In Rishab Shetty’s blockbuster movie Kantara(2022), a scene shows two factions embroiled in a dispute over Kambala, the traditional buffalo race. As the brawl unfolds, one spectator asks another, “Whose side are you on?” The reply is telling: “I am on the winner’s side.”

In his recent Kannada book, Alavu Ariyada Bhashe, Nithyananda B. Shetty, a professor of Kannada literature, interprets this scene as one capturing the transformation that coastal Karnataka has undergone over the years. He argues that the society which once took pride in saying, “I am on the loser’s side”—the sign of a progressive, empathetic community—has shifted toward aligning with the powerful, signaling a noticeable erosion of solidarity within the public sphere in Karnataka.

The book is arranged around this idea. Its stated aim is to reconstruct the social history of coastal Karnataka in post-Independence India by tracing the structural transformation of Yakshagana—a folk performing art at the heart of coastal culture—into a politicised performative space.

There are several books on the art of Yakshagana, including the stalwart Shivarama Karanth’s Yakshagana-Bayalata (1958) and Yakshagana (1975). And there are books on the communal politics of coastal Karnataka, the latest being Irshad Uppinangady’s Karaavaliya Rakta-Kanneeru (Blood and Tears of Coastal Karnataka), published in 2026. Shetty’s ambitious project combines the two themes—the politicisation of a performing art form and the communal history of a coastal society in the 20th and 21st centuries—to show how the region became the laboratory of the Hindutva right.

While reconstructing the social history of Yakshagana, the book reveals that Yakshagana was originally a religious practice within temple culture, serving the socio-divine needs of the community. Interestingly, it was initially a subaltern practice shaped by those lower in the caste hierarchy; for the upper castes, even watching a performance was taboo, let alone participating as actors. The book hypothesises that the entry of upper castes—Brahmins, Bunts, and Jains—into this space began in the early 20th century, spurred by the public sphere of colonial modernity.

This era saw Yakshagana move from temple porticos to entrepreneurial, secular spaces. A decisive moment occurred in 1949 with the staging of Bappanadu Kshetra Mahatme [The Miraculous Story of Bappa Nadu], featuring a Muslim protagonist, that rendered the art form truly secular. This began to shift in the 1990s as Hindutva ideology permeated the social sphere, turning Yakshagana into an inauthentic art form geared towards fuelling hatred for the Other. The book captures this transition through meticulous research and sharp analysis.

The theoretical underpinnings of this narrative draw our attention to the problem of (performing) art in society. Art is not neutral; all arts are ideological. But real or authentic art, as the French thinker Louis Althusser asserted, is the one that forces us to confront reality. Inauthentic art becomes the handmaiden of an outside ideology, acting as an instrument in the play of power politics. If authentic art is political, inauthentic art is politicised. The underlying assumption of Shetty’s book is that authentic art is life-enhancing and humane. It shows how Yakshagana became inauthentic art, an instrument of perpetuating hatred against a particular community.

While showing how the Hindutva right discourse shaped the language of Yakshagana and how Yakshagana, in turn, produced the communal discourse, the book directs its criticism against “unreflective actors”, who, it says, failed to understand the power of language. The book also shows how the Yakshagana audience internalised the communal discourse, contributing to the politicisation of Yakshagana. It thus suggests a further need for theorising the transformation of the audience’s subjectivity as they turn from believers to citizens. Unlike premodern or early modern audiences, later 20thcentury audiences are citizens, vote banks wooed by politicians. They are the target of the larger scheme of the politicisation of aesthetics.

Stradling genres

Alavu Ariyada Bhashe is an enlighening research monograph. It is thickly footnoted but its language and narrative styles make it much more than an academic book. It changes the “terms” of Kannada scolarship by creatively using the idiom and sensibility of Yakshagana and Talamaddale (an ancient, impromptu dialogue-based art from coastal Karnataka and Kerala, often described as a dance-free, costume-free version of Yakshagana), where the matu (dialogue) is the essence.

For example, while the prologue is called Nandivakya, the epilogue is called Bharatapada, reflecting the traditions of Sanskrit drama. Likewise, the content page is called Krama (The Way), Preface is called Matina Modalu (Before Dialogue Begins), Part II is called Matu (The Dialogue). Along with the social history of Yakshagana, Part II discusses art history and criticism, the theory of humour and the philosophy of language. Part III, which includes the bibliography, is called Matige Adhara (The Sources of the Dialogue).

The most experimental aspect of the book is its Maru Matu (Response to the Dialogue) section, featuring eight reflections on the theme from a philosopher, a journalist, scholars, performers, activists and social scientists from diverse backgrounds—including Muslim and Christian. Alavu Ariyada Bhashe stradles genres, with its narrative combining archival research with personal testimony, philosophical exploration, critical exposition, ethnographic description, polemic and meditation.

Needless to say, it is not an easy read; it demands effort from the reader not only because it is dense but also because it does not take an easy, unipolar ideological position. As an example, Shetty critiques the communal politics of the RSS in coastal Karnataka but dedicates the book to his school teachers, one of whom, S.Jalandhar Rai, is an RSS member.

The fascinating complexity of the book is also evident in the section narrating the life story of the veteran Yakshagana artist Kumble Sundar Rao (1934-2022), who is the kathapurusha (protagonist) here. The book demonstrates the making of Rao as an RSS ideologue, whose rhetorical brilliance was harnessed to perpetuate the hegemony of the Hindu community; Kumble used his talent to serve his political ideology. Rather than portraying Rao as a uni-dimensional villain, the book gives him with the depth of a fictional protagonist, using him to understand larger political shifts.

Ultimately, the author conceives of Yakshagana as a language. Unlike modern drama, Yakshagana does not bind its performers to a fixed text—the performers create their own. It is an art form that thrives on the rhetorical possibilities of language. The book argues that when performers use the power and freedom of Yakshagana unreflectively, the art deteriorates into a tool that ideologues can use to their advantage.

The book’s title is borrowed from the vachana (saying) of a 12th-century mystic, Allama Prabhu, which goes: “Those who use rhetorical words and the language that knows no depth produce lies”. This encapsulates the central argument. It also reminds us of what Allama further cautions against: of language becoming a “defilement” (sutaka), turning into something “life-threatening (pranaghataka)” instead of being a “luminous sign” (jyotirlinga).

Alavu Ariyada Bhashe adds to our understanding of contemporary Indian history. When Kannada studies is unable to move beyond the question of literary criticism, often treating it as the only way of engaging with Kannada literature and culture, Nithyananda B. Shetty has opened up for Kannada scholars new ways of thinking about our times. This is no small achievement.

N.S. Gundur teaches English literature at Tumkur University, Tumkuru, Karnataka.

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