see the light,’ shrieks my son as
he turns right along the curving road. He is impatient I am not keeping pace with him. When I catch up, I too can see
the halo of lights in the otherwise dark sky in the general direction of my ancestral home, the tharavad. That
night the Theyyam is being performed at a kalari (a sacred space without a deity) in our courtyard.
*
* *
Why did I want to be a Theyyam when I grew up? Perhaps I was
enamoured by the mumbo-jumbo that he uttered, eyes heavenwards and hands outstretched. Perhaps because his prophecies, uttered
in quaint expressions and in a quivery high-pitch, were awaited eagerly by the devout. And he seemed to be closer to God than
my grandmother who fasted on Mondays, Ekadasi days, new moon days, full moon days and several other days of the month. He
could bring solace to women worried about the waywardness of their husbands or illness of their offspring.
The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Theyyam
is not the colourful show that unfolds before you or the sounds that accompany it, but the smell of Theyyam. The smell
of the coconut oil as it is consumed by the flares, the mildly acrid smell of turmeric, the smell of arrack and beedis,
the smell of the plantain leaf almost cooked by the piping hot rice dropped on it, the smell of the wooden logs as they turn
into embers and then to ashes as the fire into which Ucchitta Bhagawati plunged herself dies down.
* * *
There is a nip in the air, for it is the month of Makaram (End-January).
Small groups of people are huddled together watching the goings-on in the kalari, as the performers ready for the ritual.
Members of the family walk about with an affected air, with the this-is-my-tharavad-and-it-is-my-Theyyam swagger.
*
* *
Old-timers believe that the pantheon of pagan Theyyam gods all
reside in the kalari. Unhappy with the mis-doings of earthlings in the past months, they walk out of their abode every
year. Left to themselves, they might wreak havoc, or unleash epidemics and natural calamities. So you worship and appease
them by making offerings and coax them back into their homes for another hopefully peaceful year.
Theyyam is not just cacophony and smells. It is also a mélange
of spectacles and sights. The headgears of characters like Gandakarnan and Thai Paradevatha are so tall and heavy the dancer
has to fight for balance. Gulikan reclines on a tree and Kuttichathan’s pranks entertain. The colourfully bedecked Bhairavan,
Vayanattu Kulavan and Muchilot Bhagawati are a treat for the eyes.
Theyyam used to be the only time womenfolk in the village ventured
out to stock up on adornments and cosmetics: bangles, trinkets, kohl, the chaanthupottu to mark the forehead, cheap
perfume and talcum, safety pins, hair clips, and even false hair to bulk up their plaits. Kids would cadge money out
of uncles and fathers for balloons, whistles, balls or wooden toys.
As a child, I would stop before a vendor and survey his ware.
Today I spot the same tiny tin boat which comes alive if you keep a small lighted wick inside it. It was a boyhood dream to
possess one. I indulge myself finally and buy one for a fiver.
*
* *
Logs of dried wood neatly stacked in a pile in the courtyard
in front of the kalari are being set afire for the grand spectacle of the night: the Thee Chamundi’s fire dance.
The karanavar is seated on a low wooden stool watching the proceedings. Till he signals to the performer, Thee Chamundi
has to keep walking in and out of the burning embers.
*
* *
At the end of the half an hour, when Easow Master announced
‘Time is up’, I turned in a sheet of paper, blank except for the word ‘THEYYAM’ written atop.
