Bhawana Somaaya

If it is the month of November, it has to be Prithvi Theatre Festival. This was Prithvi’s thirty first anniversary and the theatre dressed up in fairy lights and lanterns blossomed like a bride. It opened with Naya Theatre’s signature play Charandas Chor written sometime in the ‘50s and the story of a lovable thief who takes four vows in jest, and promises to his guru that he will never lie again. He lives up to the promise even at the cost of risking his own life.

It was a scintillating evening packed with theatre lovers. It is incredible how Sanjana Kapoor year after year comes up new themes and ideas and motivates new talent to perform on her platform. Like every year the mood was upbeat. Vibrant folders welcomed you from all corners and a juloos featuring-open air performance across Mumbai replete with stilt walkers and performers was part of the event promotion. The festival showcased plays from all over India on varied subjects. Bidesi delved on a wife’s determination to bring her wayward husband home. The husband has gone to Calcutta in search of work and lost his heart to another woman. Not original in content but interesting because it draws on the folk form of Bhojpuri theatre.

Veenapani Chawla projected an interpretation of the birth stories related to the myths of Ganpati/Martanda and told of the recurring cycles of creation, celebration and destruction from different points of views, but not entirely engaging. On the other hand, Neelkanth Nirala celebrating Hindi poet Suryakanth Tripathi ‘Nirala’ revered as one of the stalwarts of Hindi Literature was a fascinating journey of social conflicts and personal tragedies. Nirala had strong views on the dominance of English language in our life and often commented on it.

Aakaashabheri told through the Heer-Ranja love story as Soni awaits Bhagat Singh’s release from prison, and historical episodes unfold, musical play comprising folk songs of North India and reflecting the socio-political ethos of those times but difficult to enjoy if you don’t follow Punjabi. Opera Noir is a dark Indian twist to opera– a lyrical conversation between a ghost and a soprano about God, murder and showbiz, a story of love and deception. Though most of the productions were impressive there were hardly any path breaking subjects.

Dharti Aaba concentrated on a tribal leader who struggled to save his land and people from exploitation by zamindars and British rulers, how he championed a revolution and ushered a new social order inspiring them to fight against oppression. Impressions of Bhima is interesting because it attempts to deconstruct the virile hero who for a change yearns not for victory but inner peace.

Peter Shaffer’s contemporary classic Rhinoceros commented on issues relevant in current times and is an intriguing exploration of passion and pain, worship and religion. Through powerful performances the play explores themes of conformity, culture, philosophy, and morality. Kahan Gaye Mere Ugna introduces you to the life of Vidyapati, Bihar’s classical poet, his journey with his royal student queen Lakheema, and his search for his favorite disciple Ugna. In Yakshagana: Vidyunmati Kalyaana, Gandharvas and angels join hands to rescue Vidyunmati, daughter of Gandharav king from the demon Kalajhangha. In a series of unfolding stories and curious twists, the lovers are separated and unite again.

While most of the stories were predictable, what was appealing was the language and the presentation and of course the spirit and the ambience of a festival. There was an exhibition titled ‘On the Road’ describing the theatrical journey of Naya Theatre meant as a unique and intimate tribute to Habib Tanvir. Then there was also a book launch featuring memoirs of theatre artists compiled from a seminar held at Ninasam in Heggodu, Karnataka. The seminar was a conglomeration of many performances and the book is a result of that dream.

The venue buzzed with activity and the shows were packed to full houses. The cherry of the festival were the sparkling platform performances outside the main auditorium comprising poetry and music. On the last day, everybody was happy that the festival was a success but also sad that the ten day celebration had come to an end.
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Bhawana Somaaya
www.bhawanasomaaya.com

Mumbai Academy of Moving Images festival was started a decade ago and has today become the most important International Festivals in our region. This year, the festival added a Competitive section dedicated to first time filmmakers all over the world. Other highlights included a section Dimensions Mumbai showcasing short films made by directors below the age of 25 years and a Student Jury selecting the winner of Young Critics Award.

It was an eventful festival and all the shows were house full. The emphasis was on programming content and the film fraternity flocked in large crowds. Some were keener on networking and sat in the quadrangle or the cafeteria exchanging visiting cards and sharing cigarettes and conversations.

Mumbai is the center of film business and there was an effort to highlight opportunities both for the creative team and foreign markets. Two legends of world cinema- the Greek master film-maker, Mr. Theo Angelopoulos and our own Shashi Kapoor were honoured at the opening ceremony and the closing ceremony honoured Amitabh Bachchan for completing 40 years in Hindi films.

On the last day, the delegates lingered at the venue and a pall of gloom fell over the theatre as new friends and acquaintances kissed goodbyes. I present my choice of personal favourites.

Gigante by Adrian Biniez is a film about ordinary people and ordinary lives. Jara works in a suburb of Montevideo as supermarket security guard and his life moves aimlessly-until one day he spots Julia, a cleaner at the super market on the monitor. Jara is attracted to her and begins to follow her after work. The company is going through recession and lays off some of their staff and Julia is among them. It is the right time for Jara to confess his feelings.

Rail Truck by Hirofumi Kawaguchi is inspired from a short story, Torocco, published in 1922 by Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Yumiko Yano, with two little sons Atushi and Toki, travels from her home in Tokyo with the ashes of her late husband to his parent’s home, a mountain village in the south of Taiwan. Raised in the big city, the boys are initially ill-at-ease in the village but soon make friends with their grandfather who speaks Japanese. Rail Truck tells about the verdant rural life and political turbulent times, a moving story of family love and attachment.

Brideshead Revisited directed by Julian Jarrold delves on the memoirs of Captain Charles Ryder who is stationed at Brideshead Castle during WWII and remembers the aristocratic Catholic family and in particular brother and sister Sebastian and Julia. While studying history at the University of Oxford, he had befriended wealthy Lord Sebastian Flyte, a flamboyant homosexual and alcoholic. Sebastian took Charles home and it became the turning point of their relationship. Brideshead Revisited is a film of royal times and excessive lifestyle.

Disgrace directed by Steve Jacobs is adapted from a book and explores the life of David Lurie, fired from his job for a passionate after his affair with a student. He retreats to his daughter Lucie’s isolated farm in the east and although they rarely see eye-to-eye, the tentative emotional truce between errant father and daughter makes way to a more peaceful rural life until it is ripped apart by a traumatic episode which forces them to re-evaluate their beliefs. The film tells about modern day, post-apartheid South Africa.

Genova is the story of a college professor coming to terms with his wife’s accident. He teaches English Literature at an Italian University in Genoa and is accompanied by his two daughters aged 16 and 10 respectively. The mother’s demise has a deep impact on the daughters. The elder one withdraws and gets involved with an Italian stranger while the younger is haunted by her mother. The Professor has a tough time being a single parent and balancing his new job. It is an engaging film but leaves a lot unresolved.

Kinatay directed by Brillante Mendoza is a disturbing story of a young boy who has been looking forward to marry the mother of their newborn baby. A police academy student, Peping makes side profits from a smalltime drug ring. He is trapped in a cruel murder of a bar girl and now there is no escape. Most of the film is shot inside a car and all we see is the dark road and the neon lights. The film is a silent voyage into terror and torture of a prostitute. The nightmarish all-night operation shatters Peping and he is forced to search within himself.

The Girlfriend Experience by Steven Soderbergh is set in the weeks leading up to the 2008 presidential election. It is the story about five days in the life of Chelsea, an ultra high-end Manhattan call girl who offers more than just sex to her clients. She provides compassion, companionship and conversations. Chelsea thinks her future is secure because she makes $2000 an hour, and has a devoted boyfriend but when you’re in the business of meeting people, you never know who you’re going to meet or what is going to happen to you.

Made In Pakistan by Nasir Khan is a documentary and takes off on the Newsweek describing it as the most dangerous place in the world. The screenplay combines a political rally with a fashion show and chronicles four individuals who defy the prevailing stereotypes in the western media. Tara, a single woman devoted to her profession…Moshin, an independent candidate of political establishment…Rabia, a married woman and editor of a magazine and Waleed, a lawyer and a practicing Muslim. Finally a film about what the average Pakistani wants from his country.

Bhawana Somaaya
www.bhawanasomaaya.com

Almost everybody turns nostalgic when they talk about their childhood. They describe the days gone by in glorious terms, filled with innocence and abandon. I disagree. I believe that people who tend to romanticize the past are people who are unable to deal with the present.

I can deal with my present and I have no hesitation to admit that childhood for me was far from the carnival it is made out to be. And thank God I’m not alone in this thought process. Pt. Ram Shastri, F.Scot Fitzgerald, Javed Akhtar, Sant Gyaneshwar have written extensively about their early anguished days. In fact it is believed that most creative people have a troubled past because of which they transform into artistes.

We have been reared to believe that childhood is blissful while in reality childhood is an extremely turbulent, lonely and often frightening phase of our life. It is a phase when you have too many questions and almost no answers.

Psychiatrists say that if adults peeped into the hearts and minds of their children they will never recognize themselves. Hindi films portray the young hero and heroine running into forests and plucking jamuns from a tree. In reality the sepia images are far from lyrical.

On many occasions I have tried to recreate my past in to postcards but unlike our films the images get blurred and dissolve. When I concentrate harder, incomplete visuals fall like dew-drops on my blank canvass and I weave my own story, part fact and part perspective.

I recall hazy images…

…A two year-old huddled inside a cradle placed in the centre of the room often filled with guests and conversations. Young as I am, I understand that getting out of my space will be an invasion into the adult world. So I stay inside without stirring sometimes for hours…Only once in a while when the guests overstay and I’m uncomfortable I call out to my mother and ask, “Ma have the guests left..?” The guests are amused by my shyness and the family almost proud of my self control. “It is extra-ordinary to depict such restraint at such a tender age” they say.

It is the beginning and how strange that nobody pauses to ponder what goes on in a child’s head…Why I behave the way I do..? Can it be because most of the time adults are too busy and don’t pay adequate attention to children or perhaps they don’t sense anything amiss in their surrounding..?

If I jog my memory further I recall a rope swing tied to the balcony door of our old home facing a crowded street. Every evening I’m put on this swing and spend my time watching the hawkers and the people pass by. At dusk when my elder brother returns home after a tired day’s work he gently pushes my saddle and says to mother, “She sits there looking out of the window day after day…wonder what she thinks.”

We assume most of the time that children are day-dreaming but my brother had given thought to my silences and he was right. I was thinking. Day after day I worried about the vendors on the street… I worried about how they would carry their belongings and find their way home… Now when I think of it I feel that children absorb more than we credit them. It is just that they are not equipped to express themselves and thank God for if they did they would frighten their parents..!

Today as I sit at my desk to write this article many montages play in my mind…

I remember my first visit to a Railway Station accompanied by my father. He bought our tickets at a modest window and then led me through a crowded passage to a tall bridge. It was a mighty iron bridge with circular design on the steps. I refused to climb the bridge for I feared slipping down from the little holes. My father was worried. He pushed three fingers inside the circular design and demonstrated why I can never fall down from the steps. “You can only fall if the bridge collapses…” he explained.

I remembered that and after that I prayed every night that the bridge must never collapse. One day, I forgot to pray. I was certain that the bridge had collapsed! In the morning I rushed to the balcony and was surprised to find the bridge in place. I felt betrayed. Had I wasted my precious time in worrying about an unworthy cause? My mind was restless with questions but there was nobody to provide me the answers.

I assumed I would resolve all my conflicts when I attended school but those were hectic days burdened with accountability. The school bag, the rain coat, the water bottle…One had to remember to wear the canvass shoes for the PT class, the salwar and ghungroos for the dance class, the Guide uniform for the extra curricular activities…Every day the time-table had to be checked, the home-work completed, uniform ironed and shoes polished.

There was too much to learn in too little time…How to walk in the rain and balance in the floods, how to catch the bus on time and solve the Algebra sum, how to wash the lunch box and wrap it in the plastic bag, how to cover the books and put the labels, how to remember the lessons, recite poetry and make presentation on the annual day.

It was a turbulent phase filled with self doubt and as time went by the anxieties only multiplied. The pressure for better grades, the pain of puberty, the rivalry in the class room, the embarrassment of a new pimple, the changing body language and the gaze around you. There was too much to cope and too little support.
Childhood was a lonely world…

Then one day, I still remember clearly, the family was travelling to a relative’s home by the BEST bus. As children we were trained to grab an empty seat to prevent from falling down in a moving vehicle. So that day like every time I charged towards an empty seat and was about to plonk when my older sibling pulled me up and seated my mother instead. I was confused and when we got off at our destination immediately asked her about it. “Because” she explained, “You are a big girl now and Mother has turned old. It is her turn to be protected by us.”

I wasn’t sure if I had heard it right but when I looked up, the skyline appeared a different colour. My sister’s words reverberated in my ears and in days to come there was ample proof of it. Anupam Kher once said in my interview that when we grow old it is usually others who make us aware of it. How true because a few days later for the first time Father sought my opinion on purchasing a new dinning table…Suddenly the older girls in the building did not stop whispering when I joined them…Suddenly I stopped enjoying being with my younger cousins.

Finally, the umbilical chord with childhood was broken. Finally, I had my passport to adulthood. Finally, I was free to inhale and exhale, to make my choices and pursue my vision without seeking permission. I was free to make judgements, follow my path and speak my mind without interference. I was free to live my life and make mistakes, to regret or rejoice, to exercise caution or be reckless.

Unlike school and college, life as an adult was a ride without trappings. It provided all the answers I had been looking for. Now I shopped my own clothes, purchased my jewellery, decided the menu and also my investments. There were hardly any doors I didn’t know how to open or conflicts I didn’t know how to resolve. I knew how to win friends and influence people. I knew how to negotiate a better deal or restore faith when relationships soured.

As time went by I felt I was in control of my life. I was no more weighed down by domestic or moral dilemmas. There were frequent blockages but I accepted them as part of destiny.

I never missed my childhood and never craved for those days to return. Perhaps people who do are people who fear looking ahead. They fear getting old. I don’t because the older I get the wiser I turn. Yes there are a few grey strands in my hair today and my reflexes are slower too but I’m less anxious today than I was as a child.

According to me the real picnic begins now. If MFHussain…Dev Anand…Lata Mangeshkar and Amitabh Bachchan can lead a wholesome life at 66 and beyond so can all of us.
It is time we stop glorifying flashback scenes where the young hero and heroine ran into dense forest.Who cares for the sepia tones. I want to lead my life in rainbow colours complete with Dolby sound. I don’t want to look back…Only forward.

Bhawana Somaaya(Critic, Columnist, Author)
Web-www.bhawanasomaaya.com
Email-contact@bhawanasomaaya.com