Dance as Worship

Dance as worship

Bhagavata Mela Natakam in Melattur, a tiny village in Tamil Nadu, where villagers see this 500-year-old art form as worship rather than entertainment.

If the New Englanders sailing in the Mayflower had landed in Mumbai instead of Virginia, could they have obliterated the Brown Indian race ____as they did the Red ___ from the face of the earth? How and why does the Brown Indian dig in his roots wherever he is transplanted? Is it because we cling to tradition and clutch at customs? Is this the secret of India’s timelessness?

 These were my thoughts as I participated for a week in a religious art festival. Religion, tradition, ritual, music, dance and theatre fused together and transported us into a world full of esoteric charm. A thrilling experience in the ancient royal capital of Thanjavur.

Thanjavur is a magic name. It carries with it an aura of antiquity. The name conjures as a plethora of vivid images, temple, music, Bharatanatyam and Bhagavata Mela Natakam. If it is May, it must be Melattur, for it is at this time of the year that a bunch of young men from different parts of India converge to this tiny, two-street village to rehearse their roles in the natakam. Mali, the chief dancer, is the village administration officer and his family is one of the important contributors to this art. Mani is a customs officer in Madras. Nagarajan is a salesman in Mumbai. Rajagopal and Ashok are in college. Gopu has given up his job to work full time for the Bhagavata Mela Natya Vidya Sangam.

The families of these actors are natives of Melattur and as Brahmins they are ordained to continue the tradition of worshipping their local deity. For them, dance is worship. They are today performing against tremendous odds, facing the powerful challenges of a modern society which is being radically transformed by education, science and the electronic media. The musicians are professionals famous in their respective fields and though they are paid an honorarium, it is truly a devotional service. The dancers do not receive any payment. In fact, they dig into their personal savings every year incase collections fall short. After all, the show must go on.

Attending the rehearsals was an eye opener. All participants are male. There is a warm camaraderie among them not withstanding the ugly rows that crop up when sensitive artistes work together. Their superb artistry lies in their spontaneity and their skills of improvisation. A nattuvanar (dance guru) to guide the dance, scholars to explain situations and clarify lyrics, musicians and a director, work together as a team. There is a general atmosphere of indulgence. A missed step or a forgotten gesture is generously condoned. Nobody performs under pressure. Narasimha Jayanti marks the first day of the festival. Prahlada Charitram a dance-drama celebrating the incarnation of Vishnu as Narasimha, is performed in the evening. The life and psyche of the Melattur village is irrevocably entwined with this myth.

Hiranyakashipu, the demon king, acquired a boon whereby he could not be killed by man or beast, at day or night, not indoors nor outdoors and not by any weapon. His little son Prahlada was a devotee of Vishnu and proclaimed that none is superior to Vishnu. His father challenged him to prove Vishnu is omnipresent and tauntingly struck a pillar with his club. The pillar split open and an awesome apparition that was half-man and half-lion ___ Narasimha appeared. It was twilight. Sitting on the threshold, Narasimha tore open the king’s torso with his claws, killing him. He thus kept to all conditions of the boon.

The morning of Narasimha Jayanti in Melattur begins with ceremonies at the temple where the participants gather. The air is surcharged with devotional fervour. The priest ties a yellow thread on the wrists of the actors, binding them to their sacred duty. In the sanctum sanctorum a 300-year-old mask is kept in a cupboard. It is taken out at night to be worn by the actor performing the role of Narasimha.

At about nine ‘o’ clock, the villagers gather in the open air marquee. There is an air of expectation. The mask is placed on a makeshift shrine at the far end directly opposite the stage. The play starts with a long musical interlude after which a child wearing a Ganesha mask makes an appearance. Flowers, fruits and arati are offered to him. The performance follows the familiar Sanskrit theatre tradition wherein characters first appear in introductory preludes called pravesa darus. The music is chaste Carnatic and the lucid lyrics in Telugu are composed in varying literary structures, couplets, dialogues, kritis and so on.

As the climax approaches, the actor who is to portray Narasimha dons the mask. He goes into a trance. He has observed strict austerities all that day and has worked himself into an uncontrollable fury. The taunting of the demon king infuriates him and at the appropriate moment he appears, roaring with anger and frenzy. It requires four stagehands to hold him back with sashes around his waist. The audience is enthralled by this awesome creature. They believe that Vishnu blesses their village by entering the body of this actor in spirit. The play ends with a benediction.

I attended a six-hour Prahlada in the adjoining village of Saliamangalam the following night. This is one of the other five villages where the Bhagavata Mela tradition exists. The play ends abruptly when the king shouts, “Is Vishnu in this pillar?” The curtain is drawn and the musicians get up and go for a bath. The audience forms two rows, leaving a long passage from the shrine to the stage. Just before the day dawns, firecrackers are burst and Narasimha rushes out of an enclosure near the shrine, roaring and thrashing about. A long philosophical musical duel ensues between the king and the man-lion as musicians sing in accompaniment. The king gets bolder and mocks the weird apparition. Both are controlled by helpers and it looks as if they will fly at each other’s throats if left to themselves. The encounter in the midst of the audience, with Narasimha’s costume swishing against your toes and Hiranyakashipu’s sword and club missing your eyelashes by a centimetre is a fascinating spine-chilling experience.

The first time Bhagavada Mela Natakam came to Mumbai was in December 1992. Performing in the sterile environs of a proscenium theatre, restricted by time to pander to urban impatience and with a handful of spectators in the vast auditorium, they looked bewildered and lost. But through their apparent discomfiture one could discern the sincerity, the impressive artistry and the abundant talent. Art-lovers in cities like Bombay must shake off their preconceived notions of what art should be and participate in theatre forms like this. Yes, participate, for this is a community theatre. It is not entertainment; it is an experience. Through this living ritual of faith and devotion the bhagavatulu (actors) have kept alive a 500-year-old tradition. Their faith has nurtured a dance-theatre art that is as close as can be to the original form. It is an outstanding example of the essence of Indian genius.     

(Published in The Independent, a Times Of India publication. July 8, 1993)

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This was my first experience of Bhagavata Mela Natakams which led to a ten-year association with this group as their Chairman/Patron. After listening to their problems, I realised that this art needed to be revived urgently. Revival needs exposure to vast audiences and the media. This was achieved by organizing festivals in Mumbai and Chennai with the print and electronic media joining hands in the effort. As homage to the saint-poet Tyagaraja who belongs to this tradition, a two-day festival was held in Thiruvaiyyaru during the 150^th Aradhana celebrations in 1997. The high point of this association was the production of a new natakam ‘Sakuntala’in Marathi written by Ekoji II of Thanjavur in 2002.