As I bought a bus ticket to Aiyangarkulam, a village 10 km from Tamil Nadu’s Kanchipuram, the lady beside me remarked, “I have never met you before—we generally know everybody in Aiyangarkulam.” When I mentioned that I had come to explore Kattaikkuttu Sangam, the performing arts space run by Perungattur Rajagopal, her face lit up. She recalled watching several of his performances, describing how the theru (street) would fill with spectators whenever he took the stage.
As we walked through the narrow lanes of Aiyangarkulam, she said, “Kuttu brings back memories of bygone times and elders who are no longer with us.”
Founded in 1990 by hereditary Kattaikkuttu performer P Rajagopal, his wife and theatre scholar Hanne M de Bruin, and 15 Kattaikkuttu artists, the Kattaikkuttu Sangam is a unique rural performing arts centre dedicated to preserving and dignifying Kattaikkuttu—a traditional Tamil ensemble theatre form.
The Sangam has worked tirelessly to sustain this vibrant art, which remains largely unknown outside its home region.
With the arrival of Thai masam (mid-January), Kuttu performances begin in villages.
Gobinath, a popular Kattaikkuttu performer, explained that a kuttu performance unfolds over an entire night, beginning at around 10 pm and continuing until dawn. The actors transform into mythical characters, delivering powerful performances before village audiences, the traditional patrons of Kuttu.
Venda, another performer, said that one can identify if a performer was on stage the previous night, referring to the remnants of the mask-like makeup actors wear for nearly eight hours on stage. Even after the performance, traces remain—the faint imprint of tightly tied threads that held a moustache or ornaments in place, the subtle weariness that lingers in their expressions.
When I spoke to Rajagopal and Hanne about the actors’ faces seeming to change slightly with the start of the Kuttu season, Hanne turned to Rajagopal and said, "The uḻaippu shows on their faces."
Uḻaippu—labour—is a word that is common among Kattaikkuttu artists. Performing all night, sustaining energy, and embodying characters—it is hard work. Kattaikkuttu is both labour and a means of livelihood for the artist.
This idea of uḻaippu is powerfully articulated in Karnatic Kattaikkuttu, a collaborative production between Karnatic vocalist TM Krishna, Sangeetha Sivakumar, Rajagopal, Hanne, and the artists of the Kattaikkuttu Sangam.
During a conversation in the production, Rajagopal responds to Krishna’s association of art with jnana (knowledge) by asserting that for Kattaikkuttu artists, art is uḻaippu—labour. He sings:
It is labour, hard labour.
Tying my crown really tight
To perform fast spins.
With a silver plate and a band of pearls
On my forehead, (kattai) ear and shoulder,
Ornaments and a shining breast pendant,
Bells tied around my feet, I perform tirelessly.
(It is labour.)
What is the art in Kuttu, they ask?
It’s easy to speak of its shortcomings.
When you do not immerse yourself in it,
You will never be able to recognise and enjoy its finesse.
(It is labour.)
Kuttu starts at ten at night.
It finishes when the sun rises.
And even then, we must look fresh and focused.
Bigwigs, I tell you—it’s labour, hard labour.
(translated from Tamil by Hanne M de Bruin)
Bhoomathi (57), from Anaimallur village, told me that she has been watching Kuttu since childhood. "I have been watching Kuttu since I was this young," she says, pointing to her eight-year-old granddaughter.
Kattaikkuttu performances are sustained by rural audiences in the northern districts of Tamil Nadu. The art form is primarily commissioned for Paratam festivals, held in honour of Draupadi Amman, the village goddess, and typically runs for about ten nights during these celebrations. Karna Moksham Kuttu is also performed during death ceremonies, locally referred to as karyam.
Kuttu takes place in diverse settings—on a stage (medai), in temple courtyards, or along village streets. The audience stays through the night, occasionally dozing off, only to be woken up by the Kattaiyakkaran (clown), who ensures engagement. These spectators are not passive viewers; they are connoisseurs, deeply familiar with the nuances of the art.
During a performance at K Velur village, the woman sitting next to me suddenly said, “That’s Greenkumar singing.” It is three in the morning, and she instantly recognises the voice of Greenkumar, a celebrated Kuttu artist, as he takes over the pinnani (chorus) singing—a testament to the audience's deep familiarity with the performers.
Actors also build dedicated fan bases in these villages. Venda explained that her following extends to villages like Uthrapatte, Pallippatte, Esainoor, and Ondikudusi, despite having performed for only a few years in a company. In some villages, people even fall at her feet, especially when she plays Kuratti in Kuravanji Kuttu.
The village's memory holds onto its legendary performers, transforming them into cultural icons. Gobinath recalls an incident where his company, Ponniyamman Kattaikkuttu Company, was invited to perform in a village that had once been mesmerised by a legendary Kuttu artist who played Kuratti.
Out of respect for his legacy, the villagers initially refused to have Kuravanji Kuttu performed. Eventually, Ponniyamman Kattaikkuttu Company went ahead with the Kuttu, with R Devan taking on the role of Kuratti. His performance won over the audience, proving that while memory holds onto the past, it also makes room for new interpretations.
Kattaikkuttu performances in villages are marked by a certain informality. While this allows for dynamic interaction between performers and audiences, the venues sometimes lack the necessary infrastructure for performances. Since Kuttu does not have designated performance spaces in villages, artists must sometimes adapt to makeshift settings, sometimes inadequate and even impoverished.
A Bharathi, a Kattaikkuttu Sangam alumna and Inlaks recipient researching gender in Kuttu, noted that while performing in villages offers valuable experiences, the performance spaces can sometimes be too small or unsuitable. In contrast, the Sangam provides a safer and more accommodating environment for women performers, with ample space for movement.
Rajagopal highlighted the advantages of the Sangam’s facilities, which include both indoor and outdoor performance spaces. This flexibility ensures that performances can continue indoors if rain disrupts an outdoor show—a common challenge in village performances. B Lakshmi, a dedicated Kattaikkuttu rasika, pointed out that in such situations, performances are sometimes relocated to makeshift venues like school classrooms. However, these spaces often lack the atmosphere and conditions necessary for a proper Kattaikkuttu performance.
Kattaikkuttu artist and alumnus of the Kattaikkuttu Gurukulam, R Devan, described the Sangam’s stage as his favourite place to perform. “In village settings, audiences get distracted—people walk around, and the atmosphere can be chaotic,” he explained. “But at Kattaikkuttu Sangam, spectators are more focused and respectful. There’s a sense of dignity when we perform there, and that respect feeds back into our performance. It elevates the entire experience in a way that isn’t possible on village stages or even in city venues.”
The performance space at Kattaikkuttu Sangam is unique because it is built by Kuttu artists for themselves. Unlike the improvised or restrictive contexts of non-traditional venues, this space empowers artists to control every aspect of their performances. Here, Kattaikkuttu can be presented in its intended form, preserving its artistic integrity while ensuring that both the art and its practitioners receive the dignity and visibility they deserve.
Hanne noted that such a space is much more than just a performance venue—it is a landmark that asserts Kattaikkuttu’s place on the cultural map. For a marginalised tradition like Kattaikkuttu, which still carries social stigma, having such a dedicated space is deeply significant.
Beyond Kattaikkuttu, the venue hosts contemporary, urban, and modern productions, along with performances from various artistic traditions. This openness is reflected in its very architecture. Rajagopal recalled that the initial plan was to build a 20-foot by 20-foot stage, but they ultimately decided to expand it to 30 feet by 40 feet, ensuring it could accommodate a wide range of art forms.
This is a unique model, especially considering that most performance spaces in Chennai struggle to be this inclusive, often remaining inaccessible to rural artists and audiences.
The 34th performance festival, held between November 2 and January 4, 2024 at the Kattaikkuttu Sangam, exemplifies this openness. It featured a diverse lineup, ranging from Karnatic Kattaikkuttu to productions by major Chennai-based theatre groups. The festival also welcomed artists from other traditions, such as the Sufi singers from Nagore, alongside traditional Kattaikkuttu and modern productions in the Kattaikkuttu style by Rajagopal and gurukulam alumni Thilagavathi Palani, Bharathi, and Sasikumar P.
Bharathi recalled performing Won’t You Listen to Me, a modern play based on Kattaikkuttu, alongside her partner Sasikumar at the festival. The play was part of their project at Ashoka University, where they graduated. Reflecting on the difference between the two performance spaces, she says, “Performing on the proscenium stage at Ashoka was very different. There were no lights on the audience—I couldn’t see their reactions. But at the Sangam stage, I could. Watching the audience’s response is essential to my performance as a Kattaikkuttu artist, and I enjoyed that connection.”
The festival at Kattaikkuttu Sangam also serves a practical purpose, taking place during the Kuttu off-season from mid-October to mid-January. Providing performance opportunities during a time when work is otherwise scarce helps artists sustain themselves financially. Many artists see Kattaikkuttu’s seasonality as a major challenge. Duraisamy, a Kattaikkuttu artist and Sangam alumnus, explained, “The earnings from Kuttu are not enough. Since performances are seasonal, we are left without a steady income for much of the year.”
The festival is an attempt to address this issue, offering both artistic and economic support to performers.
When I first attended the Chennai Margazhi Music and Dance Festival, I was spellbound by the erudition of the spectators. They had a deep knowledge of ragas and an informed understanding of the performances. Much has been written and spoken about these discerning Chennai audiences.
The rural spectators of Kattaikkuttu, however, are just as critical and knowledgeable about their art form. Yet, little has been documented about them. Unlike the connoisseurs of Carnatic concerts, their expertise is seldom celebrated. I believe this neglect is directly tied to the stigma surrounding Kuttu. The lack of dignity afforded to the art form seems to extend to its spectators as well, rendering their connoisseurship less visible and less valued.
The Kuttu season is now at its peak and will continue until the end of Purattasi (mid-October). The villages in northern Tamil Nadu transform into epic landscapes where gods and kings from myth descend into the world. Kattaikkuttu unfolds through the night, punctuated by the comedy of the Kattiyakkaran, the fall of the mighty Duryodhana on the eighteenth day, and the tragic death of Karna as he parts from his wife Ponnuruvi—moments that move audiences to tears.
Throughout this season, Kattaikkuttu will be performed for its discerning rural spectators—an audience that will watch with a critical eye and an unshakable passion, night after night.
Swathi Sudhakaran writes and thinks about theatre, aesthetics, and life in rural South India. She's currently living and researching at the Kattaikkuttu Sangam in Kanchipuram.