A Poem Published

Not that it is a new poem but still, published on real paper (not a printout!). My stance on publishing still holds! ;-)
I thank Sinu for the fantastic art work he brought out for this poem. I must have been a nag to work with, what with all those editing and endless deliberating over details.

In spite of all his hard work the actual print in the book has lost all the details and I am disappointed, but that's just me hunting for reasons to be disappointed. Since this image below is a low resolution of the final draft and since the image in the book is different (in the details), this cannot count as copyright violation. Given that the poem is this blog's! :-)

Nevertheless, I would urge you to buy the book (details at www.mandali.in). No, I get no royalty so there is nothing for me to gain. I think you should buy the book since the poems are decently good, since the artwork is pretty neat for some of the poems, since this is one of a kind visual-poetry project and since this is being organised and run by a bunch of youngsters who deserve the support and encouragement to carry out such work and constantly improve. I think every purchase would only add fuel to their excitement and that is a good cause.

Please click on the image below and study the details on the wall. Sinu has absolutely weaved magic here. The shadow, the scribbles on the wall, the state of the books, the table. Amazing illustration. No, I don't look even wee bit like the guy at the table.

The Finest Video I Have Seen In a While

I thank my friend Kartikeya for sharing this with me. This gorgeous video has all the longing and love, the magic and flow that is impossible to create with real people. I especially loved the video at 1:30 where only her hand on his chest is visible. Simply remarkable. Kartik, I owe you an ice-cream! I really wish I could dance thus with someone. Endlessly.

Riverdance

Once in a while I come across something superbly brilliant and am immediately amazed at just how much there is to see and know about the world around me. I think the greatest contribution from the Internet is in essentially that respect where every single day when I read something new (or simply unbelievable) or see something new and I sit back wondering just how much more is possible.

I think what differentiates us humans from the animals is just this - the ability to be amazed and imagine possibilities. I doubt whether animals would ever find the Cirque de Soleil amazing beyond curious or startling. Even if they did see it all, I doubt whether they would mull over it and wonder what else is possible. Maybe it is their blessing.

A recent friend of mine introduced me to Riverdance (though not Irish tap-dancing). She is probably the only person I have met who could match or even surpass me in the sheer breadth of experience and excitement. Nearly everything interests her and she explores nearly everything be it food (and she is one of the 2 people who have recommended new restaurants to me and discussed a variety of cuisines), photography, travel, arts, etc. An honour to know her.

So, D, recently sent me some videos to keep me cheerful while I nursed my wounds from a recent accident (and people who know me ask: WHICH recent accident?). I was touched and a lot more excited by the variety and content of what she had sent me. Thank you, D. I share below a video of Riverdance. Riverdance is a show (I can't call it a group because they have different troupes or companies) which has mostly Irish dancers perform the tap-dance. It is amazingly well choreographed and I am glad that they have some variety (instead of performing the same piece of dance).

Since it is mostly only step-dancing, the traditional Indian elements of bhava and laya are nearly all but absent. Nevertheless, the sheer rhythm and beat of this dance form is energising! Please do watch esp. the piece at 3:36.

A Fantastic Illustrator

I am fortunate to be introduced to Sinu C who is an artist (the kinds that first comes to your mind when someone says artist). His works are amazing and beautiful ranging from the voluptuous styles of some artists to the boney large eyed ones of several modern artists to Manga-like works. His sheer range is a delight and I have been spending all morning going through his site. Please do visit his works here: http://sinustash.blogspot.com/ Here are some samples to form basis for what I call "variegated". (All the works below are taken from his site)

Aren't they beautiful!?

Rajasthani Miniature

"The skill is in highlighting each minute details and hence it is called miniature art", explained the tobacco chewing Madan Lal. He confessed to eating a heavy breakfast followed by nothing till late in the evening so that he could spend a lion's share of the waking day dedicated to his art. Learning Rajasthani miniature art from him was a pleasure. The weekend was spent in anecdotes about how he would create various details and how his ancestors have been involved in this art for centuries together. He told us of an elaborate painting that he sold in Delhi for over a lakh (but by then we were so much in awe of him that a lakh sounded like pocket change).

He was glad to have me in his class because I was the only guy! The coordinator of this workshop expressed her surprise about finding a guy sign up for a painting workshop ("only girls have signed up till today"). With great pride I cherish that moment when Madan Lal-ji thought that a particular piece of painting in a picture was done by him when actually I had done it. He kept insisting it was his work till the fine ladies in my group had to show him the canvas on which he had actually done it. That, was accolade enough for me! Pretty Bina, from Nagaland, added to my joys (in more ways than one) by proclaiming that my first piece was better than the sample artwork (which was up on sale in Madan Lal-ji's shop). I could have hugged her just for that but I had to keep telling myself that this is Madras! Having gone for this workshop without any expectation it was easier for the Master to mould me in the way he wanted and for me to emerge with great satisfaction and a sense of joy.

Rajasthani miniature is not something to be learnt in two days. Any claim to having mastered the technique in such a short duration is ridiculously stupid. Two days into this art form and I realise the great amount there is to still learn and master. I have become comfortable with only two techniques: flattened brush shading, jaali-work. We worked with delicate squirrel-hair brushes and my wrist and every tendon in my opisthenar cries in pain! Madan Lal-ji is available in Dakshina Chitra till 4th of Aug 2009. It would be worth your while to stop by and learn from him.

If I may bring to your notice, note the jaali (something like a mesh but supposedly made of fine silver threads or similar precious metal) bordering the elephant's howdah (blanket). One can actually see through it what lies beneath. The background colour is textured to give it a feel of mural (with chipping plaster, etc.). Rajasthani art (the way they draw their figures and objects) is not meant to be realistic (would an elephant really have such a bump on the forehead? Would its nails be collected in the front? etc.) but artistic-fantastic-realism. The human figures have elaborate eyes and lips but the women are mostly flat chested though the roundedness of the breasts is depicted. Clothing is transparent and that is a technique. I would share the other work in my possession which provides a sample of the detail work that can go into landscape, but it is incomplete and would add it to this blog once complete.

On Writing

We were at the dinner table when a lovely lady of many wise years asked me what I did. We had discussed several topics in the days leading to this dinner but had hardly found it pertinent to discuss our daily occupation. Perhaps it was the dearth of topics that forced her to toss this one between the tub of chapatis and bowl of lentils. I wanted to summarise my occupation with a "I think". No matter how genuine that would be (and my visiting card designs contain a similar pair of words to describe what I do) it would at best appear like a shabby copy of Govinda's response to Kamala's query in Siddhartha or at worst a cheeky response. She meant a good deal to me and I couldn't afford to slight her.
I confessed to being a writer, sometimes of software code and sometimes of softer wares which come from the smoky recesses of one's thoughts and imagination.
"Aah! A writer. An artist."
One must add a British accent to that exclamation.
"Yes, indeed. I would love to make it all of what I do, but neither do circumstances allow me nor do my inner predelictions permit me confinement to only one mode of activity."
"You indulge in other art forms too?"
"Dabble with them and in other popularly non-art activities too."
We soon began discussing art and science and engineering. The table seated a truly international array of guests and added an age spectrum which was delightful too. The youngest was a girl recently out of high school though she didn't add a word beyond an occasional assent and the oldest was someone who was around when ships were means to arrive in India. The meanderings of the conversation came to a halt when I, unpremeditated, said the following:
"Writing is so unlike the other arts. Nearly every other art caters to a sense with a medium which is most intuitively coupled with that sense. Writing is different."
There was a pause and the reason couldn't be the wonderful taste of any of the elements in the dinner spread.
"Why would you think so?"
And I proceeded to explain. I cannot say that this thought is entirely mine. I recall reading Stephen King's "On Writing" where he hints at something similar. He doesn't compare it with other arts but that aspect stood out clearly. He doesn't even view it in terms of media and sensory effects. Before I proceed to that, allow me to carry your attention to an earlier post of mine. For the sake of some readers, I shall reproduce some of the contents here:

The last word Damien spoke was "Dad", which was also his first one, five years ago; I was holding him then and now.

He sucked her tongue into his mouth, savouring the lust and definite completion of the the 3 million dollar contract, while she licked at his naivete'.

I was about to turn around & complain about not hearing a single bird in these woods, when he gunned his Hummer making it roar for a couple of seconds before shutting it suddenly; I got what I wanted and more.

I watched her eyes moisten to the news, softening the blue of her eyes to a painful shade of grey & as the tear tried to slip down the side of her face, she tilted her head slightly & brought it back within the wrinkled folds of her eyelid; her tears were hers.

He had to write to her, so he wrote the words "Dearest Erika", stopped and smiled at the sparkling ink on the words before licking the portions that made her name.

Every hair on my body stood and watched his wet finger trail down my neck to unchartered, but eager, grounds.

As we were positioned in the back of the truck with our sides pasted together, knees dovetailing into each other's crotches, unable to turn our heads around, I counted thirteen children in front of me and assumed the same number on each of the five benches I saw when I was hurled in, hence sixty-five; this was my first unofficial assignment in math which helped me work towards my doctoral thesis.

When Uncle Joe hugged me, rather crushed me against his barrel sized chest, it was cheap whiskey instead of the usual Armani which told me that he hadn't recovered from his wife's death; this was my cue to make him mine.

It is not an arrogant claim but each of these sentences designed and created to evoke a particular sense are potent enough to transport the reader to an imagined world of their own making. As King puts it, writing is pure telepathy. The writer has an idea in his mind and employs words to convey that scene. When a writer writes "a wilting red rose on white lace tablecloth" one is able to imagine the red rose and "see" the white lace tablecloth. If every reader is immediately asked to paint whatever he has read, the paintings might differ in details but carry forth the broad intent of the writer. The sheer possibility of such different paintings of a scene is the power of writing. The 4th line above (in the quoted section) is an example of rendering an emotional scene and also in showing you the character of the "she". Read the 6th line and close your eyes to the scene.

Writing employs visual cues (words on paper) to create an effect on different senses at different times. One commenter to the "Ode to the bamboo flute" sonnet mentioned the sound images that she could view. Writing about food and describing food can get the mouth to water. Writing about colours and textures can create a visual and palpitating delight. I recall what a friend had to say about this post. He was playful in his comments but did remark on feeling his mouth parch!

None of the other art forms seem to do this.

Dance: Visual means, Visual senses
Music: Audio, Auditory senses
Painting: Visual, Visual senses
Sculpting: Visual and touch, visual and touch senses
Theatre: Visual and audio, visual and audio

One might say that writing employs visual means and creates visual images in the mind and hence, they are the same. Well, they aren't the same because when I say "blue marble" neither is the word "blue" blue or shaped like blue nor is the word "marble" as hard or glassy as a round marble (did you imagine this marble or the slabs of marble!?). The music of the flute sounds like a flute and not like a violin. Fierce angry gestures in a dance performance indicate just that. What is employed and what is attained are very different in writing. Undoubtedly, each art form has its own beauty but this is something peculiar to writing. It is not something that makes it better or worse than other art forms but is surely something that lends it power of an unparalleled mettle.

Art and Artists

The entrance is narrow and the neurotic might think of it as an indicator of a reluctant host. Perhaps it is. Austerity makes a man appear unaccommodating and that is as far from the truth as Kalakshetra is close to being the kingdom of beauty. Still the entrance doesn’t allow a 4X4 to drive through casually. Kalakshetra cannot be bothered by frivolous.

I had always heard of this place spoken of in hushed tones as if it were the temple of the Gods, perhaps even a place where the Gods entertained themselves (after all, dance was also discussed whenever Kalakshetra was mentioned). My folks tried to get my sister an admission in the school here but Destiny had other plans. I had never seen this place until recently and then again before becoming a rather common visitor (by my measure) of this place over the past few months. Here is where dance is worshipped, then taught and then played with to explore its boundaries (more like exploring one’s own creative limits). Though the cynics complain that this is a place where people only follow and things are too “strict” I am yet to come to a dance class which wasn’t ruled by one dance teacher and everyone following her. My personal experience has only revealed that there is a martinet everywhere and some people prefer one to another. Very few people are truly interested in dance to actually explore beyond what their teacher’s teach them. They become the great artists. The remaining are merely good performers. Kalakshetra has created great artists and performers (though the latter outnumber the former but that is true of every great institution in mostly any field) and if I am to judge merely based on their performances, I realise why Kalakshetra has been treated with such respect.

My friend, his wife and I walked into this place breathing in the serene surroundings and listened to the chirping birds as if everyone was clearing their throat and tying the salangai (dancer’s anklets) for a grand performance. There was going to be no dance that day but the birds didn’t know the schedule. I was showing them around the place and introduced them to whatever little I knew and a lot of hearsay. They were in love with the place and for reasons unknown, I felt proud. Perhaps it is difficult to disconnect beauty from one’s own sense of taste and goodness finding pride in acknowledgement as if it were an approval of one’s own refinement.

We walked around the place and stopped at the canteen. My friends were hungry and I had not had enough of this beautiful place. Madras is one the few cities in India which still houses such exotic locales for the lover of things simple and spiritually beautiful. The other place I like to hang out is Vasant Vihar, but more about it later. While my friend and his wife were picking from a rather meager range of edible items, my attention was caught by a small boy playing around the tables. As expected, I started playing with him only to realise that he spoke words I didn’t understand. Even when I filtered the baby-talk the words seemed familiar though I couldn’t make sense of it. I tried talking to him in a combination of English, Tamil and Hindi and the boy continued to play with me and talk to me in a language I couldn’t understand. At one point, I gave up, and laughed my way into a surrender.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t understand what you are saying?”

Then, in a truly sweet voice, he replied, “He is speaking in Malayalam.”

Since his lips hadn’t moved I looked up to see a beautiful young lady dressed in the practice costume of Bharatanatyam dancers.

“Hello.”

“He is speaking in Malayalam and he is basically asking whether you can lift these chairs and …”

I missed the rest of what she was saying. I had heard long ago that there is a Goddess (Meenakshi?) whose nose-ring shone like the moon and her face was so radiant that the most austere of Gods (another imposing host?) couldn’t resist her beauty and charms. Here in front of me in blue and dark mustard sari stood a person who could very easily play the role of that Goddess in any dance drama (and she already had a nose-ring that shone beautifully in the dimming lights of the day).

“Hello.”

She smiled and responded likewise. I could only think of Lord Shiva and as it always has been whenever I invoked the Divine Lords, I bowed my head.

“Is he your son?”

I think she said, “Yes.”

“He is very cute and rather active. Do you mind if I play with him?”

She smiled and shook her head.

I asked Lord Shiva, “Had the Goddess Parvati come to you with a child as beautiful as Kumara would you have still lost your heart to her?” and the Lord replied, “She is a Goddess and not a human being.” I laughed and the lady wondered how I understood her son’s statement and laughed. The boy had no such concerns and hence, I preferred being with the more beautiful of the two.

We played for a while before I was told it was time to go. I rose and bowed once again to the mother (no one could have ever guessed that she could be a mother) and we left. My friend hadn’t missed the beauty that the woman had carried so lightly. He exclaimed about it and his wife punched him playfully and they discussed how men would always be men (what were we expecting, anyway? That they would become Cocker Spaniels on a Monday morn?). My friend couldn’t help saying something like, “A woman should be like that! Man! To be married to one like her” and it sounded familiar. I laughed the most genial laugh before adding this to my growing list of observations about art and artists.

So many friends of mine, when introduced to good-looking artists feel that that particular woman is the right partner to have and it amazes me how often the average male falls into that trap. I was on a bus with a bunch of college girls (and I was in college then, too) when a guy pulled out a sheet of paper and sketched the ghats where we were stuck. The girls simply couldn’t resist getting introduced to him and chatting with him about a lot of things unrelated to the ghats or to sketching. I think he expected the effects. After Titanic, many a woman friend of mine wanted to be sketched in the nude though they were too Indian to go beyond just dreaming of that possibility.

Though I love artists I have invariably found most of them rather touchy, moody and unpredictable not to mention besotted with personal predilections and overpowering concerns which make an average human being wonder aloud. History has been filled with artists who threw temper tantrums, were over-sensitive, possessive, insecure, jealous, suicidal, megalomaniacs, narcissists and visited by several mental aberrations which arise from a sensitivity that also promises them their gift in an art. Poe, Woolf and Hemingway made me feel sad for them but what they created was brilliant (perhaps not that much for Hemingway). There are a few “normal” artists too but they are so rare to come by. Although I could arm every one with this information and plausible caveat, everyone looks at an artist as if s/he was genuinely a beautiful human being. How could someone with such a sweet voice be a wicked person? How could someone so graceful be vulgar? How could someone so talented be so selfish? How could someone who painted like a poem, be petty? How come the sculptor is so touchy? And that is where the questions reveal our assumption: We think of the artist as the art. We think of the dancer as someone as beautiful as the dance itself. We think of the singer to be as morally rich as the aalapana. They are but normal human beings when the mask comes off and that is something we can never be prepared for. As a human being they can be as disgusting as a psychopath or as beautiful as a child (and now you know why I picked the child’s company!). So I turned around to look at the lady with her son and wondered what her true story was. Vulgar and petty? A liar? A thief? Or perhaps like her dance, beautiful, generous and soothing?

And this is where the beauty of Kalakshetra comes in. As soon as I stepped into the auditorium not a single thought accompanied me. I was in the world of beauty willed with stoic seniors dressed in traditional South Indian wear and looking gorgeous (even the men). Wicker chairs greeted us while we waited for the screen to lift. I looked around and watched foreigners, who had come to learn the art, carry their attire effortlessly. Dedicated, I thought to myself. These people were here for a few years and it was not something easy to live through. They had to resign themselves to a routine involving practices other than learning dance and these practices are quite difficult even for some Indians (perhaps because they strove to become as much non-Indian as possible). I admired them as they walked around assisting in the arrangement of the show. I bowed my head to all of them. Kalakshetra didn’t seem to make exceptions and that made me respect the institution even more. It annoys me when people/places faun over the “big” people or as is common in India for the “white” man. That is why I like temples in Kerala – no special treatment for anyone. Kalakshetra was true to its cause and would disallow anyone who wished to break that discipline. I think every person should also be like that – be clear as to what they want to be and disallow people and relationships (business, included) which isn’t in tune with their core. As Alfred says (in The Dark Knight, and I paraphrase) one needs to be able to stand alone and do what is right. Why accept the vulgar and nurture it when rightness is lost and brownie points don’t count?

The violin concert was to begin and the duo had taken their seats. They were the children of a great artist and as I watched the man play a note, I wondered, “Like his strings, would he be soft and yielding with his friends and family?” I noticed a blond girl in a baby pink sari and asked myself, “Would she be as innocent as she appears?” and I laughed before calling the cab service to pick us up at 21:30 hrs. There are things that one can understand and count on and then there are things that life will reveal to us in its own ways. Art is beautiful while the artist is human.

Tom Alter - Maulana Azad

Simply brilliant.

If you left this blog after reading those two words, you would have a good feel of what Tom Alter portrayed at Y's private assembly of friends (and I am indebted to her generosity in inviting me). I have always respected his acting, but today he shocked me in more ways than one.

This is a monologue written and directed by M. Sayeed Alam. The Urdu is mature and highly polished. I was stumbling across lines trying to figure out some of the words and in the process had to miss the lines that didn't wait for me. Such chaste Urdu left many in the audience clueless but the performance was still exemplary.

The gathering was at Y's private auditorium and the gathering, in Mr. Alter's words: "to call them the ‘audience’ would almost be an insult". Sir, call us anything, and it doesn't matter, but please call us whenever and wherever you perform.

This play is composed as a dictation by Maulana Abul Kalam Azad to his friend and secretary, Humayun Kabir. Humayun is often asked questions and Maulana summarises it for us. The book that Humayun is drafting is "India Wins Freedom". The agreement is that Maulana will speak in Urdu (sprinkled with Arabic and Farsi) and it is up to Humayun to render it appropriately in English. Maulana often teases Humayun for not having the "Jawahar-waali baat" in his English. The script was so effortlessly well polished that Humayun's corporeal absence wasn't felt.

The play’s brilliance rests as much on Mr. Alter’s talent as on Mr. Alam’s script. Some of the slips were not missed but they were overshadowed by the sheer strength and grip of the play. What was well done was the English accent in a typical Indian style by someone whose native tongue is English. But here is where Mr. Alter goes one step further to surprise us all: the script from which he was reading and preparing for the play was all written in Urdu. It turns out that he has learnt Urdu well enough to read and write in the Arabic script!! And I thought I was doing something oddly different by being a pucca South Indian but having my allegiance with Urdu!
Mr. Alter made good use of the props though after a point I wondered whether the grunts and groans were dramatic or genuine (whenever he kept switching on/off the lights). The Chennai heat forced him to unbutton his sherwani a bit (and I don’t think that was in the script)!

The play had Maulana take us through his life starting with a declaration that announcing his date of birth in such a manner resembled announcements prisoners made about themselves. Maulana was no alien to jails and had stayed a good length at the Ahmednagar jailhouse. Maulana takes us through various interesting phases in his life including the domestic scene and his political life. In all of them, the script brings out the sensitive side of Maulana and that was very well done.

The entire play shows us various facets of Maulana’s personality including his sense of humour, the poet in him, his punctured ego, his love for his wife and how he hardly ever got a chance to let her know about that while she was alive and the tongue-in-cheek commentary about various political figures of his times. He does not mince words about his thoughts on Gandhi or Nehru. His comments on Jinnah and Vallabhai Patel are pointed and scathing. The beauty of the script is that it is well balanced though often the attempt at balancing it was visible. Maulana would point out the mistake in, say, Jinnah and then say good things about him in the next sentence and then back to blaming him for his outlook and then stating that it was not entirely Jinnah’s faults. This back and forth was often visible though didn’t tire or become too stark.

The portions where Maulana talks about his begum and how she said “Khuda hafiz” when he left Calcutta were very touching. It was beautiful to get a glimpse into the personal life of such a statesman. The soft words he chose to describe his wife and their relationship were beautiful and moving. I simply loved the lines when he said, “Maut ko kis se rishtedari hai; Aaj woh, to kal humaari hai” (What bonds does death have with anyone, today it is his, and tomorrow it shall be mine). Maulana prayed at an unknown grave till he was released and allowed to visit his wife’s actual grave. I found that immensely sweet and wondered how genuine gestures of love and affection often go unnoticed or delayed. Maulana recalls offering prayers at Jinnah’s grave too (much after the partition). He says here (and I paraphrase): “Jo chale jaatey hai unse maafi maang leni chahiye; aur unko maaf bhi kar dena chahiye”

This play helped me better understand Maulana’s views and I respected the man for that. It also revealed him in the plain light of a human being when he cribs about being just an Education minister while Nehru, with a difference of two years between them, was Prime Minister and treated with such great respect and honour. He makes wonderful observations like the one about how a Hindu politician visiting Jinnah’s grave would have generated great fuss and attention but when a Muslim politician (himself) visited then people just showed him the path to the grave and let him walk down to there! He confesses to having made the biggest and most regrettable blunder of having chosen Nehru as his successor (something he says that he regrets more than his wife's death) but quickly adds that Nehru would also agree to that. He expresses his disappointment at Gandhi's stance over the partition and how he let Vallabhai Patel and Nehru and the Mountbatten couple to influence him. The lines vary between being sharp, witty, touching but always honest. I enjoyed the sher attempted by some Jose or someone like that who came to visit Maulana once. Maulana finds it amusing that his name should ever form the kaafiya of a sher and that too with as poor a word as khaulana!

In short the play weaved the entire persona of Maulana very beautifully taking us through anecdotes of his winning a poetry competition when he was about thirteen, to tales about Cheetah Khan, to tales about how he and the Maulvi would debate with Hindu priests about the Koran and the Hindu scriptures and then rush to the taverns to get themselves drunk, about his learning the sitar and a lot more. Mr. Alter’s Urdu was impeccable and his accents and intonations were remarkably well done.

If this play is performed in your city, please do join the audience. It is worth the two hours that one spends in such company.

Menakaa - Vasanth Kannabiran and Rajeswari Sainath

I had the pleasure of attending a dance ballet at the Music Academy. A very kind friend gave me the invites to this event and I was quite impressed with the crowd that attended this. As in most art circles, there were the bohemian few but a lot were the well composed and elegant kinds that educe a quiet respect by their presence. I wasn't armed with my camera so the pic here is courtesy The Hindu of an earlier performance.
Menakaa was conceived and written by Vasanth Kannabiran. When Roshni Goswami summarised the performance as "bringing together radical feminism and aesthetics", I had to agree with her. Vasanth (she founded Asmita) has attempted to re-interpret an old tale, but the mark of a re-interpretation is usually cleverness and a convincing argument. In that Vasanth has failed. She has taken the story of Vishwamitra and Menaka down to Bharata and his adopted son and converted it into an accusation against men. There is nothing clever in this. One can always take a story and turn it around to make the other person the culprit. One could make Duryodhana look innocent or Chanakya a bigot but there is hardly any creativity in there especially if not developed properly. To be able to tell a tale of how Duryodhana and Draupadi team together to destroy Hastinaputra might be something different and untold (and perhaps it never happened). If one doesn't wish to fictionalise a legend then one has to be clever in re-interpreting the tale. Vasanth fails here.
She has taken the tale of Vishwamitra and portrayed Menaka as not being a seductress. That is fine if she could have explained why then did Menaka come down to earth on Indra's bidding and dance around Vishwamitra. That was missing. Then Menaka blames Vishwamitra for being a typical male in "planting his seed in her womb and running away". That is quite possibly a familiar case but how then does she explain Menaka delivering Shakuntala and rushing off to the heavens to continue with her dance and courtesan duties? She doesn't. If Vishwamitra identified his purpose of becoming Brahmarishi (which he did) and hence returned to his penance (and not other hedonistic pursuits) how is that vile when compared to Menaka delivering Shakuntala, leaving her in the forests and returning to Devaloka (world of Devas)? Vasanth doesn't bother to explain and probably expects the audience to cast angry glares at Vishwamitra thereafter. Vishwamitra set out to achieve something, was interrupted and then resumed. Perhaps he was violent in between and that portion cannot be questioned in an interpretation. Vasanth's point of a man's anger in being proved petty and human enough to be incapable of aspirations as high as Brahmarishi are convincing and appear plausible. The take that Vishwamitra was ashamed of himself for falling prey to the call of this world when he had set his eyes on something else, hence, mutated that embarassment into a violent rape of Menaka could be well made and accepted, but the rest of it fell short of a cogent reasoning. Vasanth was more keen on establishing all men as perpetrators of violence and all the women (who participated in it) as being entirely innocent or justified. That would have been welcome if there was a convincing argument woven out of history.
Another point that Menaka makes is that she decided to bear the child (Shakuntala) because she thought that the child - a confluence of Vishwamitra's prowess and intellect and her beauty and charm - would be a wonderful son who could rule this earth. But when a girl was born she left to the heavens. That is a take I couldn't understand in the telling of a feminist tale. I thought Menaka would have taken care of her or left her in the hands of powerful teachers to raise her to become the ruler of the earth. Not quite the plan Menaka had in her mind.
Then Vasanth goes on to create the case of pure innocence and desertion of Shakuntala. Menaka claims that Durvasa's curse had nothing to do with Dushyant forgetting. He simply didn't want to have anything to do with a woman he had deflowered and enjoyed, which is possible and acceptable as an interpretation if she could explain why Dushyant saw the ring, regained his memory and returned to collect both Shakuntala and her child. Dushyant had no problems of heirs. He could have well married a few hundred princesses and had a few dozen children. Why return to Shanuktala and take her back with him to his palace? This has not been explained and hence the whole interpretation appears shallow.
Going by records, Bharatadesha has seen many illegitimate children and rulers so that is not news. But an attempt at re-interpreting things is welcome as long as there is a lot of creativity or sound basis (like I am told about Girish Karnad's Tipu Sultan) and convincing argument. Menaka fails in that. Hence, this play is as Ms. Goswami notes radical feminism and not the educating and transforming feminism that I respect and enjoy.
The dance choreography was fine though faulty in many places. The faults fell in the category of coordination and suitable bhavas. The layas were honoured well though the transitions were often blurred or fumbled. When there were more than two artists on stage coordination was an issue and this was starkly visible. When the sutradharini, Nainitha started out explaining the prayer to Saraswati, her gestures were not matched with the ideas/words being explained. Similar gestures were made for two unrelated ideas and Nainitha cannot be blamed for it! Nainitha was one of the gems of the evening (though she has to be more conscious of her foot work). Perhaps Rajeswari should have donned the role of a Sutradharini and let Nainitha take over as Menakaa (from sheer consideration for age and the ability to execute vigourous steps and sensuous ones too), but perhaps it is not protocol to have the teacher do a lesser role. The fillers between two pieces of music were also not gripping enough. A filler, once it feels like a filler, has failed in its purpose.
Rajeswari was good and her expressions and timing were appropriate. I was forewarned that I should not expect the usual flexibility of dancers in her and I realised why that notion was formed. She told the tale well and held the audience attention till the very end. I think she has to get her students to focus on foot work which is given lesser attention.
Nainitha as the sutradharini was very good in her crisp execution of steps though the flaws in choreography did do some damage. Her foot work was dragged - literally and figuratively - but her mudras were beautifully drawn out. Her expressions were appropriate and didn't give into exaggerration that one often sees in dancers. She too failed to coordinate well when there were more than 2 dancers on stage.
Vaishnavi Sainath was Shakuntala. Elegant and voluptuous, she carried off the scenes of the shy nubile very well although her initial display of wantonness was rather fudged. I might be wrong but her knees seemed to not cooperate well with her which might also explain her reluctance to go into the arai-mandi stance while performing some of the pieces. She must pay attention to her weight if she wishes to perform various roles demanding a more malleable form. Her bhava was fine though not entirely well pronounced.
The rest of the dancers were clearly amateurs and have a long way to go before grabbing audience attention. These three dancers stole the limelight and the points I raise before do not tell on their talent or capability as a dancer.
In spite of all this, I enjoyed the evening and simply couldn't take my eyes off the stage. Before the performance started I saw the world of Music Academy as I had heard of from my parents and grandparents. It was indeed interesting to watch patrons of arts and itching-to-be-celebrities interact with each other. I had but Le Clezio giving me company though beside me was this artist who seems to be quite famous (she did state that she plays - something which she didn't mention - for nearly all the artists though not for dance) whom I didn't recognise or disturb.

A wonderful artist

I happened to come across this page and thoroughly enjoyed this artist's work. Do spare some time to go through his galleries. Please click on the artwork below to go to his site.