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

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'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'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'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'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'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'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'm happy that I feel dignified among the people,’’ she says. “When there's no Therukkoothu [between October and March] we sell the goats to survive. I don't want to go for pichai [begging] or for sex work.”

Sharmi also has a keen interest in nursing. “I'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'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'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."

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'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!”