For all of us in Maximum City, the last week has been spent quivering in the security of our homes because a certain cartoonist lay dying. And expectedly it released the bestial side of human nature. Five days before the fascist passed to the place where all fascists go, we had a dress rehearsal of what was to follow when our very own Arturo Ui went. Gangs of youths driving around on motorbikes shutting down establishments including chemists, standing around armed with sticks, shutting down roads, etc. So when the big day arrived, it was no surprise that most had “voluntarily” downed their shutters in advance.
So what does this have to do with theatre? A lot.
The death was announced at 4:30pm. Within half an hour, performances across the city were being called off. Messages were being sent out rescheduling, apologising and carefully worded Facebook posts using the word “respect” rather than “fear”.
Most venues closed. Yes most. Not all. One doughty little establishment takes “the show must go on” on much too seriously for silly things like armed goons to make it move off its mission statement. The theatre reasoned — they didn’t cancel a show even when their founder passed away, why would they do it for some saffron wearing sycophant?
And it’s true. Even when the entire city was under water seven years ago, the show did go on. Albeit to an audience of only 7, but the show did happen. In the same vein, last weekend when Maximum City was reduced to its minimum, the little theatre remained open, and the forty-odd in the audience on the “bandh Sunday” were treated to intimate performances by the theatre greats of the city.
From the safety of my own bedroom as I watched the shouting news channels, the political rhetoric of linguistic politics, talk of Marathi manoos, and Shivaji, I began to wonder about my own demographic.
I was born in the city.
I don’t speak Marathi.
I don’t approve of the new name of the city.
Surely I am the one they want to enlighten about their great heritage and history. Rather than exterminate me, why not convert me.
Conversion is a strange thing, and there is plenty in Marathi Art and Culture that can attract the non-speaking inhabitants to learn and appreciate the language. My real journey with the language began the first time I walked into a Marathi play in 1999. Nothing makes you want to learn a language more, than when the audience you are sitting amongst burst into spontaneous appla-use at a turn of phrase or a joke or a description. You WANT to learn the language to appreciate what others around you are clearly enjoying. And Marathi theatre has plenty to enjoy.
The works of Tendulkar, Elkunchwar, Alekar, G.P. Deshpande, P.L. Deshpande, Dattar and scores of others have ensured that Marathi has the strongest play writing canon in India, although the Bengalis might disagree.
Again, this is not a bygone era. The new age of Marathi theatre is also fantastically exciting. The issues, the debates, the comments on new India are staggering. My travels and duties with the youth theatre festival Thespo have given me even greater opportunities to appreciate (and feel left out of) young Marathi theatre where stories tackle not the ancient but the contemporary issues. Each year by doing exciting and modern work (both in staging and content), these young playwrights and groups have done more for the cause of promoting Marathi than the goons with sticks and stones.
Surely there is merit is celebrating one’s culture, rather than forcing it down someone’s throat.