The rhythmic beat of the parai echoes through the air, its deep, earthy resonance stirring something primal within. It’s almost impossible not to groove to the impactful beat of the instrument. Played with two sticks, the drum’s vibrations carry an ancient legacy, once used to announce royal decrees, rally warriors to battle, and also mark joyous celebrations.
For centuries, this percussion instrument stood as a symbol of Tamil culture’s vibrancy and strength. Yet, its history is as complex as its sound — an instrument, once praised, became a tool of oppression tied to the caste system, and positioned to mournful dirges at funerals.
Today, the parai is experiencing a revival, transcending its caste-bound associations to emerge as a symbol of cultural pride and resistance, gaining global attention. Through the efforts of dedicated artists and movements, this drum now bridges divides, uniting people across communities.
History of parai
The word ‘parai’ means ‘to tell or speak’ in Tamil. The instrument’s origin goes back to human evolution when people were hunters and gatherers. It was used as an instrument to communicate with each other to inform about threats or convey other information.
The first mentions of ‘parai’ can be found in Sangam literature like Thokappiyam. Devaram, a collection of devotional hymns composed by revered Saiva saints in the 6th century AD, references the parai being played within the temple sanctum and other auspicious events.
“Initially, parai was used as an umbrella term for all percussion instruments,” shares Srinivas G, who has been a parai trainer for over six years. “Parai is the mother of all skin instruments, and it was played in royal courts, marriages and other auspicious occasions,” he says.
This practice was later denigrated during the Vijayanagara rule of Tamil Nadu in the 14th century AD, when the instrument was disparagingly renamed “Thappu,” a term associated with inauspiciousness.
What was once a vibrant cultural artefact became a stark reminder of systemic discrimination, its beats echoing the weight of caste oppression. “While tabla and mridhangam — instruments which are also made of animal skin got stages and sanctums to play, parai became the instrument of the oppressed,” says Srinivas.
From tempo to tyranny
During the colonial and feudal eras, the parai was stripped of its cultural prestige and relegated to the margins of society. Its association with the Dalit community became entrenched as it was used exclusively during funerals, a role imposed by the rigid caste hierarchy. This shift diminished the instrument’s significance and reinforced social stigmas, marking both the drum and its players as symbols of untouchability.
“My family has a long history with the parai,” shares Manimaran Magizhini, whose ancestors were renowned players of this traditional art form. “I began my musical journey with Gaana (a lyrical song sung in the North Madras dialect), singing at funerals from a young age,” he recalls. “Initially, I played the dholak while accompanying singers, and I would often observe the parai players arrive after our performances.”
This intrigued Manimaran, prompting him to learn the parai himself, and pursue it as his full-time profession. However, as he performed at funerals, he witnessed the social stigma faced by parai players. “We are essentially providing a crucial service, helping families express and process their grief,” he observes. “Yet, I couldn’t understand why we were subjected to such widespread discrimination.”
Additionally, the association of the parai with alcohol significantly contributes to the social stigma surrounding its players. Playing the instrument requires immense energy and stamina, leading many players to submit to alcohol. In the past, alcohol was even used as a form of payment for parai players, further reinforcing this association. “We were not allowed to wear slippers or shirts when we played parai, which was frustrating,” shares Manimaran.
The instrument, once a symbol of celebration, became a marker of social exclusion and systemic oppression, which the artists were not fond of. This led to a revolutionary protest, changing the viewpoint of parai in India.
Liberation from the chains of caste
The inherent inequality fueled the rise of ‘Parai Marrupu Porattam’, a significant anti-caste movement led by the Scheduled Caste Federation. Originating in Cuddalore district, it spread across Tamil Nadu. “Marrupu” translates to “to deny,” symbolising the movement’s aim to break free from the shackles of caste-based occupations.
This movement, a crucial part of the broader ‘Izhi Thozhil Ethirppu Porattam’ (Refusal of Caste-Based Occupations) that spanned from the mid-1940s to the 1980s, witnessed the mass destruction of parai as a symbolic act of defiance. It gained significant momentum in northern Tamil Nadu and influenced similar movements in Eelam (Sri Lanka).
“A key objective of the movement was to liberate future generations from the constraints of caste-based occupations, emphasising the importance of education,” shares Manimaran. This principle was demonstrated at the Kathaaiyee Amman temple festival in Cuddalore. When local parai artists refused to participate, defying the very essence of the movement, artists from outside the region were brought in.
This blatant disregard for the community’s struggle led to violent clashes, resulting in the tragic death of a young man named Reddiyur Pandian on August 15, 1987.
The movement was an eye-opener for many, including Manimaran, who understood the difference between picking an art form out of choice and picking it because that is the only thing he should do. “Nobody from the upper class came forward to play parai, and that’s because parai’s art status was not satisfactory for this hierarchical society,” avers Manimaran.
Manimaran, and several others like him, are focusing on the correct usage of parai — an instrument of social change and awareness.
Breaking the caste barrier
Today, the parai has reclaimed its dignity and earned a better platform to contribute to societal causes. “We use parai to educate people and create awareness on pressing societal issues, training them for the same,” shares Manimaran, who founded ‘Buddhar Kalai Kuzhu’ — an academy teaching parai for all — since 2010.
“Change has to come within the parai community for them to expect better treatment from society,” says Srinivas, who discourages his students from playing at funerals and making them take an oath while they are enrolled for the classes. “We also ask people not to touch the parai if they have consumed alcohol,” adds Manimaran.
Buddhar Kalai Koodam aims to promote parai without the filter of oppression and caste. At the same time, Manimaran uses parai as a mechanism to propagate the importance of education, especially among children from marginalised communities.
Many youngsters from parai-playing families are drawn to the instrument, often witnessing their fathers perform at funerals. “This early exposure can lead them to prioritise parai over their education, limiting their prospects. Unfortunately, this perpetuates the cycle of caste-based occupations, leaving them vulnerable to the social stigma associated with the same,” Manimaran says.
“We approach schools to teach students the history of parai and inspire them to pursue education while mastering the art,” he explains. “Most students say that studying is not their cup of tea, but they like playing parai. We come up with ways using parai to create interest in their subjects as well,” he shares.
“Today, there is no cinema without parai,” says Manimaran, whose team has collaborated with music directors like Santhosh Narayanan, AR Rahman, and Sean Roldan. “I’m happy that we can take the music of parai to a wider audience.” shares Manimaran. Parai has been used for songs in films like Kavan, Jagame Thandhiram, and Saarpatta Parambarai, to name a few.
Buddhar Kalai Kuzhu has also successfully performed in the United States, where parai and Bharatnatyam were combined fruitfully. “It was great to see people accepting the craft with no prejudice!” shares Manimaran.
Parai artists have received appreciation and awards from the Tamil Nadu State Government, with popular artists like Arivu leading the way and changing the societal diaspora. “We are yet to get recognition from the Central Government, which I believe might take some time,” shares Manimaran with a smile.
Starting Nigar Kalai Koodam
Inspired by Manimaran, Srinivas started Nigar Kalai Koodam, in 2018, along with his wife Chandrika, who holds a PhD in Chemistry and Suresh, a bank employee.
Growing up in Thanjavur, Srinivas faced abuse and backlash from his family for playing the instrument when he was 10 years old. “My family’s biggest concern was what my neighbours would think about their family,” says Srinivas, something that stuck with him despite moving cities and prompted him to support the noble cause of uplifting the instrument.
We aim to break the caste barrier from parai and look at the powerful tool as another percussion instrument. “Parents usually encourage their kids to learn drums without second thoughts, right? I want the same status for parai as well,” Srinivas shares.
“We teach everybody, despite their gender, religion, caste etc. All that we look for is the passion and reverence to the craft,” says Srinivas, highlighting the gender and caste oppression bestowed in the past. “We are proud to say that more than 50% of the students are women.”
The group has successfully taught more than 120 students, out of which 30 have become trainers for the instrument. The course is for a year and students have both practical and theory exams to gain the certificate of completion.
Today, because of the initiative of people who are passionate about changing the trajectory, parai schools like Buddhar Kalai Koodam and Nigar Kalai Koodam are redefining the instrument’s legacy and slowly, but surely, gaining the recognition that parai deserves.
Edited by Arunava Banerjee
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