A visit with ‘The Master of Puppets’

Saturday, 26 July 2014 07:03 - - {{hitsCtrl.values.hits}}

By Rajinda Jayasinghe “Thank you for coming to see me in the ICU,” says Kalabhushana Ganwari Premin, Sri Lanka’s premiere puppeteer, as he ushers us into his home in rural Ambalangoda. Our host is immaculately dressed, clothes pressed to a brittle finish. The man looks in fine fettle but his eyes betray a controlled air of prideful resignation. It is his art-form that is dying, and it is not difficult to sense the origin of his burden. At one time the heir to a proud legacy, he is now the Nero of his craft, stubbornly playing his fiddle as a once proud kingdom crumbles slowly around him. Lost to the collective consciousness of the I-pad generation, the art of Sri Lanka’s traditional marionette puppetry has been left in the hands of a dwindling few. Today, I am fortunate to be given an intimate glimpse into this rich world.

Fact: Puppets can be creepy I look around the room as the Master of Puppets begins his story. He is a warm, brimming well of knowledge. But from the couch to my left, I notice six pairs of vapid, motionless eyes, two toothy grins, a bevy of loose limbs and several swathes of hair. I see the loosely defined shape of other miniature human beings, draped in individual, cylindrical cloth coffins. I cannot help but wonder whether the hair is real. Fact: Puppet shows used to be a really, really big deal Master Premin stands proudly on the shoulders of his ancestors, his father and his grandfather before him. Long before Cirque du Soleil and the advent of stadium theatre, these pioneers were putting together massive open air productions in agricultural communities around the island. We peruse an album full of posters advertising these village get-togethers that span from the early 1940s until the latter part of the 20th Century. For just a couple of cents a viewing, entire villages would assemble at a paddy field and engage in the purest of communal camaraderie as they watched retellings of famous folk stories after a hard day’s work in the fields. I ask more about these stories, interested to know what could possibly hold a person’s attention with greater vigour than a brain-numbing session of Flappy Bird. Fact: A King beheaded, a woman drowned, and a kingdom betrayed. A baby crushed in a pestle and mortar And so I am told the story of ‘Ehelopola’ (key plot points provided above). Here is a sweeping tale of colonial betrayal so gruesome and so dramatic that I swiftly understand the appeal of this theatrical soap opera. The Puppet Master humbly retells his grandfather’s proudest moment, a grandiose performance of ‘Ehelepola’ staged for none other than the Prince of Wales during his visit to Sri Lanka in 1922. We are treated to a rare inspection of the actual script that was used by the performers. We sift through incredible photographs of cast and crew, unable to tell the difference between the human beings and the life-size puppets. The care with which these items have been preserved and protected over almost a century speaks volumes for the gravity with which Master Premin handles his responsibility as one of the final flag-bearers of his art. Exhibit: Heads on sticks We are joined by the Master’s son. He too is a budding puppeteer but financial considerations have turned a once-lucrative vocation into a hobby. He carries in his hands two large heads on two small sticks. These heads, we are told, are from the very same show in 1922. I pick up one of the heads and recognise that I am holding a piece of history.

These strange mini-men are actually vessels of history, carrying the stories of a family, an art form and a nation in their lifeless limbs. These inanimate constants have gazed dutifully at life and culture over the years, witnesses to the arc of history, even as their animate counterparts that pull the strings have come and gone. Fact: The hair is real I had to ask. Confirmation comes from the Master quickly, and with unreserved delight. Exhibit: Carve them, dress them, give them life! Time to get our hands dirty. The Master explains that in order to give life to an inanimate object, the puppeteer must incorporate all aspects of art – costume, music, light, dance. We are given a tutorial into how puppets of varying size and character are dressed and prepared for a show. A small band of musicians assemble on the veranda for an impromptu show. A make-shift stage is quickly put together. Soon we are watching the puppets in action, a king addressing an imaginary crowd and a jester with a spring in his step. I am asked if I would like to try my hand as a puppeteer. I quickly realise that I am dealing with about seven strings too many and five hands too few. My puppet starts to look like a paraplegic doing the moonwalk. I hand the reigns back to the experts as a young girl from the neighbouring house runs over and takes a seat with an animated smile. Some things, it seem, have an appeal that is timeless. Fact: People die, puppets don’t But soon, there may be nobody left to pull the strings. As we take our leave, Master Premin appeals to us to bring the story of his art to the world. He is happy to report that the Cultural Ministry has recently dedicated a Sub-Committee for Puppetry, a small but significant step in the right direction. Yet, more needs to be done if this important part of Sri Lanka’s cultural history is to be preserved. Puppets, he says, really are the origin of theatre and are an important part of Sri Lanka’s cultural history. Visiting Master Premin at his home is a unique glimpse into this fading past. His personal museum, in many ways, is a museum of our national history. (Trekurious together with DailyFT explores Sri Lanka for the curious traveller. Trekurious works with talented individuals and great brands to create amazing experiential tours, activities, and events in Sri Lanka. You can find out more at www.Trekurious.com.)