The Andhra
region has a rich legacy of classical and folk performing traditions dating
back to the ancient age of the Satavahanas. However, it was not until the
Altekar Hindu Natak Mandali from Kolhapur in Maharashtra toured the east coast
town of Rajahmundry, that local practitioners of proscenium-style theatre
emerged in droves, mounting Parsi theatre style mythologicals and farces as
well as dramatic works in Telugu that had long existed only on paper. The first
ever instance is from 1880, when Kandukuri Veeresalingam Pantulu, the father of
the Telugu renaissance, staged Vyavahara Dharma Bodhini , a topical
play on corrupt legal practices, on a one-dimensional stage which was such a
novelty at the time.
Family
affairs
Given this
history, it is heartening that a travelling caravan theatre with a provenance
almost as old as modern Telugu theatre itself, is still extant today. The
Surabhi theatre of Andhra Pradesh is named after the village it hails from in the
culturally rich Kadapa district. The collective was founded in 1885 by Vanarasa
Govinda Rao who inherited his adoptive father’s shadow-puppetry group, and took
to performing its repertoire as live drama with actors. Rao’s well-received
staging of Keechaka Vadha , a popular episode from the Mahabharata,
at a local wedding set his company on a hitherto uncharted course that
established the framework for family-owned professional theatre in the region.
They were the only company in which women — albeit of the same family — played
female parts, and the first to issue tickets to paying audiences. Over
successive generations, the brand has extended itself into a consortium of
several commercial troupes, all with linkages of lineage with Rao’s original
flagship endeavour. At its peak, more than 60 Surabhi troupes operated in the
region. This number has dwindled down to just five, and the largest of these is
the Venkateswara Natya Mandali, founded in 1937. Still very much a family
enterprise, with 60-odd members, the group is currently housed at Hyderabad’s
Public Gardens where a performance of Bhakta Prahlada last month,
under the aegis of the Qadir Ali Baig Theatre Festival, marked 80 years of the
troupe’s existence.
Staged
devotion
The myth
of Bhakta Prahlada easily lends itself to the Surabhi treatment. A
multitude of intricately painted backdrops and disarmingly illuminated
onstage mise - en - scène evoked each episode
associated with the young devotee’s chequered life. These were the palaces he
grew up in, the dark chambers — where his father, Hiranyakashipu, sought to
incinerate him — and the open pastoral settings where he is frequently
abandoned by royal lackeys. Sitting near the stage allowed one to observe the
logistics of stagecraft with its multiple screens at varying depths from stage
front. The complex systems of pulleys and strings seemed almost primitive and
inefficient at first, but the clockwork execution of scene transitions by an
intrepid backstage crew belied that initial impression. Through the open wings,
a veritable warehouse of masks, costumes and props was visible, as actors
waited to make their entries into the mêlée. There were glitches and snafus
certainly, but of the kind that allowed us to stay with this creaking makeshift
universe of gods and monsters. In an age where production design is either
stodgy and static, or minimalist, this unrestrained visual texture was a sight
for sore eyes. Although colours were a-plenty, there was little garishness on
display.
Drama
and deliverance
Each attempt at
the young Prahlad’s life — by serpents, or drowning, or fire — gave expression
to the troupe’s signature visual effects. These belonged to the age of
theatrical smoke and mirrors, and although there was a sense of each set-piece
being a museum relic almost, the unity and sincerity of presentation allowed us
to appreciate each ‘trick’ with fresh eyes, and buy into the spirit of
performance without eye-rolling opprobrium for the most part. Some moments were
gimmicky — like the illuminating of Kayadu’s womb as her unborn child sings
along with the holy chants extolling Narayan, the object of his future
devotion. For the religious-minded, these are important signposts to cover, if
the sing-alongs during bhajans were any indication. Given that the
Venkateswara Natya Mandali is a family enterprise, there was no shortage of
children to parade out as Prahlad at various stages of his childhood, starting
right from infancy with a live baby carried out by its mother even as it bawled
its eyes out in the harsh light amidst loud fanfare. The audience seemed to
find these moments sufficiently endearing and other babies too made cameo
appearances later. While this cemented the notion of Surabhi theatre as a
sprawling clan of Ekta Kapoor proportions, the scenes weren’t exactly setting
parenting goals even if context is everything.
History
relived
As a play, Bhakta
Prahlada comes packaged with its own anticipation factor. The stringent
conditions of his death laid out by Hiranyakashipu, after years of austerities,
sets the stage for the mythical appearance of Narasimha. This creates some
suspense regarding how a known episode might be depicted, much in the same way
as Ram Leela watchers might wait with bated breath to witness the burning of
Lanka by Hanuman in all its theatrical glory. Here, the pay-off moment wasn’t
entirely as spectacular, as promised on the cover. We were certainly chastened
by the victory of good over evil, but the Narsimha of our collective
imaginations, who was to be a feat of stagecraft and performance, failed to
appear. However, entertainment attuned to contemporary sensibilities doesn’t
really need to come under the play’s purview — the mellifluous singing to a
vintage live band and thunderous performances by actors in full classical-era
regalia are signifiers of a preserved form that should now be impervious to
reinvention or change if it is survive as an artefact of living history.
Source: THE HINDU-5th December,2017
