Of Parai, Tholkaapiyam, and battling a stereotype

Sharing its name with the Scheduled Caste Paraiyar community, historically pushed to the margins of society, the Parai has been long associated with caste politics and used as a tool for driving social justice and protests. Tamil cinema, too, has lent a hand to the Parai being half-understood, having leaned on one image of the Parai: a drum beaten only at funerals, a sound of death. The Parai has thus fallen victim to stereotyping. And just as it is with other victims, it is with Parai, too, that the stereotypes aren’t lies, but half-truths. With the World Music Day (June 21) just gone by, it seems fitting to listen again, and hear the whole story.

Music is communication before it is anything else. The Parai captures this beautifully; its very meaning is ‘to say.’ Traditionally used as a tool for making announcements, the Parai can be categorised in many ways, based on how it is made, how it sounds, its size, use, and function. Perhaps the most striking classification is the one based on landscape.

Many faces of Parai

Tholkaapiyam, one of the oldest surviving Tamil grammar texts, defines five terrains of the Tamil landscape – Ainthinai – each with its own distinct occupations, human behaviour, emotions, and gods.

Veteran Parai artist and trainer Velu Aasan, who received the Padma Shri for his contribution in the field in 2025, shares that Tholkaapiyam also outlines a type of Parai for each landscape: Thondagaparai for Kurinji (hills), Thudiparai for Paalai (desert), Yerukotparai for Mullai (forest), Manaparai or Kinaiparai for Marudham (plains), and Meenkotparai for Neidhal (coast). Each terrain, in other words, has its own voice.

According to Mr. Velu, the Parai served as a communication technology long before the invention of electronic devices. At its heart, he says, the Parai centres human customs. He talks passionately about how the Parai’s adavu – the marriage of the Parai’s beats and the artist’s body movement – differs based on what the Parai is announcing. The same Parai that is beaten to carry a village through grief during funerals, as Saaparai or Saakaatuparai, is beaten to carry a bride into marriage, as Manaparai.

There is Ariparai for the harvest, Porparai for war, and Thadaariparai for general announcements. Salliparai or Perumparai (a big drum), is beaten for temple processions and royal announcements, and Aaguliparai or Siruparai (a smaller, handheld drum), is beaten as an early morning praise to God or king before sunrise. Some Parai, like Paariparai, are made to project sound far across a field, and others, like Dimiriparai, are made to stay close.

Pluralities of sounds

As if the sheer number of Parai traditions were not fascinating enough, all their variations are contained within five basic beats. Mr. Velu describes two sticks, sundu kuchi and adi kuchi, that are used to beat the drum. Sundu kuchi is held in the left hand, producing the ‘tha’ sound. Adi kuchi, held in the right hand, produces the ‘ku,’ ‘thi,’ and ‘ka’ sounds. When both sticks are beaten together, the sound ‘theem’ is born. Say it out loud: tha-ku-thi-ka-theem, and you have the root of every adavu the Parai knows. The kuchis themselves aren’t one-size-fits-all. They are custom cut to fit the artist’s hand measurements.

Velu goes further – on a rather philosophical note – likening the Parai to God. He says, “The Parai exists in pluralities. It can be performed whenever, wherever, and for whichever occasion. It does not discriminate between caste and religion. Across all communities, the Parai is identity and an expression. Just like God, with different names, is worshipped by all, the Parai, too, should be played by everyone. It should not be confined to one community.”

The Parai is at the forefront of discussions of caste empowerment. It has played an undeniable role in enabling the migration of the oppressed from the margins to the mainstream. But under that history is what the grand historical narrative has conveniently brushed under the carpet: the Parai was, first, a language – and so, just as much, an identity.

The Parai is a revelatory example of how important it is to focus our attention on the little narratives, because held within them are entire universes. So, to hear the Parai only as an instrument of resistance, or only as a sound of mourning, is to hear only one part of what it is saying. It may be time to listen again. And hear the whole story.