What the Kilippaattu taught me

DECADES ago, when my grandma realised her eyesight was failing her, she called up to me to read out the Ramayana to her. I obliged, as I had been told by my father that the best way to learn the Malayalam language was to recite Thunchath Ramanujan Ezhuthachan’s Adhyathma Ramayanam Kilippaattu at least once.  So, after my return from school, I was summoned before the sun went down every evening, to read the Ramayana.

I began reading it to her, and it continued day after day and stopped in time for mom to light the lamp and usher grandma to the pooja room complete with the Sivakasi printed pictures of all the gods in the pantheon.

Reading out poetry penned in chaste Malayalam, and that too aloud so that granny wouldn’t stop me in between and ask me to re-read a passage or two again, became a daily evening task. Ezhuthachchan was too much to handle for a small town boy attending the fifth standard. Convent education had forced me to speak English at school, and coming home to some chaste Malayalam every evening was a pain. However, with granny halting in between passages and elaborating on why Lakshman’s sacrifice was to be seen as ultimate and why Urmila was destined to stay single even after being married, gave me much energy to go on and seek more characters of their ilk.

The daily exercise came to a halt when the Ramayana limped on to the last page. But that was not to be.  A fortnight later, granny called out to me again. The task was the same. To read the Ramayana yet again. The tough shlokas and the language that gave them their shape stood as hurdles in front of my little mind.

But then, there wasn’t any escape route. Granny added importance to my task by telling people that this tiny kid of hers reads out the Ramayana every evening so that she can sleep in peace. I too saw an importance being thrust on me, when neighbours and visiting relatives looked upon me as someone special. The pride grew when they spoke to their children and grandchildren to learn from my act.

The second reading too ended soon afterwards and I too was feeling a bit comfortable with even the toughest words and phrases in the language.  Father was right, I was transforming myself into a Malayali who dived deep into Malayalam’s most precious epic.

And then came the third reading, as granny wasn’t ready to let go of her evening pastime. I started over again, reading Ezhuthachan’s opus the third time around. This time I was familiar with the characters and what they felt and uttered. I made friends with Hanuman and Lakshman, I felt a sense of sympathy to Urmila, and Shurpanakha. I wanted to hug Mandodari for what she was. I shared Bali’s pain, I started detesting Vibheeshana’s selfish act.  I began applauding the heroics of Meghanada and Kumbhakarna, and I felt sorry for Jatayu. I felt helpless when Sita was abandoned by her husband.

To the dismay of my granny, I started developing a hatred towards Rama, who killed the valiant Bali by treacherous means. I began disliking the man who was otherwise called Maryada Purushottam. I disliked the manner in which he abandoned Sita for no fault of hers. Granny told me it was royal dharma on play, which I never wanted to subscribe to. I saw in Rama a coward, who could kill or despise someone to attain selfish gains.

Ravan, Kumbhakarna, and Indrajit played heroes in front of me. I looked for negatives in them, and could find none. To me, Ravan, the villain of the tale, proved to be noble to the hilt. Kumbhakarna and Meghanada were epitomes of valour. To me, Lakshmana was godly than his elder brother.

Years later, when the Babri Masjid issue started taking centre stage, Rama was doing the rounds. Building a temple in his name by razing down a mosque came about as another nail in Rama’s coffin to me. Having been taught in school to be a citizen who would keep the secular pride of my country alive till death, I wasn’t ready to attest to the idea of building a temple by bringing down a mosque. Rama was at the centre of all that.  My hatred grew.

It still does, when Ram sevaks of the ongoing era swear by this so called Maryada Purushottam. I wouldn’t build temples for such a man. I wouldn’t want my kids to seek solace in him. Give me Lakshman or Ravan any day. Or Mandodari, or Urmila. I would fall at their feet.