It was July 2016. While Sushma Swaraj
and Nawaz Shareef were playing verbal table tennis, our taxi sped through the
moderately busy market street of Sector 19 in Chandigarh, headed towards Tagore
Theatre in Sector 18. With one eye on my watch, which was creeping with
alarming rapidity towards 7 O' clock, I was reading the signboards that whizzed
past us. Two signs made me tear my eyes
away from the watch. Nestled between ‘Gift Bazar’ and ‘Lifestyle’ was a shop
with a stone patterned facade announcing its name in black capital letters- ‘Peshawar
Supermarket’. Not too far away, proclaiming its expertise in ‘wedding suits,
sarees and lehngas’ in white letters was an establishment called ‘Pindi Fashion
Mall’. I couldn’t help but wonder if
this was but a small teaser of the five-day long celebration that we would
witness courtesy Ajoka Theatre of Lahore. Every day for the next five days from
seven in the evening Ajoka Theatre enthralled, entertained and won over an
audience of men and women, both old and young by a dazzling exhibition of
dramatics. It was a spellbinding display, the likes of which I had never
experienced before.
It was early in the
morning (by my standards) one day when my friend Zeeshan’s call woke me up. Mumbling
some of my favourite swear words, I fumbled with the buttons of my mobile phone.
“Manas! A Pakistani theatre group is going to perform
at Tagore Theatre.”
My first reaction was
that of disbelief. Surely, there must be a Tagore Theatre in Delhi or Calcutta.
A Pakistani group in Chandigarh, despite the physical proximity, was a rare
phenomenon. After all, the road between the two Punjabs goes via Islamabad and
Delhi! During my six year long stay here, I have never heard of a Pakistani
artist visiting Chandigarh for any kind of performance, let alone an entire group,
barring the exception of the Pakistani Cricket Team of course.
“Great”, I muttered
with little enthusiasm and went back to sleep thinking all this must surely
have been a dream. But to my delight it didn’t turn out to be a dream.
Ajoka Theatre were
going to travel to Chandigarh from Lahore for the 2nd Humsaya
Festival to be held at Tagore Theatre. It was quite a miracle that nearly fifty
Lahoris got Indian visas amid all the muscle flexing on display in Delhi and
Islamabad.
Spread over five days
from 23rd to 27th July, Ajoka Theatre performed five
different plays during the Festival. All five plays, although themed on
seemingly disparate topics, had a very obvious common undercurrent- a
celebration of a shared past, a longing for peace, for religious harmony and
most importantly an attempt to highlight human stories in face of
multitudes of imposed, abstract doctrines- be it nation, religion or moral
codes.
The festival opened
with Ajoka’s tribute to Dara Shikoh. In a play titled simply Dara, the
tragic tale of Dara Shikoh was woven seamlessly with that of Dara’s
contemporary, Sarmad, an Armenian Sufi mystic who lived in Delhi. Condemned to
death by Aurangzeb, both men shared much more than just the manner of their
death. Dara Shikoh’s attempts at religious syncretism- depicted beautifully in
the play in a scene in which a classical dancer facilitates Dara’s interaction
with religious leaders of all major South Asian religions while the live musicians
sing Kabir’s Moko Kahaan Dhoonde Re Bande- and Sarmad’s rejection of religious dogmatism
have never been more relevant than in these troubled times of religious
fundamentalism and nationalistic vitriol that goes by the name of patriotism in
our country. Few relics of these two men survive today. The tomb of Sarmad,
whose headless corpse is said to have ascended the stairs of the Jama Masjid
proclaiming Anal Haq (अहं
ब्रह्मास्मि), exists to date in Old Delhi and can be accessed by the public. The fabled library established by Dara too has survived and can be located near
Kashmere Gate.
The second play, Kaun
Hai Ye Gustakh, celebrated the life and work of the most prolific Urdu
short story writer of the previous century- Saadat Hasan Manto, a man whose
life was probably as interesting as his stories. The play was a masterful
interplay of enacting of parts of Manto’s stories (including Thanda Ghosht,
Permit, Toba Tek Singh, Khol Do) and Manto’s own narration of his life
story, including the harassment he faced for the “obscene” nature of his
stories. The high point of the play, however, was the recurring conversation
between Manto and a mysterious woman, who turns out to be Manto’s alter ego.
If I had to pick a
favourite out of the five, it would be Lo Phir Basant Aayi, a satirical
take on what happens when fundamentalism suppresses daily life. It was the
story of an aging Lahori kite-maker, who treats his kites as if they were human
beings (a kite called Rani must not be treated in any fashion that would
dishonour a queen!) and reminisces about those days before kite-flying was
banned, when his kites could soar unhindered in the skies of Lahore. His family
includes his daughter-in-law whose ambition is to constantly out-shout her
neighbour (another formidable woman) in their fiercely contested slanging
matches over the rooftops. His granddaughter is a confident young woman who
wants to be a painter and is in love with an aspiring singer. This provides an
ideal backdrop for a bunch of fundamentalists, led by an uncontrollably
talkative and incomparably funny Pathan, to step in. Art, music, kite-flying,
poetry, secular education are among the many soft targets. Although the subject was quite serious, it
was dealt with so brilliantly that every now and then the crowd couldn’t help
but burst into spontaneous rounds of applause and whistles. Despite being set
in Lahore, the play’s message is quite universal; be it Bombay- where
fundamentalists dictate what name the citizens can use for their own city, who
can work in the city (North Indians, South Indians and Pakistanis beware!) or
even the UK, whose post-Brexit Tory government has banned foreign academics
based in the UK from advising UK policymakers.
If there was a blemish
on the five-day long festival, it was the fourth play, Kabira Khara Bazaar
Me, the only one that did not elicit a standing ovation. This was the first
time the play was being staged and the performers looked ill at ease throughout
the performance, especially when compared to the other four plays which were
simply flawless. The message of the play, however, was loud and clear. As
expected, with the help of some very fine musicians, the play made ample use of
Kabir’s poetry, which many in the audience were familiar with and could sing
along in hushed tones.
If the last play, Anni
Mai Da Sufna, was meant to make people laugh and cry at the same time, it
was a roaring success! It was a play that many in the audience with Partition
stories could relate to. Anni Mai is a stubborn old Punjabi lady who was forced
to leave her ancestral village and migrate eastwards in the wake of
independence. Several decades later, now having lost her eyesight, her only
dream is to visit her pind and relive all those moments with her
friends who she had to leave behind. On the other side of the border is an old chunri
dyer, dear to everyone in the neighbourhood. While his family migrated
to India, he simply couldn’t bring himself to part ways with his beloved Lahore
and stayed on. Now that his granddaughter is getting married in Amritsar his
only desire is to attend the wedding. With visa applications being summarily
rejected, the play tells the story of how these two individuals fulfill their
dreams in two very different ways.
What was striking
about the Festival, apart from the simple fact that it was spectacular, was the
sheer versatility of the people involved. One reason why the plays had such a
powerful impact was that a variety of languages and dialects were used based on
the context of the plays. Shah Jahaan’s stately Urdu in Dara, the
fundamentalist leader’s Urdu in Lo Phir Basant Aayi, garbed in a
beautiful, musical, sing-song accent that only a Pathan can produce, Anni Mai’s
earthy Punjabi and Kabir’s Bhojpuri-Braj Bhasha were impeccable and made the
characters sound real. While the multi-lingual genius who wrote four of these
plays, Shahid Nadeem and the directors (Madeeha Gauhar, Usha Ganguly and Kewal
Dhaliwal) are certainly kaabil-e-taareef, the actors, many of whom played
multiple roles in the five-day festival stole the show. Uzma Hasan, who was
Jahaan Ara in Dara, reappeared the next day as Manto’s alter ego. Usman
Raj, who was Aurangzeb on Day 1, transformed into Manto on Day 2 and on Day 3
was an ordinary Punjabi-speaking, energetic young man. The ease with which
these people could switch roles was astonishing. The transformations were so
complete and the characters so authentic that for example, only upon careful
observation could one tell that the Shahjahaan in Dara and the Pathan in
Lo Phir Basant Aayi were the same person, Sohail Tariq.
After every play,
members of the audience would overwhelm the artists with greetings. Memories
would be shared, complements given and taken. A lonely looking old gentleman in
the audience, who would do some extremely odd things during the plays such as
fiddling with tiny LEDs while sitting in the front row, would labouriously make
his way to the stage and throw a fistful of rose petals in the air. But no
post-play session was more charged with emotion than the one on the last day. Anni
Mai Da Sufna and some lovely speeches were enough for some members of the
audience and even some of the artists to break down. As the members of the
Ajoka contingent were called on stage individually, the applause refused to die
down. The gentleman with the rose petals had to be halted as he tried to
perform his usual ritual while Madeeha Gauhar, Shahid Nadeem and others were
about to speak. As the formal ceremony ended many in the audience, including
us, went on the stage. Some took selfies with their favourite actors while
others just shared their experiences. While the crowd refused to budge, in the
end, the organizers had to shout above the din and beg the audience to let the
artists go. It was a fascinating evening;
an evening that made me feel that there still was hope.
Two months have passed
and murderous fires have erupted on both sides of the fence. Reports have
emerged (read the Hindu’s report on Operation Ginger) of violence of
such disgusting nature by militaries of both countries that it would make even
an avid Game of Thrones fan cringe. The Central Government, with its
eyes firmly set on the upcoming assembly elections, has discarded all attempts
to even pretend to seek a peaceful solution to South Asia’s problems. Artists
from across the border have been forced to leave the country. Hideous chest-thumping on national television
by the so-called protectors of our national interest, baying ever so loudly for
the enemy’s blood, is now a daily sight. Voices questioning the increasingly violent
language of our politicians and the dangerously violent conduct of our military
have been drowned out or humiliated. Many across the country are celebrating
the Army’s “valour”. “Annihilation”, “obliteration”, “massive casualties” are
terms that are now being used in a celebratory tone. Even Amul, a farmers’
cooperative, has released a pathetic cartoon depicting gun-wielding soldiers,
followed by a drone, with the captions- “Surigical Strikes” and “Amul-
Paks a punch”; tasteless puns coming from a brand that claims to be “the taste
of India”.
I knew the window
Humsaya Festival had opened was a tiny one, but I had no inkling that it would
shrink so rapidly. A madness has gripped this part of the world and there has
been a chilling surge in senseless hatred. There doesn’t seem to be a way out
of this ever quickening spiral.
May be Dara would
know what to do. Kabir and Manto would definitely have a thing or two to say about this
insanity. Maybe Toba Tek Singh would rise up once again from the No Man’s Land.
The old kite-maker would remind us all of his kites gliding happily in the
cloudless, blue sky of the Punjab in spring. Anni Mai would vividly describe
her youth in her ancestral village and regale us with beautiful stories of her
friends, of times when the word ‘enemy’ was yet to be invented.
But will anyone care
to listen?
Ajoka Theatre's Website: www.ajoka.org.pk
Ajoka Theatre's Website: www.ajoka.org.pk
