[Rana Bose founded Montreal Serai Theater in 1987. Its 10th production, Black Skirt, was performed in Sept. 1998.]
So, I am travelling on a suburban train from Kolikata to Bordhoman (pre-colonial names for Calcutta and Burdwan) and a thin, wiry man with a roach-like countenance (carefully cultivated to resemble Cantinflas), whips around and slaps a doleful-looking, height-beleaguered guy right behind him, smack on the face. The sound ricochets through the compartment, even though the sliding doors of the speeding train are noisily opening and closing. There is a momentary stillness in the compartment. But before anybody can intervene, the slapper tells the slappee: "Disgusting, ugly-looking, nerve-wracking, monstrous, blood-sucking son of a bitch . . ." The slappee looks totally shaken, confused, bewildered. His jaws are locked and he is going into rigor, even foaming. The slapper turns around and addresses the rest of the compartment: "Mosquito . . . big, swamp monster. Just killed it and saved your life and the lives of many others in this train. Now look here." And he fishes out a brown ointment tube and starts going from passenger to passenger, hawking its merits in healing insect bites. "Only one rupees." There is mirth, enjoyment, carefully cultivated disdain, as well as encouraging looks coming from different corners of the compartment. The slappee has bounced back from his near death experience and has whipped out a bagful of the same snake-paste, which he is also trying to push with great enthusiasm, even though his cheek is beginning to flush rose-red -- almost. This performance is unforgettable.
It is 6 o'clock in the evening, 1969. Rush hour, on the corner of Russa Road and Hazra Road in Calcutta. A group of us bring out our drums and other noise-making equipment, and with the first sounds the crowd clears the broad pavement and we begin a street play recently developed in our college hostel. It has to be quick. The topic of the play is about the hypocrisy of the ruling United Front government. A two person band on the edge of the performance area strikes up an indigenous version of "Mack the Knife," with Bengali lyrics. Somebody in the audience says, "Brecht, Brecht's tune." Another one says, "No, no! Kurt Weill. I am damn sure." Three other members of the troupe, wrapped in shawls, stand guard at three different corners, watching out for plainclothes policemen who have been known to attack guerilla theater shows with absolute ruthlessness. The play ends without incident. The audience loves it. The troupe disappears into Calcutta's proverbial millions. Theater on the run.
1974, St. Louis, Missouri. Charlie Mingus and his jazz troupe are performing at Washington University's Graham Chapel. I am manning the lighting mix-board. He is playing one of his famous pieces, "Passive Resistance." He has a Hitchcock-like profile. But he is cool, suave, to the extreme. The band slowly winds down. One by one, the pianist, saxophonist and drummer leave after their solos. Only Mingus is left. He is playing the lead tune, as well as the thumping tempo on his bass. On cue, the lights have shrunk to a single zone that encompasses him. He has dedicated this performance to those who have opposed America's war in Indo-China for the past decade. Mingus' notes resonate like a wake-up call through the captive audience. Suddenly, I notice he is moving off stage, while his fingers keep moving in the air. The bass remains on its stand -- alone. He is headed out toward the wings and yet the sound persists in our chest, the notes synchronized to every pounding heart. What a performance! The follow-spot frames him to stage left and he is gone. The audience erupts into applause. One more act that is hard to follow. Forever registered in my memory bank.
1959, maybe 1960, maybe later. I am not sure. I am sitting with my father, watching Utpal Dutta's Kallol, at Star Theater, Calcutta. I am about ten years old. This play is about the mutiny of the Indian Naval ratings against British rule in 1942. The bow of the ship INS Talwar suddenly - miraculously - appears on stage. And then trap doors pop-up, and we, the audience, feel we are all on deck. It's totally exhilarating. The ships guns rotate and fire thunderous shells, while naval ratings storm down the stage. There is fire, explosions, tracer lights all on stage, craftily cued-in by the master of all lighting designers, Tapas Sen. I am awed by the sheer performance, the spectacular epic element of the production.
1992. Montreal's Carbon-14 perform Krieg. Powerful choreography, techno sound-craft combine with intense political angst about the times we live in. The small black-box, situated in the east end of Montreal, is a powder keg by the time the show ends. The audience straggles out, whispering "wow!" in French only, of course. The coldness of the Po-Mo era has set in. Our theater group has also just finished a run of Death of Abbie Hoffman." This was an adaptation of Badal Sarkar's Michil, written and directed by yours truly. There is surprising similarity between the Carbon-14 production and Abbie. But our play has only one fog machine as opposed to Carbon's 14(?!). We perform in a small community theater venue. Our sets are explosive and experimental and so is our sound. But our publicity spread is limited and the volume is low, so the audience is never very big. Ours is a beggar's opera and we love the poverty, or at least we have made a virtue out of it. It seems we isolate ourselves within our own angst. Besides, the city's leading drama critics do not find us adequately cuddlesome. In fact, we are nettlesome. Anglophones, or rather non-Francophone theater people in Montreal, are into 'safe' theater amongst themselves, or into patronizing minorities as a demonstration of their inclusiveness, in opposition to the French sector. The condomised act. Don't rock the boat.
Carbon-14, of course, has received literally millions in funding. Our theater troupe, Montreal Serai, has of course never received any funds. Some people say we are the ethnic or minority version of Carbon in Montreal, without the spectacular effects. Which is very cute and consolatory, but nevertheless tiresome when one attempts to balance the books after each run. And I do not even want to expound, in these pages, on the issues of exclusion, marginality and borders etc., which have become the forté of professional analysts of otherness who continue to battle cuts in arts funding and its consequent effects on 'minority' arts in trendy magazines, while being duly funded by the Canada Council. What really appeals to me, or, what I have really begun to settle down into, is the idea of theater as an alternate concept of globalization. Theater is really an act of seduction. Its performance must combine all possible, attractive means, drawn from all corners of the world, from all experiences, and be blended into an entertaining mix that makes the viewer sufficiently disturbed, angry, agitated, energized and ready to react conclusively against the state of 'imperfect' affairs in our world. The music, the choreography, the words, the poetry, the colors, the tones and the effects must all blend in a contemporary cauldron, which, by itself, must become a defining act of defiance and creativity. Political roots remain significant, but only if they do not become dogmatic. As a theater troupe, we must remain in the community, apprenticing newer and newer faces and developing new believers. We must do it with our own resources and without using the crutches so willingly extended by condescending patrons of majority communities who are constantly in search of 'safe' ethnic theater.
Love of performance is rooted in the intimately held belief that epic and spectacular acts leave a deep mark on human consciousness. And a conscience that has been cultivated by the arts is always more accessible. Blending is the affecting key ingredient. It encourages performing on the borderlines of different cultures; weaving in and out of different dance styles, music genres and performance methods so that different sectors of the audience can find significant elements of their own life experiences on stage, and yet comprehend a broader, contemporary topicality. All this requires technology. Equipment. Technology must always be there, as an enabler, to enhance the effect on consciousness. And as this demand on blending different forms in a popular, engaging manner increases, there is a need for funds. Funds that are not available for experimentation. That is our reality.
One bright note, for today, though. The Nobel group has finally discovered Dario Fo. Finally our theater is seizing the center.
THE END