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).

COORG HILLS

(** LOST PHOTOS: Sara's camera got infected with a virus and over 300 photos have been lost. We will try to repaint them with our words as best as possible **)

The bitter tang of reddish green coffee berries colour the air with their pungent odour. Skies blue and air fresh. The sounds of the forest waking, birds hooting their greetings whilst the tall dark of the trees slowly emerge from the silent mist.

The Codagu region is famed for its coffee and beautiful hilly, lush green landscape. We'd come to trek alone through villages and forests inhabited by the Coorg tribes....and instead found them as mass produced and readily packaged for tourist consumption as the coffee. So instead, we decided to stay on a coffee plantation run by a rich Indian family. A place set into the hilly ridges, with deep forest around and plenty of routes past waterfalls and over hills to walk. And so we walked-into green forests, into dry brown dust tracks, over steep edges and attacking branches, bathing in cold rivers. We met no-one, were hassled by no-one, got lost in deep hillside woods and found a way home scrambling down the river rocks, hurrying against the coming dusk. For a moment, the India of dirt and pollution, noise and vibrant colour, melted like the morning mist, in this haven of nature. For a moment, time shrank back around is and within us- we were children again, playing at India Jones, finding adventures, mysteries and wonders in the unchanging magic of the vastness around us.

UDUPI: temples, temples, temples..

A town of temples and endless streams of pilgrams in black or orange, barefoot, gold and white markings streaked across their sweating foreheads. The town is a buzz with festival excitement that electrifies the air.

The Shri Khrisna temple founded by Sri Madhwacharya and containing an old, stone statue of Lord Kirshna. According to local stories, Sri Madhwacharya calmed a storm threatening to destroy a ship at sea. In gratitude, the ships captain offerered Sri Madhwacharya any gift from his cargo. Sri Madhwacharya refused all gifts except for a large block of stone... which he split open with his staff to reveal the image of Krishna .

Barefoot we join the thronging crowds slowly shuffling their way around the main temple. Inside, men must remove their shirts before the gods...I think of the religious rules and etiquette of my childhood-cover your hair, cover your skin, dress smart, ...do not display the shame of having a body before the Lord....


Our hot feet give thanks to the cool stone floor, the walls are cave like, the light dim with candles. Inside, our sweating bodies are packed tightly against others, as we shuffle slowly past shining stone gods bethroned in cages. Like a zoo, food is offered through the bars, quickly, as if they may bite...A bell is rung, loudly, to alert the gods to your presence, and disturb the presence of those around you...A man prostrates on the floor. Worship is individual, not communal, or perhaps it is communal in its individuality? It is hard for us to imagine how this is experienced and internalised for a devout Hindu as we will always feel a sense of separation from the events. Throughout all this a man sits on a stone ledge, swinging his legs in time to his flute 'playing', an obscure sound of random notes lost without rhythm and mixed with his sporadic chuckles to himself and no one. But rather than labelled 'mad' or 'different' and shut away from society, here in the temple he finds a home, a role, he is a 'devotee' and if he is a little strange sometimes...well, that is because he is touched by the gods.

I am fascinated by the very physical way in which people engage with the deities in the temple. Pujas often involve making food offerings to the Gods and temples are dotted with very visceral evidence of these processes. Parts of them often resemble kitchens, where strange cococtions are being prepared. Flowers, sweets, cotton, oil, tea cups, sugar, red powder, ghee, candles, melons, rice and nuts surround the sanctum, mixed together and in varying states of decay. The deities, though inanimate, are worshipped as live manifestations of the Gods themselves. The monks sing lullabys to them, 'dress' them each day in new jewels and flower chains. People rub ghee mixed with orange powder onto statues and mark themselves on the forehead with the coloured mixture. It feels as if the Gods come very close to peoples lives and bodies through these processes, unlike other religious traditions, in which the sacred is far removed from the physical. There is not the same sense of 'purity'. That which is messy, live and consumable, that which is ordinary and bodily is also sacred.

At the back a small, inconspicous window is another tale that draws fame for the temple. It is said hundreds of years ago a Dalit (an 'untouchable') not allowed in the temple, was praying ferverantly to the statue of Krisha and begged the Lord to turn to see his face. Suddenly, the statue turned to the wall which broke open and allowed the Dalit to see Kirshna with his forbidden eyes. The temple devotee who had befriended us and was relaying all these old tales, was adamant to give a different version of this story. The man was not outcast because he was a Dalit but because he was praying too estatically and disrupting those around him so he was asked to pray outside.... Whether or not any of this even happened was not important, but we all thought it was interesting the devotee did not want to admit the history of the caste systems influence on his beloved temple...

Our new friend the devotee with his friendly face and large brown eyes, insisted we stay for lunch. The humble rice meal eaten off a banana leaf whilst sitting on the floor was slightly marred by being taken to a more upper class room. Rich and glittering saris and the sprinkling of water clockwise around the food before eating indicated we were amongst the high caste Brahmins.....and I thought of our friend's earnest denial that this temple had never adhered to the caste system...

A stream of old temples visited in one afternoon-blur into one another in a confusing colage of colourful images. Lakshmi slaughters, serenely composed. Monkeys strut fearless round temple corners. A crowd gathers to take blessings from a white robed priest whilst a man in red beats himself with rice plants, shouting sporadicly and pacing up and down. Sometimes he breaks open a coconut. A young priest in a dirty temple performs puja (prayers) for us whilst a bat swoops lows inside the cave like shrine. Yellow fruit hangs from ceilings. Frogs swim lazily in holy waters.

Later we return to our smiling temple friend and watch from the pool side as the icon of Hanuman the monkey god is rowed three times round the waters on a fairy light bedecked boat.

A band dressed in navy style uniform, boom-boom their way around the edges.

As soon as they are finished the crowd surges through the tiny exit, pushing and squeezing their way to join the festival frenzy outside. The icons are now placed inside two massive chariots wheeled around the town square by large groups (including us) pulling on long ropes.

Fireworks explode whilst ten foot paper mache men do battle. It's hot...we sweat. We are cramped and squashed amidst the crowds whilst an elephant, pink and gold, strolls past with plenty of leg room.

Why did it happen? Not sure. What did it mean? Don't really know...But faces were friendly and the excitement infectious, it was worth the sweat to be one of the smiling faces amidst the crowds.