The Songs in the field

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The dry fields around Virudhnagar lay quiet, a dull brown stretch of land that seemed to breathe, waiting for the rains to return and bring life back into the soil. Yet, despite the parched earth, excitement rippled through the town. Harvest season was over, and with it came the most anticipated time of the year—the arrival of the touring drama companies. But this year was unlike any other. The talk of the town, the whispered excitement in every home, was about none other than M.K. Thayagaraja Bhagavathar, the celebrated actor-singer whose voice alone could send shivers down your spine. His troupe was coming to perform, and it was all anyone could speak about.

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Ambi had been given a special task, one that made him swell with pride. The women of the Agraharam, including his mother and her friends, had entrusted him with the important duty of securing tickets for the play. They all adored Bhagavathar’s performances, and this was an opportunity they wouldn’t miss for the world. Armed with their requests and a few coins, Ambi had stood in line at the ticket booth, the warm breeze carrying the scent of tamarind and jasmine around him as he waited.

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When he returned, holding the prized tickets in hand, there was a rush of excitement. The ladies clucked happily, already making preparations for the evening. They packed snacks—steamed rice cakes, banana chips, and laddus—all wrapped in banana leaves, ready for the night ahead. Mats and durries were rolled up and set aside, for no one would be sitting on wooden benches; the ground was good enough, especially for such an auspicious performance.

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As dusk fell, the small group from the Agraharam made their way to the large open field where the stage had been set up. Oil lamps flickered around the perimeter, casting a soft golden light that mingled with the fading sunset. The air was thick with anticipation and the aroma of freshly fried snacks being sold by vendors lining the field. Ambi, leading the way with the tickets, found them a perfect spot near the front. They spread out their mats, everyone settling down comfortably, their excitement barely contained.

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The night’s play was an episode from the Ramayana, a tale as old as time, yet it never failed to captivate. When M.K. Thayagaraja Bhagavathar finally took the stage as Lord Rama, the audience collectively held its breath. His voice, rich and melodious, filled the air like the sweetest of nectar. Every word, every note, resonated deep within Ambi’s soul. Bhagavathar wasn’t merely acting—he was Rama, standing tall and noble, his voice carrying the weight of righteousness and destiny.

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The stage, illuminated by soft lights, was a burst of color and life. Ravana, played by a towering actor with dark makeup and fearsome expressions, looked every bit the villain of the epic, while Sita, adorned in silks and jewelry, radiated grace. The actors moved with purpose, their dialogue punctuated by Bhagavathar’s songs, which held the audience spellbound. When he sang the “Rama Pattabhishekam”—the song of Rama’s coronation—the field echoed with the sound of awe. Ambi felt goosebumps rise on his arms as the pure, unblemished notes hung in the air, wrapping the listeners in their embrace.

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The crowd was mesmerized. Even the smallest children sat silently, their wide eyes reflecting the drama unfolding on stage. The elderly swayed gently to the music, and even the toughest men in the crowd couldn’t help but be moved by the performance. The snack-filled packets remained untouched for a long while, so engrossed were they all in the world of the Ramayana.

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During the break, Ambi’s younger siblings nudged him to buy them some sweets from the vendors. Ambi, still in a trance from the first half of the play, made his way to the stalls where vendors loudly called out their wares—hot jalebis, fresh murukkus, and bright pink sugar candy. Ambi bought enough for everyone, his head still filled with the image of M.K. Thayagaraja Bhagavathar standing tall on stage.

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As the second half of the play began, Ambi and the others resumed their places, enjoying their snacks while the action on stage grew intense. The battle between Rama and Ravana—an iconic scene—was nothing short of spectacular. The clash of swords, the chants, the battle cries, and above all, Bhagavathar’s powerful voice, elevated the scene to something beyond theater. It felt real. Every shout, every swing of the sword seemed to draw the audience deeper into the story.

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For Ambi, the night was magical. It wasn’t just the performance, the songs, or the drama that captivated him—it was the sense of community. Sitting there with his family, surrounded by people he’d known all his life, and feeling the shared emotion of the story was an experience unlike any other.

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As the final scenes of the play unfolded, the entire field seemed to breathe in unison, holding their collective breath until the curtains finally fell. There was a moment of silence, a brief pause where everyone let the story sink in, and then the crowd erupted in applause. People shouted their praises, calling out to Bhagavathar and his troupe. Ambi’s heart swelled with pride, not just for the performance but for having been a part of such a beautiful night.

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As they rolled up their mats and prepared to head home, the group chattered excitedly about the play, their laughter ringing through the night. Ambi walked alongside his siblings, his thoughts still dancing to the tunes of Bhagavathar’s voice, knowing that nights like these were what made life in the small villages around Tirunelveli so very special.

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