The heat in April and May is intense, but even stronger is the fervour of festivals in Kerala during this season. And they are never complete without the pulsating beats of percussion.
Instruments such as the chenda, thimila, madhalam, idakka, ilathalam, kuzhal, and kombu come together to create a rhythmic intensity that is intoxicating. Despite a generation more exposed to western and now oriental influences, when percussion takes centre stage at Kerala’s festivals, everything else takes a backseat.
“I have been to a lot of EDM and rave parties. None gives an exhilaration like our melam (percussion ensemble),” says Vinod Ambady, a wildlife explorer. “I left the corporate world to take sanctuary in the woods. The only thing that still draws me back to city life are grand melams. After a point, they become addictive — even the noise made by ceiling fans will sound rhythmic.”
Management professional Bijeesh S also gushes as he speaks about melam. “It’s a fiesta. And yet, people go searching for rhythm elsewhere,” he says.
“It’s not just the beats — it’s the entire atmosphere that captivates me. I go hyphy as the percussion crescendo peaks. Even my 10-year-old son now joins me in my pooram outings.”
This excitement spills onto social media, too, where numerous groups celebrate Kerala’s percussion traditions — Panchari melam, Pandi melam, Shinkari melam, Panchavadyam, Thayambaka, etc.
Online groups keep enthusiasts updated on festival schedules and the leading performers. “There are also WhatsApp groups where fans organise regular sessions to revel in the beats,” says Udayan Namboothiri, a popular Thayambaka artist.
The history of melam can be traced back to the 15th century. “Before that, they were primarily part of temple rituals,” says Manoj Kuroor, a writer and researcher in Kerala’s ritual art history.
“The richness of Kerala’s tala (rhythm) schemes makes it distinct from the rest of south India’s beat system. It was originally a part of the tantric worship system in temples. However, after the 15th century, the artform took on an entertainment aspect. Initially, percussion arts were restricted to specific communities permitted inside temples. But when they moved to open fields, they became an inclusive spectacle where everyone, regardless of caste or creed, could gather and enjoy the thrill of the beats.”
Over time, different schools of percussion evolved, with certain regions becoming renowned for their signature styles. Peruvanam village, for instance, produced some of the greatest percussion legends.
Alongside, the Kathakali percussion tradition also flourished. Even today, the doyen of Thayambaka, Mattannur Sankarankutty Asan, is celebrated for his expertise in Kathakali percussion.
This vibrant tradition thrived until the 1970s, when interest waned, and the artform entered a period of decline. Many percussion artists faced financial struggles, and temple-related activities diminished.
According to Thiyyadi Raman Nambiar, an artist credited with reviving the near-extinct Ayyappan Theeyaattu, the slump, which lasted until the mid-1990s, was largely due to socio-economic changes following land reforms.
“By the 1970s, many artists were embarrassed to carry the chenda. It was no longer seen as a mark of talent or respect,” he says.
“Kerala’s workforce was shifting away from its agrarian roots, and many temples struggled financially. However, things began changing by the 1990s as temples found ways to sustain themselves. This led to a revival of ritual arts, with percussion benefitting the most, as its popularity resonated with the younger generation.”
Raman adds that he was elated seeing a young girl playing the kuzhal during the Meena Bharani festival at a small temple near his house in Ernakulam just a day ago.
“It is heartening to see today’s younger generation returning to traditional artforms,” he says.
“Social media has certainly played a huge role in this revival. Today, Thayambaka classes are being conducted for students in the US.”
The difficult years of the 1970s meant that many talented artists remained obscure.
“Peruvanam Kuttan Marar is now a globally recognised name, but he hails from a lineage of artistes, most of whom never gained the fame he did. The dark times held back many artists. But as interest was rekindled, figures like Peruvanam and Mattannur became household, inspiring younger generations,” says Raman.
Today, numerous institutions across Kerala exclusively teach percussion arts.
“There are several Devaswom-run such centres — like the Guruvayur Vadya Kala Vidyalayam and Vaikom Kshetra Kalapeetham. Most districts also have private institutions catering to students, including professionals and expatriates,” says Udayan.
Among them is Shilpa Sreekumar, a UAE-based engineer from Chovvallur, who made headlines in 2022 when she entered her wedding stage playing the chenda. A member of Singari melam teams in Dubai, she was later joined by her groom on the cymbals and her father on the chenda — a moment that went viral online.
The evolution of melam has also contributed to its growing appeal, says Udayan.
“For instance, the differences between the Thayambaka schools — Malamakkavu, known for its structured progression, and Palakkad, which emphasises imagination and improvisation — are fading as regional styles merge,” he says.
“Additionally, with improved facilities, melam has become a pan-Kerala affair, with southern regions enthusiastically embracing northern forms. Even in Kerala’s south, where Tamil rhythms once dominated, classical elements of the art are being increasingly incorporated.”
For Bengaluru-based Malayali investor Shankar Gopalakrishnan, such technicalities are secondary.
“For me, it’s time to visit home when melams are in full swing. I have been a regular at Peruvanam and Thrissur Poorams. This year, I missed the Arattupuzha and Uthralikkavu poorams. But I will be attending Peruvanam pooram on April 6, and Thrissur pooram in May. I set aside all other work for the poorams,” he says, checking the melam calendar on an Instagram group.
This love for the melam is innate for every Malayali, says poet and lyricist R K Damodaran.
“Songs can only be sung in three kaalams (speeds), but Pandi melam can reach four, and Panchari, five. This rhythm is ingrained in Keralites. Which is why there was a musician from here who could sing in six kaalams, and hence was praised by Thyagaraja Swami as a ‘great’. He was Shadkala Govinda Marar, from the community of temple percussionists and brought up in the mela padhathi (foundation) of Kerala. Due to this, he could easily improvise the speed. Beats, unlike tunes, are elemental. It is there in your heart beat. Generations will still sway to it,” says Damodaran, on his way to attend the Nemnara Vela festival.
