Men become Yakshas

What happens backstage, ahead of a Yakshagana show, is simply magical

On a Wednesday afternoon, as I enter the green room at Ambedkar Bhavan in Yelahanka, I find myself in the midst of 10 men getting undressed. They shoot me a glance, utter a weak ‘hello’, and go back to preparing their costumes for a Yakshagana performance about to begin in two hours and a half.

One of the most popular folk theatre forms of Karnataka, Yakshagana is known for its spectacular costumes, dramatic music and extempore dialogue. The preparation for a show starts with getting the makeup on. The artistes gather around and sit on the floor with pots of red, white, black and yellow paint sprawled in front of them. This is their sacred space.

“We call it ‘chowki’, and when you enter this room, you also mentally start preparing for the performance,” says Sadananda Venkataramana Hegde, a performer for 35 years. He was set to play the role of king Devendra. A caterer who finds his artistic moorings in Yakshagana, he explains: “Once we enter the room, we leave behind all the worries and burdens of the outside world.”

Donning the character

Kondadakuli Ramachandra Hegde, who plays king Satya Harishchandra in the show, is the protagonist of this show, and enters the chowki to a cordial greeting. The artistes sit in order of seniority. Prior to entering the green room, I have received clear instructions from him: “Don’t talk to me until after the performance. Take as many pictures and videos as you like, but please don’t talk to me.”

This is a rule that applies to everyone. Except for hushed jokes and tips on how to improve each other’s makeup, little is uttered. “Most senior artistes put away their phones for four hours before the performance as they believe it takes away from their character,” explains Sadananda.

Before applying makeup, artistes playing male roles put on a lower garment that resembles pyjamas, and those playing female roles wear skirts. They pull their hair back with a hairband and paint their face either a translucent white or a light shade of peach, the latter for women characters. The colours are mixed with coconut oil and applied as a base to cover the face, neck, arms and any part of the body visible during the show. White, red, black and yellow are then used to create distinctive marks for each character. Exaggerated eyebrows and eyelashes are drawn in black, and lips in shades of red. Finally, forehead marks like tilaka, nama, mudre and kumkum are added. The male characters put on their moustaches. Simple makeup brushes and wooden sticks are used to draw the markings of each character. “Most commonly we use thin wooden sticks with softened edges to do our eyeliner, tilaka and other such markings,” explains Prashant Hegde Vardhan, who is playing Maharshi Vishwamitra.

Set to play the king Satya Harishchandra, Ramanachandra takes his time ensuring the wings of his eye makeup are long enough, almost touching his sidelocks, but not quite. He holds a mirror and paints his lip to get a V-shaped flourish on top. It is a graceful act, and it looks like an inner monologue in progress. The performance has begun even before he enters the stage.

“We do our own makeup because that is how we bond with our characters. It helps us embody them and learn their characteristics. If an artiste can’t relate to his character, you will notice a lack of emotion on stage,” he later tells me. The dress and the colours depict specific character traits. “The aim is to have a strong visual impact. Natyadharmi is at the core of Yakshagana,” he says. Natyadharmi refers to larger than life representation of daily events for theatrical purposes.

Once the face is made up, the artistes move on to their costumes, which usually consist of an elaborate headgear, a ‘kavacha’ (chest piece), a ‘daabu’ (belt) and a pair of ‘bhujakeertis’ (armlet). Traditionally, these are made from light wood, and together, can weigh up to 25 kg. Now, thermocol has replaced wood. “They weigh 10 kg or less. But the high of wearing traditional, heavy costumes is something else. Nothing comes close,” says Ramachandra.

The costumes are adorned with colourful stones and mirror work, reflecting the light once the actors get on stage. They add to the glamour of the characters, especially the females. Men have been playing female roles for centuries, as in this performance. Many of the men sprawling shirtless on the floor are now delicately draping saris. I notice a subtle shift in their personality. Their voice is softer, their expressions more gentle and their gait more elegant.

Ganesh Naik plays Harishchandra’s wife Chandramati. A farmer, he is now all dolled up. “Many wonder how I can go from being a rough farmer, spending time out in the sun, to a woman with poise in just two hours. What we need to understand is that humans are dynamic in nature. It is all in our head. If you control your brain, your body follows,” he explains.

The last to get dressed is the protagonist. “If you hurry, you lose the essence of the character,” he says. After a few ‘yele adike’ (betel leaves and areca nut) breaks, which he humorously deems a core part of every Yakshagana artiste’s life, he is ready to put on his costumes. He ties the bells round his ankles and takes out a specially woven red and yellow checked cotton sari. He neatly pleats it and tucks it into his pyjamas.

Next, it is time for the headgear. He secures the red and gold ‘kirita’ (crown) and creates a flying mane with his artificial hair. He puts on his shirt and drapes his upper garment. With a glint in his eyes, he stares at himself in the mirror, all the while chanting an invocation. “He is now no longer just a man but the embodiment of a divine being,” says an actor, as I stare at him in wonder.

Auspicious rituals

One of the most important rituals in the green room is the ‘chowki puje’, a must before every performance. The singer (bhagavata) and the other musicians stand before a Ganesha idol, offer coconuts, bananas and complete the ritual. Once the prasada is given out, the bhagavata seeks the deity’s permission to proceed to the stage.

The bhagavata and the musicians are situated at the back end of an elevated bench. Some space is allowed on either side for the entry and exit of characters. They mostly enter from the left and exit from the right. Awaiting their turn, they sit in secluded corners. There is no chatter in the room, only the bhagavata’s voice ringing from the stage. “Not a lot of rehearsing happens for a Yakshagana performance. It is the individual artiste’s responsibility to learn about the prasanga (episode) and dive into the character. Most artistes spend the last 30-40 minutes before the performance just recalling the key scenes,” explains Naik.

Ramachandra Hegde is all set to be the second person to enter the stage. As the introductory performance begins, he stands in the side wing, hands resting against the wall and eyes closed. He maintains this stance for 20 minutes. In this period, his demeanour has changed completely. His aura is calm, and his body erect. He looks up as the music summons him, flashes me a smile, and swirls on to the stage to a grand welcome from the audience.

Then and now

‘Yakshagana’ literally means divine music. The entire performance is controlled by music, and this has remained the case throughout history, says stalwart Kondadakuli Ramachandra Hegde. Yakshagana as an operatic form is traced to the 16th century. Some believe it was prevalent even earlier.

He says modernity has introduced a faster pace, and that is not necessarily a good thing, since some of the charm comes from the laid back pace of the narrative. Traditionally, a Yakshagana performance used to span dusk to dawn. But now such performances are rare, especially in the cities. “The audiences have no time, and they are impatient,” he says. A modern-day performance lasts just three to four hours. “Thankfully more and more young people are showing interest. This is reassuring as I plan to retire in a few years,” he says.