Chavittu Nadakam is a colorful Latin Christian classical art form originated in Cochin,Kerala. Tanya Abraham goes to its birthplace to know this ‘Indian Opera’ deeper and better.
I am in Vypeen in Kochi, with Joy, a Chavittu nadakam artist. My research on culture, and their confluences has brought me to him.He is young, in his late twenties and one of the few of his generation who have chosen to carry on the tradition of the dance-drama.He offers me a cup of tea, we are sitting in his drawing room, the TV buzzing with that evening’s Asianet News. Joy’s wife Omana is standing at the doorway to the kitchen, attentively listening to it.I wonder if she can hear, as Joy lowers the volume. He then pulls out an album of photographs – of his father and uncles, artists who don’t perform any longer. I am curious why he gave up his college degree to become a Chavittu nadakam artist. “i believe that is what I am born to do, the reason why I was born into this family.’ Three generations of artists, have won his family pride; an array of certificates and places sit dust free on the shelf above the TV. Prized possessions. I tell him the reason I am visiting him, that I need to know how this particular art form is an interesting amalgamation of details, where history ties stories together. Joy is thinking, and says that the reason is simple; We are in Kerala, so much has happened in Kochi over the last centuries. ‘Besides music and dance has been the medium of expression, of communication,’ he adds.
Chavittu nadakam carries in its bosom specifics which no other art form has – It is special. It is a narrative of the past – both through movement and speech, and emerged in Cochin amongst a specific community of people called the Latin Catholics in the 17th century. Chavittu means stamp and nadakam means drama. And it is performed by men only,requiring enormous strength and stamina. I am amused at the elaborate, gaudy costumes which hang in Joy’s bedroom.Sequenced jackets, satin pants and crowns in gold paper. ‘It is too expensive to have metal crowns any longer, so we use paper and embellish it with colorful plastic stones. We need to portray royalty, he says. Wigs of various hair texture and colours are places in clear plastic bags in a basket, each assigned for a particular performance.The dramas are set in the Portuguese period, and the costumes carry the flavor.Of Indian men in pink make up and red tinted lips, everything to provide a foreign look. The costumes seem odd for hot weather, but Portuguese Cochin is brought alive on stage. Joy invites me to a performance that evening, and promises he would have me escorted home late that day. Vypeen is a boat’s ride from mainland Kochi, and performances are always at night.It provides to the drama, and the excitement is elaborate with lights and sound.I promptly agree, and promise his wife to help her pack his costumes in a cardboard box. Omana has them arranged on the bed, and combs out the wigs – black, brown and auburn.They go into the box as well and before we know it, Joy is honking from his Maruti 800. I manage to squeeze in at the back, the box snug next to me. It is an hour’s drive from Kochi, he announces.First we cross the waters and then ply our way to Allepey. The church there has asked for a performance, for its Centenary Celebrations.We are to meet the rest of the troupe enroute, at a tea stall where they will stop for a early meal. ‘It is not always easy to find people who want a Chavittu nadakam performance, very few people perform these days; its a dying art he says.I can sense the pain in his voice, as he swallows, his Adam’s apple moving in unison. I notice anxiety rise around in the car, from uncertainty (and a college degree forgotten).
At the tea stall, a van of peering faces stare at us.Pink faces with moles and artificial mustaches.They spill out of the vehicle, sweat beads forming on their painted faces.The make-up artist is dabbing them clean. Joy introduces me to Anthony maash, a veteran and a dedicated Chavittu nadakam enthusiast. He invites me for a cup of tea, with Joy sitting opposite to me.He lights a beedi.’ It started during the time of the Portugese, when they ruled in Kerala.It is the folk dance of the coastal region, and has a religious tone to it.That is why the church still supports it today, perhaps our only support. Religion plays an important role as stories tend to be Biblical or at least carry a Biblical tone:Stories from the Bible were best communicated through dance, music and drama; it was an ideal way to spread Christianity in the region. I decide to mount the van, to be with Anthony mash. He lights another beedi. He narrates a portion of the entrance dialogue to me : The dialogue is extensive and has to be bi-hearted, and are narrated with the stomping of the feet on the wooden stage.The sound of the stomps add to the drama, accentuates the narration. I am amazed at the skill required to synchronize the two, Anthony mash says he can do it in his sleep.
By the time the van moves through a paddy field and into the church compound, people have already begun to gather.The church vicar is there to greet us, and looks at me oddly.I quickly introduce myself.He ignores me.Joy makes sure I get a chair to sit on, V.I.P seating, he says.The others are squatted on the ground. Anthony mash and team have already readied themselves backstage.A gong strikes and the actors appear.I trace the Malayalam in the dialogue and parts are in ancient Portuguese, some a creole. Narrations break out into songs, much in Tamil.The close proximity of Kerala to Tamil Nadu explains the reason why, but also the interesting idea that Tamil scholars and musicians once traversed Kochi.The music and percussion provide a strong ambience, stomping of feet and elaborate gestures mesmerize the audience. I am awed. There is no art form in Kerala which is so unique; the merging of history, culture and ideas from different parts of the globe.Joy appears in orange satin pants and a cross in hand.The otherwise quiet man breaks out in loud dialogue.I clap. Omana smiles at me.The church vicar doesn’t turn to look, but his assistant next to me says that it will perhaps be the last time the church will have the performance.’Too expensive…. the travel, the stage.’ My heart goes out to Joy and his team.Patrons no longer exist, the art is dying and artists are few. Maybe Joy would go back to a regular job in the years to come, I think. I glance at Omana.’His college degree still holds good,’ she says.
