Note 35 — M (continued 2)

The following graphic account of a Kāma Mystery Play, in which Malasars are represented, has been given by Mr. S. G. Roberts.35 “The play, as the writer saw it in a little village on the banks of the Amravati river, was at once a mystery or miracle play, a mime, a tragedy that strangely recalled the Greek choral tragedies, and a satyric drama. These various ingredients gave it a quaint nebulous character, the play now crystallising into mere drama, and again dissolving into a religious rite. Just as an understanding of the Greek mythology is necessary for the full grasping of the meaning of a Greek tragedy, so it is necessary to portray the legend which is the basis of this mystery, all the more as the characters are Hindu gods. Kāma, then, is the Hindu Cupid, not a tiny little child like the Roman god of love, but more like Eros. He has beautiful attributes. His bow is of the sugar-cane; his arrows are tipped with flowers; and his bow-string is a chain of bees—a pretty touch that recalls the swallow song of the Homeric bowstring. For all that, the genius of the country has modified the local idea of Eros. He has long ago found his Psyche: in point of fact, this Hindu Eros is a married man. His wife, Rathi, is the other speaking character, and she certainly displays a beautiful eloquence not unfitting her position. Moreover, like every married man, Kāma has a father-in-law, and here the tragedy begins to loom out of the playful surroundings of a god of love of whatever nation or clime. Siva, the destroyer, he of the bright blue neck, the dweller, as Kāma tauntingly says, among graves and dead men’s ashes; Siva, mighty in penance, is father of Rathi. In the play itself, he is not even a muta persona; he does not appear at all. What he does is only adumbrated by the action or song of the other characters. The legend strikingly illustrates the Hindu view of penance. Briefly stated, it is that anyone who performs any penance for a sufficiently long time acquires such a store of power and virtue, that the very gods themselves cannot stand against it. Hindu mythology affords many examples of this belief. Siva himself, in one of his incarnations, saved the whole Indian Olympus and the universe at large from a demi-god, who, by years of penance, had become charged, as it were, with power, like a religious electric ‘accumulator.’ The early sages and heroes of Indian story had greater facilities for the acquisition of this reserve of power, in that their lives lasted for centuries or even æons. It may be imagined that three centuries of penance increased the performer’s strength to a degree not expressible in modern figures! In this case, the gods had viewed with alarm a penance which Siva had begun, and which threatened to make him master of all creation. In spite of a few grotesque attributes, the mythology lends to Siva a character at once terrific and awe-inspiring. When his third eye was closed on one occasion, the universe was involved in darkness, and the legend under discussion presents a solemn picture of the god, sitting with his rosary in sackcloth and ashes, immersed in his unending penance. Kāma was deputed to break the spell. Accompanied by his nymphs, he sported before the recluse, taking all shapes that could ‘shake the saintship of an anchorite,’ till this oriental St. Anthony, but too thoroughly aroused, opened his tremendous frontal eye, and, with a flashing glance of rage, consumed the rash intruder on his solitude. Such is the legend which supplies the closing scene of the life of Kāma, a life that is celebrated, as March begins, with several days’ rejoicing in every town and village of Southern India. The writer had seen the heap of bricks that support the Kāma pillar in a village which he visited a few months after first landing in India. As March came round, he saw them in whatever village his work brought him, and the legend was impressed on his memory by a case in court, in which the momentous word ‘Kāmadakshinasivalingamedai’ (or the high place of the emblem of Siva who consumed Kāma) was pronounced by the various witnesses. It was not, however, till the spring of 1900 that an opportunity presented itself for witnessing the performance of the Kāma mystery. The time of representation was the night, the playtime for old and young in India. It has this special advantage, from a theatrical point of view, that everything in a village street takes on an adventitious beauty. The heaps of dust, the ragged huts, lose their prominence, the palm trees become beautiful, and the tower of the temple grows in majesty. Everything that is ugly or incongruous seems to disappear, till the façade of a wealthy Hindu’s house wears the dignity of the old Grecian palace proscenium. The rag torches give a soft strong light, that adds effect to the spangled and laced robes of the actors, and leaves the auditory in semi-darkness, quite in accordance with Wagnerian stage tradition. Kāma was represented in full dress, with a towering, crocketed, gilded mitre or helmet, such as is worn by the images of South Indian gods. He is not like the unadorned Eros of the Greeks, and he shows his Indian blood by the green which paints the upper half of his face. Kāma had the bow of sugar-cane, and Rathi, otherwise dressed like a wealthy Hindu bride, also bore a smaller bow of the same. The buffoon must not be omitted. He figures in every Indian play, and here, besides the distinction of a girdle of massive cow bells gracefully supporting his paunch, he showed his connection with this love drama by a small bow of sugar-cane fastened upright, by one tip, to the peak of a high dunce’s cap. The play began by Kāma boastfully, and at great length, announcing his intention of disturbing Siva’s penance. Rathi did her best to dissuade him, but every argument she could use only stirred up his pride, and made him more determined on the adventure. The dialogue was sometimes sustained by the characters themselves; sometimes they sang with dreadful harshness; sometimes they but swayed to and fro, as if in a Roman mimus, while the best voice in the company sang their songs for them. Now and then, the musicians would break into a chorus, which strikingly recalled, but for the absence of dancing, the Greek tragic chorus, especially in their idea of inevitable destiny, and in their lamentations over the disastrous end of the undertaking. Meanwhile, the buffoon played his part with more or less success, and backed up the astonishingly skilful and witty acting of the players, who provided the comic relief. In most Tamil dramas the action of the play is now and again suspended, while one or more comedians stroll on to the stage, and amuse the audience by a vēsham, i.e., an impersonation of different well-known street characters representing men (and women) not only of different castes, but of different nations. Needless to say, the parts they play have little or nothing to do with the subject of the drama, but they afford great scope for delineation of character. There is not, of course, in Southern India, the uniformity in dress that we notice in England of the present day. A man’s trade, profession, religion, and sect are expressed by his dress and ornament—or lack of both. To mention three of the different vēshangal shown on this occasion, there were a Mahrattah tattooing-woman, a north country fakir, and a man and woman of the Malsar caste, each of the parts being dressed to perfection, and admirably sustained. The Malsars are a low caste, and employed in certain parts as bearers of announcements of death (written on palm leaves) from the family of the deceased to relatives at a distance. As they hobbled about, bending over their short crooked crutch sticks, with turbans of twisted straw and bark, and girt with scanty and dirty sackcloth kilts, they would have made a mummy laugh; and they were equally mirth-provoking when they broke into a rough song and dance peculiar to chucklers (leather-workers) when more than usually intoxicated. When Kāma had finally declared his unalterable determination to engage in his contest with Siva—a point which was only reached after discussion almost as interminable as a dialogue of Euripides—the performers, and part of the audience, moved off in a procession, which slowly perambulated the town, and halted for prayer before the village temple. The ‘stage wait’ was filled up by some simple playing and singing by a few local amateurs. This brought on the climax of the tragedy. The Kāma stake, to give it an appropriate English name, was now ready. This was a slight stake or pole, a little above a man’s height, planted among a few bricks, and made inflammable by a thatching or coating of cholum straw bound round it. The top of this straw pillar was composed of a separate sheaf. When all was ready, and the chorus had sung a strain expressive of grief at Kāma’s doom, a rocket, representing Siva’s fiery glance, shot along a string, and (with some external assistance) lighted the Kāma stake, thus closely following the procedure in an Italian church festival. The player who represented Kāma now retired into the background, as he was supposed to be dead, and the rest, hopping and dancing, circled slowly round the fire wailing for his fate. It seemed to be a matter of special import to the audience that the stake should be completely consumed. This was an omen of prosperity in the coming year. The funeral dance round the fire continued for a long while, and, when it was but a short time to sunrise, the mummers were still beating their breasts round the smouldering ashes. It seemed that, though some of the songs were composed for the occasion, a great part of the play was traditional, and the audience knew what to expect at any given period in the performance. At one stage it was whispered that now the giant would come in, and lift up a sheep with his teeth. In a few moments he made his appearance, and proved to be a highly comic monster. His arms, legs, and body were tightly swathed in neatly twisted straw ropes, leaving only his feet and hands bare. His head was covered by a huge canvas mask, flat on front and back, so that the actor had the appearance of having introduced his head into the empty shell of some gigantic crab. On the flat front of this mask-dial was painted a terrible giant’s face with portentous tusks. Thus equipped, the giant skipped round the various characters, to the terror of the buffoon, brandishing a quarter-staff, and executing vigorous moulinets. An unwilling sheep was pushed into the ring, and the giant, after much struggling, tossed the animal bodily over his head with a dexterous fling that convinced most of the onlookers that he had really performed the feat with his teeth.”