Probably the best thing about Mudiyettu is that only two things can ideally throw light on the characters dancing in this night-long drama that is essentially ritualistic. One, the country torch. Two, moonlight. In the first case, the flame from the oil-soaked cloth rolled around a stick held aloft by greenroom assistants lends a yellowish tinge to the fiery faces of the mythological figures performing in open temple courtyards. And when they change positions — it’s a moving-stage art — you see their costumes cloaked in a milky-white glow, thanks to the celestial light from the starry sky.
Today, electrical illumination that defines festivity, doesn’t permit the pristine ambience that this pre-feudal Kerala art used to enjoy, say, half a century ago. Yet, the form, in its approach, continues to be minimalist. Its largely wooden costumes have undergone no major change, its props are mainly cut pieces of tender fronds of coconut trees and the floor image of the goddess — Kali, the central motif — is sketched and coloured using natural powders. The audio track is the same: the language of quite a few characters is primitive Malayalam with a dash of Tamil, while ethnic drums (chenda) and cymbals (ilatthalam) team up for the background orchestra. As for the repertoire, it has not changed in the least: the story is always Darika Vadham — profiling the death of demon Darika at the hands of goddess Kali.
“Traditionally, Mudiyettu is an all-night show split into seven sessions,” points out Pazhoor Murali Marar, who has been donning the role of Kali for the past four decades. “The show begins with an interaction between Saint Narada and Lord Siva.” Here, notably, the celestial characters are devoid of any touch of gaudy glitter; they appear in simple costumes. This is followed by the entry of the anti-hero Darikan, and that of Kali — in both cases the decibel level from the percussion ensemble rises tastefully. Then, there are moments of satire when local man Koimbada Nair enters and communicates directly with the viewers, cracking jokes. Next enters Kali’s assistant, Kooli. This adds to the tempo of the imminent battle scene between the goddess and the demon, when, finally, it’s a victory of divine over evil.
A Mudiyettu session, though, doesn’t confine itself to theatrical activities. Much before the characters in the story appear to perform in the temple precincts after nightfall, the image of Bhadra Kali would be drawn on a cleaned patch of floor. The five colours, pancha varnam, are prepared out of rice powder (white), turmeric powder (yellow) turmeric mixed with lime (red), crushed burnt husk (black) and powdered green leaves (green). What follows is the musical Kalam Paattu (folksy singing of hymns praising the Goddess). And then, the enactment of the drama, after the long task of decking up. Finally, the main actor — who plays the role of Kali in the drama — will wipe out the floor painting, Kalam.
Recently, the UNESCO included Mudiyettu, along with two other traditional Indian arts, in its Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Murali Marar recalls the strenuous efforts of his ancestors to keep the art alive over generations. Among them particularly, is his late older brother Pazhoor Damodara Marar, who in fact, popularised this ancient art form in the 1990s. The Marars, who are the traditional drummers in Kerala temples, form the flag-bearers of Mudiyettu, besides members from the Kuruppu community. Basically a post-harvest thanksgiving ceremony, Mudiyettu, which is performed from the winter month of Vrischikam to mid-summer, has practitioners from four schools: Pazhoor, Koratti, Keezhillam and Kunnakkal of Ernakulam and Thrissur districts.
As Rajesh Marar, a young representative of the Pazhoor family near Piravom, notes, “Overall this ritualistic theatre is a mix of varied aesthetics: it has elements of painting, music, dance, drama as well as percussion.” Girijan Marar, another practitioner said: “The success of a night-long Mudiyettu is, however, possible only with the active participation of the gathering with whom we directly interact.” Has there been no improvisation whatsoever in this art in recent times? “Well,” says Murali Marar, “My brother Damodara Marar added a dash of Sopana Sangeetam (a Kerala genre of classical music) while rendering certain Sanskrit excerpts during conversations between some characters in Mudiyettu. You hear tunes that would sound like (Carnatic) ragas like Kedaragowla, Sankarabharanam, Mukhari, Bilahari and Kamboji.” Of course, the conclusion is always in a Kerala-origin raga called Poraneera.
That Mudiyettu forms a precursor to a sophisticated classical dance-drama is of little doubt. As Keezhillam Unnikrishnan, who has been performing at Chottanikkara Bhagavathy temple, notes, “the headgear we in the Keezhillam family wear, bears a strong resemblance to the crown in Kathakali.” Damodara Marar’s son, Pazhoor Mani, notes that the curtain used in Mudiyettu symbolises the border that divides the eternal life on one side from the materialistic contemporary life. That gap apart, Mudiyettu, now has a brighter chance of getting closer to people of a broader geography.
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