It might have roots linked to the rain goddess, but the form isn’t just about worship – it is also about turning caste hegemony on its head. Audiences once liked curvaceous women well into their 30s, now they prefer pubescent teenagers in short skirts,” she mumbles, as she shows us a picture of her with a pre-politics Vijayakant. Vijaya, who was initially ready to chase us out, sat us down a minute later to leaf through her picture albums. Vijaya with her then performers, now daily wage labourers. And as with Lavani, it is the artists who are attacked, not the audience that cannot see the difference between an erotic performance and sexual propositioning. Much like Lavani, the Maharashtrian folk art form that is criticized for its erotic nature, Karakattam, too, has come under fire for its ‘vulgarity’. While the form isn’t dying per se, and has undergone a fairly unusual amount of change and adaptation, it has definitely received an unsavoury reputation in recent times. Karakattam is one of the many artistic traditions that has its roots in tribute to the rain goddess Mariamman. “He was a wonderful dancer who helped me go forth with whatever little we had,” she says. A practitioner of the Karakattam folk art tradition for over 30 years, her voice takes on an inflection of both pride and grief when her recently deceased husband is mentioned in the conversation. This scene gives 45-year-old Vijaya a mix of relief and elation.
Outside the houses of Mannapettai, a gaggle of children move their hips in imitation of their elder sisters and cousins. Within a small colony a short ride away from Madurai emerge women, their faces flushed yellow with turmeric, sporting unusually large bindis and pastel housecoats.
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