From the quiet countryside of Suffolk to the sacred town of Guruvayur, the life of Pepita Seth has been an extraordinary odyssey. Whether chronicling Guruvayur’s legendary temple elephants or capturing the intimate world of theyyam performers, she has spent decades documenting Kerala’s cultural heart with the precision and passion of a historian. Now 84, the acclaimed author looks back on her long journey, the surprising parallels between rural England and Kerala, her deep bond with elephants, and her life as a writer in a candid conversation with TNIE.
Excerpts
Can you tell us about your journey to India from the UK? And how did you finally reach Guruvayur?
India is a pretty big country, and I first became interested in it through my family history. I found my maternal grandfather’s diary, in which he had written about serving as a British Army soldier in Lucknow. I came alone. I knew people in Delhi and Mumbai. I knew somebody in Mumbai who was from Kerala. And I have always had a fixation with elephants. But before you go anywhere, you read up about the place, and I am usually interested in history and various other aspects of a place.
Your first photograph in Kerala was of Guruvayur Kesavan. Can you tell us about that encounter?
It was also the only picture I took of him. He was in musth at the time. By then, I knew enough about animals to understand they could be dangerous. They warned me, “Don’t move forward.” Which I wouldn’t have done anyway! Fortunately, I happened to bend down to pick up my camera bag from the ground. Right at that moment, a massive palm frond went whizzing right over my head — the elephant had thrown a whole tree! It was sheer luck that I had bent down when I did. They immediately reassured me that what happened wasn’t aimed at me.
There are many stories about Guruvayur Kesavan’s devotion to Guruvayurappan. What did you make of that relationship?
I suspect the elephant has his own view of those things, while other people have their own view of what he was doing. That’s entirely up to the individual — and indeed Guruvayur Kesavan (laughs). But he certainly had a presence. He spent a lot of time with people who were close to him, and his mahout was such a wonderful man. I took a photograph of Kesavan, had it framed, and gave it to the mahout. He sat there with his hand just going round and round the image of ‘Bhagavan’. Finally, he gave the photograph back to me. He thought I was merely showing it to him. I said, “No, no, it’s for you.” He understood then. It was very moving.
Your relationship with Guruvayur seems to have gone beyond your interest in elephants. What drew you to the temple and its traditions?
To be clear, initially it was literally like going to any temple. That’s how it started. You do things in stages, which is a good thing. You follow whatever the rules are and take things step by step. And then you come to terms with what it actually is. It is something very deep. Then people started telling me stories about the temple and about Guruvayurappan.
You have written about Guruvayur and had the opportunity to enter the temple. How did that happen, given that there are rules governing who can enter?
There was absolutely no attempt on my part to get inside. I knew what the rules were before I made the commitment to write about the temple. The rule is the rule. There is no point in whining about it. Then, one day, somebody came out of the temple and asked me, “Why do you stand outside here?” I said, “Well, because I can’t stand inside, right?” He said, “But the tantri has said that you can.” I wasn’t going to take that without some proof, and I didn’t know whether he was actually connected with the tantri. How could I know? Then the tantri (Parameswaran Namboothiripad) himself came up and said, “So, you need me to come, do you? Come.”
How did the idea of writing a book on the Guruvayur temple come about?
Guruswamy (R Parameswaran) and a few other people started saying that we should do a book on the temple. I said, “I can’t do a book. I haven’t done a book on anything, especially not on something as complex as a temple, where I know nothing about how it functions.” I thought that, if at all, I would have to do something really small just to get an idea of how things work there. Then he asked, “Why can’t you do a book?” I said, “Oh, no way, no way. I’m not even sure I want to do it. It’s not right. I’m not going to do it.” And then he said something that stayed with me. He said, “But you could start.” I said, “I’m not even sure that I want to do it.” And he replied, “Who are you to decide when the Lord has just given you permission?” So I came away with the impression that the Lord had apparently given me permission. There was panic, because I really didn’t think I could do it.
Did you look for some kind of sign before deciding to go ahead with the book?
Yes. I thought, “I know what I’m going to do. I’ll go around the temple three times, and if something doesn’t happen, I will not proceed with the book”. While in my third round somebody, who was standing in the crowd, said, “It will be all right.” I had no idea who he was. So I thought, “Well, unfortunately, that is the sign.” And I did it.
The cover photograph of your book on Guruvayur is very interesting. How did you come across that image?
I was standing in the crowd waiting to photograph the three elephants. I wasn’t thinking of it as a cover picture at all. In fact, I’m still not entirely convinced that it is a cover picture. The elephants were coming past the Ayyappa shrine, and I was waiting. That’s what you have to do in Guruvayur — you find your place, and you wait until something happens. If you leave, somebody else will take that space. Suddenly, I realised that I couldn’t even lift my camera because the crowd had become so dense. I thought, “I want to protect myself. I can’t even get the camera up.” Then, all of a sudden, there was space all around me. The people there are masters at handling ropes. Without even looking at me, they put a rope around me to create just enough space so that I could take the picture. The moment the elephants started to turn, the rope was gone.
Do you still visit Guruvayur regularly?
Not as regularly. Well, yes and no is the answer. If I’m here, yes. But after Guruvayur, I started working on my book on theyyam, which took almost 15 years. So that occupied me for a long time.
How did you communicate with people? Did you learn Malayalam or rely on books?
No. I wasn’t really meant to speak Malayalam. I can speak a little now, and it’s getting better — or rather, less bad.
How did you connect with the theyyam community?
They connected with me. They felt they needed somebody who could move between both worlds. I remember one man from Malabar who came to Guruvayur. He was in a terrible mood because a major theyyam performance was about to take place back home, and he couldn’t return in time. He kept saying to me, “It’s difficult, do you understand?” I said, “Yes, I understand. But these people here don’t.” Then he showed me some photographs and said, “All right, I’ll teach you a few lines.” I think he believed that somehow I might understand what he was missing. That’s really how it all began.
The (theyyam) rituals and legends are very complex to understand...
I think it depends on who is teaching you. Actually, the stories themselves are not usually that complicated. Once you see what’s happening and hear the way people talk about them, they begin to make sense.
Do you think the stories in theyyam have a universal theme?
Yes, I think they do. I grew up in a very rural part of England before the Second World War ended. To get to school I had to walk four miles each way. There was virtually no transport except in emergencies. Some people who lived only 20 miles from the sea had never seen it because the journey was simply impossible. It was a very rural world, and we had our own ghosts, omens and beliefs. All my childhood came from the people who worked on the land, who all had all these stories about ghosts and things. I mean, they were telling me one day that if you listened sometimes at about four o’clock in the morning, in other words, just before the night begins and comes halfway, you’ll hear the Roman Legions. But the Romans left Britain a long time ago. So, what are they doing walking on the line in Southampton? And there was a lot of that going on. When I came here (Kerala), I suddenly thought, “It’s the same.” All rural societies with living rituals share something in common. However different the rituals may look, the force behind them is the same. When I came to India, I could recognise that feeling.
Actually, what happens during theyyam? What happens inside the theyyam’s body or mind?
Well, I can never find the right word to describe it... I mean, they absolutely won’t tell you. But one day, Murali Panicker (renowned theyyam artist) decided that he would tell me. I kept saying, “Don’t tell me. If I’m not supposed to know, I’m not supposed to know. Then, I won’t have the problem of writing it down and trying to understand it. So I’m very happy if you won’t tell me.” But no, Murali with a fixation was going to do it. And he started. Five minutes later, he said, “Amma, I don’t know.” Now, you can come up with several reasons. Either you could say he realised he shouldn’t be doing it, which is what I think happened. Or, he actually didn’t know. You see, they’re carriers. We tend to think that that’s Murali Panicker dressed as a theyyam. He’s not. Murali Panicker is simply the carrier. Somebody has to carry the thing because the thing is invisible. So there has to be some way. Well, it’s a fuzzy area (laughs).
Have you felt that presence?
Yeah. It never occurred to me to think, “That is Murali Panicker standing here.” Now, whether that’s because you’ve been seduced by it all... I think they’re frankly the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met.
Was it the theyyam performers of Malabar who inspired you to write a book about them?
I just wanted to know anything and everything about it. They were, and they are, worried about what was happening to this ritual. And that is why they prompted me to write this book. They felt that at least a book might help get the information out. I told Lakshmanan Peruvanan (renowned theyyam artist) that a book won’t solve anything. But they felt there would be some evidence of how they feel. And when all the copies of the book came, they came here — Lakshmanan and a friend of his. And we all drove from Neelashwaram to the other end in a car to give the book to all the theyyakkars. I was adamant that the book should be given to each theyyakkar.
What was their reaction to the book?
First of all, they don’t show their emotions. Only if it was useless would they react.
When did you decide to stay in Kerala?
I have never decided anything in my life.
When you go to Guruvayur, the rituals are part of the temple, while in Malabar, each theyyam has a different social order and ritual. Did you feel the difference?
That’s true, but at the same time, it is part of an old tradition. Personally, I feel Guruvayurappan has never opened his mouth, as far as I know. Whereas the theyyam would speak and solve your problems. So, it is similar but different because of the caste hierarchy and their practices.
Have you witnessed this ritual where the theyyam jumps into the fire?
Yes. It is ‘Thee Chamundi’. It was one of the theyyams I wanted to put in the book. Uh, because I wanted to stop people sensationalising it. Murali Panicker had performed it as a child. And he explained to me exactly how they do it.
Recently, there were news reports criticising the involvement of children in such rituals...
There was a newspaper report claiming they were throwing children into the fire — 101 times! The child would be dead after the first time (laughs)! People just don’t use their heads. The young boys pester repeatedly until the elders say, “That’s okay,” because they are taught exactly what to do. There are no tricks in it. Conceptually, it’s extraordinary, but visually, it’s actually quite mundane. He steps toward the fire and is immediately pulled back. There is no real danger, as long as everybody knows what they are doing. Devotion helps, but it’s really about precision. When he leaps, it’s right up to the line, and the handlers know precisely when to pull him back. They even inspect the pyre beforehand to make sure there are no loose stones.
What are your thoughts on how digital photography has affected theyyam and other traditional rituals?
It’s a very difficult situation. What was happening in Malabar — and frankly, it’s getting worse — is that theyyam was being completely overwhelmed simply because it is so spectacular. You have all these photographers pouring in, who have no interest in what theyyam actually signifies. I believe it was only last year that the organisers finally decided enough was enough. They mandated that photographers stay in designated areas and pay a fee. Even if it’s just a token fee, the principle matters: you are entering their sacred space. You must behave properly. It isn’t your room; it isn’t yours.
Despite the popularity, many theyyam performers still live in utter poverty...
Yes, because other people are capitalising on it and making the money — that is the tragedy. Their lives remain extremely difficult, and everything is in flux. Today, many of these performers work menial jobs in Dubai during the off-season, which was once unthinkable. That isn’t where they belong. I remember one performer who came back for the season after working in Dubai for six months — he had softened and his feet were no longer calloused. Ordinarily, these men can run across hot coals because their feet are conditioned for it, but he really suffered because he wasn’t accustomed to it anymore. Livelihood remains a massive struggle for them. This brief season is the only time they earn anything.
Your first non-fiction book, ‘Heaven on Earth: The Universe of Kerala’s Guruvayur Temple’, was a success. One could see the book at nearly every airport, everywhere in the world…
(Laughs) There’s a story behind that. The book had a proper publisher. He was so worried that nobody would buy this book. I told him to wait and not worry. He got his money back in three months. Many more editions came afterwards, and the book is still going to print.
Did you ever think you would become a writer when you came to India?
At school, writing assignments were bad enough — I thought doing it voluntarily was the stupidest idea imaginable. But then, one summer, something interesting happened, and I thought, “I had better write this down before it gets forgotten.” So I wrote one piece, and then another. With a novel, you just keep going. You think, “Oh, maybe I can try this.” And so I tried. I ended up writing two novels. The wonderful thing about a novel is that you can manipulate it — you are completely in charge. I never thought I had the discipline to finish anything like that, but I did. Once those were done, the people at Guruvayur told me I had to start the book on Guruvayur. But reflecting back, I remember a man who worked on our farm back home. I must have been 12, 13, or 14 at the time, and he said to me, “Sooner or later, you’ll get a job in town. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but never forget: what is in the land stays in the land, even when it’s forgotten.” It took me a long time to truly understand that. But now, at 84, living in Kerala, I know it’s true. Even when things are forgotten, they are still there beneath the surface.
Like Kesavan, was there another elephant that you were close to?
One that has always stayed with me is about the elephant Krishna Gopal (Sree Parameshwaran). In the 1980s, a team went to Bihar to buy an elephant. I joined them. There, C A Menon (Aravindhaksha Menon) chose this rat-like elephant; really, his face looked like a rat. He was very thin, but Menon knew what he could become. Krishna Gopal died when he was 59.
I still remember his mahout, Gopi, sobbing with grief. He was his mahout for 15 years. I used to feed Krishna Gopal regularly. Once, I wanted to give him something special, and Gopi warned me, “If you start giving him treats, you’ll have to do it every day. Otherwise, he’ll expect it.” Later, Krishna Gopal fell seriously ill. I went to see him with three bananas, but by then he had stopped eating. Gopi looked at me and said, “It’s too late. He won’t eat.” I replied, “My job is simply to offer them. Whether he eats or not is up to him.” To our surprise, he ate all three bananas. Then he gently lifted his trunk and touched the side of my face three times. It was an extraordinary moment — as if he wanted to express something before saying goodbye.
What do you think he was trying to say?
I don’t think it was about saying something in words. It was a feeling — an expression of empathy, of connection. That’s how I understood it.
There is now a campaign on social media and in wider society against the use of elephants in temple festivals and other pageantry. Should elephants be left in the wild or can they be part of public processions?
They should be in the wild, right? Or, if they are kept in captivity, they should at least be treated decently, which they are not. Yes, elephants belong in the wild. I mean, humans should see how they would feel if they were also tied up. We are awful beings.
When did you last visit the UK?
Recently. The Royal Asiatic Society gave me an award for the work I had done on Kerala.
What are you writing now?
I had started writing about my life in parts. My time in Suffolk to later years... Right now, it is on hold. But I am writing on elephants, or rather, about Krishna Gopal.
You are a writer, photographer and a chronicler. But does that define who Pepita Seth is?
All I know is that coming here changed my life. These are people like everyone else, but they have been extraordinary to me. I’m sure you probably know more about me than I know about myself. When I was granted Indian citizenship, it felt as though everyone around me had received it too. When I went to the collectorate, the atmosphere was unbelievable. It was as if a major film star had arrived on opening day. People were calling out, “Over here, over here!” I looked around, assuming someone important was about to walk in. Then someone told me, “No, this is for you.” I was completely taken aback. It was incredible. The excitement was almost electric. The warmth and affection people showed me that day is something I will never forget. It made me realise how deeply I had been accepted, and that is one of the greatest gifts this country has given me.
