Kathakali

My most favourite kathakali memories are from early childhood. The annual ulsavam at the local temple when we would go, late at night, to sit on sand and watch the grand tales be told in grander style. The smell of the temple -- oil from the lamps, earth, musty sandalwood, a suggestion of incense. Falling asleep from a combination of boredom and fatigue. At the age of 5 or 6, really, there is only so much that you can be interested in a performance that goes on for hours. Returning home at early dawn and being wide awake as soon as I hit the bed.

There was this one time when I woke up to see one of the kathi veshams running through the meagre audience, with a blood curdling scream. Fearsome it was; to me it was magnified by sleep as well. At once awe inspiring and scary.

My uncle always took me to watch the artistes preparing for the show. We often watched through windows as they got their faces painted. I remember watching in wonder as they went from mere mortals to gods. The room would have, neatly hung on the walls, the finery -- the mirrors and clothes. Crowns carefully in a corner. The mild smell of the colours.

Magical times those were.

And then a week ago, against the backdrop of Singapore's glass and chrome highrises, I spent an hour watching the gods again. Surreal as the combination seemed, the magic was still intact.