Poongodi Mathiarasu

Akshara Sanal

Photographs

Sangeeta Menon

Editor

Rajasangeethan

Translator

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It is late evening in Tamil Nadu’s Vadanamelli village.
Members of the Sree
Ponniamman Therukkoothu Mandram are getting ready for a Kariakkoothu
performance. As always, this is going to be a dusk-to-dawn show, with many
characters and multiple costume changes. 

Backstage, 33- year-old Sharmi has started
applying make-up. As she mixes red powder with oil to make her own lipstick,
she explains some basic rules of arithaaram (make-up):
“Arithaaram differs for men and
women. It also differs according to the character and the length of the role.” 

Sharmi is one of four transgender
artistes that make up the 17-member team at the Sree Ponniamman Therukkoothu
Mandram, a drama company dedicated to what is believed to be one of the oldest
performing art forms of Tamil Nadu. “People before my generation also performed therukkoothu,’’ says Sharmi. “I can&#39;t say exactly how old it is.”

Therukkoothu, or street theatre, is based on tales from the epics,
usually the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, with performances that run through
the night. Therukkoothu season
typically falls between the months of Panguni (April) and
Purattassi
(September). During this period Sharmi and her troupe perform almost every
weekday, adding up to roughly 15-20 performances in a month. At Rs. 700-800 per
performance, that means an income of around Rs. 10,000-15,000 per artiste.

However,
once the season ends, the artistes are forced to look for alternative sources
of income, including Kariakkoothu, a
ritual-based version of therukkoothu,
performed only at funerals. “Someone’s death gives us one or two performances a
week,” says Sharmi, as she prepares for the Kariakkoothu
performance in Vadanamelli, nearly 60 kilometres from her drama company’s home
in Pattaraiperumbudur,
in Thiruvallur
district.

The ‘stage’ is set for the koothu. A cloth tent
has been set up outside the home of the deceased and a black sheet spread on
the street. A photo of the departed, placed in front of the house, reflects the
flickering light from small lamps kept around it. Benches, vessels and tables by the street
suggest the setting for a meal. 

“When the entire village has gone
into silence, we start preparing the instruments, making sure they are correctly tuned and audible. We also start
applying make-up,” says Sharmi. The koothu starts by 10 p.m. with a poosai (offering) for the mudi (crown,
one of the ornaments worn for the performance). “The poosai is to pay respect
to the play. We pray that the play is successful and the artistes return safely
to their homes,” she explains.

The play this evening, Minnaloli Siva Pooja,
is based on a tale from the Mahabharata about the Pandava prince Arjunan and his eight wives. “I can play all eight
roles [but] today I&#39;m playing Bogavathi,” says Sharmi, reeling off the names and the various
entanglements of characters from the epic. 

Minnaloli
(lightning), she explains, was one of Arjunan&#39;s eight wives. The daughter of
King Megarasan
(king of the clouds) and Queen Kodikkalaadevi, she was married off to Arjunan when she was five
years old. Upon reaching puberty, when she asked her parents about her husband,
she was told to perform Sivapoosai (offering
for Lord Shiva) for 48 days before she could meet him. Minnaloli diligently
observed the ritual for 47 days. On
the 48th day, Arjunan arrived to meet her before she had performed
the poosai. She avoided meeting him,
requesting him to wait until the poosai
was over; Arjunan refused to listen. The play revolves around this incident and
the twists and turns that follow before Lord Krishna arrives to ensure a happy
ending where Minnaloli and Arjunan reunite.

Sharmi starts applying mai (black ink) on her lips. “After seeing me apply mai
on lips, a lot of people have started doing the same,’’ she says. “People now
ask me if I&#39;m a woman because of my makeovers. [I want that] when I do a
makeover and go out, men should not take their eyes off me.’’ 

Sharmi has “such a passion for
makeup” that she even completed a six-month beautician’s course some years ago.
“But before [the gender transition], I was not allowed to do make-up for
women.”

It takes nearly one-and-a-half hours
for Sharmi to do her arithaaram. She completes the Bogavathi ‘look’ by
draping a saree. “Nobody has taught me how to wear a saree. I learnt to wear a
saree myself. I pierced my nose and ears myself. I learnt it all by myself,”
she says. 

“Only the operation was performed by
a doctor. If I knew how to perform an operation, I&#39;d have done it by myself
too. But I had to spend 50,000 rupees for it in the hospital,” she says about
the gender affirmation surgery she underwent at the age of 23.

“A
trans woman wearing a saree has not become normal yet. We cannot wear a saree
and walk down the streets as easily as other women do,’’ she points out. Her profession, however, gives her some
protection from the bullying and harassment that trans women frequently face.
“People respect me just because I&#39;m a theatre artiste.”

“I come from Eekkaadu village of Thiruvallur district
[in Tamil Nadu],’’ Sharmi says as she combs through her toppa (wig). She
remembers having a natural flair for singing and dialogue delivery even as a
child. “I fell in love with theatre when I was a child. I loved everything
[about it]- the make-up, the costumes. But I never imagined I would become a
theatre artiste one day.”      

She recounts how her theatre journey
began with the ‘Raja Rani
dance,’ a kind of street performance combining dance and percussion. “Then, for
about ten years, I acted in stage adaptations of therukkoothu, with
contemporary stories. It’s almost four years since I started performing therukkoothu.’’ 

Backstage, the character artistes
have started applying arithaaram; Sharmi
continues her reminiscences.  “I was
raised as a girl by my family. It felt so natural,” she recalls. She was in her
fourth standard when she became aware of her transgender identity. “But I was
not sure how to make others realise it.’’

It was not going to be an easy
journey, as she would find out. Unable to bear the bullying at school, she
discontinued her education after tenth standard. “A movie named Thiruda Thirudi was released around that time. The class
boys would gather around me and tease me by singing snatches from the Vandarkuzhali song [a
popular song that makes vulgar
references to transgender persons]. I did not go to school after that. 

“I could not tell my parents [why I
stopped going to school]. They were not in a position to understand. So I said
nothing,” she says. “I fled from my home in my early adolescence and returned
after 15 years.” 

The
homecoming was not particularly easy. Whilst she was away, her childhood home
had been severely damaged and rendered uninhabitable, forcing her to look for a
house to rent. “I grew up in this village but I couldn’t find a house on rent
here because I am a transgender person,’’ says Sharmi. “They [house owners]
think we indulge in sex work at home.’’ She eventually had to move into a
rented house far away from the village centre.

Sharmi, who belongs to the Adi Dravidar community
[listed as a Scheduled Caste], now lives with her 57-year-old mother and her 10
goats, the latter being her source of income during the months when there is no therukkoothu. 

“Therukkoothu
is the only profession I have. It is a respectable profession too. I&#39;m happy
that I feel dignified among the people,’’ she says. “When there&#39;s no Therukkoothu [between October and
March] we sell the goats to survive. I don&#39;t want to go for pichai [begging] or for sex work.” 

Sharmi
also has a keen interest in nursing. “I&#39;m the one treating my goats when they
are sick. I even become their midwife when they go into labour,” she says. “But
I can&#39;t become a professional nurse.”

The performance starts with the clown singing and joking to draw the audience’s attention. Then, the male
artiste who plays the title character comes on stage. Megarajan and Kodikkalaadevi perform
their introduction songs and announce the start of the play.

The story runs briskly with jokes, songs and lamentation songs. Munusamy, the clown,
steals hearts with his words and actions, making people laugh until they cry.
Sharmi and other artistes change costumes around 10 times during the play, much
to the amazement of the audience. A whip, cracked at frequent intervals
throughout the play, does the job of adding some drama to the proceedings on
stage as well as chasing the audience’s sleep away. 

Around 3:30 a.m., Minnaloli, cursed by
an angry Arjunan to live like a
widow, appears on stage. Ruban, the playwright,
plays this role. His rendition of the oppari (lamentation
song) makes many in the audience cry. Some people shove cash into Ruban’s hands
as he sings. After the scene ends, the clown comes back on stage to provide
some comic relief.

The sun is about to rise. Minnaloli
has just been reunited with Arjunan. Ruban invokes the name of the deceased and
seeks their blessings. He then thanks the audience and announces the end of the
performance. The time is 6 a.m. Time for pack-up.

The
artistes start preparing to go home. They are a tired but happy lot at this
moment – the performance has been successful
and incident-free. “Sometimes, people
tease us [during the show]. In fact, one time a man tried to stab me with a
knife because I refused to give him my phone number,” says Sharmi. “Once they
find out we are trans women, men sometimes behave rudely with us and even
demand sex. But they don&#39;t realise that we too are human beings. If, even for a
moment, they stopped to think about the problems we face, they would not do all
this.&quot;

The arithaaram is not easily wiped off, so the artistes start applying
oil over it and wipe it off with a towel. “It will be 9 or 10 in the morning
when we reach home, depending on the distance we have to travel. When I reach
home, I will cook, eat and sleep. Maybe I will eat when I wake up in the
afternoon. Or I&#39;ll sleep until evening,” says Sharmi. “You never get tired when
you perform continuously [during the koothu season]. It is more tiring
to perform during the non-festival period because of the long breaks between
performances.” 
 
Sharmi points out that she cannot afford to rest or do fewer performances. Age
is a key factor in a therukkoothu artiste’s journey: the younger and
healthier an artiste, the better their chances of employment and earning the
standard Rs. 700-800 per performance. As they start ageing, they are offered
fewer performances, for much less – around Rs. 400-500 per show. 
 
“As theatre artists,” Sharmi says, “we get employment only till our faces stay
beautiful and our bodies have stamina. Before I lose that [looks, respect,
employment], I should earn [enough to build] a house to live in and [set up] a
small business to feed ourselves. Only then can we survive when we get old!” 

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

‘People respect me because I'm a theatre artiste’

’لوگ میری عزت کرتے ہیں کیونکہ میں تھیٹر فنکار ہوں‘

‘నేనొక రంగస్థల కళాకారిణిని కావటంవలన ప్రజలు నన్ను గౌరవిస్తున్నారు’

'ਲੋਕ ਮੇਰੀ ਇੱਜ਼ਤ ਕਰਦੇ ਨੇ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਮੈਂ ਥੀਏਟਰ ਕਲਾਕਾਰ ਹਾਂ'

‘ଲୋକେ ମୋତେ ସମ୍ମାନ ଦିଅନ୍ତି, କାରଣ ମୁଁ ଜଣେ ଥିଏଟର କଳାକାର’

‘नाट्यकलाकार आहे म्हणून मला मान आहे’

'ഒരു നാടക കലാകാരിയായതുകൊണ്ടാണ് ആളുകൾ എന്നെ ബഹുമാനിക്കുന്നത്'

‘ರಂಗ ಕಲಾವಿದೆಯಾಗಿರುವುದರಿಂದ ಜನ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಗೌರವಿಸುತ್ತಾರೆ’

‘लोग मेरी इज़्ज़त करते हैं, क्योंकि मैं थिएटर कलाकार हूं’

'હું રંગભૂમિની કલાકાર છું એટલે લોકો મને માન આપે છે'

‘थिएटर कलाकार होय सेती लोगन मन मोला मान देथें’

‘নাট্যশিল্পী বলেই লোকে সম্মান করে আমাকে’

‘लोग इज्जत देवेला काहे कि हम रंगमंच कलाकार हईं’

‘নাট্যশালাৰ শিল্পী বুলিহে মানুহে মোক সন্মান কৰে’

‘கூத்து கலைஞரா இருக்கறதால சனங்க மதிக்கறாங்க’

Tiruvallur

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‘People respect me because I'm a theatre artiste’

A Therukkoothu performer speaks about the challenges faced by transgender artistes as they pursue their passion for this ancient theatre form in Tamil Nadu

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