Iswaraya takes centre stage

After disposing of the rooster with her teeth, a sacrifice to honour Sudalai Kali or the goddess of the graveyard, she seizes the thorappu (goat's lung) with her teeth and walks rhythmically, swirling the sickle held in her left hand. Dressed in a black saree, Iswaraya dances to the sounds of pambai and parai drums on a busy street, leading from the Devi Putru Poonkavanatthu Amman temple to the Poonai river in Thiruvalam town. The exhausted thirunangai (trans woman in Tamil) collapses as the procession she is leading reaches the dried-up riverbed. This is not just a ‘performance’, even though the 37-year-old Iswaraya runs a drama company of her own. The stage play is still hours away, at the fag end of the day.

She is at the annual Mayana Kollai festival (graveyard plunder festival) celebrated during the new moon (Amavasai) in the Tamil month of Maasi (March) by Dalit communities in this village in Vellore district of Tamil Nadu. Iswaraya, belonging to Chakkiliyar community, listed as a Scheduled Caste in the state, has been participating in the rituals at the temple festival for the last two decades.

“It wasn't me who danced in that frenzy,” she says later, “I have no memory of it. It was Amman who possessed me." Amman, seen as the manifestation of Kali, is the folk goddess her community worships. When rituals are over, the final performance will begin, at 10 p.m.

The scene at night is different. Iswaraya seems to have regained her strength as she strides along the 10 x 12 feet elevated stage in the middle of the street. She is giving directions to the festival organisers about where to place the banner, identifying the right spot for placing two 500-watt lights. “Tie those two facing the stage, a little more diagonal,” she commands. She is the stage manager, costume designer, light designer, director, playwright, and the head of the drama troupe. Iswaraya is a one-woman army running a drama company that goes by the name of Ashok Nataka Mandram. The name is painted in bold letters on the cloth banner placed on the stage.

“This is the only drama company that has had Rajinikanth, Vijayakanth, and Khushboo all together,” Iswaraya laughs, pointing at the banner and thinking of the allusion to famous Tamil cine stars. It is only later we learn what is behind that claim. Behind it several heads are seen bending under a single 200-watt tungsten bulb, applying makeup in front of hand mirrors. Their green room today is the Ramar temple, right behind the curtain. Since the space isn’t large enough for all artistes to get ready simultaneously, they have to take turns. Some have even occupied the karuvarai (sanctum sanctorum), knowing very well that unlike in other temples, no one here is going to ask them to "get out!"

“I began this drama company in 2018. The idea was that with this around, trans women wouldn't have to do sex work or beg – they can act instead. We can earn enough income from acting itself,” says Iswaraya. She named the company, 'Ashok Nataka Mandram.’ "Actually, I don't like the name given to me by my trans women mothers, ‘Iswaraya’. My name is Ashok, and I like it. That is why I named my drama company after it.”

As the show time nears, people begin to gather with blankets in front of the stage, right in the middle of the street, preparing for an all-night extravaganza. “I am the playwright and performer,” says Iswaraya. “Mostly, we present fictional stories. We call them novels. We also do stories from mythology, Harishchandra, Danasura Karnan, Nalayini, Nalla Thangal. And plays based on folklore, like the one we're performing tonight - 'Deivam Thandha Theerpu' [The Verdict Given by God]." It is a play based on a folktale of Prince Ezhizharasan and Kalai Selvi, a tale of crime, punishment, redemption, and divine justice.

In the magnificent kingdom of Vijayapuri, King Vijaya Varman and Queen Vijaya rule with wisdom and compassion. The royal couple is blessed with two children: prince Ezhizharasan and princess Ezhizharasi. While the princess grows to embody grace and nobility, the prince's heart is full by darkness, his demeanour marked by arrogance and contempt for all. One fateful day, the prince wandering through his kingdom's countryside, spots a young woman named Kalai Selvi bathing in the river. Consumed by his base desires he commits an unspeakable act of sexual violence against her, leaving her traumatised.

Iswaraya at the backstage shares the story of her own trauma, "I didn't even know I was a trans woman for quite some time. I used to style my hair, put on bindis, and do makeup when no one was at home. It was during this period that I unexpectedly came across a trans woman. That's when the thought first occurred to me that I too might be a trans woman,” she says as she prepares for her entry.

It is customary for her to apply makeup last. The comedians in the meanwhile have taken over the stage, displaying their talents, keeping the audience in splits. Suddenly, the music changes; Iswaraya joins the trans women on the stage dancing in circles to a song with raunchy lyrics. This is the curtain-raiser, a light-hearted folksong, sung in a teasing tone characteristic of Tamil Gana.

The first scene takes place in a palace after the song ends. Iswaraya playing Kalai Selvi needs to quickly change her costume.

After being violated Kalai Selvi approaches the royal court along with her brother and demands justice. The king and queen are horrified by their son's actions. Demonstrating their commitment to justice regardless of rank they order the prince to marry Kalai Selvi, hoping to right the terrible wrong done by him. However, the dark forces at work within the palace walls in the form of the Commander-in-Chief have other ambitious plans. He sets a sinister plan in motion in a bid to overthrow the king, enlisting his lover Mohana into it. A seductress skilled in black magic, Mohana ensnares the prince. Disguised as a brothel queen, she places him under her malevolent spirits' influence.

Under this dark spell, Prince Ezhizharasan commits the ultimate betrayal. He murders his own father and seizes the throne. A reign of terror is unleashed in Vijayapuri. His wife Selvi suffers the most, enduring horrific domestic violence at the hands of the prince all through her pregnancy. Queen Vijaya, witnessing her son's descent into madness, pronounces a mother's curse. “Let the prince be struck by leprosy”! Mohana and the Commander now seize the throne, expel the afflicted king and cruelly blind Kalai Selvi, forcing her to beg on the streets.

Iswaraya enters the scene – a woman in late pregnancy, with streams of blood flowing from her eyes, begging on the streets. The audience's cheers subside and turn into a mix of awe and tears as she sings a sad song about motherhood. Many from the audience rise to put some coins and currency notes in the small bowl for alms that she is carrying in her hand. "Why am I in this state? Why am I shedding such tears of blood? Let me tell you…"

With those last lines after the song, she hints at the change of scene, a flashback.

Other actors take the stage. Iswaraya comes down from the stage and is behind the curtain again. She wipes off the streaks of blood from her cheeks and changes her saree and makeup for the next scene. "My next scene won't come for more than an hour," she says, stretching her legs and leaning back a bit, returning to the scenes from the past flashing through her mind.

“When I realised that I was a trans woman, I cried in front of my mother,” she says. “I asked her why God had created me like this. That is when my mother said, 'If a child soils your thigh, do you wash it off or cut the child up? So, no matter what my son is, he is precious to me. Why are you crying, raja, dear child?’ Even in times when there was no awareness about trans women, my mother accepted me. My mother is my god. She was my greatest comfort and support.

"I only studied until Class 10. Extreme poverty meant I couldn't focus on education. I couldn't pass tenth grade. After that, I gave up my studies. I went to work, crushing gravel and did some heavy labour jobs,” says Iswaraya. She has vivid memories of her fascination with the theatre.

“Once a drama troupe came to perform during our village festival,” she says. “All my friends asked me to dance in front of them. I did. They all praised me and said that I danced really well. They gave me their visiting card and said, ‘study first, and if you're interested in drama after that, come join us’.”

“Initially, I did drama performances only because my family had no money. Later, I grew to like it and drama became my profession. Back then we used to get 20 rupees for an all-night performance. I became known to many drama companies,” she says. Drama companies give advance money to artistes based on their perceived talents. The rule is that once you take an advance from a company you have to stay with them until you can repay the advance.

“I had a debt of 7 lakh rupees. I stayed with that one owner after taking the money that I needed then for my mother's medical needs. It took me 10 years to repay all that.” And that too was possible only because she was a popular artiste. “I used to get an even bigger amount than my salary as gift money. My entire salary went towards repayments. My mother finally died of cancer.”

Rajini, another artiste in the company, enters backstage after finishing his scene for a change of costume. "Here comes Rajinikanth!” says Iswaraya. “Right now, he is Rajinikanth, earlier he was Sarathkumar. He had the body of a pailwaan [wrestler]. When I was 14 years old, he was a star actor. People would compete to act with him. I was his assistant then," Iswaraya says with a laugh. The actor’s real name is Vinayakam, he is in his fifties. "There's a difference between the Rajinikanth from the Annamalai movie and the current Rajini, that's true for me too," he says with a laugh.

“We must work hard to eat and live with dignity,” Iswaraya continues. “This work brings happiness to me, but at the same time, as a trans women, we face a lot of violence. In some villages, we can't even go to urinate safely. Many trans women have left this field for this reason.” After her mother’s death Iswaraya underwent a gender affirmation surgery. But her struggles continued when she went back to drama performances.

"At that time, trans women who had undergone surgery weren’t accepted into troupes. For three years after my surgery, I was wearing lungis and shirts when I went with the troupe. They wouldn’t accept us wearing sarees. Many companies rejected me simply because of who I was, and I didn't want to take any more humiliation. That is when I asked myself: why don’t we start our own drama company? It seemed better to start a business with other trans women like me rather than work for someone else,” she says.

In 2018 Iswaraya borrowed a significant sum or money from a private money lender in the village to start her drama company, at an incredibly high interest rate. Within months of starting the company, lockdowns due to COVID 19 were announced. Trans artistes like her had a tough time surviving the pandemic. Before she knew it, she was in debt that was hard to repay.

“The income from drama wasn't enough even after the lockdowns. I started going for kadai vasool [begging] with other trans women. I hated how everyone looked at us with revulsion and disrespect. So, I came back to drama,” she says. Iswaraya would have definitely earned more if she had continued begging or gone into sex work, she believes. “But we don't like that. This is what I love. This is my life, my world; this is how I earn money; this is what we eat from and live on in dignity.”

Her company had five to six trans women artistes then but now there are about 10 trans women working in her company, although the frequency of shows is not what it used to be earlier. Performances have come down from 250 to 160-180 a year. The company performs across Tamil Nadu’s many districts, getting around 25 nights a month in peak season.

“We don’t get to do any shows for six months from the month of Purattasi to Thai [September to February]. These are the toughest months of the year,” she says. “During the off-season, we stay at home [without work]. We save the money we earn to eat during those times. When we have drama work, why should we beg? When there's no work we will have to. That situation shouldn't come.”

Iswaraya believes that some care and support from government in the form of shows during off-season would be a good initiative. “Through the Tamil Nadu government's illam thedi kalvi [Education at doorstep] initiative, I began visiting educational blocks and communities living near government schools and colleges across the district. We raised awareness about the programme through singing and dancing,” she says. She received the best trans person award in 2023 from the Tamil Nadu government. The state level award for the thirunanagaiyar recognises and facilitates a transgender person who has worked for the welfare of their community and has also built a career through their own efforts.

Iswaraya will soon re-enter the stage and so she sneaks in a short nap before her scene. The costume and makeup are ready by the time she is up. She is to perform Thavalai Karagam. The dance is performed with a sombu (small vessel) on the head; it weighs about a kilogram and a half. Another large brass vessel called thavalai is filled with water, weighing about 15 kilos and is placed on top of the sombu.

It is 2 a.m. in the morning and this complex dance is being performed during the intermission to keep the audience awake and engaged.

“I have been dancing for 20 years now, started when I was 17. I've performed in almost all districts across Tamil Nadu. It's my Thavalai Karagam that made me famous. During my peak performing days, drama organisers would book only the company I was with. And while I would be working for a salary of 20 rupees, I would receive gifts up to 500 rupees from the audience. That is how I supported my family. Now I rarely perform this dance because the doctor has advised me not to. The bones in my neck are damaged because of years of dancing. What used to be a 30-minute performance has now come down to 10 minutes, and that too on special requests."

The experience of many years is evident when Iswaraya is on the stage, the way she balances the pots and dances with water splashing around. After the dance, with her clothes still drenched, she grabs the microphone and begins to sing Gaana Sudhakar's song in a majestic voice.

"Separate glass for drinking tea?
No glass if you're SC, ST?
The cruelties of untouchability
Ambedkar broke, piece by piece…."

The crowd comes to life with whistles, cheers, and the clapping of hands. Some even dance with their hands raised, and some shower currency notes on Iswaraya as gifts. "This is a colony area [Dalit settlement]. Cinema songs and devotional songs won't work here,” Iswaraya educates me once off stage. “Here, only Ambedkar songs are celebrated.”

Dawn is breaking, and we are nearing the end of the play, the final twist of fate bringing with it retribution and justice.

In the depths of their despair, the fallen king Ezhizharasan and his blind queen Kalai Selvi find each other again. Kalai Selvi, with nothing left but her faith, turns to the goddess Kali. Her prayers, born of immense suffering and injustice, reach the divine mother's ears. Kali appears before them.

She blesses the couple and heals their wounds. Her divine justice extends to their tormentors – Mohana is cursed to drown in the ocean's depths, to become a prey to the creatures of the deep. The Commander's schemes crumble without his sorceress ally. King Ezhizharasan and Queen Kalai Selvi are restored to their rightful place.

On stage, Iswaraya brings the audience back to the blind Kalai Selvi on the street, this time praying to Goddess Kali. The goddess appears before her and promises to bring justice. Five trans women artistes play the role of Kali in this final scene – the dance of Kalis. Fire is lit in clay pots; neem leaves are stacked in bunches. Five Kalis, each dressed in a different colour, dancing fiercely, and ululating (kulavai) as they line up, climb up onto the stage.

Young trans woman performer Semba, 23, twists her hands intensely as she bites into a rooster’s throat, sucking the blood. Iswaraya signals the crowd to make way. In a second, Semba runs with the rooster in her mouth to the end of the street and disappears. Artistes run behind Semba and bring her back. The Kalis return to a calm state. They distribute sacred ash and kumkum to people in the audience and the drama ends

The artistes start to pack up at dawn. The event organiser pays Iswaraya the balance amount after deducting the money paid towards advance booking. Iswaraya wins a small negotiation over a thousand rupees.

"Hard to say what our exact daily income is. We charge anything between 25,000 and 30,000 rupees for a show, depending on the type of drama and the festival. The salary of the artistes also varies. For experienced artistes, especially musicians, the salary ranges from 1,500 to 2,000 rupees, depending on the booking price. While young artistes receive 1,000 to 1,200 rupees. Sometimes I am left with hardly 2,000 rupees for myself, and sometimes nothing remains for me,” Iswaraya says.

And then after a pause she adds, “Now this company is mine, but I'm not the real owner. We also need to give some money to the owner whose money we put into making this company.” The initial seven-digit figure Iswaraya borrowed has quadrupled in a matter of six years, including some additional borrowing and a huge interest.

“What we have to pay [the owner] depends on what we make,” she says. Iswaraya is quite reticent when it comes to her finances. She is acutely aware of her own challenges given the prevailing usury rates and practices in the village. But she refrains from sharing any details as she fears possible repercussions.

“That money can never be repaid. It just stays there. I pay a monthly interest on what I have borrowed. But we can never repay the principal,” Iswaraya says. She does not underestimate the challenges before her, but her focus remains clear. It is drama that drives her not debt or money.

All the drama props have been loaded onto the vehicle's roof. The van sets off; a large photograph of Iswaraya is pasted on the rear window. The group reach Kalavai Cross Road after a half-hour journey. This is the junction from where artistes are picked up and dropped on performance days. Iswaraya's rented house for the season is 100 metres away – four walls thatched with coconut fronds.

"I don’t know why I love this art so much. It’s not just for money. Through the characters I play in a drama, I can express my sorrows and laughter,” says Iswaraya, “No matter how much hardship I face, when I’m on stage, nothing else matters. So, I choose to see any hardships as just a part of life."

We would like to thank Kavitha Muralidharan for her generous inputs.

This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).