Cut

by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

  ‘Maya, yaar, not in front of the crew, please. Look, let’s get back to deciding what you’re going to say, when we roll…I promise to send Rosy and your Marlboro Lights too. Maya, please, look at me; you don’t have to do this drama...Everyone knows what they have to, and those who don’t, couldn’t care a shit anyway, after all this time. Look, I know this must be bloody painful. This obituary thing, I mean…talking about Kulasheshtra…in hindsight…’

  I ran my hand slowly over my face, dabbing some concealer under my eyes, puffy from lack of sleep. And just like that I was back in character:

  ‘Accha batao, should I wear my hair loose? Won’t it look more natural? Match perfectly with the cream, chikankari chiffon sari Manish Grover especially sent for me? It was his showstopper at the Lakmé India Fashion Week, grand finale…I am always his showstopper…’

  AVIK DASGUPTA

  I fidgeted listlessly with the television remote for a while, weighing it in my palm as I waited for my cell to ring. Looked like Maya had chosen to ignore me again tonight. Much in the way she had all of last week, and the month before, and the year before that. She was as cold as her plush, 28th floor Peddar Road high-rise felt after dusk, wrapped in anonymity and alienation. I tried to shut out thoughts of her and concentrate on the TV.

  ‘Kya aap ki aur koi khaas yaadein hain?’ A young television journalist was asking, pushing a hand mike into an old man’s face. He shrugged his stooping shoulders, looking away from the camera.

  I recognized him at once. Govind Deval, the revolutionary Marathi poet and a noted scriptwriter of his time; once an indispensable part of Sarat Chandra Joglekar’s travelling theatre company, Natya Mandali, now ninety and wheelchair-bound. Perhaps, one of the last surviving men ‘privileged’ to work with Joglekar and Kulasheshtra, both.

  ‘Natya Samrat’ Joglekar was the only son of Vishwas Chandra Joglekar, considered the father-figure of Marathi regional theatre. Sarat Chandra Joglekar, popularly referred to as Dada Saheb, was attributed to having discarded the convention of having the sutradhar provide all of the singing. In his musical plays, known as Sangeet Natak, the characters themselves performed their own songs. Dada Saheb included some western-stage production techniques such as changeable scenery, and laid the foundation of commercial repertories in Marathi theatre that, subsequently, paved the way for the formation of natak companies and soon rose to become a towering figure in the region, overshadowing his father.

  Amitabh Kulasheshtra, who had been initiated into the medium under his tutelage, was his son-in-law, by virtue of his marriage to his only daughter, Sarla, and had thereby inherited this formidable legacy. In his early plays, directed while Dada Saheb was still alive, Kulasheshtra was known to have incorporated the traditional forms of tamasha and dashavatar as both a narrative device and style.

  I listened as Govind Deval began to speak:

  ‘I didn’t much like Kulasheshtra at first; I was jealous of him, actually. The first time I was jealous of anyone. It was 1955. We were auditioning for a re-adaptation of Sita Swayamvar, first staged in 1843, in Sangli, an experimental piece based on the folk-theatre form of Yakshagana, from the neighbouring state of Karnataka. Dada Saheb, the great Sarat Chandra Joglekar, in whose travelling theatre troupe I happened to be the dialogue writer, had decided that we were going to tell the story beginning with Sita’s Agniparkisha, mostly reconstructed as a flashback.

  ‘The cast and screenplay was still being finalized. We had camped in Satara. Every day, for the past week, a young boy of about fifteen, unwashed, skinny, with an unruly mop of hair, took position by a solitary Banyan tree and watched us rehearse out in the open, where we had erected a makeshift stage. He seemed so absorbed in the goings-on that his gaze never moved off the action. He never left to eat, or even take a leak.

  ‘One day – after a particularly intense rehearsal in which Dada Saheb had lost his temper with everyone – we had taken a short break for snacks and tea when his daughter Sarla, an impetuous 14-year-old, had turned to the stranger: “You! Why are you still here? How many times have you stood in the exact same place, over the past fortnight, huh? What do you want? Where are your parents?”

  ‘“Go on, get lost…this is an audition for trained actors and musicians, this is not a small village play…not actors, Sarat Chandra Joglekar is on the lookout for real artists, understand?” I remember yelling at the lad.

  ‘But the boy didn’t seem at all fazed. “I am here to meet Joglekar, in person,” he answered, walking towards Sarla with a self-important swagger. “I know he’s staging Sita Swayamvar. I usually never miss any of his plays. In fact, I have been writing natak myself. Not happy ones, of course, not ones that revel mainly in natya sangeet and tamasha. My writing is rebellious - mostly against the system, for youngsters, for the poor. Did you know that Vishnudas Bhave who was the first one to stage this magnum opus would often base his dramas on particular episodes of the Ramayana and that he had also ventured into puppet shows, at some point? I am keen to add that element in this adaptation. I was raised in a circus. I know the way puppetry usually works…Heard of Ganesh Circus, have you? Our tents are put up on the outskirts of your town. This town.”

  ‘“My father already has a theatre group. Sadly, there is no place for rank outsiders, and, trust me, he doesn’t meet just about anyone who comes calling,” Sarla retorted firmly, but courteously.

  ‘“I know he’s a big man, but I am determined to meet your father, I know all about Sita Swayamvar…Baba has told me the story…I have some new ideas…”

  ‘I tried saying something, at that moment, but my gaze was trapped by the obstinacy of the fellow – at how, he wouldn’t give up the argument.

  ‘Sarla, I suspect, was equally bemused by the boy: “Look, we are quite happy with Dada Saheb’s version, but, since you insist, I can, maybe, beg him to give you a tiny role,” she smirked.

  Just then, a shadow passed us by. “Hujha nav kay ahe? Apan kuthon alat? (Who have you brought along? Who are you?)” Dada Saheb, a staggeringly tall man in his early fifties, craned his neck and enquired.

  ‘Sarla impulsively pressed the oily vada pao she was about to eat into the boy’s hand, pushing him onto the elevated platform we were rehearsing on. “Ikde, ikde, ikde (here, here, here), eat this first; you look utterly famished, how can you possibly impress anyone on an empty stomach?”

  ‘The boy glanced gratefully at Sarla and smiled his thanks.

  ‘“I believe my daughter has let you in.” Dada Saheb’s booming voice made our hearts race.

  ‘“What to do? He just keeps standing and watching us all day. He insists he wants to become a playwright, like you; claims he too directs plays,” Sarla bit her lower lip, hiding a smile.

  ‘Dada Saheb considered him frankly, for a while. The boy didn’t drop his gaze. Dada Saheb was amused.

  ‘“It’s a lonely hell, this stage, mulagā (lad). Ask me, Natya Samrat Joglekar – a man who has existed in its shadows since I was a young lad, like you, inheriting this kala from my father, the eminent Vishwas Chandra Joglekar. You need nothing to come here, son, if you’re willing to go the distance. Money, fame, love, lust, loss, greed, ambition…every emotion exists here. But, can you surrender your earlier life? Survive this craft? Stay hungry forever?”

  ‘“I can do anything I set my heart on, sir, and hunger is an old friend…” the boy replied.

  ‘Dada Saheb paused and studied the boy again. “Hmm, he has something…Report for rehearsals tomorrow at six in the morning. You can begin with helping with the set. And you may stay in my camp tonight. In case you have no place to go.”

  ‘When Dada Saheb left, the boy ran his greasy fingers through his curly mop, jumped off the stage, and walked up to Sarla. “And, your name is?”

  ‘“I’m his daughter, Sarla Joglekar…” she answered haughtily.

  ‘“Well, I’ll call you Sarlu…” the boy grinned back. “By the way, I’m Amitabh, Amitabh Kulasheshtra, and my father is a clown in Ganesh Cir
cus…the only blind clown in the circus…”’

  Almost all the news channels featured Kulasheshtra. I was surprised that the accidental death of an old theatre stalwart had taken precedence over the wedding of a Mumbai-based billionaire’s only son in Paris. And the kidnapping and brutal gangrape of a six-year-old girl in a suffocating Dharavi slum. The police had only managed to nab two of the eight accused.

  I sprung up restlessly from the comfortable leather recliner and walked out onto the roof-top garden dotted with bonsai plants in bright ochre pots and interspersed with marble statues of nubile, Grecian goddesses. The tips of their breasts glistening in the distant shimmer of the city lights. My fingers reeked of nicotine. I had been chain smoking.

  I punched Maya’s number again; telling myself this would be the last call. It was 11 pm. I could hear the TV in the distance. A repeat of the 9 pm news bulletin had just started with Arunava Ghosh:

  ‘“…Memory is overrated. People forget. Everyone lies. Lovers move on. Marriages rot. Kids grow up. Wrinkles appear. Breasts sag. Sex drives slow down. Parents age. Plants die. Jobs change. Money runs out. Boredom sets in. Holidays don’t last. Fashion changes. Leaves fall. Night sets in…

  Till, till, you wake up one morning…thinking where it all went.

  That thing you had.

  That feeling, that fight, that life...”’

  Okay, so that’s where she was. I watched the TV screen reflected in the glass terrace door as the camera zoomed in on Maya’s heavily made-up face, sans any trace of emotion, as usual.

  ‘…These lines are famously attributed to Amitabh…the news of his…I mean, Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s death is indeed sad and shocking. The stage will unquestionably be a darker place, without him. But then, people forget, right? They have to; it’s how we live. Move on. Make new memories. Substitute pain with pleasure…As Kulasheshtra wrote in his autobiography: “Happiness is the art of training ourselves to forget…”’

  She sounded utterly fake.

  I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with as much air as I could. Kulasheshtra’s mug-shot flashed on screen as various stalwarts from the theatre world in Mumbai and other parts of India shared their views on the strange manner of his death. A panel of experts debated whether he had really been suffering from Alzheimer’s, or if his slow fading away from the stage was an after-effect of his earlier head injuries. Kulasheshtra’s achievements in the world of modern Indian theatre were conveniently overshadowed. A supari-chewing Rashtriya Dal leader, one of Amol Rawat’s men no doubt, also a part of the same panel, smugly rambled on and on about how Kulasheshtra was himself politically corrupt, labelling him a ‘Congress chamcha’.

  The photograph of Kulasheshtra they intermittently flashed was from fifteen years ago. His face, just the way I remembered it: a sturdy, selfish gaze. The dark cleft on his chin. The arch of his shoulders. The grizzled salt-and-pepper beard that covered his gaunt cheeks. The manner in which he always wore black…

  ‘So, what makes you think you are qualified for this prestigious institute?’ An obese man on the selection committee had questioned me after a gruelling four-day workshop. I had set my heart on joining the National Centre for Drama. I had cleared the preliminary exam in Kolkata and was now hoping to make the mains. The workshop was part of the assessment as we were required to perform, sing, dance and discuss a long list of plays sent to us, beforehand.

  The Delhi skyline outside had been overcast with dense fog.

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. I mean, films have never really been my cup of tea. Neither is acting, honestly. I’m not interested in the struggle of a side hero,’ I’d said, knowing that this casual banter would be critical to my selection.

  ‘What brings you here, then?’ a lady in a peacock green silk sari had interrupted, catching me off-guard.

  ‘I want to direct. I have a totally different take on theatre; I want to make it more commercial. Rope in corporate sponsorship for street plays, for instance. It’s why I am here. I believe theatre needs men like us; directors who are game-changers. Ambitious, young blood who can envision production on a larger scale; chart out a better plan of action, something way bigger than a few shows here and there, a snatch of an award, distant critical recognition. I want plays that run for seasons, not a week or two; to popularize experimentation in the field, discover alternative methods of storytelling…’ I coughed.

  ‘Go on…’ a distinctive baritone dispelled the quiet, all of a sudden.

  I blinked in the dark, trying to decipher the dark shadow that loomed in the aisle.

  ‘Umm, I am aware, theatre is not about quick fame, but, at the same time, I want to be famous; to be known for my unique brand of work. I want the good life – I want it for this medium. I want it in this medium. I mean, why not? Why should theatre eternally be considered a poor man’s craft? Either squalid street theatre, or shallow supper theatre? Why only these two extremes? I want to break the rules; make theatre more mass; make the one play for thousands of viewers, not hundreds.’

  ‘Look at me,’ the man had walked up to me and now spoke directly to my face.

  I confronted his piercing glance.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Kulasheshtra looked me in the eye.

  ‘Everyone does,’ I said, feeling the sweat drip down the sides of my unshaven cheeks.

  ‘And what if you fail at the above? The exponential rise you talk about, doesn’t that also risk exponential failure?’

  ‘I won’t…I will win…I have a distinct blueprint…’ I spoke fast. The words pressed to each other, like grains of warm rice.

  ‘A blueprint?’ Kulasheshtra laughed. ‘If there was a blueprint for creative success, would there ever be a dud in the business? What are you talking about, young man? Materialism, or magic? Which one would you choose, and, why? And if it’s only money you want to make, what are your views on social change? What is the message you wish to send out? What is your politics? The colour of your conscience? Your chetna…the sum of your soul…?’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t use the word magic, you did, and, as for the colour of my conscience, chetna or whatever you would like to label it…let me make it clear here, at the very onset, that I am not political. Theatre is art, true, it has a voice, yes, the power to change things, thought processes, but I am not here to start a bloodied revolution. Art, all art, has to sell, at the end of the day…be street-smart, market-savvy, its voice heard by those who matter. It has to change something, fundamentally, agreed, but, at the same time, also possess widespread, populist appeal. The youth need to connect; the elite, who purchase tickets, want to watch something that is bigger than a commonplace tamasha. Art that is intellectual masturbation is bullshit…theatre, a natak, a play, any play, for that matter, needs an audience…needs patronage, sir…’ I spluttered indignantly.

  ‘Theatre is not about winning. Nothing is, in fact, in life. It is the tragedy of humankind that we must deal with failure…’ Kulasheshtra countered.

  ‘Failure? Why harp on failure? See, that’s what I mean…why this association of suffering with soul, always?’ I don’t know why I repeated in a shrill tone.

  Kulasheshtra regarded me with a level look. ‘The greatest Shakespearean plays are about human failure. If failure scares you so much don’t bother finishing this interview. If you want to make money and if personal renown and populist propaganda mean that much to you then perhaps theatre is not even your cup of tea. Join Bollywood, become a director of B-grade crap, and don’t waste our time here! There are far more deserving candidates…’ Kulasheshtra turned on his heel and began to walk away.

  ‘Sir, you are deliberately misconstruing my words, you can’t just leave me while I’m halfway through explaining my stance…I have an equal right to be here, you know…I topped the entrance exams…I’ve travelled to the national capital, from afar…sir, I can do it…I, I will do anything…I am ready to do anything to gain admission into the National Centre of Drama. I have a plan, sir…I want to be someone
…’ my voice broke.

  I heard him laugh in the distance.

  I remember that part clearly.

  Later that night, I had bought myself a ticket to an amateur play somewhere near Mandi House. Something about the effects of liberalization and inflation on man-woman love. An adaptation of a famous Marathi play by Amitabh Kulasheshtra, a parody, supposedly, one of his lesser-known works.

  There were barely any spectators. The jokes were neither laughed at, nor understood. A couple made out in the shadowy back row. Beside me, sat a young, fair girl with green eyes. We made small talk between scenes, sharing a Cola during intermission. She claimed to be an aspiring actress from Manipur who had failed to make it to the interview stage at the National Centre of Drama, again, that year. We grabbed a beer at a rundown bar in Connaught Place before I took her to my aunt’s place in Chittaranjan Park. My aunt was away.

  I had fucked her in silence. A girl whose name I’d not even bothered to ask. Feeling nothing. Except the way a man does when he asserts himself over a woman; after someone else has asserted himself over him. Revelling in an aphrodisiacal sense of power that only anonymity affords.

  ‘Admission denied,’ was all Kulasheshtra who was on the final selection committee of the National Centre of Drama that particular year, wrote in his individual remarks section. I had grabbed the rejection letter and shoved it in my satchel, seething with contempt.

  ‘Hazaaron log pariksha dete hain, samjhe, barkhurdar? Try, try, try again…angrezi mein kahawat hai…suna toh hoga hi,’ a bespectacled man with hair sprouting out of his nostrils and ears had mouthed patronizingly, peering at me from inside an iron grid.

  I stormed off.