एक अजोका अजूबा (Ek Ajoka Ajooba or Today’s Wonder)

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 2^nd 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 23^rd to 27^th 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