A rich dance tradition that remained marginalised, known only to a small section of society — that’s how the Pangalay seemed to Ligaya Fernando-Amilbangsa when she first chanced upon it in 1969, on the southern islands of the Philippines. Characterised by elaborate postures and gestures making use of janggay , or metal claws, this art form traces its origins to the archipelago’s Sulu province. The name itself offers a clue to its evolution — Pangalay means ‘temple of dance’ or ‘temple dancing’ in Sanskrit.
Once she had discovered it, Amilbangsa began to single-mindedly showcase the dance’s tremendous potential to her fellow countrymen and, further, to the world. The 72-year-old Filipina’s efforts were duly rewarded with the Ramon Magsaysay Award in 2015.
“Pangalay antedates Islam and Christianity in the Philippines; it is a living link to Hindu culture... The Indian connection is obvious in the Pangalay’s movement vocabulary itself, which bears closest affinity with the classical dance cultures in Southeast Asia that are derivates of Indian models,” Amilbangsa explains. She has documented numerous other material evidence in her books
She spells out the form’s many unique features. “A Pangalay dancer moves in a slow, flowing, seamless manner — elegant and meditative and extemporaneous. In contrast, the music is very fast. Such contrasting rhythm is difficult for the non-native, untrained beginner. Counting is unnecessary; the dance follows the normal breathing, which is the music within the body. The technique of inhaling/ exhaling is related to the flexing motions of the knees. The illusion of lightness and calmness, or freedom from tension, is the result of good breath control.”
On that note, credit goes to Amilbangsa for making this rather slow dance intriguing enough for today’s generation. She has made innovative use of different types of music without sacrificing authenticity.
“The Pangalay movement vocabulary is adaptable to classical, pop, jazz, rock, march, lullaby, tapping, and other sounds,” she says. Furthermore, she introduced the use of masks. “In this form, since a dancer’s face is always expressionless or mask-like, I thought that a mask could instantly transform a dancer’s countenance or characterisation. This innovation is very convenient, especially when only a few dancers are available at certain performances, or for quick role-changes.” The choreographic themes range from comic situations to issues surrounding gender, children, and even the environment and nationalism.
Coming from a prominent Catholic family in Marikina (one of the cities that make up Metro Manila), Amilbangsa moved to southern Sulu after marrying into an equally well-known Muslim family. The Pangalay is mostly performed at celebrations such as weddings and it was on one such occasion that Amilbangsa watched it for the first time. Interested in the arts from a young age — she still paints — she was instantly captivated by the dance. “As a child my parents let me study ballet, the piano, and vocals. This early training served me in good stead. When I wanted to learn the Pangalay, the locals or natives must have been amused at first. My own sister-in-law did not understand why I wanted to learn. Of course, they were tolerant.”
What followed were long hours of hard work to research, document, and propagate the dying cultural heritage.
“Big wedding celebrations brought together dancers and musicians of varying competence. Dancing is extemporaneous as also the music, and the performances usually happened at night under moonlight. An antiquated tape recorder served the purpose of documenting the music. I did not rely on gadgets such as a camera. Instead, I drew stick figures to document postures/ gestures. Most of all, I relied on memory and studied my own silhouettes reflected on a wall with the aid of a candle or gas lamp. This enabled me to recall the postures/ gestures after the nightlong observation. There were times when my husband, relatives, or friends arranged for local dancers to teach me the Pangalay rudiments. None of them knew I was doing research. They were only too happy that a non-native was eager to learn it,” she reminisces.
The Pangalay tradition centres on postures and gestures. The movements can suggest anything from sea waves, seaweed and sea animals to butterflies, flowers, palms and even playful animals. Shorn of a plot or storyline, the performance requires the audience to share the creative interpretation, resulting in mutual enjoyment.
Ironically, for an art that is all about inner rhythm and peace, its very place of origin — the Sulu province — is riven by separatist rebellion, particularly from the Abu Sayyaf militant group with links to both ISIS and al-Qaeda. “Any festering volatile social situation certainly contributes to the deterioration of a performing art form, as people are displaced. In the case of Pangalay, many postures and gestures seem to have been forgotten,” Amilbangsa rues. At the same time, she is optimistic about this art as a unifying force. It gave the dancers a chance to come together during the martial law in the 1970s, ushering moments of calm in the region.
Using her personal resources, Amilbangsa provided artistes an opportunity to reach out to an audience in the bigger cities. A dance with Hindu legacy, rooted in a Muslim-majority population started having Christian students as well. Somewhere, it contributed in fostering nationalism during troubled times. An indigenous art became a link between the glorious past, an uneasy present, and a hopeful future.
Manasi Mathkar is a Pune-based freelance writer