Surpanakhamka

BY PROF. K. R. PISHAROTI. M.A., Ernakulam

It was the third of July, 1942 the wet, very wet July. I happened to be in my native village on family business. It was the last day of the Kuttu in the local temple, and the Kutiyattam final was to be staged that night. The scene proposed was the Surpanakhamka a scene from the Ascaryachudamani of Saktibhadra, the earliest South Indian to write Sanskrit Drama. The opportunity was too tempting to be missed and so despite a heavy day, despite a bleak and rainy night, and despite the prospect of standing half-naked throughout the night–for shirts are not allowed inside the temple theatre–I got ready and accompanied by a few friends proceeded to the temple, which we reached just a couple of minutes before the play started.

It was the same old theatre, where, during our school-days, we had for the mere fun of it spent many similar nights without, however, under standing much of what was taking place on the stage. The conditions the theatre were exactly what they were, when I last witnessed a performance there in July 1935; the same grand, but it kept, theatre, the same familiar, but dirty, seating arrangements of a graded sort–Brahmins squatting down on the raised flat in front of the stage and the other caste Hindus standing on the three sides, some leaning on the pillars and others sitting in the shadow thereof–the same feeble, apparently feeble, lighting, the same musical accoutrements, and, what was most surprising, the same set of actors, the principal one being kind enough to come out of green room and greet me. As usual on such occasions there was attempt at decorating the stage–the corners with plantains, bearing clusters of fruits, the sides with green leaves, and the floor of the stage with geometrical designs, made of rice flour paste. The usual instrumental music of the Milavu worked by a Nambiyar, who sat within a railed enclosure at the of the stage, and of the cymbal, sounded by a Nannayar who sat on a mat on the floor of the stage to the right of and at right angles to the actors, was enhanced on the occasion by the addition of a drummer, sounding his Itakha, who stood at the of the stage in a line with the Nambiyar, and a bugler of a stripling lad who stood side, but below the stage on the floor. The first coming in of the principal characters was marked by the presence of an improvised curtain, behind which they performed what is termed Maravilekriya,–some conventional stepping and flouncings, as the orthodox dramaturgical ritual demanded, which it appeared to us, could well have been done in front of the curtain.

II

The actual acting began just a little after 10 p.m. The piece staged was familiar to the whole orthodox people–the ravishing of Rama by Surpanakha. The scene opens with the appearance of Rama, the hero of the piece, who gives a picture of the happy life he is leading at Pancavati on the banks of the Godaveri. This is termed Nirvahana, during which he incidentally refers to the baseless nature of the sages’ warning, regarding the presence of Rakshasas and Rakshasis in the region. This serves as an excellent introduction to the audience to tune themselves up to the context of the story. As Rama dilates on the perfect poise and happiness of his new life in those glorious surroundings, Surpanakha enters in the garb of a siren of ravishing beauty and makes love to him. Rama very courteously says that he is a married man living with his wife under a vow of Brahmacarya and so directs her to his brother Lakshmana. The scene with Lakshmana is not shown on the stage, but the siren is disappointed and so returns to Rama to be sent again to his brother to be again refused and repulsed. Insulted by this continued rebuff, the indignant Surpanakha decides upon abducting Lakshmana. Then the two enter the stage, Surpanakha in her real demoniac form, the one dodging the other, and finally the monstress catches hold of the prince and rushes away. Now Rama enters the stage, presses his sorrow and anxiety, regarding his brother’s fate, and wishes rush forward for his help. But Sita–this character does not appear on the stage–pleads that she should not be left alone; Rama is now in a serious dilemma. In the bitterness of his poignant sorrow he feels the utility of his strength and sheds bitter tears. Happily, then, he sees his brother Lakshmana, rushing wards to him, his sword dripping in blood. He has wreaked vengeance on the terrible she-monster for her wickedness cutting off her nose and ears, instead of killing her, which is prohibited Sastras. Rama feels elated and happy. But the happiness is soon broken, for terrific screams and wailing’s reach their ears, and before the disfigured monster, bathed in blood and swaying to and fro in anger and pain, slowly makes her way towards the brothers. This forms most impressive and imposing part of the representation.

The struggle between Suranakha and Lakshmana is not shown on the stage. The former makes her exit from the theater by a door and proceeds to the southern Nata of the temple, in front of which to the right stands–the theatre with its main entrances north and south. The weird figure starts to the theatre from there in a procession lit up by the lurid glow of torch lights, every now and then set blaze by resin powder, and announced by her own piercing screams and wails, which touch the chord of fear in the on-looker. It does not enter through the main door, but through a side entrance set in the west, facing the stage; it jumps; as if it were, into the theatre, passes slowly enough through the very midst of the audience, seated on the raised flat, and, reaching the stage, falls prostrate, in pain and exhaustion, before the wondering brothers. In sheer disgust the brothers fall apace; their suspicions are now confirmed: they reqognise Surpanakha and naturally are not sorry for the action taken. The revolting figure, then, tells them in howling accents that she has mighty brothers who would not leave unavenged the insult and injury done to her and that they shall thereafter know no peace in their life. Very truly, no doubt, was the prophecy fulfilled. Then the monster disappears into the green-room; and the two brothers, buckling up for anything that the future may bring them, also leave the stage. Thus concludes the ghastly scene which for emotional effect has few parallels on our stage.

When allowance is made for the maintenance of orthodox stage traditions, for the limitations of time and place, and for the antique character of the stage equipments, the costume and make-up of the characters and the mode of acting, the performance must, on the whole, be pronounced to be a success: it is an unqualified success, if it is to be measured in terms of Rasa delineation.

III

The costume and make up of the characters that appear on stage may now be noticed. Four characters appear on the stage: Rama and Lakshmana and Surpanakha, first in the garb of a siren and then in her real demoniac form. Sita plays a minor part and does not appear on the stage, in this case probably as a matter of character economy. But it deserves to be pointed out that even when she has a major part to play, this character never appears on the stage: that, it is reported, is the running tradition of the local stage. This is an important aspect, but the actors are not able to give any explanation for this. The costume make-up of Rama and Lakshmana are alike. The face is painted green which is given a white border with rice flour about a third of an inch width. Black unquent is applied to the lashes and the eye-lids are pencilled dark, while the eyes themselves are reddened. The lips are painted deep red, and the ears are adorned with kundalas below and cevikkuttu above, the latter representing Sirisa flower, as our actors would have it. The head carries a two-piece head-gear, called in the local vernacular Kolappura-kkettu–literally the tank-shed build, so called from its shape. It is composed of two circular discs, each a foot in diameter, set horizontal-wise over a tight-fitting cap. The front piece which has peacock feathers stuck into it rises about a third of its area gracefully over the forehead, the front being decked with glass pieces of varied hues, the whole looking like a diadem. The disc is attached to the front one above the crown of the head and comes down over the nape of the neck, when the head is held erect. This head-dress which is the type prescribed for all heroes probably imitates a helmet; it is not an erect crown, adding to stature; but a flattened coronet, giving solidity to the character. In any case, the head-dress sits well on the character. The arms are left bare, except for sandal paste and Keyuras at the wrists and epaulettes at the shoulders. The body has a jacket of red colour–this is the colour prescribed–with horizontal dark stripes, and over it was worn what purports to be a necklace–a stiff one, carrying metallic discs, called Polambu. There was the inevitable Channa-vira, held in front by a protruding metallic disc and over the shoulders was thrown a single Uttariya as well as a garland, the latter being made of red-cloth in the case of Rama and of Chetti flowers in he case of Lakshmana. Over the knickers are worn a skirt of thick cotton. The flounces behind about the buttocks imitating wave-crests, while in front hangs a triangular piece of coloured cotton scarf, known a Katisutra. The legs are bare but for sandal paste and no anklets are worn, possibly because in this case there are no flouncing movements of legs and dance. Such, in brief, is the nature of the costume and make up of the two male characters that appear on the stage. One must necessarily admit that the facial get-up and head-dress are designed with a view to aid facial expression of the varied emotions and are, indeed, artistic enough to please the eye, while the flounces behind add grace and dignity to bodily movements.

The peculiar feature of the costume of the siren is the splash of deep ochre colour: the scarf over the head, the facial paint, and the petticoat all are of the same colour. Such, I am told, is the make up of all female characters that appear on the temple stage. The deep ochre of the face is relieved by the dark pencilling of the lashes and eye-lids as well as by the deep dark spots here and there on the face. Similarly, the ochre colour of the scarf is relieved by a deep dark border. A petticoat of the same colour covers the breasts, which is held in position by strings tied together behind. The ears are adorned by Kundalas, while the hands are left bare, but for the anchronism of glass bangles, which the actor presumably failed to remove at the time of dressing. From the waist downwards, it was the usual Malayali woman’s dress and, naturally enough, for women characters are generally impersonated by women. One cannot help remarking that the costume and make-up of the woman characters, as devised by Chakyars, leave much to be desired. They are neither artistic nor graceful in any sense of the term, and we cannot help expressing the opinion that it was thoroughly disappointing, however much it might have been in consonance with local stage traditions. One is here reminded of the ancient poet’s statement, puranamityeva na sadhu sarvam.

On an entirely different plane and in striking contrast to this was the make-up of Surpanakha in her demoniac form. It was a rolling mass of dark, deep dark colour from head to toe, the blackness of the face being relieved by white Trisula marks and the exceeding reddened lips and mouth which is kept, more often than otherwise, open. The head-dress has been designed with more than ordinary care. It is made of a particular kind of grass, known as Nannanam-pullu, which is dull black in colour and hence forms a happy contrast to the jet black colour of the face and body. The bottom and top are squares, the lower one being smallest the upper one: thus it presents four faces, each one being a trapeze in shape. The head-dress is more than half a foot in height and is adjusted to a tight-fitting cap, while the inter-space between the grass is sprayed with red and white flowers, which sparkle in the dim light of the stage. The body is covered by clothes again deep dark in colour, and about the bosom are held up false breasts, protruding about a foot. The costume a make-up of this character thus are eminently satisfactory, both intrinsically and artistically, and it is certainly doubtful if anything more success could be devised.

This character introduces two interesting variations in our stage tradition. In the first place, this character is impersonated by a male against the usual rule of women impersonating female characters; and reason for the violation is said to lie in the fact that the character has little feminine element, characterizing it. In other words, the convention actually must have arisen as a result of the part to be played and violent emotions which sway, and are evoked by, the character. The second equally important feature that deserves to be noticed is the use of the local vernacular on the stage, which is also condemned by the local stage conventions, except in the case of the vidushaka, who presents to the audience a comic version of the lyric stanzas, sung by the Nayaka. Why should this character alone of all characters use the local patois is not very clear? It certainly arises not out of a desire to make the utterance intelligible to the audience, since this difficulty exist in the case of other characters also. Even in this scene in the garb of the siren, Surpanakha uses only the usual Prakrit, as she makes love to Rama. Again, the use of the local vernacular does not serve any cosmic purpose, for the main sentiment of the occasion is Bibhatsa and Bhayanaka. And lastly, it deserves to be pointed out that the character uses the vernacular only in her asides and comments, but not in the speech directly addressed to the brothers. The only possible explanation that suggests itself to us for the use of what the Cakyars call Malayalam Prakrit is to assume that the character is uttering her thoughts to herself in her own language, i.e. her mother tongue. Malayalam is a Dravidian language, and in the terminology of philologists, it is the language of the original Dravidians of the land, to which race belong Rakshasas.

It has already been said that lighting arrangements in the theatre are of a primitive kind, consisting of a big brass lamp, carrying wicks all around, fed with coconut oil. But, for that reason, it is not to be condemned. The lamp lights up the whole area with a suffused light, and the stage proper has that amount of light essential for lighting up the costume and the facial expression of the actors, but not more than enough. And this, be it noticed, forms an adequate measure of protection. It is interesting to point out that the pitham, on which the main characters sit and which serves as the throne or couch or seat, is slightly higher than the usual seats: its height is adjusted to the height of the lamp, so that, when a character sits on it, the light of the lamp falls directly on the face. It appears that a better system of lighting cannot be introduced on the orthodox stage, if the rigid conventions of costume and make-up are to be kept up intact.

IV

As regards acting, it is as usual the happy combination of bodily movements, facial expression, gesture language and recitation, designed to give full and adequate expression to the theme and emotions of the play; and these to some extent compensate for the primitive nature of the representation, in so far as modern critics are concerned. There is, however, a large element of the conventional in them, and the result is that the action appeals only to a select circle. For, as matters now stand, facial expression and gesture languages are lost upon the present day audience, who are presumably satisfied with the realistic representation of the story. This attitude probably accounts for the popularity of Kutiyattam even today.

The piece enacted is a small one, and yet the action runs from 10 P.M. to5 A.M. that is nearly seven hours. There is certainly no relation between the story staged and the time taken. This, however, is the result of the modus operandi. As our stage convention would have it, every sentence or statement undergoes a three-fold representation–first Angika, then Vacika side by side with Angika and then Angika. Since the representation has its appeal restricted only to a select circle, this triad representation may well be avoided, though possibly it was originally introduced to get over the difficulty of appealing to the audience through the medium of Sanskrit language. This aspect apart, the order of procedure could be improved, as it strikes us. The Vacika-angika mode could well have preceded the anigika mode, for that would have put the hearer in touch with the theme. Here also possibly the existing order may have resulted from the difficult of language. Coming to the Vacika-angika mode, one feature deserves to be condemned: the recitation has been long drawn out, and it strikes one as being quite unnatural. Presumably it has had to be drawn out, so that the Vacika expression might chime with the Angika. This drawing out of the syllables and words of the text produces a very awkward impression on the listener: it is literally murdering language, as musicians very often do. This feeling persists, despite the fact that the angika representation has been very graceful. I have, had occasion to discuss the matter with the chief actor. He agrees with me that the recitation, as it now obtains, is bad enough, but he is of opinion that it was due to lack of laghava on the part of the actor in so as Angikabhinaya is concerned and of training in the musical intonation of the verses. If the verses are to be recited in the Ragas prescribed for them, this feeling would not creep in, but unfortunately, he added, the present actors do not care to acquire proficiency in either. The present day recitals may or may not be technically correct, but they certainly are void of all musical quality: that is how it strikes a layman. The actors can and should introduce more and more music into their recitals. The introduction some real musical element and the cutting down of the time of representation seem to be essential if the art is to be made more appealing, if the art has to be revitalised.

There seems to run throughout the whole performance one defect, and that lies in the attitude of the actors themselves and the audience with reference to the show. The latter takes to it as a matter of mere fun and frolic–as an opportunity to escape from the humdrum of every day life. This attitude may not deserve so much of condemnation, particularly because the action has its appeal only to a select circle of people. The former takes the performance as a matter of votive offering, which they have to perform in lieu of certain perquisites they have been receiving from the temple from times of yore–a votive offering made in all good faith, albeit without any interest, much less artistic interest. The actors conduct themselves as mere automatons most mechanically, and human interest and human touch seem to be wanting everywhere with, however, one honourable exception–the chief actor’s impersonation of Surpanakha in her real garb. One would certainly wish that the performance was a little more human and that the actors showed more human interest in what they were acting. It seems a pity that they take so little interest in the exquisite art, of which they and none else are the chief custodians; and indeed, there is nothing from which art suffers more than from the indifference of the artists themselves. True it is that they have simple justification for their attitude–the general lack of encouragement and appreciation, why, the lack of even an enlightened audience: but it must be pointed out that a scholarly appreciation of their art is impossible so long as they confine their art to within the four walls of a sacred temple, which denies access to the general public. In any case, something more is possible, if the actors themselves are prepared to move a little forward even within the limits that a rigid convention has imposed upon them.

V

We have in the preceding pages described the local acting of the Surpanakhamka, as we saw it and as we felt about it. What is the artistic value of the representation? This is a question that I asked myself as I returned home in the small hours of the morning,–indeed an important question, particularly because in Kutiyattam is preserved for us the earliest form of dramatic expression we have available in the whole of India.

The answer to this question, however, depends upon how we interpret the nature and value of artistic expression. Fine arts, we hold, transfer to and re-create in the critic, through the help of a specific medium, the emotions experienced by the artist. The artist may or may not in all cases be conscious of the communicative value of his expression, but, in so far as the dramatist is concerned, he is fully and acutely conscious of the communicative value of his expression. The choice of the medium of expression is decided by the genius of the artist: he may choose language, stone, canvass or his physical body, and, according as the medium differs, the sensory organ appealed to also differs. Emotion is aroused by an appeal to one or other of the sensory organs, and, the greater the number of organs, appealed to, the greater and the more successful is the appeal. Of the varied organs of sense, the sense of touch and smell and taste do not generally come within the purview of fine arts generally, whether of expression or reception. These have their appeal to the other two organs of sense, the sense of hearing and of sight. Some arts appeal only to the sense of hearing, others only to the sense of sight, while still others appeal both to the sense of hearing and of sight. Drama belongs to the last category, and in this respect it stands superior to other arts. Whatever the medium chosen and whatever the sensory organ appealed to, the artist’s expression is conditioned by the conventions and the technique of expression in that particular medium. Thus, in the realm of poetry, the poet is a victim to the theories of poetry, even if it be only to a certain extent. Similarly, the dramatist is a slave to the theory and practice of dramaturgy; and his art is further conditioned by the equipment of the stage for which and the standard of culture of the people for whom he intends his work of art. Thus every variety of art has certain restrictions imposed upon it on the creative side. It is equally restricted on the receptive side: for a knowledge of the technique through which and the limitations under which the artist works and expresses himself is essential for the critic, if he would have the artist’s experiences transferred a recreated in him in any really appreciable measure. Thus every variety of art-expression is restricted both on the expressive side and on the receptive side. And, consequently, art has its appeal always limited to select circle: it appeals only to the Sahrdaya–one who has proper training in the art and its technique and who, by continued practice, can tune up his mind to receive the artist’s experiences conveyed in that particular mode of expression. And this, be it noted, is especially true of dramatic expression.

With a view to make his expression as complete and rich and wide as possible, the dramatist introduces certain adventitious aids in furtherance of his expression. Thus, he makes his characters re-live in flesh and blood, their costume and make-up suggesting their rank in life, their outlook on life, their dominant trait of character, and their greatness and nobility or their depravity and meanness. He introduces music and dance to render pleasing the communicativeness of the activity. And, lastly, he magnifies expression of ideas and emotions by a three-fold repetition–by the language of poetry, by the language of gestures and by the movements of face and body. With these aids he tries, and that successfully, to make his art appeal to the eyes and ears simultaneously, though at the same time, this method tends to curb the play of the imagination on the part of the critic; for it converts the ideal into the real, and in all such conversion there is curtailment.

Against this theoretical ground we may view the staging of the Surpanakhamka. Here was a representation of one incident in the life of Rama, as the poet conceived it. Three characters appeared on the scene who re-lived their lives. Their dress and make-up, their actions and activities, their ideas and ideals, their outlook on life–all these are shaped by the artist, who is conditioned by the traditions and conventions of the local stage-art handed down from a remote antiquity and continued even today in more or less the same primitive form. And the life they are made to re-live is not the usual one: like everything else on the stage it is unreal, non-normal alaukika.  Again, their ideas and emotions are expressed in a two-fold way. The ideas are first expressed in the language of poetry and then again in the language of gestures, and the emotions, first by facial expression and then by bodily movements; and both these are later emphasised and magnified by the repetition of the words, the set against an alaukika ground. The different modes of expression of the ideas and emotions, which stand in the relation of cause and effect usually not noticed, at least not realised as such, re-create in the Sahrdaya emotional experiences, similar in kind to those originally experienced by the artist himself, and he becomes steeped in pleasure, in ecstatic bliss of the successful blending into a unified whole of the different media of language and of gestures of face and of body, into one expression, which combines in it the music of voice and the grace of movement, all set in the world of the stage. Divorced from the everyday realities of life, each one of these is in itself a source of pleasure, of course with an intellectual bias, and their successful blending produces emotional or aesthetic bliss–in which process the intellectual element recedes into the ground: but at the same time its presence in the ground prevents the recreated emotional experience from losing itself in sensuous indecision. The value of this emotional experience is enhanced by the fact that here there is a process of edification, for emotional experiences tend to purify the emotions by the process of catharsis, as it is termed in the west, or Sadharanikarana, as it is known among Indian Alamkarikas. And, indeed, in this particular case, the process of recreation has been rendered much easier, since the representation has been hung on to a Pauranik incident, well-known to the audience; and this enables them to concentrate better on the art of the artist.

If then, from the final unity of the impressions produced and one’s responses to the same, one may generalise Kutiyattam immerses the audience in pleasure by the process of recreating in them certain experiences of an emotional character by the presentation in time and space of a dramatised version of Pauranik incident in a garb and form that is non-normal and for that reason more pleasing to the Hindu audience. This pleasure is intellectual in character to those who are not well trained in the modus operandi of the local stage and the local technique of the professional actor; but it becomes raised up to the emotional to those who are well-versed therein. And, indeed, this judgment cannot be too wrong for every work of art is a particular case and has to be judged as such.

IV

We shall not better conclude this short notice than with a reference, to Kathakali. Even a cursory glance would convince one that the make-up and costume of the Kathakali actor are based upon the simple mode of the Cakyars, only it has been made more impressive and, if we may say so more ponderous. The facial get-up has been made very complex by the addition of white paints in relievo and of knobs to emphasise the dominant traits of the various casts of characters; and this has been rendered possible since the Kathakali actor has not to open his mouth. The head gear which of the standing erect type, as compared with that of the Cakyar, adds certainly to the stature of the character and has been necessitated by the facial get-up. The costume and ornamentation have been considerably increase to make up for the increased stature, though one might suspect that wealth and richness of the same probably hamper free movements. The skirt of the Kathakali actor is no doubt more attractive and afford better scope for flouncings, and this is naturally essential in view of the larger element of bodily movements in the art-expression of the Kathakali actor, while the use of the silver nails on the fingers adds greatly to the grace and beauty of the gestures. On the whole, the costume and get-up of Kathakali actor better capture the attention of the audience. As compared with this, those of the Cakyar is much simpler and less conventional. Naturally, the former involves greater physical strain for the actors, and hence we find certain innovations made to minimise it, chiefly in the development of the musical accoutrements. In the modus operandi also there is a specific difference. The Kathakali actor never opens his mouth except to utter his war-cry, and he naturally cannot open his mouth on account of the larger element of facial make-up–paints in relievo, borders and knobs. As a result, all linguistic expression is done by the musician and, because he is a professional, it is done in a musical way. The actor confines himself to the expression of ideas and of emotions. The former he does by means of the gesture language and the latter by facial expression and flouncing steps and bodily movements; and these have been naturally elaborated. The language of the hands he was considerably improved, rather magnified, by the introduction of symbols for nicer and finer shades of meaning and the extension of the space within which his hand poses work. His hand poses which extend to the area within his extended arms, instead of the elbow limits, and the dropping out of the pratyayas, i. e., conjugational and inflectional terminations, these have helped him to keep pace with the musician’s musical recital of the poetry of the drama. The elaborate ornamentation of the face, which is different for different primary emotions, helps emotional expression by the face to a greater degree. Hence the blending of expression, both of ideas and of emotions, has been magnified, not by repetition but by extension and elaboration, and this has helped the re-creation of the emotional experiences in the audience to a greater degree. Thus in Kathakali we find a deliberate attempt to make the stage more and more pealing to a wider circle of audience, to lift the art from the select circle the orthodox and make it more entertaining and popular. And this has been rendered easier, since the language has been simplified to some extent by fusing Sanskrit and Malayalam into the happy blend or alloy, called Manipravalam. The progress of the art has been so phenomenal the first hundred years of its existence that, in due course, this became more conventionalised than even Kutiyattam and would have become bracketed with it, but for the new lease of life given to it by the Kerala Kalamandalam under the lead of our great national poet-critic-artist, Vallathol. It is to be hoped that Kutiyattam also will ere long be lifted out of its narrow groove and exclusive environments and made to claim its rightful place among the sister arts of the land. May that day dawn in the nearer, than in the remote, future is the prayer of the writer!