Simone Ahuja, a dentist by profession, ventured into a film and TV career four years ago. A resident of Minneapolis, she launched a few days ago the DVD of her TV series Indique - Untold Stories Of Contemporary India in Mumbai. The series airs on over 100 PBS affiliates in the US, besides international airlines including Northwest Airlines and Virgin Atlantic. Indique was made to revamp "the third world images of Shanties and Elephants that the Western media had of India."
A popular Indian restaurant in Washington DC is named Indique too, because they claim they "marry India with unique". What's the reason for your show's name?
We did call the show Indique for similar reasons – a combination of India and unique, but learned about the restaurant only after developing this name.
This show was created for audiences abroad. What relevance will the DVD hold for Indian audiences, already versed with its contents?
Indique has been well received by Indian audiences in terms of its intention. Though each of the stories featured in Indique contain the common thread of contemporary India, the scope of topics explored is broad. We've found that many Indian viewers, though they may be familiar with one topic, may not be familiar with all aspects. An example is a "lady" Dabbawallah who featured. She walks us through her day at home and delivering Dabbas, and many Bombayites have told me they were not aware that women were working as Dabbawallahs. Still other stories are completely new, depending on the viewer, whether it's how ecotourism is attempting to sustain biodiversity in Kerala, or exactly what the vineyards of Nasik look like.
Four out the six segments in the series, supposed to showcase India, centre on Mumbai.
Bombay is a great example of a cosmopolitan and diverse metro in India. There was so much fodder for exploration in Bombay that stories within it kept rising to the top of our list.
Some say Mumbai isn't representative of the real India, but an escape for those who avoid India's real issues. Suketu Mehta, in Indique itself, called it a "dream city" – which could be interpreted as an escapist's city as well.
I certainly don't think the best way to avoid reality is come to a fiercely competitive city like Bombay. The energy in the city is palpable, and so its draw is great – but it's not easy to sustain oneself here, no matter what strata of society one belongs to. I do believe that the "dream" Suketu refers to assuages some of the difficulties of living in the city, and certainly draws people to it.
You insist on calling Mumbai 'Bombay' in your show and in life.
Colloquially, almost everyone refers to the city as Bombay. It's only in political or some professional settings that I hear Mumbai used in conversation. I chose to reference the city as it is most often by its residents.
A segment in Indique is your documentary short on Rugby in Mumbai, featuring Rahul Bose: Scrum In The Mud. Your company also co-founded the world's first Rugby International Short Film Competition. Why this interest?
The first time I was really exposed to rugby was while shooting a segment for Indique with Rahul Bose and other members of the Indian National Rugby Team at the Bombay Gymkhana. It became clear during filming, and through conversations with the members of the team that rugby is not really just a sport – it's a way of life. The athletes who play rugby are generally deeply invested in the sport, and would do almost anything for it. I appreciate the contrast of brutal athleticism on the field, coupled with a fierce camaraderie. The sport is very martial in nature, in contrast to many other sports, and that's really what I found most fascinating. The film contest is a great way to showcase different aspects of the sport, and to raise awareness about it to general audiences.
As a person discovering India anew herself, what impacted you the most and why?
Shooting with the Dabbawallahs, spending time with them on the trains, and in and around the city was inspiring, and humbling. I was particularly moved by the "lady" Dabbawallah whose home responsibilities began at 5 in the morning followed by a day of delivering Dabbas. When asked if she likes her work, she stated, "Of course I like my work – If you don't like your work, how can you do it?" This statement and the integrity with which she worked was an experience that I reflect upon often.
"Bollywood tends to be a caricature of the real. That's why I have an aversion to Bollywood," you had said in a previous interview. Is this a personal aversion? Or do you believe Bollywood Cinema in general needs revampment?
I certainly think that Bollywood has its place. As Suketu Mehta states in an Indique segment, "Bollywood is the world's most popular art form". It's easy to say that any commercial medium needs to be revamped – but ultimately Bollywood is giving many viewers exactly what they're looking for. What I stated here has to do more with the kind of cinema that interests me personally. Thankfully, many filmmakers in India and around the world are exploring alternative story lines that are less commercial in nature – and audiences are becoming increasingly receptive to it.
Two of the Indique segements are travelogues, and others documentaries. Also, while some stories (poster makers, acting classes) are lesser known, others (Mira Nair, Ajanta and Ellora) are famous. Doesn't such a mixed bag (in form and content) destroy your focus?
All of the segments, whether it's a tour through Kerala and an exploration of the rich, mountain rain forests there, or couture/high fashion in India are providing information to viewers, and document people, places and events in today's India. Our intention was to present a broad range of topics and images that would create a reaction within viewers, broadening their perception of contemporary India. The variety in topics presented within Indique have been very well received by viewers, and programmers alike.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
PAINTING TINSELTOWN, AND YOU
Those entering Mad O Wot for their hair cut are greeted by a large film hoarding. It is painted, as film hoardings used to be once. But it bears images of a masked Hrithik Roshan in Krrish, an intense Sanjay Dutt in Mission Kashmir, and a saree draped Vidya Balan smiling innocently in Parineeta. Strolling casually into this whirlpool of Bollywood's most dramatic, is another painted image… of Sapna Bhavnani (who runs the salon), in characteristic boots, cool haircut, hoop earrings and a hat. A signature next to her reads: "Ramakant: 9322883435"
Ramakant Fadte's 'studio' in Matunga is a tiny middle-class room, bequeathed by his father (also an artist). One wall is occupied almost entirely by a huge fish tank (also inherited). The other wall holds a pin-up board with prints of Fadte's paintings – some of film posters manipulated like this one to include a commoner's face in place of Munnabhai's or Dev Anand's; some straight out somber portraits of distinguished old world gentlemen (mostly bankers) who still believe in being portrayed in an old world way. "I do portraits any which way. As per customer's order," says 44 year old Fadte seated by these extreme poles of his talent, mulling on an empty canvas.
Fadte's father, who eked out his living painting signboards and banners, sent him as apprentice to a banner company when he was in class 7, "not to earn money, but to learn something." He went on to supplement this practical sense with a diploma from Bandra's L S Raheja School of Art and a subsequent degree from the JJ School, before returning to signboards and banners mostly, for his living. Then computers hogged the frame, quite literally. "I was only one of so many struggling artists, whose only means of subsistence (banners and signboards) was snatched because their five day work could be done in 15 minutes by a machine," he remembers. He struggled on in the field however, till, eight years ago, he got a contract from Studio Plus to paint boxes for Abu Jani's London fashion show along a Bollywood theme. "I was given the freedom to ideate, and I wanted to do something different," he explains. He struck upon what so many were using in that time to survive: the remix. "I used a young Dilip Kumar with a young Sanjay Dutt, and painted alongside the name of an eighties film which none of them were in." And so on, till he took this idea further: painting lay customers into the films as well.
Fadte's latest film banners were painted for filmmaker Sudhir Mishra, not to promote his film, Khoya Khoya Chaand, but to star in it. The film, promises to be as much a reminder of a bygone era as Fadte's filmy murals and canvases – today adorning many a socialite and celebrity's house. "I've done many for foreigners too," he mentions, opening an album to show us prints of a blonde couple painted to strike a Rajesh Khanna – Nutan mid-dance pose. The film title reads "Ek Duje ke Liye". Hidden in earlier pages are impressionistic portraits Fadte won State and Bombay Art Society awards for in his younger days: a friend painted with only a wall and blurred switchboard in the background; a middle aged working class woman passing by a gully bustling with the activity of the Bambai Sangeet Kala Mandal, and pausing to look. "The same amount of creativity can go into a banner too, if you're allowed freedom to experiment," Fadte says, picking up his helmet as he readies to leave. "I remember my gurus, who painted banners obsessing for hours over composition, making the colours play." He's painted his helmet over with portraits as well, from Hindi films of differing eras, but juxtaposed names of popular Marathi Movies. "My next helmet will be painted with Marathi film stars, and Hindi movie names," he grins, before leaving.
Ramakant Fadte's 'studio' in Matunga is a tiny middle-class room, bequeathed by his father (also an artist). One wall is occupied almost entirely by a huge fish tank (also inherited). The other wall holds a pin-up board with prints of Fadte's paintings – some of film posters manipulated like this one to include a commoner's face in place of Munnabhai's or Dev Anand's; some straight out somber portraits of distinguished old world gentlemen (mostly bankers) who still believe in being portrayed in an old world way. "I do portraits any which way. As per customer's order," says 44 year old Fadte seated by these extreme poles of his talent, mulling on an empty canvas.
Fadte's father, who eked out his living painting signboards and banners, sent him as apprentice to a banner company when he was in class 7, "not to earn money, but to learn something." He went on to supplement this practical sense with a diploma from Bandra's L S Raheja School of Art and a subsequent degree from the JJ School, before returning to signboards and banners mostly, for his living. Then computers hogged the frame, quite literally. "I was only one of so many struggling artists, whose only means of subsistence (banners and signboards) was snatched because their five day work could be done in 15 minutes by a machine," he remembers. He struggled on in the field however, till, eight years ago, he got a contract from Studio Plus to paint boxes for Abu Jani's London fashion show along a Bollywood theme. "I was given the freedom to ideate, and I wanted to do something different," he explains. He struck upon what so many were using in that time to survive: the remix. "I used a young Dilip Kumar with a young Sanjay Dutt, and painted alongside the name of an eighties film which none of them were in." And so on, till he took this idea further: painting lay customers into the films as well.
Fadte's latest film banners were painted for filmmaker Sudhir Mishra, not to promote his film, Khoya Khoya Chaand, but to star in it. The film, promises to be as much a reminder of a bygone era as Fadte's filmy murals and canvases – today adorning many a socialite and celebrity's house. "I've done many for foreigners too," he mentions, opening an album to show us prints of a blonde couple painted to strike a Rajesh Khanna – Nutan mid-dance pose. The film title reads "Ek Duje ke Liye". Hidden in earlier pages are impressionistic portraits Fadte won State and Bombay Art Society awards for in his younger days: a friend painted with only a wall and blurred switchboard in the background; a middle aged working class woman passing by a gully bustling with the activity of the Bambai Sangeet Kala Mandal, and pausing to look. "The same amount of creativity can go into a banner too, if you're allowed freedom to experiment," Fadte says, picking up his helmet as he readies to leave. "I remember my gurus, who painted banners obsessing for hours over composition, making the colours play." He's painted his helmet over with portraits as well, from Hindi films of differing eras, but juxtaposed names of popular Marathi Movies. "My next helmet will be painted with Marathi film stars, and Hindi movie names," he grins, before leaving.
MISSING THE MUJRA...
"Ye Kala Khuda Ki Dee Hui Niyamat Hai. It is God's great gift and my mother's legacy. And I am thankful to them for that. Kis Mai Baap Mein Dum Hai Jo Mujhein Rokay?"
In a city where most self proclaimed Mujrawaalis don't know the difference between Kathak's Tatkar and Chakkar, Noor Jehan, in her forties, is one of the remnant 'Mehnati Mujrawaalis'. This means she has been trained in classical song and dance and the Tehzeeb (etiquette) and Adaa (charm) essential to this art since childhood. "My mother was a Tawaif, but my father a strict Sayyad (one of Islam's most respected castes)," she declares proudly. "Choosing my mother's profession was my own choice." Noor Jehan converses in chaste Urdu and abuses in Bambaiya, and she holds forth on the intricacies of both Kathak and law (she's learned the latter from a relative who's a lawyer). On the wall behind her hangs a framed license reading, "Rangbhoomi Prayog, Parinireekshan Mandlaache." Since the prohibition of Mujra on May 3, 2007, it is these licenses which allow it to be performed till 12:30 pm. Noor Jehan's Kotha is located at Benares Ki Chawl, Faras Road. This, the adjoining Bachchu Ki Wadi, and nearby Congress House area, are the only places in Mumbai where Mujra, in a form resembling the original, persists. The number of practitioners has decreased, from around 1500 twenty years ago to a maximum of 200 today.
Mujra, evolved from classical Kathak when the Mughals ruled India, is characterized by fast spinning, swift movement, hand gestures of Persian influence, and suggestive connotation. It planted itself in Bombay's hub of local entertainment (close to Pila Haus) over 150 years ago. The areas the Mujrawaalis currently perform at were formally bequeathed to the Tawaif Sabha much later, in the presence of none other than Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, at August Kranti Maidan. These areas are renowned for spawning many a great Hindi film actress and classical singer of yore. But the lack of space (forever the city's problem) led to the first change in the dance's presentation. The traditional Pishwaach, eight metres in length, designed to whirl to the Mujra dancer's steps for effect, gave way to the saree, enabling them to perform in tiny hutments and rooms.
"Then everything changed with the coming of the dance bars," says Shabbo, a mujra dancer at Bachchu Ki Wadi. These bars, providing the liquor license the Kotha's lacked, stole many a customer, drawing much spite from the Mujra community. Gradually however, the Mujrawaalis themselves started performing at the bars, earning much more from their commercial setting. "But our elders – the community panchayat – would insist that each girl who goes into the bar line give at least one day in a week to the performance of pure Mujra, to keep the art alive," Shabbo insists. Yet the dance bar line represented more than a change in entertainment space. It mirrored a Bollywood opening up to Western influence – in music and dance. "The Farmaishes (requests) of the Kotha customers turned towards these new Chalu Gaane (current songs)," Ustad Abbas Khan, a 73 year old tabla player at Benares Ki Chawl tells us, which neither the traditional Ustaads (classical musicians) nor the Kathak trained danseuses could comply with.
Most of the elders who formed the panchayat of this community, have either passed away or shifted, and the current body remains in name only. This leaves a few older and informed women like Noor Jehan to voice the community's concerns. "We have to pay musicians who come in from as far as Mira Road, maintain an air conditioner for guests, and then settle rent," Shabbo lists. "Also, we can't demand money for our performance, but have to make do with the 'Baksheesh' given to us." The 12:30 pm time limit on performances has made these expenses particularly unviable. Adding to this list is pressure from builders eyeing the real estate the Mujrawaalis occupy, and residents from nearby high rises, recently sprung, who see the Kothas as a bad influence on the neighbourhood.
"The solution to this is to build theatres, where Mujra may be performed and portrayed as the art it is," says Varsha Kale, president of the Bar Girl's Association, who has been documenting the Indian Mujra for over a year now. She then talks about how the Bihar Government is planning initiatives along the same line. "Also, similar initiatives have been undertaken by the Maharashtra Government for the preservation of the Maharashtrian folk form Lavani," she continues. "Which is no less 'suggestive' than Mujra." And far greater initiatives have been undertaken by governments in countries like Turkey for Belly Dancing, which is far more suggestive than either. Such initiatives would provide employment and dignity to true exponents of the art, as well as save it from further bastardization.
But hindering any such initiative is prejudice. "Yesterday, two policemen came barging into my room at one thirty at night," Noor Jehan recounts. "They said they just wanted to 'look around' without even a search warrant!" Other Mujrawaalis list many more such instances, saying: "At one time noblemen would send their children to a Tawaif to learn Tehzeeb. We have through the ages donated lakhs to the government for relief programmes like the chief minister's fund for the Latur Earthquake. Why are we still treated with such disrespect?"
A part of this prejudice arises from the fact that these areas, like Napier Road in Karachi and Hira Mandi in Lahore merge with the red light district (in Kamathipura). So pimps and prostitutes spill over into the lanes, with the ramshackle doctor's clinics, kebab joints and old Hindi songs playing at every paan stall forming a common ambience. The police are accused of slapping provisions of the Prevention of Immoral Traffic Act and Bombay Police Act, meant for preventing prostitution, on the Mujrawaalis as well. Some old Mujra exponents also blame the Shettys who owned most of the dance bars for this prejudice, claiming they "purposefully ruined the mujrawaali's name to better their own business".
But running down an ancient art form requires much more time. The Anti Nautch Movement, launched by British officials and Indian social reformers in 1882 labeled every Tawaif and even every Kathak dancer a "whore", later prompting even the Indian National Congress – inspite of vast donations from Tawaifs – to dissociate with such to save image. The British had a political motive here: many Kothas had served as focal centres for discussion and strategizing leading to the Revolt of 1857, the Tawaifs, then ranking among Indian society's most aware women, being active participants in such. The reformers in their zest for constructing a new moral fabric, didn't realize how many dancers they were actually converting into whores, the stigma imprinted on them leaving them no other livelihood option. Kathak preserved primarily by courtesans during this period was revived once sense prevailed, but the Mujra was left to rot. "A Mujra is a form of Kathak which can be performed only by a woman," Noor Jehan sums up. "What you call 'suggestiveness' in gesture and expression, if performed gracefully symbolizes a woman's truest desires, expressed even in ancient mythology. These desires can build a generation – or destroy it."
In a city where most self proclaimed Mujrawaalis don't know the difference between Kathak's Tatkar and Chakkar, Noor Jehan, in her forties, is one of the remnant 'Mehnati Mujrawaalis'. This means she has been trained in classical song and dance and the Tehzeeb (etiquette) and Adaa (charm) essential to this art since childhood. "My mother was a Tawaif, but my father a strict Sayyad (one of Islam's most respected castes)," she declares proudly. "Choosing my mother's profession was my own choice." Noor Jehan converses in chaste Urdu and abuses in Bambaiya, and she holds forth on the intricacies of both Kathak and law (she's learned the latter from a relative who's a lawyer). On the wall behind her hangs a framed license reading, "Rangbhoomi Prayog, Parinireekshan Mandlaache." Since the prohibition of Mujra on May 3, 2007, it is these licenses which allow it to be performed till 12:30 pm. Noor Jehan's Kotha is located at Benares Ki Chawl, Faras Road. This, the adjoining Bachchu Ki Wadi, and nearby Congress House area, are the only places in Mumbai where Mujra, in a form resembling the original, persists. The number of practitioners has decreased, from around 1500 twenty years ago to a maximum of 200 today.
Mujra, evolved from classical Kathak when the Mughals ruled India, is characterized by fast spinning, swift movement, hand gestures of Persian influence, and suggestive connotation. It planted itself in Bombay's hub of local entertainment (close to Pila Haus) over 150 years ago. The areas the Mujrawaalis currently perform at were formally bequeathed to the Tawaif Sabha much later, in the presence of none other than Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, at August Kranti Maidan. These areas are renowned for spawning many a great Hindi film actress and classical singer of yore. But the lack of space (forever the city's problem) led to the first change in the dance's presentation. The traditional Pishwaach, eight metres in length, designed to whirl to the Mujra dancer's steps for effect, gave way to the saree, enabling them to perform in tiny hutments and rooms.
"Then everything changed with the coming of the dance bars," says Shabbo, a mujra dancer at Bachchu Ki Wadi. These bars, providing the liquor license the Kotha's lacked, stole many a customer, drawing much spite from the Mujra community. Gradually however, the Mujrawaalis themselves started performing at the bars, earning much more from their commercial setting. "But our elders – the community panchayat – would insist that each girl who goes into the bar line give at least one day in a week to the performance of pure Mujra, to keep the art alive," Shabbo insists. Yet the dance bar line represented more than a change in entertainment space. It mirrored a Bollywood opening up to Western influence – in music and dance. "The Farmaishes (requests) of the Kotha customers turned towards these new Chalu Gaane (current songs)," Ustad Abbas Khan, a 73 year old tabla player at Benares Ki Chawl tells us, which neither the traditional Ustaads (classical musicians) nor the Kathak trained danseuses could comply with.
Most of the elders who formed the panchayat of this community, have either passed away or shifted, and the current body remains in name only. This leaves a few older and informed women like Noor Jehan to voice the community's concerns. "We have to pay musicians who come in from as far as Mira Road, maintain an air conditioner for guests, and then settle rent," Shabbo lists. "Also, we can't demand money for our performance, but have to make do with the 'Baksheesh' given to us." The 12:30 pm time limit on performances has made these expenses particularly unviable. Adding to this list is pressure from builders eyeing the real estate the Mujrawaalis occupy, and residents from nearby high rises, recently sprung, who see the Kothas as a bad influence on the neighbourhood.
"The solution to this is to build theatres, where Mujra may be performed and portrayed as the art it is," says Varsha Kale, president of the Bar Girl's Association, who has been documenting the Indian Mujra for over a year now. She then talks about how the Bihar Government is planning initiatives along the same line. "Also, similar initiatives have been undertaken by the Maharashtra Government for the preservation of the Maharashtrian folk form Lavani," she continues. "Which is no less 'suggestive' than Mujra." And far greater initiatives have been undertaken by governments in countries like Turkey for Belly Dancing, which is far more suggestive than either. Such initiatives would provide employment and dignity to true exponents of the art, as well as save it from further bastardization.
But hindering any such initiative is prejudice. "Yesterday, two policemen came barging into my room at one thirty at night," Noor Jehan recounts. "They said they just wanted to 'look around' without even a search warrant!" Other Mujrawaalis list many more such instances, saying: "At one time noblemen would send their children to a Tawaif to learn Tehzeeb. We have through the ages donated lakhs to the government for relief programmes like the chief minister's fund for the Latur Earthquake. Why are we still treated with such disrespect?"
A part of this prejudice arises from the fact that these areas, like Napier Road in Karachi and Hira Mandi in Lahore merge with the red light district (in Kamathipura). So pimps and prostitutes spill over into the lanes, with the ramshackle doctor's clinics, kebab joints and old Hindi songs playing at every paan stall forming a common ambience. The police are accused of slapping provisions of the Prevention of Immoral Traffic Act and Bombay Police Act, meant for preventing prostitution, on the Mujrawaalis as well. Some old Mujra exponents also blame the Shettys who owned most of the dance bars for this prejudice, claiming they "purposefully ruined the mujrawaali's name to better their own business".
But running down an ancient art form requires much more time. The Anti Nautch Movement, launched by British officials and Indian social reformers in 1882 labeled every Tawaif and even every Kathak dancer a "whore", later prompting even the Indian National Congress – inspite of vast donations from Tawaifs – to dissociate with such to save image. The British had a political motive here: many Kothas had served as focal centres for discussion and strategizing leading to the Revolt of 1857, the Tawaifs, then ranking among Indian society's most aware women, being active participants in such. The reformers in their zest for constructing a new moral fabric, didn't realize how many dancers they were actually converting into whores, the stigma imprinted on them leaving them no other livelihood option. Kathak preserved primarily by courtesans during this period was revived once sense prevailed, but the Mujra was left to rot. "A Mujra is a form of Kathak which can be performed only by a woman," Noor Jehan sums up. "What you call 'suggestiveness' in gesture and expression, if performed gracefully symbolizes a woman's truest desires, expressed even in ancient mythology. These desires can build a generation – or destroy it."
A MIND OVER MATTERS?
Deepak Rao (DR): Are you thinking about it right now? I want you to focus.
Writer of this article (WOTA): I'm thinking about it.
DR: Wait. (smiles) I'm getting it. I think I've got it.
DR: Is it, oh my god. The word in your mind is… conversation?
WOTA: Yes.
DR then hands us a spoon fresh out of a tea cup.
DR: Check it carefully… also check my hands. So you don't accuse me of using magnetism or some such trick later on.
WOTA: Checked.
DR places the spoon on the floor and stares intensely, pointing from a distance with his fingers. In a few moments the spoon does a giant leap, landing some feet away…
Deepak Rao calls his 'mind show' "mission impossible". It also comprises him bending metal and levitating objects (telekinesis) and reading minds to determine details like the time of your birth (ESP) – "all through my mind. No 'magic', no tricks." While "mission impossible" is performed for over 125 blue chip companies (Hindustan Lever, Larsen & Toubro, Pepsi, British Airways… the list goes on) on the first day of a two day programme, the second day entails Rao's "mission possible". This could be a lecture on techniques for better communication or organization. Or it could be a self structured finishing school, or a segment called 'understanding superstitions' that propels corporate minds to think differently, hence innovatively. "I might be providing the same advice as you or anyone else," Rao explains. "But after the previous day's show, people are far more responsive. They listen to me and act on the advice."
Rao was inducted into ESP and telekinesis at the age of 11 by his uncle. He then continued to develop these as hobbies, right through running a successful advertising agency servicing some of India's biggest companies. "Then came the recession of 2001," he remembers. With his business hit as many others were during the period, Rao re-invented himself as 'corporate edu-tainer'. The mind shows, so far conducted only occasionally for advertising clients and friends, were used as a peg with which he could hook an audience rendering them receptive enough to imbibe his corporate training sessions, each differently designed to fit diverse corporate criteria.
Rao is labeled today as India's Uri Geller (world celebrity and psychic performer), and has begun to provoke some of the skepticism that Geller has received a barrage of – arguing it is tricks and not mind power that works these wonders. But two distinctions remain. Rao corrects anyone referring to his 'powers', to say they are "abilities" he has "developed". He also encourages this ability among his show audiences to the extent of making them collectively focus on a plastic bottle to topple it, or individually attempt to levitate a pen. Geller on the other hand, credits his 'powers' to a mystical light he encountered when he was four. Also, Rao avoids public shows, performing only for corporates or institutions like the IIT or Young Entrepreneur's Organisation, whereas Geller has used his televised performances to create a celebritydom that has fans writing in asking him to cure their relative's cancer, or politicians appointing him mediator on the Israel-Palestine talks. "I don't want to become a Godman," Rao clarifies as his reasons for avoiding such publicity. "These abilities have limitations. I can't levitate or bend more than a spoon. I can't use ESP unless someone is sending me a concentrated thought." Instead, unlike so many miracle working preachers from every age and religion, Rao insists his mind show and his corporate training are separate concepts: "I'm an 'edu-tainer' because I mix education and entertainment." Also brewing in the cauldron, are the most controversial ingredients of an ancient science, today called parapsychology, with the less controversial components of a motivational management lesson.
Writer of this article (WOTA): I'm thinking about it.
DR: Wait. (smiles) I'm getting it. I think I've got it.
DR: Is it, oh my god. The word in your mind is… conversation?
WOTA: Yes.
DR then hands us a spoon fresh out of a tea cup.
DR: Check it carefully… also check my hands. So you don't accuse me of using magnetism or some such trick later on.
WOTA: Checked.
DR places the spoon on the floor and stares intensely, pointing from a distance with his fingers. In a few moments the spoon does a giant leap, landing some feet away…
Deepak Rao calls his 'mind show' "mission impossible". It also comprises him bending metal and levitating objects (telekinesis) and reading minds to determine details like the time of your birth (ESP) – "all through my mind. No 'magic', no tricks." While "mission impossible" is performed for over 125 blue chip companies (Hindustan Lever, Larsen & Toubro, Pepsi, British Airways… the list goes on) on the first day of a two day programme, the second day entails Rao's "mission possible". This could be a lecture on techniques for better communication or organization. Or it could be a self structured finishing school, or a segment called 'understanding superstitions' that propels corporate minds to think differently, hence innovatively. "I might be providing the same advice as you or anyone else," Rao explains. "But after the previous day's show, people are far more responsive. They listen to me and act on the advice."
Rao was inducted into ESP and telekinesis at the age of 11 by his uncle. He then continued to develop these as hobbies, right through running a successful advertising agency servicing some of India's biggest companies. "Then came the recession of 2001," he remembers. With his business hit as many others were during the period, Rao re-invented himself as 'corporate edu-tainer'. The mind shows, so far conducted only occasionally for advertising clients and friends, were used as a peg with which he could hook an audience rendering them receptive enough to imbibe his corporate training sessions, each differently designed to fit diverse corporate criteria.
Rao is labeled today as India's Uri Geller (world celebrity and psychic performer), and has begun to provoke some of the skepticism that Geller has received a barrage of – arguing it is tricks and not mind power that works these wonders. But two distinctions remain. Rao corrects anyone referring to his 'powers', to say they are "abilities" he has "developed". He also encourages this ability among his show audiences to the extent of making them collectively focus on a plastic bottle to topple it, or individually attempt to levitate a pen. Geller on the other hand, credits his 'powers' to a mystical light he encountered when he was four. Also, Rao avoids public shows, performing only for corporates or institutions like the IIT or Young Entrepreneur's Organisation, whereas Geller has used his televised performances to create a celebritydom that has fans writing in asking him to cure their relative's cancer, or politicians appointing him mediator on the Israel-Palestine talks. "I don't want to become a Godman," Rao clarifies as his reasons for avoiding such publicity. "These abilities have limitations. I can't levitate or bend more than a spoon. I can't use ESP unless someone is sending me a concentrated thought." Instead, unlike so many miracle working preachers from every age and religion, Rao insists his mind show and his corporate training are separate concepts: "I'm an 'edu-tainer' because I mix education and entertainment." Also brewing in the cauldron, are the most controversial ingredients of an ancient science, today called parapsychology, with the less controversial components of a motivational management lesson.
BIRJU MAHARAJ
Pandit Ishwari Prasad is the earliest known Kathak Guru. The legend goes that the Misra Brahmin from the Handia Tehsil of Allahabad dreamt of lord Krishna asking him to re-establish Kathak Nritya, prompting him to teach the same till he was 100. His descendants, known later as the Maharaj family of dancers, formed the backbone of the Lucknow Gharana of Kathak, held by some to be Kathak's oldest Gharana. During this period, Kathak dancers comprised of only men, with women from even the dancer's families being forbidden from dancing. On February 4, 1938, a boy named Dukh Haran was born into the Maharaj family. Because he was the only male born that night in the hospital, and every other baby delivered was female, his uncle suggested jokingly to his father that he be re-named Brij Mohan (a synonym for Krishna, the only male among the Gopis), which was later fondly shortened to Birju.
Pandit Birju Maharaj, sets his hands, fingers and face to changing Mudra (symbol) and Abhinay (expression), matching each note of the Thumri being played at the National Centre for the Performing Arts (NCPA) Kathak Workshop this week. 100 odd women follow suit. It is ironic that the reason for Maharaj's christening has transformed into a metaphor for the gender population break-up of Kathak Practitioner's today. Of the 200 students at Kalashram, his Kathak academy, only 12 are male. It is also ironic that despite Kathak being an indigenous Indian art, most refer to Maharaj as its "last grandmaster". But such ironies, by frequent occurrence, permeate into the realm of the obvious.
"You have to wait for the sun to set, if you want the moon to shine," Maharaj refutes. He's referring to the generation next of notable Kathak dancers, which includes his son Deepak Maharaj. "It's only when I and the other Gurus go, that these practitioners will have the confidence to come into their own." Maharaj, through his brainchild Kalashram, attempts to preserve the Guru Shishya tradition and instill rigorous training which while focusing on Kathak, also encompasses other arts like literature, painting and even sculpting. This is in keeping with his own interaction with art – he is a dancer, singer, composer, percussionist, painter and poet. He has also picked up every string instrument, without formal training. "When I have to depict a situation on stage, it comes to me via percussion," he explains. "Then I see it as a painting and translate that visual into dance. This, in turn gives me an idea for a later composition or a poem." Yet despite such conceptually sound training, he admits that the devotion of yore, which produced grandmasters such as himself, has waned: "A teacher would once ask an aspiring student how many years he wanted to train for. On him answering the question, he would refuse to teach him telling him, 'Come back when you want to train under me for life'". Today, he complains, disciples clock their Riyaz sessions by the hour.
The change in attitudes towards Kathak can be traced back to the British Anti Nautch Movement in the mid 1800s, where Devadasis practicing Bharatnatyam in the South and Mujrawaalis practicing Kathak in the North of the sub-continent were used as excuses to label both dance forms immoral, and ban them. Maharaj, forwards this argument by referring to the change the movement wrought in language. "Words like 'Kotha' and 'Mujra'," he says. "Were used for extremely dignified things before they became 'Badnaam'." A Kotha meant a place for gathering and performance and Maharaj's father himself often said he was going to perform a Mujra. The word 'Badnaam' itself, he continues, meant not being 'defamed' but being 'discussed'. Similarly, stellar Kathak performers, were called 'Taifas', a word merged during the movement with 'Tawaif' to accord it the same meaning. Indian independence saw an attempt at reviving these dance forms, but the blow they were dealt left them too crippled to comtend with Western (especially American) counterparts flooding a new democracy, something the traditional dances of European countries had less of a problem doing.
Maharaj flits between a vast vocabulary of facial expression, while narrating anecdotes to exemplify of each point. Both expression and anecdote form the essence of the Kalka-Bindadin style (named after two of his ancestors) of the Lucknow Gharana that he hails from. His most awaited performance is the interpretation of a Thumri's Bhav (feel) with facial Abhinay and hand movement, while being seated – something he can do, with new interpretations each time, for hours. This focus on the interpretation of Bhav with facial expression has allowed his Gharana and him to popularize Kathak with lay viewers, who would otherwise be unable to interpret the Mudras the other Gharanas are more fixed on. Maharaj has painted this characteristic on a wider ambit with two breakthroughs. One is his dance dramas. Spread between titles as diverse as Govardhan Leela and Romeo And Juliet, they use traditional Kathak to tell stories closest to an audience of today: "For example – the 'File Katha'." The 'File Katha' is a Kathak performance set in a government office. One dancer plays the officer, another the petitioner, another the peon and so on. Then, some dancers play the files: "Each file is allocated a different colour," Maharaj elaborates. "And a dancer wearing the same colour enacts what the file has to 'say'." The other breakthrough is choreographing for film. Beginning with Satyajit Ray's Shatranj Ke Khiladi, Maharaj has gone on to choreograph Kathak for Dil To Pagal Hai, Gadar and most famously Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Devdas. "More than the government, it is Bollywood which has the capacity to keep this dance form alive," he argues. He cites examples of what movies like Mughal-e-Azam, actresses like Madhubala, Meena Kumari and Hema Malini and music directors like Naushad have done for Kathak's popularization. Yet, why must a dance form be kept alive for a public who have little inclination to view it. "Because a story can best be told in the language it has originated in," Maharaj answers simply. And every Indian story, even that of a government officer, peon and petitioner, roots itself in history planted over a thousand years ago. How can we understand it's Bhav by discarding such?
Pandit Birju Maharaj, sets his hands, fingers and face to changing Mudra (symbol) and Abhinay (expression), matching each note of the Thumri being played at the National Centre for the Performing Arts (NCPA) Kathak Workshop this week. 100 odd women follow suit. It is ironic that the reason for Maharaj's christening has transformed into a metaphor for the gender population break-up of Kathak Practitioner's today. Of the 200 students at Kalashram, his Kathak academy, only 12 are male. It is also ironic that despite Kathak being an indigenous Indian art, most refer to Maharaj as its "last grandmaster". But such ironies, by frequent occurrence, permeate into the realm of the obvious.
"You have to wait for the sun to set, if you want the moon to shine," Maharaj refutes. He's referring to the generation next of notable Kathak dancers, which includes his son Deepak Maharaj. "It's only when I and the other Gurus go, that these practitioners will have the confidence to come into their own." Maharaj, through his brainchild Kalashram, attempts to preserve the Guru Shishya tradition and instill rigorous training which while focusing on Kathak, also encompasses other arts like literature, painting and even sculpting. This is in keeping with his own interaction with art – he is a dancer, singer, composer, percussionist, painter and poet. He has also picked up every string instrument, without formal training. "When I have to depict a situation on stage, it comes to me via percussion," he explains. "Then I see it as a painting and translate that visual into dance. This, in turn gives me an idea for a later composition or a poem." Yet despite such conceptually sound training, he admits that the devotion of yore, which produced grandmasters such as himself, has waned: "A teacher would once ask an aspiring student how many years he wanted to train for. On him answering the question, he would refuse to teach him telling him, 'Come back when you want to train under me for life'". Today, he complains, disciples clock their Riyaz sessions by the hour.
The change in attitudes towards Kathak can be traced back to the British Anti Nautch Movement in the mid 1800s, where Devadasis practicing Bharatnatyam in the South and Mujrawaalis practicing Kathak in the North of the sub-continent were used as excuses to label both dance forms immoral, and ban them. Maharaj, forwards this argument by referring to the change the movement wrought in language. "Words like 'Kotha' and 'Mujra'," he says. "Were used for extremely dignified things before they became 'Badnaam'." A Kotha meant a place for gathering and performance and Maharaj's father himself often said he was going to perform a Mujra. The word 'Badnaam' itself, he continues, meant not being 'defamed' but being 'discussed'. Similarly, stellar Kathak performers, were called 'Taifas', a word merged during the movement with 'Tawaif' to accord it the same meaning. Indian independence saw an attempt at reviving these dance forms, but the blow they were dealt left them too crippled to comtend with Western (especially American) counterparts flooding a new democracy, something the traditional dances of European countries had less of a problem doing.
Maharaj flits between a vast vocabulary of facial expression, while narrating anecdotes to exemplify of each point. Both expression and anecdote form the essence of the Kalka-Bindadin style (named after two of his ancestors) of the Lucknow Gharana that he hails from. His most awaited performance is the interpretation of a Thumri's Bhav (feel) with facial Abhinay and hand movement, while being seated – something he can do, with new interpretations each time, for hours. This focus on the interpretation of Bhav with facial expression has allowed his Gharana and him to popularize Kathak with lay viewers, who would otherwise be unable to interpret the Mudras the other Gharanas are more fixed on. Maharaj has painted this characteristic on a wider ambit with two breakthroughs. One is his dance dramas. Spread between titles as diverse as Govardhan Leela and Romeo And Juliet, they use traditional Kathak to tell stories closest to an audience of today: "For example – the 'File Katha'." The 'File Katha' is a Kathak performance set in a government office. One dancer plays the officer, another the petitioner, another the peon and so on. Then, some dancers play the files: "Each file is allocated a different colour," Maharaj elaborates. "And a dancer wearing the same colour enacts what the file has to 'say'." The other breakthrough is choreographing for film. Beginning with Satyajit Ray's Shatranj Ke Khiladi, Maharaj has gone on to choreograph Kathak for Dil To Pagal Hai, Gadar and most famously Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Devdas. "More than the government, it is Bollywood which has the capacity to keep this dance form alive," he argues. He cites examples of what movies like Mughal-e-Azam, actresses like Madhubala, Meena Kumari and Hema Malini and music directors like Naushad have done for Kathak's popularization. Yet, why must a dance form be kept alive for a public who have little inclination to view it. "Because a story can best be told in the language it has originated in," Maharaj answers simply. And every Indian story, even that of a government officer, peon and petitioner, roots itself in history planted over a thousand years ago. How can we understand it's Bhav by discarding such?
EDUCATION INDIA
He followed her to school one day;
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play;
To see a lamb at school.
"Why does the lamb love Mary so?"
The eager children cry;
"Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"
The teacher did reply.
- From Mary Had A Little Lamb, by Sarah Hale, 1830.
Sister Mary Braganza joined the Society Of The Sacred Heart in the early 40's, teaching as part of the order. The first Indian to be appointed principal of Sophia College in 1964, she expanded its campus to include the Bhabha Institute Of Science and Sophia Somani Polytechnic when Bombay didn't have science colleges for women (but for medicine or engineering). Also during this tenure she established the Sadhana School For The Mentally Challenged, adopted a village, and worked for the reform of municipal schools – when most colleges refrained from mixing academia with social consciousness. She went on to form and implement national and international educational policy (Executive Director in charge of 203 Indian university colleges; committee member for revising the New University Act (1964-83); and India's representative to meetings held by bodies like SAARC, to quote a few instances).
Then Sister Mary, armed with doctorate degrees from institutions like Harvard University, settled for 12 years in Jharkand (then Bihar), empowering it's tribal population through an educational system built from scratch – so much so that they bestowed upon her a new name – Karuna (meaning kindness) Bhengra (a tribal clan name). Her work since her return to Maharashtra extends from Rain Water Harvesting in the rural areas, to the raising platform and street children in the cities.
The 84 year old recipient of innumerable awards, who imbibed tribal sign language to inform tribals non-verbally at their village Baithaks (they didn't communicate verbally), sits across a coffee table, to clearly outline, dissect, and often tear to shreds educational theories and programs from ancient times to today – with the zest of a 25 year old waiting to change the world. We have drawn from this conversation, as well as documentation of over 60 years of her varied work, to present the following issues.
BRING DOWN THE IVORY TOWERS
Sister Mary had during her tenure in Sophia, written an article castigating the 'ivory towers' of education. "The ivory towers of education sprung during British Rule in India," she begins to explain. Not recognizing indigenous institutes of education, and denying them revenue free land they were used to, destroyed learning avenues for mass populace, without providing viable alternatives. The schools and colleges provided by the British were few and hardly affordable, introducing a 'class' disparity into an education system erstwhile segregated by 'caste' only. "This attitude prevails even today, with few institutions being polished and held up as 'elite'," Sister Mary comments. That these institutions decide their exclusivity by marks scored by candidates in one entrance exam, serves as no consolation.
PEOPLE'S PROPHECY
"Also the British system modeled itself on institutions like Oxford and Cambridge," she continues. "The cornerstones of which were 'discipline' and 'loyalty' then, discouraging non-comformity." Also resultant of this education is the student's alienation from the issues of the people at large. To offset this effect Sister Mary forwards the 'prophetic type' of education, as distinct from the 'pre-fabricated type'. The 'prophetic type' encourages students to challenge existing norms, and create their own. But it has to be practiced, more than taught. An example. Sister Mary instituted in her time in Sophia, a practice of senior students taking their exams without supervision. "Despite the initial opposition to the idea from teachers," she remembers. "Students were soon turning their own classmates in when they found them cheating, rather than teachers needing to do so."
The idea was simple – to inculcate the idea of a society, which they were responsible for themselves.
BOTTOMS UP
"Education means something deep down within me, meeting something deep down in another," Sister Mary explains simply. When she began her work with the Munda, Oraon and Kharia tribes in Jharkhand, her well-researched plans for their education came to naught. "I had to understand what they want and how best to give it to them," she says. So post-natal care became the primary concern because that was what the women were interested in. Then came bolstering their learning of their own arts and sciences: weaving, pottery, the ancient science of Jari Boothi, as opposed to alien subjects. Even mediums used were indigenous. The Akhada, or traditional village meeting ground, was used for educational programs and the children (used to non-verbal languages like Mundari) were taught by non-verbal mediums, like Anubhav Baithak (learning by experience – touch, sight, sound, smell) and Kriya Kalap (learning by activity). "I could do this because I have always been a proponent of the bottom-up, rather than the top-down approach," she claims. This approach demands the educator get down from a high horse, and educate the student as per his circumstance. The approach can be mirrored in the Macro Education structure as well, says Sister Mary, by granting more colleges the same autonomy the IIMs avail of, without deducting their grant, something she has long fought for. It can be mirrored in cities by supervising and recording students' individual inclinations, rather than mere end-term marksheets.
MAKING A MANDALA
Sister Mary shuffles through her files to hold up colour Xeroxes of Buddhist and Hindu Mandalas. The circular Mandala, an ancient concept finding its way into most of the world's religions demonstrates connectivity to the other, while maintaining a core idea (the centre). "This is what helps me get most of my work done," she smiles. She enumerates how, instead of waiting for red-tapism to end, any social worker should create a network of like-minded committed people within and without the government. Thus placing a cause at centre, one can fight ills they disagree with, instead of playing the blame game. The huts where she and her co-workers stayed was attacked one night by 13 armed goons, dispersing only after being confronted by an old priest with an empty shotgun. It was at such a time that her 'network of goodwill' stepped in, and organizations hearing of this donated land and a building for her hostel and centre. The Mandala has been applied in water harvesting projects in rural Maharashtra as well. The core idea here was water harvesting for drought ridden farmers. Once that was established the same groups were used to disperse education and address health and women's issues. At Sophia College, Sister Mary rooted the idea of connectivity by demanding that the students (most of them girls from very wealthy families), undertake the college's menial tasks themselves. When one girl refused to sweep a floor saying, "Let the principal come and do this herself," the principal did. And the student followed suit.
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play;
To see a lamb at school.
"Why does the lamb love Mary so?"
The eager children cry;
"Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"
The teacher did reply.
- From Mary Had A Little Lamb, by Sarah Hale, 1830.
Sister Mary Braganza joined the Society Of The Sacred Heart in the early 40's, teaching as part of the order. The first Indian to be appointed principal of Sophia College in 1964, she expanded its campus to include the Bhabha Institute Of Science and Sophia Somani Polytechnic when Bombay didn't have science colleges for women (but for medicine or engineering). Also during this tenure she established the Sadhana School For The Mentally Challenged, adopted a village, and worked for the reform of municipal schools – when most colleges refrained from mixing academia with social consciousness. She went on to form and implement national and international educational policy (Executive Director in charge of 203 Indian university colleges; committee member for revising the New University Act (1964-83); and India's representative to meetings held by bodies like SAARC, to quote a few instances).
Then Sister Mary, armed with doctorate degrees from institutions like Harvard University, settled for 12 years in Jharkand (then Bihar), empowering it's tribal population through an educational system built from scratch – so much so that they bestowed upon her a new name – Karuna (meaning kindness) Bhengra (a tribal clan name). Her work since her return to Maharashtra extends from Rain Water Harvesting in the rural areas, to the raising platform and street children in the cities.
The 84 year old recipient of innumerable awards, who imbibed tribal sign language to inform tribals non-verbally at their village Baithaks (they didn't communicate verbally), sits across a coffee table, to clearly outline, dissect, and often tear to shreds educational theories and programs from ancient times to today – with the zest of a 25 year old waiting to change the world. We have drawn from this conversation, as well as documentation of over 60 years of her varied work, to present the following issues.
BRING DOWN THE IVORY TOWERS
Sister Mary had during her tenure in Sophia, written an article castigating the 'ivory towers' of education. "The ivory towers of education sprung during British Rule in India," she begins to explain. Not recognizing indigenous institutes of education, and denying them revenue free land they were used to, destroyed learning avenues for mass populace, without providing viable alternatives. The schools and colleges provided by the British were few and hardly affordable, introducing a 'class' disparity into an education system erstwhile segregated by 'caste' only. "This attitude prevails even today, with few institutions being polished and held up as 'elite'," Sister Mary comments. That these institutions decide their exclusivity by marks scored by candidates in one entrance exam, serves as no consolation.
PEOPLE'S PROPHECY
"Also the British system modeled itself on institutions like Oxford and Cambridge," she continues. "The cornerstones of which were 'discipline' and 'loyalty' then, discouraging non-comformity." Also resultant of this education is the student's alienation from the issues of the people at large. To offset this effect Sister Mary forwards the 'prophetic type' of education, as distinct from the 'pre-fabricated type'. The 'prophetic type' encourages students to challenge existing norms, and create their own. But it has to be practiced, more than taught. An example. Sister Mary instituted in her time in Sophia, a practice of senior students taking their exams without supervision. "Despite the initial opposition to the idea from teachers," she remembers. "Students were soon turning their own classmates in when they found them cheating, rather than teachers needing to do so."
The idea was simple – to inculcate the idea of a society, which they were responsible for themselves.
BOTTOMS UP
"Education means something deep down within me, meeting something deep down in another," Sister Mary explains simply. When she began her work with the Munda, Oraon and Kharia tribes in Jharkhand, her well-researched plans for their education came to naught. "I had to understand what they want and how best to give it to them," she says. So post-natal care became the primary concern because that was what the women were interested in. Then came bolstering their learning of their own arts and sciences: weaving, pottery, the ancient science of Jari Boothi, as opposed to alien subjects. Even mediums used were indigenous. The Akhada, or traditional village meeting ground, was used for educational programs and the children (used to non-verbal languages like Mundari) were taught by non-verbal mediums, like Anubhav Baithak (learning by experience – touch, sight, sound, smell) and Kriya Kalap (learning by activity). "I could do this because I have always been a proponent of the bottom-up, rather than the top-down approach," she claims. This approach demands the educator get down from a high horse, and educate the student as per his circumstance. The approach can be mirrored in the Macro Education structure as well, says Sister Mary, by granting more colleges the same autonomy the IIMs avail of, without deducting their grant, something she has long fought for. It can be mirrored in cities by supervising and recording students' individual inclinations, rather than mere end-term marksheets.
MAKING A MANDALA
Sister Mary shuffles through her files to hold up colour Xeroxes of Buddhist and Hindu Mandalas. The circular Mandala, an ancient concept finding its way into most of the world's religions demonstrates connectivity to the other, while maintaining a core idea (the centre). "This is what helps me get most of my work done," she smiles. She enumerates how, instead of waiting for red-tapism to end, any social worker should create a network of like-minded committed people within and without the government. Thus placing a cause at centre, one can fight ills they disagree with, instead of playing the blame game. The huts where she and her co-workers stayed was attacked one night by 13 armed goons, dispersing only after being confronted by an old priest with an empty shotgun. It was at such a time that her 'network of goodwill' stepped in, and organizations hearing of this donated land and a building for her hostel and centre. The Mandala has been applied in water harvesting projects in rural Maharashtra as well. The core idea here was water harvesting for drought ridden farmers. Once that was established the same groups were used to disperse education and address health and women's issues. At Sophia College, Sister Mary rooted the idea of connectivity by demanding that the students (most of them girls from very wealthy families), undertake the college's menial tasks themselves. When one girl refused to sweep a floor saying, "Let the principal come and do this herself," the principal did. And the student followed suit.
DILIP PRABHAVALKAR - INTERVIEW
Dilip Prabhavalkar, winner of two national awards for best supporting actor, has come into national limelight recently for his loveable portrayal of the Mahatma in Munnabhai MBBS. Yet his career spans over 30 years and comprises over 30 prestigious awards for his contribution to theatre, film and literature. We met this thespian of the stage, the screen and the page in his modest Dadar apartment when he had little time to spare, hence conducting this interview in two parts. This artist isn't tied to crazy Bollywood schedules, but right from the time he chucked up his job in a pharmaceutical company and video production unit to devote his all to the arts, he has made his own routine, and sticks to it.
PART 1
What do awards mean to you?
In the beginning they used to thrill me, but I've become objective over time. These national awards are an exception. Besides the associated prestige, what makes them special is that I received one for playing the father of the nation – which isn't a role to tamper with. I was a skeptical at first about how Gandhi's character set in today's times with 'Bollywood's Favourite Bhai' would be recieved by audiences, but Raju Hirani's vision came through… and the award crowns that victory.
Some have accused the Gandhi in Lage Raho Munnabhai of being an oversimplification of the Mahatma.
That's because Gandhi was in Munnabhai's mind. Munnabhai's problems were simple, and so dealt with simply. The struggles of Gandhi's life were much larger. Also this simplification made many young people relate to the film. Their problems are also simple.
You became a household face in Maharashtra with your portrayal of Chimanrao in the Marathi TV serial of the same name 30 years ago, but you were unknown nationally till Lage Raho… despite having acted in some prominent Bollywood releases.
It's funny. People often ask me why I haven't acted in mainsteam Hindi films before. When I tell them of characters I've played in a Chupke Chupke or an Encounter: The Killing, they remember the characters vividly, but haven't placed me as the actor playing them. Then there are films like Beqabu, where I played nine characters. I love saying that Sanjeev Kumar played nine characters and it was called Naya Din Nayee Raat. When I did the same it should have been called 'Gaya Din Gayee Raat'. The film vanished without a trace.
Are you saying stereotyping is necessary to root an actor in audience memory – for a character actor as with a star?
I love my work too much to have given serious thought to this. I try to portray my characters as honestly as possible. I did not want to become a star. I'm happy where I am.
You've been actor and writer, but you're best described as 'humourist'. What's the secret to making so many laugh?
Yes, humour underlies most of my writing, direction and acting. It ranges from satire to slapstick. The secret is to see humour in what's happening around you. How? It's like having an ear for music, you either do or don't. Once you see these things, they get incorporated into your work automatically. I can't explain how I gave the middle class family members in Shriyut Gangadhar Tipre a Wodehousean hue, or decided to flex my non-existent muscles to tease a hefty police official as Punappa in Encounter… . But I can say my life is overflowing with a sense of humour and comic timing. After seeing Shriyut… for instance, Hrishikesh Mukherjee called me. I thought someone was playing a prank on me, and refused to believe he was Hrishikesh Mukherjee.
Then there are films where you've refrained from humour, yet won awards.
Yes. Chaukat Raja for instance, where I was playing a mentally retarded boy. And Ratra Aarambh, where I portrayed a schizophrenic. I didn't see the humour there. In Shiva and Sarkar Raj, Ramu (Ram Gopal Verma) didn't want any humour.
If Subhash Nagre aka Sarkar's character in Sarkar Raj reminded one of Balasaheb Thackeray, who was Rao Saab - the character played by you – based on?
I thought he was a bit like Anna Hazare, no? But, look, firstly, I don't think Sarkar was like Balasaheb either. Or that Vishnu Nagre or Sanjay Somji were like Raj Thackeray. I've read these views but don't agree with them. Besides I haven't seen the movie yet. No time. I'm going to catch it today.
PART 2
After watching SarkarRaj…
What did you think of the film?
I liked the movie. It was a different kind of theme – the development politics angle and everything. It holds. I liked all the three Bachchans, and Ramu's style of direction. Of course the surprises, an essential part of any Ram Gopal Verma film, didn't apply to me as an audience, because I knew them already.
What about Shevri, the other film you won a national award for, where you played a middle class clerk?
I haven't seen the movie. I didn't have time to… But it provided me interesting opportunities for improvising….
That’s the second film of yours you haven’t seen…
Laughs…
Your writings and your portrayals involve umpteen characters from middle class
I can't point out any unique characteristic. I've portrayed many characters other than from this class too. But yes, I write from what I see in my surroundings. I haven't traveled as much as… say Tendulkar (Vijay Tendulkar)… to gather a host of experiences. So my writings have been centred in the Maharashtrian middle class mostly.
Chimanrao, for instance, is a character from that milieu. What made you re-launch that character with your play Hasva Phasvi?
Many reasons. One is that I was playing many characters in the play, and wanted at least one I knew well. The audiences loved that character too, and would find an old connection in a new play. Also I felt the character, created by C V Joshi could be explored beyond, by placing his characteristic style in a different set of situations. Finally, I wanted to pay a tribute to the character that made me famous.
Your portrayal of the Pandit in the Marathi film Valu has also been applauded.
The credit for that goes to Umesh Kulkarni, the director. He etched out the character, and I only had a few improvisations to make. In a medium like film an actor is always a 'director's actor'. He always knows only a few pieces of the jigsaw, not the whole picture.
How do socio-political issues find their way into your satiric columns, articles and books?
I'm not interested in joining politics. So this is the only way to express my frustration. Humour is the only solution, in the absence of a real solution, for a helpless middle class citizen.
But humour sometimes trivializes real issues. And encourages escapism.
Yes. That is a thin line which an artist should be aware of. In P L Deshpande's adaptation of The Last Appointment for instance, there were many places where I could have injected humour, but didn't. Yet there was relief provided intermittently by the situation being humorous rather than the character. The character was that of the common man – whose pathetic plight is too much like most of us, to be humorous.
Do you think the presence of Bollywood in Mumbai is affecting Marathi cinema's viewership?
But that is bound to happen. People here use two languages… i.e. Marathi and Hindi. It isn't comparable to the South, where Andhra Pradesh alone might earn more than Bollywood even, because everyone there watches only films in their regional language. Also Marathi cinema continues to produce interesting films on very different subjects, and they're doing very well. I'm not the best person to comment really, because I'm not really aware of the economics of these industries as a whole.
What about the future of Marathi theatre – Experimental and Professional? Any interesting trends?
Yes. (laughs) That the line dividing the two is fast disappearing.
Finally, why have you shifted from Mumbai to Pune, and what plans for the future?
I stopped Hasva Phasvi, despite its popularity, because the play had reached a saturation point of performance for me – when there was nothing more to develop in the characters. When I worked in a pharmaceutical company long ago, we were obsessed with ascertaining the shelf life of each product. I have to find new products if the shelf life of the old ones have expired. For this, I'm re-charging my batteries in Pune. I'm listening to classical music, watching world cinema… meeting interesting people. In
CAREER CHRONOLOGY
Early 1970s: Prabhavalkar's first major performance in Lobh Nasava Hi Vinati, a play written by Vijay Tendulkar.
1977-79: The Chimanrao TV series took Prabhavalkar to every Maharashtrian household, and kept him there.
1991: Prabhavalkar, a postgraduate in Biophysics and a diploma holder from the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre leaves behind his other career to concentrate on acting, and writing.
1970s onwards: Plays which won Prabhavalkar acclaim and awards include Prem Kahani, Aranyak, Vasuchi Sasu, Bhool Chook Dyavi Ghyavi (written by him), Jawai Maza Bhala, Sandhyachhaya, Kalam 302, Ghar Tighancha Hava, Ek Zunj Varyashi and Natigoti. Topping this list is Hasva Phasvi, also written by him, where he plays six characters and which has had over 700 runs, before he shut it down.
His acclaimed and awarded films include Chaukat Raja, Katha Doan Ganpathraonchi, Sarkarnama, Ratra Aarambh, and recently – Valu, Shevri, Encounter – The Killing and Lage Raho Munnabhai.
Three of his books – Googly, Hasgat and Kagdi Baan won literary awards. His books often comprise a compilation of his columns and articles which, aside from arousing laughter, have addressed contemporary socio-political issues. His book Anudini (also a compilation of a column he penned) was adapted into the highly popular TV series Shriyut Gangadhar Tipre, which he acted in too.
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