Translated play: Rajat must deal with an honest, ailing playwright and a sanctimonious civil servant

Rehearsal room.

Rajiv: Have you read the new play? Did you like it?

Mahendra: Yes, I read it. I was suddenly a child again, a child grappling with a dictionary. God, the language! A flood of words, a veritable flood. It will drown us. And the audience too.

Kanta: I read it twice. I didn’t even understand the subject.

Mahendra: That’s because you’re beautiful.

Kanta: What is that supposed to mean?

Mahendra: Beautiful women are generally stupid. Beauty and brains seldom go together.

Kanta: Watch your step. You’re the limit!

Mahendra: It was God who crossed all limits in the making of you. Anyway, who are we to like or dislike the subject? The director liked the play. That’s it. We are toys, mechanical toys. Kaul Saahab will turn the key. And we will mouth our lines.

Rajiv: Boss, are you an actor or a critic? The critics either murder the writer or declare him a genius; no middle ground. I know that writers are a little more idealistic than is strictly necessary. But there’s definitely something in this play.

Mahendra: What?

Rajiv: No idea. I haven’t got it yet.

Mahendra: And you won’t get it either. The age of idealism has passed. But the characters in this play are all committed to their principles. They will give their lives for their ideals. But don’t you worry, just go on brown-nosing Kaul Saahab. He’ll give you a big role.

Kanta: Mahendra, there are times when you can be really evil.

Mahendra: I am evil; that’s why I do theatre. My family abuses me regularly; if I do this play, the audience will join the chorus. Take it from me.

Balwant: Rajatji hasn’t showed up yet? Let’s see what he says.

Mahendra: Oh, he’ll turn up. He’ll turn up late, as always. Kaul Saahab has made him into a hero. Long speeches. There goes Rajat, yap, yap, yap. There goes the audience, clap, clap, clap. He must have loved the play. On every page, the protagonist delivers a sermon.

Balwant: Rajatji is a fine actor.

Mahendra: He is. A very fine actor. And we? For five years we’ve been lending our asses. Sometimes as a walk-on sentry, and if we’re in luck, even a line to speak. And can you please stop this “Rajatji-Rajatji” business? Even in his absence, you sing his praise. Why not buy some prayer-beads? You can chant his name as you tell the beads. He’s our head honcho, our chief.

Kanta: Do I detect an additional note of bitterness today, Gandhari? Rajat enters. Everyone welcomes him.

Rajiv: Read it? What did you think?

Rajat: It’s going to kill us. Any which way, it’ll kill us. God above! The writer has verbal diarrhoea. Even Hamlet would be turning in his grave.

Rajiv: Then why does Kaul Saahab want to do this play?

Rajat: He felt sorry for the writer. He said that the poor guy has written ten plays and not one has been staged.

Mahendra: Shouldn’t he feel sorry for us? For the audiences? Will you talk to him?

Rajat: I will. I certainly will. Whatever else we get or don’t get, we need to get some satisfaction from the work we do, right?

Mahendra: You’ll get the hero’s role.

Rajat: Oh, go on, play the hero yourself. Take the rotten tomatoes.

Kaul enters.

Kaul: So, have you all read it? What did you think?

All are silent.

Kaul: Come on, guys, be honest. If we aren’t convinced about it, how will the play work?

Mahendra: Sir, the language is very difficult.

Rajiv: A whole bunch of ideals. All the characters are talking heads for the ideals they espouse.

Rajat: The hero’s speeches are very long.

Kaul: When did you begin to fear long speeches? Often, the first reaction to a play is negative. Do you know where Waiting for Godot first resonated with the audience? In a jail in the USA, when it was performed for prisoners.

Rajat: We’ll have to do this play in some in some jail too. At least we’ll have a captive audience.

Mahendra: Sir, Rajatji says you’re doing this play because you felt sorry for the writer that he’s written ten plays and none have been staged. (In a theatrical voice) Why don’t you feel sorry for us? What terrible crime have we committed to merit this dire punishment? Can’t you choose another play?

Kaul: Bring me one. Where are the meaningful plays? No one’s writing them. All of the writers are prostitutes to their politics. They do not wield pens, they wield lathis. All their characters huddle under the ragged party flags. Then there’s the other kind: the products of the Ramayana-Mahabharata industry. We should write about the myths but make them speak to contemporary life. Make myth into metaphor. But no. Here our playwrights are subject to seizures. First they seized upon Kabir; now it’s Karna’s turn. I would never stage plays with such false mythic values.

Balwant: Sir, plays should be free of politics.

Kaul: Certainly, they should be free of sloganeering. But they must speak to the politics of life. People won’t tolerate the old sophistries. The audience has become discerning. When they unseat governments, why should plays be spared? Let it go, let’s talk about the play at hand. Rajat, read the concluding part of the speech.

Rajat opens his file.

Rajat: Let me tell you a story from the Jataka. Lord Buddha was delivering a sermon, saying that we can never escape the consequences of our actions, and there arrived a woman with her dead child in her arms. Sobbing, the grief-stricken mother asked Lord Buddha, “Bhagwan, what sins could my son have committed in his short life? What actions of his could have merited the death sentence? If you are God, restore my child to life.” Even the gods must respond to a mother’s grief. His eyes filled with tears, his lips curved in a gentle smile. “Mother,” he said, “bring me a pinch of ash from the hearth of a home that has not been visited by death. And I will revive your son.”

A very old man enters, his wife helps him enter the room. Kaul goes forward, takes his hand, sits him down in a chair. The old man is breathing heavily; he is practically gasping. His wife sits down next to him. Kaul gives him a glass of water.

Kaul: (To all) This is the playwright: Mr Naveen Varma.

All offer greetings.

Naveen Varma: (Responds with a namaskaar) I heard you were doing my play. I wanted to come and see my play in rehearsal. So, I came to your city against medical advice. What did all of you think of my play?

An awkward silence.

Naveen Varma: (Taking a sip of water) I know you won’t have liked it much. I have written ten plays. I have come to the last stage of my life but not one of them has been staged.

The critics think me a fool. “He’s still carrying around the corpse of his ideals,” they say. When did ideals become such a bad thing? The future takes birth from the womb of the ideals of the present. Perhaps I will be able to see one of my plays performed before I set out on my final journey, thanks to your kindness. (He gets up.) If you don’t mind, I will come to see the rehearsals. I will enjoy that tremendously. I will take your leave now. I don’t want to delay your rehearsal.

Kaul helps him up. His wife lends a hand too. All of them rise and make their namaskaars.

Kaul: I’ll be back. I’ll accompany Varmaji downstairs.

The three exit. An awkward silence.

Rajiv: He can barely walk.

Mahendra: Even sitting down, he can’t talk without losing his breath.

Balwant: Not much time left.

Rajat: He’ll die and he’ll take us with him. Oh yes, he will.

Kanta: But he had a point. Why are ideals so wrong? The future is born from the womb of the ideals of the present.

Kaul enters.

Kaul: The stairs knocked the breath out of him. He should not have left his town. So, now you know. You’ve seen him for yourself. How critics can slay a writer who is not a member of their clique. Naveenji is seventy years old. He has never received any notice for his work. Not a line written about him because he has never aligned himself with any clique.

Excerpted with permission from Court Martial and Other Plays, Swadesh Deepak, translated from the Hindi by Jerry Pinto, Pratik Kanjilal, and Nirupama Dutt, Speaking Tiger Books.