“Injava maane, ippidivaa maane, injava, ippidivaa… aaaa (Oh deer, come here, come this way; come here, come… aaaa),” and an arrow finds its way onto the deer’s heart. As Rajeev Pulavar concludes this little tholpavakoothu performance, one can’t help but think that perhaps the fate of the deer is what awaits this vulnerable art form. 

In Tamil, the word “Tholpavakoothu” is made up of three words: “thol” (leather), “paava” (doll), and “koothu” (performance). “It’s not just shadow puppetry,” said Rajeev’s father, Ramachandran Pulavar, the 12th, maybe 13th-generation keeper of this dying art form.“I often ask youngsters who come for workshops if they’d want to be artists, and most of the time, the answer is ‘no,’” lamented Ramachandran. “When I ask them, ‘Why have you come here?’ ‘For school credit,’ comes the reply.”

While Rajeev and his father solely depend on shadow puppetry for their income, Rajeev’s cousin, Vipin Pulavar, who has studied social work, does freelance counseling. “If one were to learn this art form formally, it would take several months,” Vipin said. “In fact, it would take a very long time just to learn all the slokas properly.” The fathers, Ramachandran and Viswanath Pulavar, relied solely on tholpavakoothu for their livelihood.

Rajeev wasn’t formally trained in the art form. As a young boy, he remembers sitting backstage when his father performed. “Me and my brother, Rahul, would sit, try and stay awake for hours—one performance could last for up to nine hours—even if it meant sneaking naps in school the next day,” Rajeev said. 

All the boys, Vipin, Rajeev, and Rahul, learned the slokas from their late grandfather, Late Krishnankutty Pulavar. “He would ask us to come to sit next to us in the evenings, and listen to him recite [and ask them to reproduce] the slokas,” Vipin recalled. “There’s no formal training for the art form. It is mainly about learning the slokas—about 12,000 slokas Kamban Ramayanam consists of. Me and my brother can now recite over 9,000 slokas.”

A Brief Introduction To Tholpavakoothu

“The geographical origins are quite debatable,” explained Rajeev Pulavar, the 35-year-old son of Ramachandran and grandson of Krishnankutty Pulavar. It is said to have originated in Kerala but borrows several words and terms from Tamil and Dravidian literature. “It really is the telling of Kamban Ramayanam,” Rajeev added, referring to the Ramayana written by Tamil poet Kambar in the 12th Century, “which originated in Tamil Nadu.” 

The story goes that Goddess Bhadrakali couldn’t witness Rama killing Ravana, as she was busy slaying an asura (demon). The re-enactment of the story via slogans of Kambakamban Ramayanam is said to be for the benefit of the goddess.

“People come and watch—even [Kerala] ministers do, but, when it comes to supporting it, they say, the art form has originated from Tamil Nadu,” said Pulavar, who received the Padma Shri (India’s fourth highest civilian award) in 2021 as recognition for his work in the field of art. “This stands in the way of this ancient art form, from getting the support due to it.” 

While the Tamil Nadu government feels that the Kerala government should do more to give out stipends and subsidies, the Kerala government feels that this is the job of the Tamil Nadu government. 

The dolls—crafted out of leather made from deer skin—are propped against a white screen, which is lit up using 21 lamps made from coconut shells. The artists manipulate the movements of the dolls or puppets with the help of sticks. Traditionally, pavakoothu is performed between January and May at Bhagavathy temples (dedicated to goddesses) in the Palakkad, Thrissur, and Malappuram districts in Kerala. 

“The performances can last for 7, 14, 21, or even 42 days, depending on the length of the slokas performed,” Rajeev said; Kamban Ramayanam, for instance, consists of 12,000 slokas. “A performance usually begins at around 8 or 9 pm and goes on till 5 or 6 am.” 

The art form could also be considered a “viplava kalaroopam” (revolutionary art form), “which enabled the lower caste people (members of the Pulavar community and other artists) to enter the temple compound,” shared Vipin Pulavar, son of Ramachandran’s brother, Vishwanatha Pulavar, who was awarded the Sangeetha Natak Akademi Award in 2022, the highest Indian award for recognition in the field of performing arts. 

The area, or the stage, where the 42 artists, including the percussionists, perform is called the “koothumadam,” Vipin explained. “It is 42 feet high, 14 feet wide, and has a depth of 7 feet,” he described. “What started as a ritualistic and a revolutionary art form has reached other spaces today, thanks to my grandfather, Krishnankutty Pulavar.”

The Pulavar Family’s Commitment To Tholpavakoothu

“My father, in the 1970s, took the art form to various countries,” Ramachandran shared. The opportunity presented itself in 1978, at an All India Art Festival, which took place in Bengaluru. The festival was attended by foreign delegates.” 

“But, he had started tweaking the art form by performing it outside the temple compound in the 1960s, which was considered a big no-no,” Vipin added. “He felt that unless it was viewed by a bigger audience, the art form would die down.” 

In the 90s, the family started experimenting with new concepts, like education, prevention of STDs like HIV, and women’s safety as themes for performances. “Which again, was met with naysayers,” Rajeev said. 

“Back then, it would be a matter of pride; families and artists would perform for the reputation they’d garner,” Ramachandran recalled. “Families would host you; you’d be well-taken care of; treated with respect. But, over time, the number of artists started dwindling. The audiences started dwindling. In fact, if there was to be a performance at a temple today, there would be about two people in the audience. Earlier the number would be in hundreds.” 

“Now, there are about 3-4 families in Kerala that practice the art form,” Vipin lamented. Each family has its unique way of performing the pavakoothu: how the slokas are recited and the order in which they might be recited differ from family to family. The lack of cohesiveness makes it more difficult for the art form to be conserved.

“In 1992, my father [Vishwanatha] taught my mother, Pushpalatha, to make tholpavas or puppets,” Vipin shared. “This was at a time when women still weren’t allowed at the performance arena or koothumadam.” Circa 2000, his family started performing on different topics apart from education like the story of Mahatma Gandhi, freedom fighters, Jesus Christ, and even on social issues such as awareness about HIV-AIDS.

“Around this time, we also started breaking down Kamban Ramayanam and performing parts of it, instead of the whole epic,” Vishwanatha said. “It would be Sita’s abduction or Rama killing Ravana, perhaps.” 

Ramachandran’s family has also started making merchandise from the thol or deer skin. “Scraps of leather that tend to be left behind after the puppets are made, are used to make smaller dolls, keychains, wall hangings, etc,” he said. “I want people to take home a piece of the art form, a keepsake, which hopefully will further conversation around it.”

The Need To Preserve Tholpavakoothu

“Tholpavakoothu was a powerful tool for knowledge production for common folk during ancient times,” stated Rajeev’s brother, Rahul Pulavar. “It still has a potential to validate functions of society, like imparting knowledge, connecting dots in mythology, and keeping traditions alive.” 

In September 2023, Rahul received the University of Connecticut’s Harriott Fellowship. He has completed his MA in comparative literature, focusing on shadow puppetry and its transformation. He and his father, Ramachandran, toured the US performing pavakoothu in New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia, and Connecticut. The performances were received with “great appreciation and words of encouragement,” said Rahul Pulavar. 

Ramachandran strongly feels that the stories from Ramayana and Mahabharata are still relevant today and that the stories and the slokas that narrate them have layers of meaning. “They might need to be presented differently,” he said, “but, in essence, the messages are of good vs evil—and these need to be conveyed to the current generation as well.”

Emphasizing the need for the tradition to be preserved, Ramachandran believes the slokas need to be properly documented. Otherwise, with time, it will be difficult to be passed on further. “These slokas were learned through word of mouth,” he said, “but the time has come to document them.” 

Ramachandran is happy to have taught his wife, Rajalakshmi, daughter, Rajitha, and daughter-in-law, Ashwati, pavakoothu and the making of dolls. “Women might still not be accepted or granted entry to the koothumadam, but, at least, they are doing their best to take the art form further,” he reasoned. 

The three women have done shows in Hungary, Thailand, Singapore, Russia and other places. They have performed themes like women’s empowerment, women in the police force, sexual harassment, and awareness of electoral rights during elections.

Disheartened by the bias against folklore and folk art, Ramachandran regrets that an institute like Kalamandalam—one of the most prestigious institutes in the country for traditional performance arts—does not come forth to support pavakoothu. “There needs to be a shift in attitude towards folk art,” he asserted. “Traditional performance arts like Bharatnatyam and Kuchipudi tend to get more support.”

“One cannot live or sustain oneself with income from pavakoothu alone, certainly not,” stated Vipin. His uncle, Ramachandran, seems to concur. But, both Vipin and Rajeev wouldn’t hesitate to pass the torch on to their children. “The tradition must continue,” Vipin resolved. 

“The tradition should continue,” Rahul reiterated. “There’s potential for the future, to conserve and to innovate the art form.”