It was precisely this time a quarter century ago, at 54, that I went through the most traumatic phase in my life. I had suffered a slipped disc (off stage) and the doctor gave up, and told me I could never perform again! Shattered, I wept inconsolably before my deity, GuruvayÂurÂappan. And He brought me back, within six months, to where I always belonged: the bare, cold floor of the Kathakali arangu. The venue: where else, but Guruvayur. A wave of untold grace and relief washed over me as I took the stage. A huge crowd had turned up. I remember that night-long show clearly: it was May 1992, a couple of days before I retired as principal from Kalamandalam, also my alma mater.
My trysts with that famed temple town haven바카라™t been all about piety, of course. Guruvayur was also where I spent a lot of my bohÂemian days. Jayasree lodge used to be a frequent haunt for us friends; we played cards and went on bouts of binge-drinking, smoking beedis non-stop. Some well-meaning sorts expressed heart-felt pain over my fondness for drink, but those days it was what boosted my spirits the most. For the past 15 years, it바카라™s just the reverse. I don바카라™t touch the stuff; as an artist, you want to squeeze the best out of yourself. My career has flourished like never before바카라”the old and the young watch me today keenly, meet me backstage. An improbable stardom, even at 80!
I have specialised in enacting romantic heroes. Their make-up and costuming require time바카라”no less than six hours! My knees ache these days. I can바카라™t anymore sit cross-legged while they meticulously put all that paint on my face. Chair-seated, I concede, isn바카라™t the classic posture of a Kathakali dancer in the greenroom. Some would mistake it for VIP treatment. Well, it isn바카라™t: I have used the facility even amidst my seniors, including mentors.
I was 55 when I officially left Kalamandalam. I intermittently teach there now, as an emeritus professor. My classroom for the MA boys is the same one where I taught Kathakali to another generation in the early 바카라™60s as a young tutor. Kalamandalam has grown by leaps and bounds since then; many of its concrete bloÂcks are new. Even so, I managed to regain my favourite eave-roof spot. Reminds me of my old days on this leafy campus, on the banks of the Bharatapuzha, the most poetic landscape in Kerala.
After I바카라™d joined as a student back in 1951, Kalamandalam groomed me every which way바카라”unlike my native village, which is just down the road and across the river. As a child growing up in semi-hilly Kothachira, I바카라™d help my elders in the fields, lifting paddy sheaves in bundles and stacking them in the front yard of the main homestead바카라”we were the poorer end of a well-to-do tharavad. Never did a grand-uncle offer me lunch, let alone show a streak of affection. Of our evening kanji, my mother and grandma would have the watery gruel, leaving the rice for me. Yet I바카라™d have been a lifelong native of those parts, but a second wave of bad vibes from folks there prompted me to move out. These days, I occasionally pass by, but would seldom tell my chauffeur to slow down for a dekko.
Perhaps no one yet knows where I first met my heroine! Well, the story goes back to an old asan, VazhenÂkada Kunchu Nair, an illustrious presence in the Kathakali hall of fame though not as well-known as my gurus, the late RamanÂkutty Nair and Padmanabhan Nair, who were icons. Kunchu asan was also a principal at Kalamandalam, but never actually taught me바카라”I was already a junior teacher when he took charge in 1959. All the same, I got a taste of his technique when I reheaÂrsed a new story-play under his watchful eyes. He sported a faint smile that, I already knew, came from profound love.
The other day, as I received an award named in Kunchu asan바카라™s honour, the mind raced back. I was in my mid-teens when I first saw him at Nareri mana. A rich Brahmin homestead not far from Kothachira, it briefly ran a Kathakali wing, where ThekkinÂkattil Ramunni Nair initiated me into the secrets and rigours of this art, one of the world바카라™s most sophisticated classical ballets. (BefÂore that, I was paddling around with the more folksy OttanÂthulÂlal). Once I stopped by on a short vacation from KalamanÂdalam, and Kunchu asan was there at Nareri to perform. I was introduÂced to him, and a nephew of his바카라”a diminutive lad my age. Who else but Kottakkal Sivaraman! The best female-role KathÂakali talent of our era, who over the decades paired opposite my Nala, Bahuka, Rugmangada, Kacha and Karna in countless shows.
Performances have taken me around the world for so long I바카라™ve seen audience members, kids when I first saw them, get to be middle-aged! I get updates on European and AmeriÂcan frieÂnds, close since the 바카라™60s. Some of them visit me on their India sojourns. I can바카라™t but forget a five-decade-old incident in a Paris hall, where a heavily pregnant lady in the front row screamed in horror upon setting eyes on my fierce Raudra Bhima바카라”and was rushed to hospital, where she soon delivered the baby! France still has a lot of Kathakali lovers. Perhaps even that child has sat in those chairs as I performed.
Back home, it바카라™s 바카라˜season바카라™ and I바카라™m busy. I get lead roles in both kinds of plays: choreographically dense and the melodramatic. There바카라™s one of the latter sort that no longer appeals to me. Yet I give it my best. Mohanlal, the best actor around nowadays, did exactly that in the latest superhit Pulimurugan. The katha may be bad, but your kali shouldn바카라™t be!
The writer is the greatest living Kathakali performer