Knowing Thyself

Arun was not my best friend in school. He wasn’t even in the ‘inner circle’. But he was a nice boy – kind and helpful. He always had a smile on his face, warm and innocent. Though we were both in the same class from Grade I, I never had the good fortune of getting to know him personally until Grade 7. His bus reached early and dad had to drop me in school on the way to his office. As a result, both of us reached class almost 45 minutes early. What started with Good Mornings and Hi-Hello’s gradually evolved into heated debates about school house teams and playing a quick game of shuttle everyday with the other boys before the daily assembly.

One distinct memory I have of Arun is the time we were discussing our school captain’s small but famous tattoo. It was a swastika on his left biceps, most of it hidden while wearing the school uniform but shown just enough to draw the attention of students and teachers alike. Students loved it while the latter couldn’t decide what to do about it. There were lengthy arguments amongst teachers whether the boy was a huge fan of Hitler or an ardent devotee trying to invoke good luck through spirituality.  Obviously, that didn’t matter to us much (He was way out of our league!) except for the fact that it got us thinking about what we would like to have if we ever got a tattoo.

I had come up with a few options and finally settled on the face of the Bull for two reasons. One, my sun-sign was Taurus and people who know me could easily attribute most of my characteristic behaviours to the ‘bull’ (ahem!); two, smaller the better, considering how painful it was to get a tattoo done. Happy with my choice, I asked Arun what he’d prefer but all he did was smile and say, ‘I’ll show you!’. I was curious about it the whole day and made a list of things that Arun would have liked. The good (read ‘sensible’) ones from my list included Johnny Bravo, Popeye and Batman. I made a note of them all thinking I’ll discuss with him the next morning. But Arun was a step ahead than I thought. That evening, before we all left for home he came to me and placed a piece of paper on my desk. I instantly knew it was the tattoo and quickly opened to see if it was as good as what I had in mind for him. Frankly I was disappointed! In it, five letters were written in black ink and beautiful calligraphy – thrive.

Of course, I knew what ‘thrive’ meant - our biology teacher who was also a passionate gardener had made sure of that. Arun was an artist alright but why a tattoo with this word? Maybe I could explain to him that Batman was way cooler. But like all other teenage discussions, we totally forgot about this. Or maybe just I did. After completing Grade 7, I moved to another country and school. New friends were made and Arun along with a few others receded to the archives of my brain.

Fifteen years have passed. Arun is now Archana, a very enthusiastic boutique owner. Her new features have not taken away her charm and innocence. We meet occasionally over cups of coffee where I can’t help but notice her radiant smile and gentle laughter while we recollect old memories and in the process, create new ones. She is scarred, but happy; tired, but relentless; emotional, but free. The process of knowing thyself is, in itself, one that calls for courage and the indomitable will to stand tall in the face of ridicule and criticism. But when you act on your reflections and work towards being thyself, you begin the extraordinary process of polishing and filing yourself, only to emerge stronger and soar higher. 

Where the tiger belongs..

Dasettan took his work very seriously. Or as most people who know him might say, ‘Immade Dasettan Puliyaantta!!!’ (Our Dasettan rocks!!!) Pulikali is an artform sans pareil in Thrissur. It is a matter of pride and a symbol of their eternal legacy second only to the famed Thrissur Pooram which men and women from all over the world gather every year to witness. These two events – the Thrissur Pooram and the Pulikali together encompass what the people of Thrissur truly believe in – the ensemble of culture, charisma and camaraderie!

To Dasettan, Pulikali was his mirror - the truest way of expressing himself. All year round, he would mentally prepare all the moves that would accompany the enchanting beats of the udukku, thavil and the like. Once the Thrissur Pooram ended, it was his cue to get started with his elaborate process. Who would paint, how would the design look like, how much rounder should his potbelly be, how much more food should he eat to achieve the desired ‘round-ness’, how many jingles of his handmade belt needed to replaced - all the details would be meticulously charted and followed to the T.

The event happens every year on the fourth day of Onam. For a performer the process starts from the wee hours in the morning. All the hair on the body has to first be removed and the now shimmering body is then given a first coat of paint which takes around 2 to 3 hours to dry. Then the second layer of painting is done, this time with great detailing and perfection (and of course, a truck load of patience). After a good 7 to 8 hours, the tigers assemble in the famous Swaraj Round. The drums sound and pulis dance, pounce and shake their bellies accompanied by the shikaris and other characters. The performance is a sight to behold and the sheer energy it exudes is enjoyed by both the classes and masses, alike.

Dasettan was one of the very few who was still going strong. Most of his friends who accompanied him when he started out were now part of a very distant past. This, however, did not discourage him. It only became the foundation of his love for the artform, bordering on obsession. ‘Pulikali illathe enthu Onam!’ (What fun was Onam without Pulikali!), he often said.  Forty years of tireless performances and Dasettan was still the stud of the event. Most youngsters who joined the sangams looked up to Dasettan. He was their very own Birju Maharaj, their Da Vinci of sorts. These days it was much easier. You could get readymade masks, tongues, teeth, tails and all the accessories. Also, the Thrissur Municipal Corporation gives a grant of Rs 30,000 for each troupe so as to encourage young performers and keep the tradition in its vibrant best. But in Dasettan, you could appreciate the art for its innocence and genuinity. Lots of people who came to the event remember Dasettan from when he was a young man. When asked, they would chuckle and say, ‘Dasettan annum innum same aantta, vayaru maathre chaadittullo!’ (Dasettan is still the same, only his potbelly has gotten bigger!)

His family however, did not share the same love for Pulikali or for him. Tigers essentially live solitary lives, except during mating season and when females bear young. The same could be said about Dasettan. His female left after bearing her young. His pulikali hardly brought any money and Dasettan didn’t hunt. Also, his wife didn’t quite get the whole idea. Performing pulikali, won’t make you a tiger nor will it fill our stomachs, she kept reminding him to which he would respond with only a smile. So one fourth day of Onam, when he returned back home after his performance, he found his wife had left. And she took along with her, his little cub who was barely 3 months old. He didn’t go looking for them. Nor did he expect them to return. Tigers essentially live solitary lives.

However, as years passed by, Dasettan felt the void. Most people he knew had moved on. New jobs, new families, new cities. But Pulikali had kept him rooted. It was everything he had and the one thing he could hold on to. Today, after his 40^th performance he shed a tear. It was his last time and was truly an emotional moment. All the people including the Collector gave him a standing ovation after the performance ended. A salute to his undying devotion to Thrissur’s most distinct tradition by almost 30,000-odd people. But Dasettan could only spot one face – his cub had returned. And this time with a tiny one in his arms – a baby girl. His son had his wife’s eyes, but most else was Dasettan. There was no mistaking him. And if he was in any doubt, the look on the young man’s face said it all. Dasettan broke down.

Most children were either scared or shy but she readily greeted him with a smile on her face when her father introduced the town’s most famous puli to her. Throughout the way back home she asked him various things about pulikali – how many bells did he have in his belt, how many idlis could he fit in his stomach, was the tail real and many other questions which left Dasettan dumbfounded. She also claimed to be the one who cheered the loudest. The little one was now sleeping in Dasettan’s lap and he stroked her hair lovingly. Looking at his granddaughter he realized he had missed all the wonderful moments of being a father. He had not been there for his son’s first fall or first word, nor was he there to support him after first punishment at school or first breakup. He had lived all his life as a puli and now that it came to an end he was unsure what to do next. But he knew what he wanted. He wanted to connect with his son and know him better. Fumbling for words, Dasettan asked him his name and even before he heard it he knew what it was. His wife was a huge fan of the actor, Jayan. He had not forgotten after all.

Jayan smiled and told his father how he had been to Dasettan’s every single performance after his mother told him about his father. He was angry at first, but then as years passed it was just a deep longing to know the man better – sans paint and costume. And what better time than after his last ever performance. Jayan wanted to take his father home. Surely he could not grow up with his father but little Gouri would have a playmate and friend. Dasettan’s heart felt a lot lighter. He was proud that his son had grown up to be such a good man. Or maybe it was because Dasettan wasn’t around. He wouldn’t know.

It was getting late. Gouri Mol left home with her father but not before Dasettan planted a kiss on her cheeks and promised that he would join them soon. Removing the last traces of paint from his body, Dasettan felt the last signs of his old self quickly fading out of reality. The images of his wife, son and Gouri began to replace the happy faces he usually noticed when performing. All the cheer that he got from his enthusiastic audience now seemed to blend with the love of his family. He smiled weakly feeling complete and thus basking in the warmth of it all, Dasettan died peacefully in his sleep.

Tigers dont really cope with old age. Most of them are poached or killed by other predators much before their time, but some lucky ones live the full extent of their lifetime before breathing their last.