Sunday 13 November 2016

Inner Sanctums

K-25, Hauz Khas

I sit in front of a modern building,
With modern balconies and modern bricks,
Far removed from the alphasexual hub that Hauz Khas is.
A building with no particular significance,
So much so that as I perch myself on the footpath in front of K-25,
All watchmen from the building there look at me in wonder,
With heavy bouts of judgement.

"They don't know" I say to myself.
I wish I could go ask them if they know,
But instead I set the cancer stick between my fingers on fire,
And resort to the only form of escapism I know - poetry.

"Ek budhiya chaand pe baithi",
Gulzar starts speaking,
And soon enough he's convinced me to dissolve all sounds around me and listen to the rhythm of her charkha.

Now here's the thing about poetry,
It's just a step away from schizophrenia,
For your mind will make you believe in things, that even your mind knows don't really exist.

Now here's the thing about love,
It's just a step away from schizophrenia,
For your mind will make you believe in things, that even your mind knows don't really exist.

But as I sit in front of the modern building,
With modern balconies and modern bricks,
I'd rather embrace the mental disorder that is both love and verse,
For where it stands, once stood
The moon the budhiya sat on.

K-25, Hauz Khas
Is where Amrita Pritam lived.

I see an Imroz stand there,
Present for the demolition of the old house,
And the demolition of a billion mixed feelings, of extreme pain and extreme peace,
Feelings that I project on him, really.

I see an Imroz stand there and try to see what he could have,
An Amrita ascending the modest throne of the backseat of his scooter,
Him almost anticipating the touch of her fingers on her spine, carving out his own 'manchaahi' death;
An Amrita getting in and out of a car for her visits to the doctors,
An Amrita in a window to a house always open to all Punjabi poems,
An Amrita that left the house her last time, to never return
And yet somehow do,
In her logically impossible and yet completely truthful promise
Of 'Main tainu phir milangi'

"Ye kiss sadi ke log hai, shabbo"
I ask the friend who sits next to me,
And we proceed to use her 2G and look at a YouTube video of Rani Mukherjee,
Mouthing her questions about Veer and Zaara,
That very well could be about the spirits in this place.
The spirits that were once flesh and blood,
The embodiment of breaking every belief we have about love,
That relationships need to be named,
That love needs to be reciprocated for fulfilment,
That a man and woman can't have a relationship if it isn't named,
That marriages are the only happy endings,
That Imtiaz Ali potrays 'crazy' more often than 'in love',
That love can only happen once,
That you're a particular age and then you're another age and you can only be of one age once,
That men and women feel differently,
That men and women behave separately,
That men and women love in varied ways.

A phone rings, we have to go.
"You can leave your cigarette halfway", my friend tells me. "It would be the perfect tribute."
The sticks nearing it's end,
But the sacrifice is too easy,
The perfect tribute would be a poem,
But ink no longer falls from a pen the speed of ash from a cigarette,
But I stub it none the less.

We get up, then I sit on my knees,
And touch the ground that has nothing in common with the house that lived here, but still manages to exist in the same spectrum called space,
And promise to better the poet I am, who have nothing in common with the fairy who lived here, but still manages to exist in the same spectrum called words, and on an after thought, a birthdate.

The watchmen continue to look at me like crazy,
But the extremes of warmth and cold I feel, the goosebumps on my upper arm,
And the half-burnt cigarette on the footpath there,
Promise not to judge.

The House in Gali Qasim Jan, Old Delhi
AKA Involuntary

My existence is involuntary,
Much like yours,
O friend, father and spirit.
But while mine amounts to knot,
Your lack of choice,
Ornamented by your merit.

I'm a misfit in your lane,
I carry neither stature, nor culture
In a Galli that boasts of rich Islamic heritage,
My T-shirt and shorts are a clownish couture.

I pass by your house,
So hard to find, so easy to miss,
Almost like Delhi's pollution levels
Have dissolved the soul you breathed out,
As your lips touched the Dementor's kiss.

The house is mildly lit,
My excitement is little and lacks any expectations,
I first tread carelessly into a hallway,
I know you aren't home,
I feel some form of guilt,
As I step into your space,
Without your permission.

I've picked quite some from what you left,
O friend, father and spirit
But as I read your words, now on your walls,
I wonder what I inherit

I'm half bent to read the translation,
And there's a little water on my cheeks
Into the house's vacuum, I start muttering the Urdu under my breath
And try to reverberate what the noiseless ambience does speak.

It's then that my head spins right,
Involuntary but almost by fate,
I see your face, you smile at me,
I need to freeze, I need to run,
But the absence of instinct beats faster than my heart rate.

It's not you, just a statue of sorts
Put behind a wall of glass,
Stiff under a poem,
I forgot you never left, Ghalib
I forgot, you were always home.

The tears keep coming down,
I neither sob nor weep,
The silence like it's meant to be,
The silence your heart synced with here, Ghalib
For now is mine to keep.

Scenes from Om Bhutkar's play start whirring,
Lines from Gulzar's book,
There's so much I knew about you already,
And yet for me to finally see you, Ghalib
A beat was all it took.

I keep whispering your lines,
I know neither I nor the translations do you any justice,
Almost like Delhi's pollution levels
Have dissolved the soul you breathed out, Ghalib
As your lips touched the Dementor's kiss.

I now take off my footwear,
And tread on every inch,
Shaken by the realisation of where I am,
My half grown beard is full of salt water now,
I'm neither thrilled, nor calm.

I see bust of you gifted by Gulzar,
And can't help but notice a striking resemblance,
Between your nose and that of my own fathers,
A nose I've always worried I'll receive in inheritance.

Books you sometimes touched,
Clothes that touched you once,
Walls you rested your head against,
Pillars that attempt to take weight of your chest.

My existence is involuntary,
And so is much of your verse
I never knew you and you never knew me and I never heard you talk,
And maybe if I did, I would be too shy and stupid too, and judge me you would;
Either is a curse.

My existence is entitled, Ghalib
Much like your royal birth,
I neither love or drink as fiercely,
Neither have I lost as much.
Then why, Ghalib does your poetry speak to me so,
When this privileged is my sorrow?
Why does your pain feel mine?
Why do I consume your whine?
Why does the dismay feel so real,
And the lack of comfort, a similar ordeal?
Why does my peace feel manipulated,
By a force that you would know,
Then why, Ghalib does your your poetry speak to me so,
When this privileged is my sorrow?

A group of three enters the room,
The sanctity is gone,
I must now leave,
Be the misfit again,
For while now you and I were one,
And while we'll never know each other,
O friend, father and spirit,
Thank you for letting me exist here,
Thank you for letting in your home.

Saturday 5 November 2016

Listicle - Marathi Rangbhoomi Diwas

5 November marks a very special day in the history of arts. It was on this day in the year 1843 A.D. that the first Marathi play was performed in District Sangli of Maharashtra (then a princely state). Created by a man called Vishnupant Bhave, the play was titled 'Sita Swayamvar' and took the first flight of a culture that's still soaring 173 years later!
I don't have a direct connection to the Marathi Theatre scene. I can't even claim to be a tiny dispensable part of it, like I thankfully believe I can with English plays. When I see my peers now actively becoming a part of regional plays and hanging out with actors and directors I have grown up idolising, I can't help but feel a tinge of envy and longing. Which is why it also gives me a sense of joy to have something in common with the man who made the first Marathi play, even if it's something as silly a last name.
Today is 5 November and in honor of the day, since christened Marathi Stage Day, I am going to list 7 things that shaped my love and belief in Maharashtrian Theatre.

1. P. L. Deshpande


This man will probably top most lists I write. The creator of gems like Batatyachi Chawl and Vyakti Aani Valli, he is the master of storytelling and an institution in himself. Narrations of his writing, in his own voice continue to be a constant on playlist. His adaptation of My Fair Lady is something the entire theatre-watching community swears by. Most of my sense of humour and the comfort level I have with my awkward self stems from this man. Earlier this year, I had to colour my hair grizzly and wear a kurta for a play. With my overgrown curly hair, specs and tummy love, the make-up man told me I looked like Pu. La. Deshpande. There couldn't have been a more thrilling moment! If only I could write more like him...

2. Vijay Tendulkar
I didn't discover Tendulkar until a couple of years ago. I first read Sakharam Binder in Hindi and then Ghashiram Kotwal in English but it was only until I saw version of these by Chandrakant Kulkarni that I finally seemed to grasp a little of what that man wrote. I attempted to break down Sakharam Binder to it's core and even managed to pen stuff down but I wonder if I will ever be able to be even a percent of what this man was. If only, if only.

3. Chandrakant Kulkarni

And that brings us to this legend. In my last article, I wrote about watching two of his plays. The very day before I watched Wada though, I watched the masterpiece that is Aashad Bar. The play puts three famous playwrights - Kalidas, Shudrak and Mohan Rakesh in a bar with a fiction fourth playwright. The entire two act play takes place in one Bar and yet somehow Kulkarni manages to paint us a new painting in every frame. His directorial versions of Tendulkar's Sakharam Binder and Silence! The Court Is In Session are both available online and make for a fine watch. The last original he did, Get Well Soon did not do a very long run, but has to go down our history as a modern classic. It wouldn't be an overstatement to say, every piece of work by Chandrakant Kulkarni is a masterclass in direction.

4. Prashant Damle

This list can't go down without a mention of Marathi Theatre's favorite funnyman, Prashant Damle. Damle can give most comedians, actors and singers a run for their money with his chubby adorable self. No matter who he's cast opposite - be it veterans like Vandana Gupte and Reema Lagoo or be it the freshfaced powerhouse Tejashri Pradhan, Damle is sure to set the stage on fire. Not to mention, he holds record for performing the highest number of shows in a lifetime, which sometimes easily go up to four two acts a day.

5. Dharmakirti Sumant, Alok Rajwade and Natak Company

I have only seen two of Dharmakirti Sumant's plays - Geli Ekvees Varsha (The Last Twenty-one Years or The Lost Twenty-one Years) and Binkamache Samvad (Useless Dialogues/ Conversations) but both of these plays will stay with me for the rest of my life. GEV became one of the most celebrated plays in the country, and set a bar which many believe he could not surpass. I've even seen more experienced veterans write him off. But if Natak Nako, Pani and Charoo Aroo Ityaadi are anything like Binkamache Samvad, Sumant is the writer we need, a milestone in writing we don't appreciate enough.
Both Geli Ekvees and Binkamache have been directed by the able mind of Alok Rajwade, fast garnering popularity and accolades for his acting skills in the Marathi Film Industry. His directorial skills however, still feel untouched and unassuming and he shall remain my role model.
Rajwade and Sumant are a part of a group called Natak Company, Pune (The last word might not be a part of the actual name but is very much retained in their identity.) The group is spearheaded by the impeccable Nipun Dharmadhikari. Natak Company is another name for innovation and creativity and a big part of the pop culture of Pune. I have actually witnessed an entire theatreful of audience members say all dialogues WITH actors at a showing of 'Dalan'. And it was magical..

6. Thespo

You can't talk about Natak Company without mentioning Thespo and vice versa. India's premier Youth Theatre Movement is a multilingual affair. Despite being hosted by a company that primarily makes English plays, the last few years has seen the number of Marathi plays exceed the number of English plays at the festival. Other than Natak Company and BMCC products like Dalan, Geli Ekvees Varsha, Kabadi Uncut, Mi... Ghalib and Apradhi Sugandh, it has housed brilliance like Naav, Chitthi, God = Father and Hero. The list of plays scheduled for this December is yet to be announced but I fervently hope that it includes some more exceptional plays from Maharashtra.

7. Spruha Joshi
This name is a little surprising, even to me. Spruha Joshi, who comes from the Mumbai Intercollegiate Community and efficiently flits between movies, television and plays could be an arguable choice in the list, but personally my list would be incomplete without her. I had heard about her for years, from my seniors in college who had seen her killer of a performance in Ananya and more, and from my Mom who has seen Natak Company's Never Mind. I have to admit, I also had a huge crush on her from when she did TV and remember how she took my breath away the one time I saw her backstage after a play.
I first saw her in Hrishikesh Joshi's Nandi - an assortment of ten scenes from landmark plays where she was the main sutradhar but also a part of two pieces and absolutely won the floor in both. I'll go ahead to say that her potrayal of Laxmi from Sakharam Binder in that play came very close to that of Chinmayee Sumeet and maybe even Lalan Sarang (but I haven't seen the latter perform).
There was no stopping to this woman. Her next two roles had a similar description on paper - Samudra and Don't Worry Be Happy saw her play a strong-headed, feministic, working woman. But Spruha Joshi made sure to not even let the shadow of one character fall on the other. One of the things I aim to do in this lifetime, is write a character I can dare to approach her for.


Well, that's about it. My not-very-small listicle. I'm sure there's a lot I've missed out on. But if you think there's something I absolutely must have included, write to me at kalpakbhave318@gmail.com
Or comment below. Or send me your listicle, I would love to feature it!
And Happy Marathi Rangbhoomi Diwas to all of you!!
  

Thursday 3 November 2016

Stories of The Wada

I discovered Elkunchwar about two years ago. Back then, I was wholly trying to be a good student, attending all classes and thoroughly missing Theatre. I even took library classes seriousl, browsing through the bookshelves and in fact those were the only times I felt closer to the world of dramatics than anywhere else in my media school. While most of my friends would pour over photography journals and books about interesting advertising campaigns, I would be secretly worried about how I didn't find all of that interesting enough. It was then that I found a tiny shelf dedicated to Theatre. And Volume II of Elkunchwar's creations. Up until that point, I had little idea of who Elkunchwar was. For those like me, Elkunchwar is one head of the Holy Trinity of Marathi Playwrights and receives a national and international pedestal with the likes of Tendulkar, Badal Sircar and Mohan Rakesh. Some of his plays have also been made into feature films. He writes with the sort of ease that my 18-year-old self found very easy to connect with, unlike Vijay Tendulkar or Satish Alekar whose works I still struggle with, a little.

Now on to Wada. Wada Chirebandi (Old Stone Mansion) is the story of the Deshpande family in _____. 'Wada' essentially means a Bungalow, those owned by upper-class and upper-caste Maharashtrian joint families. This Wada is crumbling under the pressure of it's legacy. The patriarch of the house has died, the oldest daughter in law has assumed responsibility. Her husband is cynical and frustrated, their children well on their way to 'wasting themselves'. The second son is struggling in the city but has become the cause of envy and contempt to the one left behind. The third son keeps away from the clashes and mutely does odd jobs in the house. There's also a daughter, the more intelligent of the siblings, who's been denied education and has rejected matrimony. It's a perfect mix. There's enough baggage floating around the house to ensure strong drama.

I've known enough Deshpandes in my life to have an opinion of them, the namesakes and otherwise. The family is Brahmin, an identity they hold on to, despite the lack of means. And that's exactly what makes the play brilliant. Growing up Brahmin, I have seen my family members reject socialist ideas, right and left (no pun intended). Wada Chirebandi tell me why. It's funny because I watched the play at Dinanath Mangeshkar Natyagriha, Vile Parle East and it goes without saying that most of the audience members were Brahmins. So through out the play, I would keep hearing chuckles and vigorous nods whenever there was a smart jab at the community. But did anybody understand the underlying mockery behind it. I cannot say.

Elkunchwar holds up a mirror to the population of the 1970s. In 2016, the mirror still seems to reflect the same image to newer viewers. Props to director Chandrakant Kulkarni for that. Wada Chirebandi makes you laugh, weep and freeze completely all at the same time.

In the very same day, I also watched the sequel to the play - Magna Talyakathi or The Pond. While Wada ends on a tragic note, Magna picks up 10 years later when everything's changed and yet, still the same. Magna deals with the second generation of the house - a generation that could very well be Gen X or Gen Y. The house has new paint, there's weddings scheduled and the first generation is pretty much sorted. The suffocation you feel in the house is way lesser than before, but the weight of the baggage is constant.

There's a scene in Magna Talyakathi, which takes place next to the titular pond. It happens in the dead of the night, with nothing but soft ripples to be heard. In a voiceover, the protagonist says, "Some times I look at the stars and wonder, could somebody in a far off galaxy be looking back at me, in this very moment?"

Later in the play, the protagonist comes home and says of another character, "I went to the Pond and saw him sitting there, by himself. I turned around and left, for it is isn't a good thing to interrupt somebody's solace."

These lines are of course, loosely translated. But that's how they stayed in my mind. For a week after that, I was stuck at the Pond. I'm going to refer to some old WhatsApp messages which will say what I want to much better for me.

[8/29, 9:04 PM] Kalpak Bhave: Somehow my soul just didn't leave from the pondside
[8/29, 9:05 PM] Kalpak Bhave: I'm constantly thinking of it, missing it, remembering the voice over like I am there at the pond, can't get out, don't want to and disturbed by the fact that I'm actually not.
It's fucked up, right?
[8/29, 9:06 PM] Kalpak Bhave: It's very weird. It's making me sad, I'm longing for a memory of something I've never experienced.

The week after that was my birthday. I left the city, as is fashion now and went to the nearest hillstation of Matheran, only one friend with me. They have a dam there, one I almost didn't go to. And on top of the damn is the reservoir. Almost deserted. So accessible. We sat there for hours, no words, our toes in the water, our bottoms on the little pebbles, inhaling burnt grass.
It wasn't exactly redemption. It wasn't salvation. But I found a pond. And it did me good. The Wada plays will stay with me and so will the pond on my birthday.

Now waiting for Apocalypse.
That's Part 3.