Theatre, when it works, doesn’t whisper. It speaks across generations, across oceans. And at the IHNA People’s Theatre Fest 2025 in Melbourne, organised by Samatha Australia, that voice rang out in Malayalam—confident, unbroken, and very much alive. The Box Hill Town Hall didn’t just host three plays; it became a makeshift shrine to memory, tradition, and community stubbornness.
The festival’s quiet triumph wasn’t in ticket sales or formal applause. It was in the unfiltered testimonials that came after. Dany Shaji, one of the performers, described the experience as “a deeply moving journey into the heart of our traditions.”
Having embodied Theyyam, a sacred ritual from Kerala transformed into theatre, Dany called it “more than just a role”—an education in makeup, mythology, and group resilience. “Immense gratitude to Mr Subhash Kumar, whose brilliant makeup artistry brought Theyyam to life on my face,” he wrote.
The real special effects, however, came from the warmth of community, with rehearsals held in someone’s garage, actors fed by hosts who treated them “like family.”
That someone was Rajan Venmony and his partner Lalitha. Their garage became a stage before the real one, a space of chicken curry, direction, improvisation, and blistering monologues. Dany noted Lalitha’s “elegance on stage and leadership of the vibrant dance team,” while also saluting Girish Avanoor for direction, Unni San for mythological insights, and fellow performers like Athul Vishnu and Subhash for believing in him.
His thanks weren’t perfunctory; they were overflowing. “To my three little ones—thank you for not creating any major chaos,” he added with the sort of laugh only someone who’s juggled parenthood and performance can muster.
Samatha, true to its name, stitched this together with admirable coordination. And while the press release did the formal work of listing the night’s key acts—Puli Janmam from a local artists group, Koonan by seasoned performer Manjulan, and Otta Navalmaram from Kerala State Film Award winner Bina R Chandran—it’s the testimonials that told the fuller story.
Resmi Sudhi, another participant, wrote, “I truly enjoyed the evening, especially our team’s wonderful showcases and powerful monologue performances.” Another voice, Mrs Resmi Jayakumar, was more concise but no less genuine: “It was a beautiful program. Thank you for inviting.”
The plays themselves ranged from local drama to art house legacy. Puli Janmam, performed by a group of local artists, was praised for showing “the strong artistic foundation” of Melbourne’s Malayalam community. Mr Manjulan’s Koonan brought the weight of experience and a reputation earned over decades in Kerala’s theatre circles. But it was Otta Navalmaram, performed by Bina R Chandran, that lit up the evening with a kind of stillness that only veterans can command.
Yet what makes this theatre festival more than a one-night cultural fix is what happened off-stage. Dany noted how the women in the team “worked quietly and powerfully behind the scenes,” a line that doubles as an unofficial history of most theatre anywhere.
His social media reflections read like a postscript to the show, reminding everyone that these productions don’t just emerge—they are summoned. “We also salute the families and children who made personal sacrifices, giving up time and space,” he added.
The list of thank-yous stretches from Sujith’s drumming to a flute player simply referred to as “bro.” It’s the kind of detail you wouldn’t find in a programme booklet but that builds the bones of a living tradition.
If the measure of a cultural event is how many people go home changed, then the IHNA People’s Theatre Fest 2025 did its job. What Samatha Australia achieved wasn’t a showcase; it was a rekindling. “The festival not only entertained,” said one of the organisers, “but also served as a bridge connecting our cultural heritage with the vibrant Malayalam diaspora in Melbourne.”
True. But perhaps it did one more thing: it reminded everyone that heritage doesn’t just survive in museums. Sometimes it survives in a neighbour’s garage, next to a rice cooker and a prop spear, waiting for lights-up.
For now, those lights have dimmed. But the cast and crew seem ready to return. As Resmi Sudhi put it, “Looking forward to more such opportunities.” And that’s how community theatre should end. Not with a curtain call, but with an open door.
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