Kamachi, a professional folk dancer for 55 years, talks about dancing on wooden stilts through the night to keep her family from starving. Aparna Karthikeyan listens in.

She danced when she was eight months pregnant; and when she was nursing her young children. She has been dancing since she was 11. Now, 55 years later, when she wears her ornate papier-mâché horse over her hip and the rich and royal costume, she dances not like the wife, mother and grandmother she is, but a professional and great performer. Meet Kamachi, the queen of poikaal kudhirai .

Poikaal kudhirai (literally: false-legged horse) came to Tamil Nadu when the Maratha kings conquered Thanjavur. “My husband’s family fled Maharashtra during a great drought. A grand-aunt told me they came here as drummers and dancers and stayed on.” They also brought with them their culture. Kamachi picked it up when she married T.A.R. Nadi Rao. The 11-year-old bride learnt to wear her sari pallu over her head and speak fluent Marathi. She also learnt their dance.

An art form that demands great stamina and skill, Poikaal kudhirai — once favoured in the royal court — precedes the deity in temple processions. It was extremely popular in weddings and festivals. Now, it’s been replaced by other (sometimes coarse) entertainment. Full-time performers find it hard going. Over half have quit. Others, like Rao (74) and his family, are carrying forward — with difficulty — a tradition that came south with his ancestors.

Kamachi was born in Pattukottai, Tamil Nadu. She grew up watching — and admiring — poikaal kudhirai when her in-laws and husband performed in her village. “My mother-in-law saw me when I was 11, and asked my mother, ‘She’s a beauty. Will you marry her to my son?’” Kamachi’s mother agreed. But the relatives scoffed: “They are a family of koothu dancers.”

Despite the opposition, Kamachi married Nadi Rao on June 12, 1960. Her elder son, Shivaji Rao, an accomplished folk dancer, showed me the faded wedding invitation in their house in Vadakku Vaasal, Thanjavur. Six months after her wedding, Kamachi wore the salangai (ankle bells). Her father-in-law — Kamachi calls him her guru —told her to take up dancing. “He advised me, ‘If you have the inclination, learn. Wear the salangai . It will help you and your family in the future.’ He was right!”

Her husband became her teacher. He taught her Karagattam, an ancient folk dance of Tamil Nadu. Her first performance — ungainly, she laughs — was unexpectedly well received. Soon, she was performing the Kuravan-Kurathi dance with her husband. Her first poikaal recital was in Tiruchendur when she was 30. “It was torturous,” she says. “I practiced walking on stilts, on this very road, outside the house, for two whole days.” The third day, she wore the horse. The poikaal dancer was born.

Kamachi quickly made a name for herself. With fame came opportunities. Programmes were rescheduled if she was busy. She recalls several occasions when, on the same evening, she changed costumes in a hurry and performed two difficult and demanding forms — Karagam and Poikaal . Her pay? Rs.10-12. Back then, it was decent money. “With one rupee I could buy a measure of rice, vegetables, meat, and also save an anna for a film at Krishna Talkies!”

For that Rs.12 a day, Kamachi, her husband, and younger son Jeeva Rao travelled to Delhi in 1982. For two months, they rehearsed every freezing morning, for the Asiad Games’ cultural events. That performance brought other opportunities. Kamachi danced night and day during festival time. “It was very, very hard. But I didn’t mind. I needed the money.” She had to educate and clothe her growing children. “We ate when we danced!” What hurt was the resentment towards her art. The worst jabs were from close family, who refused to marry their daughter to her son. “‘You will make our daughter dance on the street like you!’ they said.” Even today — years after her sons are happily married — it upsets her.

Poikaal is a godly art, Kamachi says. Her husband calls it deadly: it’s vigorous, with flashing swords, stomping wooden stilts and beats and turns that rise to a crescendo. “One wrong step, when you’re wearing all the gear, you’ll fall heavily.” The stilts, ankle bells, the horse and costume weigh 20-25 kg. So, in addition to the performers and drummers, they need assistants. Which adds to the troupe’s cost. The going (seasonal) rate for a performance is around Rs.40,000. It includes the poikaal dancers and karagam , kavadi , mayil and maadu dancers, besides the drummers and assistants. The luggage usually fills a mini-lorry. It takes 1.5 hours to do the make-up. And an hour to pack up.

It was even more challenging earlier. Kamachi has heard her in-laws speak of travelling for days on a twin-bullock cart, with food parcels and the heavy gear, for faraway performances. And two generations ago, men danced as women! “My mother-in-law and her sister were perhaps the first female poikaal performers.” The women danced well into their pregnancy, their bellies hidden by the horse. Nadi Rao was born when his mother travelled for a programme. Women, in fact, began dancing so that there was some money to feed the family. The men spent money on country liquor. It kept the family constantly hungry. That changed when women took up the art.

It also changed Kamachi’s life. She lists the countries she’s visited; she hadn’t even heard their names before, as she’s never been to school. During the Karagattam days she travelled extensively with her children. “When I put on powder (make-up) you could barely recognise me! And, nobody would believe I had birthed six children.”

The photographs are proof. She was small, slim-waisted and very pretty, in an elegant full skirt, half-sari and the heavy pot on her head. Standing around her were men and women in suits and skirts, who paid handsomely in silver coins when she performed tricks — threading a lemon, opening a soda bottle with her teeth, fire-eating.

The tricks left scars. The soda-bottle caps took several teeth with them. “The front teeth are all false!” she flashes a toothy smile. She’s got acidity from drinking 10 sodas a day (she would drink without touching the bottle with her hands) on a near-empty stomach. Gargling with kerosene to ‘eat’ fire ruined her oesophagus.

But Kamachi doesn’t dwell on this. She tells me of the days when she earned a third over her husband (Rs.5 to his Rs.3) Today, women’s costumes are shorter; the pay is higher. “But I won’t criticise them, they’re only adapting to changing times.”

Not all changes are welcome, though. Nadi Rao is especially scathing about some. “We used to perform in the Brihadeeshwara temple in Thanjavur two to three times a year. But not any more. They prefer artists from Madurai or Madras over local ones.” Rao is also deeply upset about the attitude in Tamil Nadu. “I have travelled to Dubai, Istanbul and London. There, they celebrate this art! They press us to stay longer. But here, poikaal kudhirai is not regarded highly.” Add the huge drop in the number of opportunities to perform — from once a day in his father’s time to once a month now — it’s impossible to be full-time artists and run a household. Kamachi deeply resents the preference for younger, fairer, prettier girls (whether or not they can dance) to come onto the stage. “But then, what will I do? All I know is to dance!”

The dance brought Nadi Rao awards — Kalaimamani, and last year, the Sangeet Natak Akademi award (shared with his son, Jeeva Rao, a renowned drummer). Kamachi holds up the framed certificate tenderly, and hopes her husband wins more. And she says it without a trace of jealousy.

But there’s plenty of jealousy in the art world, Shivaji rues, and a sneering, step-motherly attitude to folk arts. “Classical artistes stay in hotels; we’re asked to sleep in schools or verandahs; tiffin is taken to their room, we have to go get ours; they’re given bottled water, better transport…” To crown the insults, folk artists are paid Rs.800 per person (Rs.12,000 for a troupe of 15). A classical troupe of five gets twice that. And all this by organisations whose job is to preserve the arts!

These injustices prevent Kamachi from repeating to her grandchildren the advice her father-in-law gave her. “Where’s the future in dance?” But she says that only when she’s anguished and bitter. Because, the dancer in her wants her sons to take forward the art, her grandson to be initiated in it. ‘Even today, when I wear the ankle-bells, I’m energised. When I remove them, I feel drained.’ Because then, her responsibilities crowd her: she needs to feed the chicken, fetch water…

Late one evening Kamachi and Nadi Rao were showing me pictures from their Germany and Turkey trips. Suddenly, rain thundered on the roof. Kamachi ran upstairs to move the sacks of grain from their field before they were lashed wet. She was tired when she came back. But early the next morning, the family was going to Sivagangai. That meant packing all the gear; travelling for three hours, make-up for two, and then the dancing. She would return home that night. It sounded extraordinary. For Kamachi, it was just another day in the life of a folk dancer.

This article is part of the series ‘Vanishing Livelihoods of Rural Tamil Nadu’ and is supported under NFI National Media Award 2015.

aparna.m.karthikeyan@gmail.com