Theyyam

By and by, the din from afar, till now a diffused hum, gets more distinct. It is no more a vague noise, you can recognize the resounding tribal rhythm of the drumbeat. The first sign that our destination is near. The primaeval pulsation rises above the cacophony of the milling crowd. Unable to contain the anticipation, my little son canters, me in tow. The rustle of the dry leaves as they get crushed under our feet on the cart track. The village path is lit only by a few stars. I look up: the monsoon having receded, the azure sky is bereft of dark clouds.

My thoughts go back to my schooldays.
* * *
I wrote ‘THEYYAM’ in bold letters at the head of the page and underlined it. It was our English Composition period in Class VII. Easow Master had given us thirty minutes to write an essay on ‘When I Grow Up, I Want to Be A …..’.

I pondered: why do I want to be a Theyyam? They were indeed powerful: they heard the complaints and prayers of the hoi polloi and conveyed them to the Gods ‘recommending favourable consideration’. Gods spoke to ordinary men and women through the Theyyams. One shared one’s anxieties with him. You thanked God for His mercies by dropping offerings into the open palms of the Theyyam. The only persons the Kaaranavar, presiding head of the family, bowed to in respect were Kunhappa and Ramunni when they donned the garb of the Theyyam. The Kaaranavar who only knew how to order people about listened to them. Was any more evidence needed for the Theyyam being all-powerful?
* * *
That was a lad on the threshold of his early teens. I look back in retrospect to ferret out a convincing explanation for my longing.
* * *

‘There, I can see the light,’ shrieks my son as he turns right along the curving road. Enthusiastic and eager to reach there a minute earlier if he can could, he is trotting a few steps ahead of me, impatient that I am not keeping pace. When I catch up, I too can see the halo of lights in the otherwise dark sky in the general direction of the location of my Tarawad. Theyyam would be performed in the courtyard of the complex.

The headquarters of the Tarawad comprises three blocks of buildings constructed in different periods of time: one is the traditional single-storeyed ettukettu, the two-storeyed main building seems to have been influenced by Dutch architecture and the third, called the Banglaav (Bungalow) is more like a club-house.
* * *
Why did I want to be a Theyyam when I grew up? Perhaps I was enamoured by the mumbo-jumbo that he uttered, eyes heavenwards and hands outstretched. Perhaps because his prophecies, unintelligible though they were because of the quaint expressions used and the quiver in his high-pitched voice, were awaited eagerly by the devout dowagers. Perhaps I was fascinated by the fact that he ‘communicated’ to and on behalf of the Almighty. He seemed to be closer to God than my grandmother who fasted on Mondays, Ekadasi days, new moon days, full moon days and several other days of the month. He could bring solace to women worried about the waywardness of their husbands or illness of their offspring.
* * *
We are presently in the courtyard in front of the Banglaav where traditionally the Kaaranavar would entertain visitors and spend his evenings with his friends, often imbibing the tipple. Going ahead, you can see the performers in different stages of preparation in the raised ground near the Kalari. Some have had their make-up done and all their gear on, nearly ready to make their appearance. Those whose turn is scheduled for the latter part of the night are yet to don the accoutrements.
* * *
The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Theyyam is not the colourful show that unfolds before you or the sounds that accompany it, but the smell of Theyyam. The smell of the coconut oil as it is consumed by the flares, the mildly acrid smell of turmeric, the smell of arrack and beedis, the smell of the plantain leaf getting ‘cooked’ as piping hot rice is dropped on it, the smell of the wooden logs as they turn into embers and then to ashes as the fire into which Ucchitta Bhagavati plunged herself dies down.
* * *
There is a nip in the air, for it is the month of Makaram (End-January). Small groups of people are huddled together and watching the goings-on. Members of the family walk about with an affected demeanour: it-is-in-my-Tarawad-that-this-event-is-taking-place kind of air of authority.
* * *
What is the origin of the pantheon of pagan gods that streak in and out according to a rigidly drawn up schedule? Old-timers believe that they all reside in the Kalari. Unhappy with the misdoings of the earthlings in the past year, they walk out of the Kalari. If they are allowed to do their bidding, they might wreak havoc, epidemics and natural calamities. To avert the disaster, the human beings placate the gods by giving offerings in the ensuing during the next two days. After Wworshipping and appeasing the deities, they coax them back into their residence for one more year.
* * *
Theyyam used to be the only time womenfolk in the village who never ventured out could get their stock of adornments and cosmetics – bangles, trinkets, kaajal, chaanthupottu, cheap perfume and talcum, safety pins, hair clips, false hair, and a host of other things. Kids would cadge money out of uncles and fathers and exchange them for balloons, whistles, balls or wooden toys. They come in all colours, shapes and sizes, and any amount of money that you have is too little.

I stop before a vendor and look at his ware. I spot the tiny tin boat which comes alive if you keep a small lighted wick inside it. My eyes widen in imagination as they conjure up the vision of the boat chugging along in a trough of water. I fulfil a boyhood dream as I exchange a fiver for the boat.
* * *
Theyyam is not just cacophony and smells. It is also a mélange of spectacles and sights. The headgears of Kantaakarnan and Thai Paradevatha are tall and heavy: the performers have to strain themselves to maintain their balance. Gulikan reclines on a tree and Kuttichaatthan’s pranks entertain. The colourfully bedecked Bhairavan, Vayanattu Kulavan and Muchilott Bhagavathi are a treat to the eyes. Only natural resources like tender fronds of palms, leaves of mango trees, a blend of turmeric and lime, etc that are used in the decoration and make-up.
* * *
Logs of dried wood neatly stacked in a pile in the courtyard in front of the Kalari are being set fire to for the grand spectacle of the night – Thee Chamundi’s fire dance. The Kaaranavar is seated on a low wooden stool watching the proceedings, detachment writ in his manner. Till he signals to the performer, Thee Chamundi would keep walking in and out of the burning embers.
* * *
Most of the Theyyams are grossly exaggerated legends or stories that reflect the fear of the man, defenceless when confronted by nature’s fury, epidemics or wild beasts. Take Vasoorimala or Pulikkarinkaali or Acchiyum Kuttiyum (Mother and child), for instance. In the days when man had not reined in diseases and nature, all that he could do was to pray that they do not assail him!
* * *
At the end of the half an hour, when Easow Master announced ‘Time is up’, I turned in a sheet of paper, blank except for the word ‘THEYYAM’ written atop.