In Memoriam: Remembering the Indian Theatre Artists We Lost in 2023 (Part 1)

Looking back at departed luminaries from the world of performing arts (or any other sphere) is sometimes a matter of publishing compulsion, or perhaps even a ritual of belated obeisance. It’s not so much a contemplation of the ever-present idea of mortality; but more like shining a beacon to illuminate flickering legacies and, indeed, the shoulders people often don’t realise they stand upon. Even if the stalwarts in question have long withdrawn from ‘public life’, a recent passing instantly effects a breach, like a deep sighing breath in time, as living history (speaking, breathing, reminiscing, and, well, alive) transitions into a more distant posterity.

A personal anecdote to set the ball rolling— I was a student usher on Aamir Raza Husain’s school production of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Starlight Express at Delhi’s Siri Fort Auditorium circa 1992^[1]. Amidst the onerous task of ‘letting in’ VIPs, from Margaret Alva to Naina Balsaver, I managed to catch glimpses of the musical from the sidelines and marvelled at the sprawling race tracks for rollerblading actors—who played train engines, no less—extending from the stage right into the auditorium. It wasn’t until a decade later, when I caught a performance during the closing run (after 7,409 shows!) of the OG West End production of Starlight Express at London’s Apollo Victoria Theatre, that I was truly able to grasp Mr Husain’s sheer ambition of scale, and its precociously cutting-edge execution, so early in his career. Status quoist stage spectaculars, lavishly mounted on custom-built outdoor sets, became Mr Husain’s hallmark—from The Legend of Rama (which also had its beginnings as a school production at my alma mater) to The Fifty Day War^[2], a homage to Kargil, to historical installations at the Red Fort. While the impresario departed in June^[3], his descriptor on X (formerly known as Twitter) is a fitting epitaph, “I write to be heard and perform to be seen. To misquote the bard, all my world is a stage.”

Exiting stage left was the amiable Farrokh Mehta, an actor celebrated for his everyman comedic flair, but who frequently defied that categorisation when tackling dramatic fare with élan. These included immortal turns such as the gentlemanly Mitch in A Streetcar Named Desire, or the agents provocateur in Tughlaq and Vultures (Vijay Tendulkar’s Gidhade in an English translation by Priya Adarkar)—all skilfully brought to life under the adept guidance of frequent collaborator Alyque Padamsee.

In their prime, Mr Mehta and better half Vijaya Mehta formed one of Indian theatre’s original power couples, with Mr Mehta providing the steady gravitas that perfectly complemented his formidable spouse’s trailblazing ways^[4], in much the same way he was often a perfect foil on stage. All the while, he balanced a ‘bread and butter’ job at Pfizer’s with a stage sideline that supplied ‘the jam, cheese and marmalade’^[5].

Speaking of butter, Mr Padamsee’s ad-man colleague, Sylvester DaCunha, the man behind the lingering warmth of the ubiquitous Amul Girl, slowly melted away from our midst. Like Mr Padamsee, Mr DaCunha also moonlighted as a stage director (one of many hats), balancing hard-hitting plays like Mr Tendulkar’s Kamala, with its intriguing intersections of culture, with flighty revues like I Love Bombay and It’s Not Funny^[6], featuring playful tropes and accents.

A 1982 India Today article contrasted Mr DaCunha’s radical attempt at multilingualism in Kamala, with playwright Gieve Patel’s inventive linguistic approach in Savaksa, a play about a disaffected Parsi landlord in Gujarat, dubbed by writer Dhiren Bhagat as “possibly the first great English play to be written by an Indian”. As Mr Patel himself described it, “I started to remould English, (mauling) its syntax and grammar, (while bringing) it back to normalcy.” Later this January, a veritable Who’s Who gathering in South Mumbai^[7] will pay homage to Mr Patel, who scripted his own coda in November. A celebrated poet, and a qualified doctor to boot, Mr Patel’s slender oeuvre as playwright—which includes Savaska and 1987’s lyrical Mister Behram, a heady mix of class conflicts and forbidden desire that was far ahead of its time—is a lost repertoire of potent works in urgent need of revival. That might likely be a tall order in a theatre ethos where international classics remain at the top of the pecking order mainly due to the politics of soft power and its dissemination.

Heading northwards, two exceptional artists, who graduated from the National School of Drama ten-odd years apart, bid their farewells. The senior being the seasoned thespian Uttara Baokar, known for her masterful performances, and the other being the distinguished playwright and director Tripurari Sharma. In the mid-1990s, Ms Sharma settled into the defining role of an inspirational if publicity-shy pedagogue who has left an indelible mark on successive generations of drama school graduates. Championing collaborative processes in theatre-making and pioneering workshop techniques that bordered on social activism, Tripurari Sharma emerged as a trailblazer in the realm of feminist thoughts and its applications in what was (and still remains, to a large extent) the inherently patriarchal and auteur-centric landscape of

Indian theatre. Works like Bahu, Aks Paheli, Reshmi Rumall and Azizun Nisa San Sattawan Ka Kissa stand as testament to her commitment to foregrounding women’s narratives, while deftly addressing humanist concerns.

On her part, Ms Baokar was a leading lady of the stage with a formidable repertoire but her signature outing remains that of battle-worn Gandhari in Ebrahim Alkazi’s production of Dharamvir Bharati’s Andha Yug, first staged in 1963. In the book The Act of Becoming^[8], edited by Amal Allana, Ms Baokar’s greatest role is described thus: “[Her] Gandhari is torn by wrenching grief over the loss of her hundred sons (which) brings to the fore her inner bitterness and venom while cursing Krishna. As Krishna accepts her curse with feeling and tenderness, her Gandhari undergoes a complete transformation full of repentance for cursing Krishna. Only a great actress like her can project such contrasting images.” In Govind Nihalani’s televised play, Tamas, Ms Baokar lends aching stoicism to another moment of absolution; singing the kirtan, Jo Lade Been Ke Het Soora Sohi, even as women at Jallianwala Bagh throw themselves into a well to escape death at the hands of British oppressors.

A singular turn on stage also came to define the ancillary stage career of film director Satish Kaushik^[9], who left us in March. Sporadically over two decades, Mr Kaushik diligently climbed into an outsize suit and invested vim and pathos at once into the eponymous role of Salesman Ramlal, Feroz Abbas Khan’s Hindi adaptation of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Despite his reputation as a comic actor and his aspirations as a showman, Mr Kaushik’s under-utilised dramatic chops shone through on stage like nowhere else. As Ramlal, the Indian stand-in for Willy Loman, floundering and helpless, grappling for redemption, Mr Kaushik struck a chord with middle-class audiences, which might account for the play’s longevity as an occasional fixture on the arts calendar.

This is the first part of a 2-part series on Indian theatre stalwarts who passed away this year. Stay tuned for Part 2.

Citations:

^[1] Remembering Starlight Express

^[2] Theatre of the Kargil War

^[3] Director-actor who believed in big theatre, Aamir Raza Husain, passes away at 66

^[4] Vijaya and Farrokh, A Perfect Pair

^[5] Farrokh Mehta, doyen of city’s English theatre, passes away

^[6] English Theatre – A Shot in the Arm

^[7] Celebrating Gieve

^[8] The Act of Becoming

^[9] Satish Kaushik dies of a heart attack at 66, funeral held in Mumbai