The Theyyam

I prodded Philippe through the gate and down the path to meet our connection. From there, our driver led us swiftly through the black night. We picked and stumbled our way behind him down the muddy path with twisted roots and unexpected rocks to find where he’d parked his rickshaw. He ushered us in with a sense of urgency. Philippe is not a man to be hurried. Nonetheless, the driver was on a mission. He navigated us deftly over a maze of bumpy roads, sharp lefts and rights, branches scraping against the rickshaw. A paved road took us through a few small villages. Then back down a dirt road to arrive at the Mambaram Keezhathur Paroli Bhagavathy Kshethram, a temple we would never have found on our own. Nor would we have been welcome. Forty locals milled about the courtyard waiting as anxiously as South Indians get, for the arrival of the first god, the more approachable human form, the vellattam of Gulikan. Gulikan is not death itself, but the god overseeing death, justice and time. Think about that for a minute. His mudi (headgear) was elaborate, a  decorated black mask, revealing only eyes, a very, very tall ladder made of Areca-nut palm with tender leaves tucked in its rungs, a bamboo plume, harnessed to his back, extending to divinity. His torso was bare, but painted, a red mesmerizing pattern against a gold base. The black would be added later. His back was ashen white and his skirt of golden reeds.

When he sat on the chair prepared for him, we would queue: the warm, smiling women in their glinting saris and the tousled men,  dressed plainly in their mundus and t-shirts, to commune with him. I watched carefully. He would acknowledge each devotee individually before the collective ritual. With an offering in our fist, he would touch our hand in blessing and discreetly withdraw the bill. We would whisper our deepest concerns and he, already knowing, would generously dispense the craved advice. We would receive a white chalky paste for a renewed third eye (wisdom), dispensed from a coconut palm leaf. He could not say much to me, nor I to him as our languages were different and I was not from his village. But I didn’t need much. He spoke only Malayalam, I spoke English. But it was translated that he gave me the blessing I was seeking. He could protect me from an untimely death. 

When all had been heeded and served, he left our presence. Soon, the drumming began. And became louder. Out came Gulikan in a costume looking much more fierce in red armor and metal ornaments. A long black tongue. A more imposing hat. And strapped to his back, his shadow made visible. His shadow resembling a temple tower, signifying that Gulikan carries his sanctum with him.

His attendants had set the stage - a courtyard generously bedecked in marigold garlands amidst burning torches, a carefully arranged platter of offerings and toddy set out; the candles on the scales wavered against the night sky. The ground is cleansed. And now his attendants hovered about him, adjusting his costume, more tightly securing the horrid black tongue, applying oil and blood red paste to the skin of his arms. The drumming was spiraling him into a trance and he had to be watched so that he did not plunge into the fire all about. The complicated sandal rigging with the heavy bells and the unwieldy costume could throw his balance in a steady moment. Nor was it clear how well he could see, and that was before they attached the silver plated goggles assuring only an interior world for him.  The drumming increased. Deeper. Faster. My stomach flipped. My phone started sending messages that my train was coming.

The Divine entered his body. He was walking with Death now. It was too much for us mortals. His feminine form, Puthiya Bhagavathy was sent in to balance the energies. She was only slightly less terrifying than him. Together they whirled and danced, circling around us, looking directly at each of us. Many times. We were naked and though outsiders might not see that, we knew it. 

Except for Philippe, who was dozing. 

Gulikan stood in front of the scales. Puthiya of motherly concern did her best to comfort us. But destiny and karma are what they are. “You’ll  get through this” was all that her dance could offer. In front of us but not visible, justice was dispensed. We all felt it. 

Gulikan settled then. Puthiya continued to calm us. To sympathize. It is what it is. A tentative equilibrium is restored as they depart to drumming which becomes distant and then fades into nothingness. 

Enter the Kalasam, the seed of life in Kerala goddess mythology. The round cloth bundle represents the earth, the womb of the goddess. The long pole is the axis of the universe, the link between human and divine. The palm leaves new life, fertility, agricultural blessing. The bells and dried fruit clusters ancestral abundance, the continuation of lineage. After purification, the world must be reseeded to regenerate. The villagers clamor to touch the kalasam. This will ensure a year of prosperity. The jostling is maddening. The bearer who has fasted and prepared for this moment of carrying the unstable kalasam must not drop it.

Act Two. Different gods with bright red faces and black mouths. Enter Twin Raktha, the red goddess in twin form to reenact the destruction of evil and renewal of life.

Ages after Shiva in a fit of frustration, of wrath mixed with compassion for the innocent as he surveyed a world tilting toward injustice, tore a piece of his matted hair and threw it to the ground, creating a spark from which sprung Gulikan: dark, radiant, fanged, his eyes like molten copper... Ages even after Shiva sent Gulikan down to the world, telling him: You are not death,but you will walk with death. Where there is falsehood, you will weigh truth. Where there is pride, you will humble. And always guard the thresholds of time and karma.

Darika slayed, exit the twins.

The demon has been slayed, but the earth is barren and must be regenerated. Not to worry, the Chumindis will remain in the background, the heavens, protecting what they have defended once it is regenerated. 

And so, enter the Kalasam, the seed of life in Karla goddess mythology. The round cloth bundle represents the earth, the womb of the goddess.  The long pole is the axis of the universe, the link between human and divine. The palm leaves new life, fertility, agricultural blessing. The bells and dried fruit clusters ancestral abundance, the continuation of lineage. After purification, the world must be reseeded to regenerate. The villagers clamor to touch the kalasam. It will ensure a year of prosperity. The jostling is unnerving. The bearer who has fasted and prepared for this moment of carrying the unstable kalasam must not drop it.

And then, the finale. Both vellattam returned. Puthiya Bhagavathy in a floral headdress sits in one section of the courtyard to listen and administer blessings. The light version of Gulikan, wearing his feathered tower, the axis of the universe, walks among the villagers wearing worried expressions. They had more questions, and needed closure now. He listened. I turned on Google translate. This was a small village. There were no secrets. Her eyes were tired, but pleading. 

“Your next marriage could be better. Harmony in the home can be restored.” 

She nodded, understanding. The women surrounding her understood too. Each in her own orbit with her individual responsibility to stay sane, and maintain a healthy lifestyle, a harmonious community. And her own questions about how to do that given the deck she’d been dealt. He was generous with his advice. 

And order was restored in the cosmos and the microcosmos.