By the time most children were still wobbling through bicycle lessons, Maruthorvattom Kannan was already sprinting across makeshift stages, body streaked in green, ankle bells slicing through the air. Today, at 46, he carries four decades of muscle memory—and the fragile fate of an art form practiced by fewer than 200 people in the world. “This,” he says, lifting a crown that costs more than his monthly income, “is my life.”
Offstage, he is one man battling dwindling audiences, rising costs, and the real possibility that Ottanthullal may disappear with his generation. Ottanthullal literally means running and jumping, but its spirit is sharper than movement. Born in the 17th century, it traces its origins to rebellion. “Kunchan Nambiar is the inventor—otherwise, the father—of this art form,” Kannan says. Legend has it that after being publicly insulted during a performance, Nambiar responded by creating Ottanthullal overnight.
Unlike Kathakali’s elaborate ensembles, Ottanthullal distilled performance into a solo act—swift, satirical, and startlingly modern. The form borrows intricate footwork and 24 mudras, but humour is its signature quality—bold, teasing, intimate. “For Ottanthullal to move beyond linguistic boundaries, the expressive power of acting becomes crucial.”
Kannan teaches where he can, hoping the next generation will run where he once leapt. “By preserving Ottanthullal,” he says, “we preserve not just a dance form, but a window into Kerala’s creative soul—one that turns ancient stories into living, laughing truths.”