Standing Against the Ban: The Covert Kalaris of Shekharan Channar
In the mid-19th century, when British influence tightened its grip on various parts of Kerala, local martial arts schools—Kalaris—faced severe restrictions. Officials loyal to British directives discouraged the training of native warriors, deeming it a threat to their authority. Many Kalaris were forced to shutter, their experienced instructors left to scatter, teaching only in secret. Into this uncertain era stepped Shekharan Channar, a man already renowned for his resourcefulness in commerce and liquor leasing, and equally notable for his unwavering commitment to Kerala’s tradition and honor.
Stories say that in his younger years, Shekharan had observed the discipline and vitality of Kalarippayattu first-hand. Although his family was embroiled in frequent quarrels and legal proceedings, Shekharan saw in the Kalaris a spiritual backbone for the land—an institution that instilled courage, unity, and moral strength. So when the British rule threatened to stamp out local martial practices, Shekharan refused to remain idle.
Even as he amassed wealth from liquor-tax leases, Shekharan quietly organized covert gatherings of instructors and students. In remote corners of Travancore, deep within cocoanut groves or behind the bustling markets, he rented out sheds, old warehouses, and abandoned structures. There, in the flickering light of oil lanterns at dawn or dusk, small bands of pupils trained under the watchful gaze of veteran Gurukkals (teachers).
To the outside observer, these places appeared to be innocuous barns or storehouses. But the faithful knew better: inside, youths were learning footwork, sparring with wooden staffs, perfecting blade techniques, and honing the acrobatic maneuvers of Kalarippayattu. At times, well-disguised Diwan soldiers or the Maharaja’s guards joined the practice, eager to refine their skills away from British scrutiny.
Shekharan’s own reputation proved valuable for maintaining secrecy. He was regularly seen traveling from Vaṭakken Paravur to Thiruvananthapuram and was already well-known for dealing with local governors and Diwans about trade matters. Because of that, no one suspected that his journeys sometimes involved slipping away to these covert Kalaris, conferring with the teachers, and providing funds for new practice swords, wooden targets, or protective gear.
On many a moonless night, an oxcart bearing unmarked crates might roll up to a secluded courtyard. Swiftly and silently, young men would unload the contents—bamboo staves or iron daggers—before the cart vanished. A single oil lamp illuminated Shekharan Channar’s calm face as he assessed the supplies and offered a few words of encouragement: “Train well. The spirit of our land rests with you.”
Among the local population, rumors flourished. Some spoke of a brave merchant who refused to let colonial edicts uproot the Kalaris. Others whispered that this same man was part of the Maharaja’s hidden network, working to ensure that Kerala’s ancient martial traditions would not be lost. The British were never fully aware of the extent of these operations, for Shekharan’s official dealings always appeared aboveboard. Even so, suspicious inspectors occasionally probed around, questioning villages on any signs of underground martial arts. Yet they found little evidence. While a few watchers might glimpse candlelit silhouettes practicing fluid strikes at dawn, none could trace it back to the wily, respected Shekharan.
To further mislead British officials—and even certain factions within the local administration—Shekharan started to convert some of the more conspicuous Kalaris into temples. As if replicating a proven formula, he sponsored renovations, installed deities, and rebranded these halls as places of worship. Publicly, they became shrines for prayer and spiritual gatherings. Privately, behind hidden partitions or during certain hours, students continued to learn and refine their martial arts. Through this approach, Shekharan effectively shielded many remaining Kalaris from direct colonial repression.
A few years into this covert campaign, tensions ran high when rumors circulated that the British planned a widespread crackdown. But Shekharan once again proved his knack for misdirection. He arranged decoy activities—festivals, community feasts, or philanthropic drives—that drew attention away from the real training. Officials who came to spy instead saw him doling out rice during famine times or organizing charitable offerings. Impressed, they overlooked the possibility of masked fighters drilling under Shekharan’s patronage.
In time, the clandestine Kalaris became an open secret among the local populace, sparking pride among those who witnessed entire generations quietly learning ancient techniques against all odds. Veterans whispered it was Shekharan’s unwavering resolve that kept the tradition alive. Soldiers loyal to the Diwan or Maharaja sharpened their skills in these secret enclaves, forging a silent resistance that would become invaluable whenever local authority needed to assert independence from British interference.
To the end of his days, Shekharan Channar never boasted of this hidden chapter in his life. He remained focused on family disputes, property acquisitions, temple building, and other ventures chronicled across the region. Yet behind those public achievements lay a greater legacy: preserving Kerala’s martial heritage and strengthening its defense from the inside, ensuring that no foreign decree could quench the spirit of the Kalaris he held so dear.
