Hindu Music, Contrasting Styles

Our last night in Cochin we went to a performance of Kathakali, an ancient Keralan art form. The dancers wear elaborate makeup and costumes, and act out the folk tales you find everywhere--evil kings, brave warriors, beautiful maidens, jealous lovers. It's set to simple but intense music--chanting and drumming.

We'd heard about this and knew it was something every visitor to Kerala does, so we were both excited and skeptical. Would it be just another silly thing for the tourists?

For a minute, we'd all been in heaven together.

We arrived early for the makeup demonstration. One man lay on the stage while another pasted curved pieces of paper onto his face, perpendicular to his cheeks.

Then they and a third man took an entire hour to paint their faces bright green, red, white, and black. When they finished, they were unrecognizable.

A demonstration of hand, feet, and facial expressions followed. It was extraordinary, as we learned an entirely new vocabulary. The dancer could control a stunning array of facial features---eyebrows, cheeks, hairline, eyes---to express the entire range of human feelings. Amusingly, the narrator described "romance" as "the king of emotions."

The show finally got underway, and it was worth the wait. Three dancers and three musicians took us through a passionate story involving, we think, royalty, envy, betrayal, and, presumably, the triumph of good over evil. The music's rhythms were unfamiliar and compelling, as were the dancers' movements. In all, we felt energized and warmed by experiencing this authentic Indian art form.

This morning we left Cochin for our next-to-last stop--the mountains three hours to the east. On our way out of town, our guide asked if we wanted to see a big Hindu festival, complete with elephants. "Yes!"

It took a half-hour drive through crowded local streets, but we eventually arrived at a neighborhood temple buzzing with excitement. We walked toward the entrance, laughing like kids at the elephants hanging around or walking toward us. We removed our shoes, keeping our socks on in the 90-degree heat. We entered the temple's courtyard, and were immediately enveloped by several thousand people and the din of drums, cymbals, and horns.

Our guide pulled us deeper into the crowd, further and yet further. We could barely breath, but there was no turning back. Each step brought us closer to the music, which was getting louder and faster.

We finally stopped--the crowd simply would not let us go a single step further. To our left were five elephants, the large metal ornaments on their faces glinting in the blazing sun. Atop each enormous animal sat one man, and stood two others.

In front of us were about two dozen bare-chested musicians, only a few of whom I could barely glimpse above the bobbing heads of the crowd. In addition to the buzzing reed instruments, I occasionally glimpsed  enormous curved circular horns, which reminded me of Roman legionnaires'.

The musicians played louder and louder, faster and faster. The sweaty crowd of men crushing us responded by pumping their fists and periodically yelling in unison.

We could hardly breathe or move, but we were part of a crowd in an ecstatic trance. The musicians finally reached their crescendo---the memorable blast of a single note, held interminably while the drummers pounded away with everything left of their physical energy---and then it was over. The only sound was of a thousand people exhaling, murmuring to each other, and the return to earthly concerns. Some followed the elephants out of the temple courtyard, some put money in the donation box, some headed for one of the alters to get a blessing. We headed for our shoes and some water.

For a minute, we'd all been in heaven together. No wonder there's a Hindu festival somewhere every day of the year.