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 40th
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.
