It seemed like a long time ago when time was still timeless, I had an affliction of color and sound. My mind, for the first time, was registering the overwhelming play of bright colors and engrossing sounds of the yearly festival at the temple in our neighborhood. Even the colors of candies stacked by seasonal peddlers upon their makeshift stalls added an ethereal sheen to the phantasmal vision unfolding before my eyes.
The soothsayer’s song in praise of snake deities, loud and stout-looking actors on stage enacting extra-terrestrial battles from the Ramayana and Mahabharata, the balloon man with his mobile paraphernalia—those were the early connectors to the heritage of the land, expressions of a world order that defied the onslaught of time as long as they endured.
It was much later that I began to notice earthier and more primordial forms of folk art such as Ayyappan Paattu, songs in praise of Dravidian gods (Muthappan, Vishnumaya), along the sidelines of flashier performing arts. In them, I could sense a kind of cathartic realization of individual and collective dreams and fears—emotions that might otherwise have remained buried in the subconscious or erupted into something sinister and dark. The national festival of Kerala, Onam, was borne of a folk legend and became an occasion to celebrate all kinds of folk arts—ritualistic and secular (such as Tiger Dance, Kummatti Kali, etc.). More than its significance as an age-old tradition, Onam created a grand setting for people to celebrate life and revel in others’ joy.
Some of the shapes and forms I witnessed in the traditional settings of Kerala were intense enough to quiet my growing apprehensions about the lack of development and modernity in the state’s social life. The richness of folk art easily filled the gaps of deprivation and countered the snobbery prevalent among the audiences and practitioners of classical arts. Often I marveled at the striking similarities between Theyyam and Kathakali costumes, and how Theyyam invariably broke into cries, in contrast to the refined aural and literary traditions of Kathakali. The social dynamic at work here was too stark to ignore.
The dialectics of folk art were cleverly adopted and manipulated by political strategists, especially the communists, who embedded their ideology in seemingly innocuous variations of folk music enjoyed by workers in the fields. Later, popular poets used the structures and sounds of folk music to lend their art a vivid imagery and unexpected dimension. Listening to such poems in native languages like Malayalam, Marathi, Bengali, etc., became a unique experience. Translating them would never have made sense.
Yet, the most impressive of all folk arts has always been music. The rhythms and sounds of folk music have a rare ability to cut through the carefully manicured fences of culture and language. The aspirations of common people rising in unison resonate naturally with their counterparts across the world and touch hearts in a singular way—whether it is a group of Moravian gypsies assembled in a tavern, a Texan singing Americana, a Baul singer walking down the beaten fields, or farmers on a nondescript islet in Kuttanad rhapsodizing about the harvest season and the pleasures of a simple, unhurried life of yore.
Living in a time when hypermodernity and globalization are often confused and utterly inadequate to describe the human condition—and, to a great extent, the condition of the earth—folk art may offer the much-needed healing for our electrocuted humanity. Although we will never return to the refuge of a rural and agrarian setting, the only lasting answers to our complicated problems may be simple ones.
I remember reading Milan Kundera, who devoted an entire chapter to folk music and modern society. He spoke about men weary under the weight of their own egos and mistrust of their identities:
...and I felt happy within these songs, in which sorrow is not reckless, laughter is not crooked, love is not ridiculous and hate is not apprehensive, where people love with their bodies and souls, where they draw knives or sabres in hatred, dance in joy, throw themselves into the Danube in despair, where, for that matter, love is still love and pain is still pain, where the original emotion is not yet devoid of itself and where values are still unravaged; and it seemed to me that within these songs I was at home, that I had my roots in there. That their world was my primal point of reference… (The Joke).
Notes:
Some of the most evocative uses of audio and visual expositions of folk arts have appeared in popular and offbeat Indian cinema. Aravindan’s Kummatty comes to mind—the entire film based on a folk tale and roused by folk music. Nokkukuthi (Scarecrow) was another experimental effort, based on M. Govindan’s poem depicting a ballad. Other folk arts such as Theyyam and Kalam Paattu have long had their place in popular films. Mani Kaul also made a documentary on Rajasthani puppetry and a film, Duvidha, based on a folk tale.
Chronicles 