Years ago — in 1987, to be precise — Kalamandalam Gopi was portraying a romantic scene. All decked up, the Kathakali maestro was presenting the gestural version of one beautiful object he has shown innumerable times in the form of a slow-paced mudra: lotus. The visual charm of that minute-long mime was so engrossing for the audience at a central Kerala temple that one among them got up and walked on to the two-foot-high wooden dais. There, as Gopi was holding his palms together in shape of the showy flower, our man in a trance-like state dropped a coin into the master’s hands. As if an offering to God. A few seconds later, the mudra was over and Gopi’s hands parted rhythmically. The clank of the falling coin sank in the background percussion, and the dancer coolly continued his performance. The inopportune dakshina left no disgust in his face; the emotion still was unflaggingly sringara.
Twenty-two years later, a fortnight ago, a distinguished national award by the name of the same mudra — Padma anyway means
lotus — came to the 71-year-old master. Soon after the news from Delhi broke, Gopi was doing what he had been for all these six decades: performing Kathakali. Again, in central Kerala — coincidentally, not far from his sleepy, but culturally rich, native place.
the metamorphosis
Like many world-class artistes, Gopi’s transformation — from a dusky kid in his verdant semi-hilly Kothachira village off Pattambi to gaining mastery in a sophisticated dance-drama — has been an amazing tale. As a chirpy young boy, he dabbled in Ottan Thullal, but the rather folksy mono dance was too modest to accommodate his genius. Soon, at the famous Kerala Kalamandalam, it needed only a split-second look at the teenager’s chiselled facial features for the performing arts institute’s founder, poet Vallathol Narayana
Menon, to induct Gopi as a student.
There, the pupil’s artistic effervescence was evident like the gurgling Bharatapuzha that flowed by Kalamandalam.
Masters like Ramankutty Nair, Padmanabhan Nair and Keezhpadam Kumaran Nair channelled his skills to ensure that Gopi’s talent was disciplined enough to mould him in the Kalluvazhi style — one that accords vitality to the profile of the body movements than the nuances of facial expressions.
However, given his innate potential to emote, Gopi soon began to exhibit his eclecticism. His super-senior Kalamandalam Krishnan Nair, the over-arching 20th-century artiste who transcended region-specific aesthetics in Kerala, inspired him to explore the power of the movements of eyes and cheeks in a theatre that is also Kathakali. By his mid-twenties, Kalamandalam Gopi had arrived on the scene.
steps in ascension
Gopi’s salad days were bohemian. He was festively unpredictable. The gravitas he would lend to King Nala — arguably his masterpiece — in the first scene might slip into near-tomfoolery past midnight once Gopi returned to perform after a break. His love for liquor was a matter of anguish for Kathakali buffs — ironically, they poured the soda for him. The tall man remained lanky during much of his middle age; you often heard news that Gopi performed divinely at one place and was hooted out at another.
Even so, organisers knew Gopi had to be there to ensure a crowd. In the best of moods, he’d be cheerful — talking fluently in the greenroom with a nasal rasp in his voice and all of a sudden breaking into loud guffaws that betrayed his rustic innocence. Sense of humour has rather eluded him, but a boyish charm in his conversations has always won Gopi a legion of friends and admirers — notably ladies — in his homeland and abroad.
Of late, with all soda and no spirit, the master has put on weight — his cheeks have turned fleshy and his very visage between the paper-cuts has broadened gracefully. In short, the Gopi on stage has grown handsomer with age. Often, he is choosy about roles — even finicky about his accompanists.
Only his class remains unchanged. Gopi’s original bubbly nature still finds reflections when he enacts melodramatic roles like Nala, Rukmangada or Karna, yet a regimented tutelage he received long ago would dictate their border. That’s why his Bahuka, even during a streak of unfettered talk with his separated wife’s companion, Keshini, would essay his just-over chariot ride with elegant economy of space. And if one is keen to watch how rigid grammar doesn’t become a burden for the actor and killjoy for the audience, Gopi’s protagonists like Bhima and Arjuna in the weighty Kottayam plays could be the best examples.
His give-and-take approach to the arts in general has enriched Kathakali’s aesthetics. For instance, the postures Gopi strikes while depicting the hoods of snakes around Lord Shiva have a touch of Bharatanatyam — or even the Nataraja idol itself. On the other end of the prism, the way his Nala would romance with Damayanti cannot but remind the average Malayali of Prem Nazir, the late actor whose early films made waves in Kerala’s
entertainment history when Gopi was in his formative years.
His range of histrionics has for long been undisputed. Sonal Mansingh once said, “Gopi is the most powerful dancer I’ve ever come across.” Piquantly, the Odissi danseuse won a Padma Vibhushan some time ago, while Gopi only got a Padma Shri now.
— sreevalsan@epmltd.com