KATHAKALI

It is the dance of the gods, the story of the gods. It is a performance of movement, song, acting and music that is more religious worship than theatre......

Kathak-story, kali-to act. Stemmed from temple performances of religious text in the 18th Century, Kathakali was developed specifically in the Southern state of Kerala. Masks, costumes and over dramatised make-up was used in order to convey expression to temple crowds. Popular stories of gods and their deeds were chosen from the Maharbharata-a collection of holy Hindu stories of the gods.

Small gods, and soft burning lamps are the only signs of the religious routes of the dance today, tucked quietly away in shady corners.

At the time we did not know that traditionally the performance of Khathakali was itself a sacred act of worship. At the time we did not know that the first tourist performances caused outrage. At the time we did not know that some performers physical punished themselves after tourist shows for the sins of secularising Khathakali and performing for money.

Ignorantly unaware, our eyes greedily lapped up the colourful transformation of man to god.

Stones, wetted and rubbed produce different primary colours for make-up. The demonstrator wields his red evidence like a childhood magician for all to see. Colours from stone. Stone with colour living inside waiting for the 'open sesame' to reveal it's magic. I wonder if the first to discover it were shrouded in much magic and status, like the first stone-age descendents who learned how to make metal from stone. Lancelot's sword from stone one of many great symbolic legends of those early magicians.

He is a living artist-painting his masterpieces on the still breathing canvas patiently laid out before him.

Fingers wind and weave intricate messages in time with the drums soft rhythm. The combination of over dramatised facial expression, body gestures and hand-signals narrate the story without words. Lips twitch in anger and droop in comical sadness. Fingers gracefully mime commands whilst feet convey emotional states with the speed of the rhythm.

With a soft tremour to a rattling anger, the drum speaks for the silent performers. Every movement they make is vocalised by the drummer. The drum for the dancer or the dancer to highlight the drums intricate patters? And in the background, the tinkling of the cymbals hold steady the singers narration that rises to heart renching cries of holy pleas and falls lows to melodic murmurs.

The music rises, expectation is in the air, a curtain is lifted and held on stage whilst two barefeet cling-cling their ankle bracelets onto stage behind the curtain. As the drums rise in dramatic urgency the top of black hair or a metal clawed finger teases us in anticipation. Then, in a swirl and a swish of colour a goddess of the underworld, shrieks her way onto the stage, spinning her matted locks around in a frenzy .

She has fallen in love with a heavenly prince and she is awakened to her own appearance after seeing the virgins of heaven. She cries her disgust at her matted hair. She shrieks in anger at her black pointed breasts.

And though I am laughing, I am also crying...Alot of my life has been haunted by those painful shrieks and cries of self-disgust and loathing...I wonder how old this story of self-hate really is, how many other eyes have looked with that black disastisfaction on themselves, how many other skins have burned with painful shame at their reflection?

But she magically transforms herself into a beauty to match the heavenly virgins and sets off to seduce her prey. It seems self-help and the obsession to recreate oneself a-new rather than accepting the reality of who we are, is not just a fad of the West. Even the gods seek to hide from their dark sides...

The lover is found. The lover is wooed. The lover is not fooled and promptly slays her after a clash of colours and twirls.

Is this the triumph of good? The fight to slay the darkness within us which has echoed its song through the history of all religions? The devil is outcast from the garden and notions of darkness as evil produced a history of colonial represssion-dark skins were automatically outside 'civilisation'. Darkness and light, good and evil. Dualisms that teach us to fight, repress and supress our 'dark' sides. But though we should not feed this 'dark' side neither should we starve it. I think of the words of an Indian guru that repression of one's bitterness, jealousy and hate only leads to a false suppresion rather than freedom from it.

"The seed is diminished but a seed is very powerful. A seed can at any time produce a tree. The right situation, the right season of hurts and the tree will again sprout. Diminishing is not the way. Understand it, accept it. Bring it into the light and see it for all that it is....and in seeing, you will immediately drop it in disgust" (Osho).