One day, when I was 13, my uncle took me through a grassy lane on a starlit night to watch a ‘Kathaprasangam’ being performed at a temple in central Kerala in connection with the ‘Pooram’ festival.
On the open ground, we sat cross-legged on the sand in front of a makeshift stage, where the thespian wore a spotless white shirt and dhoti. Being short, I had to be on my knees on and off so that I could get a good view of the artistes on the stage. I was engrossed in the story-teller’s dexterous way of unfolding the theme. At the peak of the melodrama, many middle-aged women around me could be seen struggling to hide their tears. I was also not an exception. In the end, when the artiste bade goodbye with his last song, my clap also became a part of crowd’s ovation. Later, when we were returning home at midnight, my mind was filled with the poetic justice and the retribution meted out to the villains.
Few art forms can be compared to the ‘Kathaprasangam’: a unique one with the combination of ‘katha’ and ‘prasangam’, a story presented with excellent verbosity, that only an artiste with the gift of the gab can effectively perform. The story-teller has a small orchestral team which necessarily comprises the tabla, harmonium and tambourine players who also sing as the chorus.
A laudable story, which might have taken from Hindu, Christian, Russian or other European classics, with melodious lyrics in pleasing beat, was more than enough for an adept performer to take the audience into a magic world. Within no time the story-teller became the embodiment of virtue, as opposed to vice. He often changed his voice, congruent to the meek or supercilious heroine, the reserved or spunky hero, or the inconsiderate or spiteful villains.
Gifted with a good voice and volubility, the touchstone of this art form, the story-teller often stole the show.
At the interval, to ease the audience who had been on tenterhooks up to that time, it was mandatory for the orchestral team to unleash their talent by singing a couple of popular film songs, or rendering a mimicry. This filler provided variety to the audience, and they looked forward to the remaining part of the show. On the other hand, if the story teller or his troupe floundered, the show became a pitiable wash-out.
The literary side of Kathaprasangam was always noteworthy. As famous and classic stories are deftly unfurled before the public, even laymen get familiarised with the story and the characters. An effective Kathaprasangam can achieve equal effects of a drama which has embellished theatrics and denouement and more actors. In Kathaprasangam, a good story-teller, even if he lacks the improvised sarcasm of a Chakyar in his ‘Chakyarkoothu’, can deliver deliberate and sarcastic gibes against some people or social evils.
Unfortunately Kathprasangam has lost its popularity since the 1990s as the trustees of hundreds of temples and churches in Kerala, its patrons and well-wishers, considered this art form less palatable for the new generation who preferred music programmes, mimicry and cinematic dance forms.
There was a time when school and college students in Kerala used to practice and perform Kathaprasangam to exude confidence, to shrug off the stage fright, and above all, to learn the lessons of histrionics.
It was the way of life in the last few decades that changed everything. The multiplying television channels accelerated its decline, plunging it into oblivion. One hopes a mention of this art form can be found in future text-books as one of the indigenous art forms that thrived in Kerala for centuries.
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