Ladies save their best kanjeevarams, and no one is seen without their diamonds. Men often show up with a newspaper in hand, and children are shushed if they whimper. Enthusiasts of music and dance are spoilt for choice, and, well, everyone’s an expert around this time of the year. Welcome to Margazhi in Chennai, the annual music and dance season that reverberates across the city’s numerous sabhas (centres for performing arts) for six weeks from December to January.
A long-time performer at these December concerts, Carnatic singer TM Krishna decided to do something different this time around. “Around a year ago I thought of a festival in a space where people do not have access to these art forms and from which, in fact, they are excluded. The December music and dance season is the largest in the world and I could not think of a better time to begin a parallel narrative,” he said.
What started as a Facebook status calling for volunteers, ended up as a two-day music and dance festival called the Urur-Olcott Kuppam Margazhi Vizha, named after the fishing settlements that would host the event. The
Attempting to break the “socially conditioned class- and caste-based bubble” in which Krishna believes the sabhas operate, the festival brought Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam together with lesser-known art forms like Kattaikuttu, Villupattu, Paraiattam on the same stage. “The art intelligentsia (and we) refer to the rest as ‘folk’, by which we mean that they belong to another, perhaps lesser universe,” says Krishna, “but they are not quaint or rustic, they are complete aesthetic forms.”
For Nityanand Jayaraman, writer and researcher, who worked to create this festival along with a team of volunteers, it all started when he was approached by an interesting man with an interesting idea. “I’m not a very keen follower of art,” Jayaraman admits, “but the idea TM Krishna came up with was also socially relevant since it brought the fishing village into the spotlight.” Despite being one of the oldest settlements in Chennai, fishing villages like the Urur-Olcott Kuppam are often ignored, or treated as slums that are off-limits. In this obscurity there is insecurity, says Jayaraman, and the festival was a great way to break the stereotypes people associate with a fishing village, and its inhabitants.
All are welcome
This was probably the only venue where the occasional stray dog ventured in, undeterred by the music and crowds, and wandered off later as if unimpressed by the performances. Children played in the sand, while their parents sat mesmerised by the music. Beachgoers, surprised at the sound and lights, found their way into the show and stayed on out of sheer curiosity.
Hemalatha and her young son Dhwij, seated at a little distance from the stage, watched the entire Kattaikuttu performance, which lasted about an hour and a half. She would often bend down and explain in simpler words what the characters were doing on the stage. “I love the idea of the vizha,” Hemalatha said, adding that it was a better experience than the sabhas, although she did wish for better acoustics. Trading in perfect acoustics for the caress of sea breeze and endless legroom on the sand, though, seemed like a fair deal.
The Carnatic instrumental ensemble performed simple compositions, ones that even a novice could appreciate. Towards the end of the performance, Praveen Kumar on the mridangam had a message for the crowds: “If you like what you just heard, come to the sabhas. We play exactly like this.”
“Frankly,” says Jayaraman, “it’s unlikely that the kuppam folk will head to the sabhas next season, but at least in principle, we made the art more accessible.” Who knows, maybe the little boy from the village furiously imitating the mridangam player performing a few feet in front of him, in his own neighbourhood yard, will one day be inclined to learn the art.
While the other events were attended by close to 300-odd spectators, the Kattaikuttu performance saw a drop in numbers. The rural dance form is a mix of song, dance and theatrics, accompanied by musicians on the harmonium and mridangam. When asked about the thinning audience, Krishna says, “Just like the people of the kuppam have very little exposure to Carnatic music or Bharatanatyam, we have very little exposure to Kattaikuttu, which is why many [in the audience] left. Everything takes time and, as we slowly allow ourselves to be patient and move into various art forms, we will become more open.” Jayaraman, on the other hand, believes that it captured the beauty of the venue — allowing people to come and go at will, unlike the rigid format of the sabhas. “I personally found that magical,” he adds.
While speaking at The Hindu Lit for Life, on a panel discussing Images and Imagery of Memory, Bharatanatyam dancer Alarmel Valli made special mention of the knowledgeable and informed Chennai audience. Whether they silently nod along to the beat, tap their fingers in rhythm with the thaalam or even utter a soft shabaash, it was wonderful to perform for them, she said.
It’s worth wondering then how she would have responded to young G Rajesh who, when asked if he liked the Bharatanatyam performance at the Vizha, raised his hand with his thumbs up — “ Semaiya irruku (It’s excellent)!” he said. If the Urur-Olcott Kuppam Margazhi Vizha sets the trend, some day an artist such as her would be seated next to a boy like him.