by Shruthi Rao
‘Waste fellow! Bloody useless!’ Ishwar Prasad tossed the sheets of paper at his student.
The young man tried to clutch at the sheets as they flapped to the ground. ‘Sir, I …’ he mumbled.
‘Good-for-nothing! I don’t want to hear another word from you. Get out.’ Ishwar Prasad pointed to the door with a trembling finger.
The young man hesitated. His short, slight frame angled forward, as he was about to say something. But he just picked up the sheets and left.
Ishwar Prasad sank into his chair. He has lectured his throat hoarse and this boy Mahantesh turns in a near-blank test paper. Not only does he absent himself for half the classes, he doesn’t even have the responsibility to study for the test. And on top of that, excuses. Atrocious attitude!
Ishwar Prasad drank a glass of water and riffled through his papers.
It was the fault of this college, with its sub-standard students. All the toppers from schools flocked to New Vistas College, with its glass facades and manicured grounds. The rejects landed here at JVR Degree College. Brides-in-waiting who would drop out midway if they managed to hook a groom. Students who just wanted a degree to take up a job that would help them lead a dull, unexceptional, hand-to-mouth existence. No motivation. Neither for the teachers, nor for the students.
Ishwar Prasad trudged through the rest of the day and droned on about the same old subjects to the same vacant faces. He scanned the rows of students in Mahantesh’s class but saw no sign of him. The cheek of that boy! He bunked class even after that scolding!
The day didn’t get better. At lunch, he had to suffer the company of that smug-faced Ananth Kumar. Ishwar Prasad’s junior, but already a professor. All because of his toothy grin and his ingratiating demeanour towards the management and the way he talked himself into the good books of students.
As Ishwar Prasad rode his scooter into the front yard of his house that evening, all he could think of was a tumbler of hot, strong filter coffee and the evening newspaper, and to sit in peace until night and sleep erased this day. Not that the next day would be any better, but still…
His wife opened the door. Ishwar Prasad noted with a brief moment of confusion that she was wearing a silk saree and had a string of jasmine flowers in her hair, and then, he remembered with a stab of annoyance – the Yakshagana performance was today.
He parked with an air of heavy resignation. If it had been anything else, he would’ve pleaded a headache. But Renuka had been looking forward to this all month. It reminded her of her childhood. Yakshagana shows were nearly the only entertainment they’d had in her little village in the heart of the Malnad region – and she missed them.
The show was to be held in the other end of town and would last until ten at night – he couldn’t ask her to go by herself. He would have to accompany her and sit through that ridiculous pantomime.
‘Eat your usli,’ Renuka said. ‘Quickly. I’ll get the coffee. Let’s leave soon. Tch. Why are you taking so long to park? Come in, we’ve to leave in five minutes if we want good seats.’
Ishwar Prasad took off his shoes and went in.
‘Why that glum face?’ Renuka called from the kitchen. ‘Student-problem again?’
‘Hmm…’ he said, as he went into the bathroom. ‘Useless fellows, they don’t care about anything. They don’t want to distinguish themselves in any way. Waste of space.’
‘How can you call them that?’ called Renuka, as she poured hot, sweet milk into coffee decoction, ensuring that it frothed. ‘If only you’d take the trouble to get to know them, share their joys and understand their problems …’
‘You think I’m Ananth Kumar to hobnob with students? I’m their teacher, not their friend. You won’t understand.’
Renuka brought the coffee to the table just as Ishwar Prasad came out of the bathroom, wiping his face on a towel. He ate the usli and drank the coffee as Renuka hovered over him, shifting her weight from one foot to another.
‘Don’t breathe over me like that,’ Ishwar Prasad said. ‘I’m leaving, I’m leaving.’
***
It was dusk by the time they arrived at the open field where the performance was to take place. Banners proclaimed that it was a folk art and tradition festival. The field was lined with stalls selling art and handicrafts, handloom cloth, forest honey and liquid jaggery, midi-mango pickles and jackfruit papads. A large wooden stage had been set up under a vast, colourful pandal. In front of it, rows of foldable metal chairs sat in columns, with wide aisles between them. Yellow sodium vapour lamps on poles tried to recreate the atmospheric light of oil lanterns of the village. Renuka’s insistence that they leave early ensured that they got seats in the first few rows.
Ishwar Prasad sat down heavily. What a contrast to the quiet evening he craved. Besides, Ishwar Prasad wasn’t too enamoured by Yakshagana. Not that he’d ever seen a complete performance. As a child, he’d been more frightened than fascinated by the performers dressed in colourful costumes, painted faces, and elaborate headgear. And the music – it was loud and the dialogues were shouted out, and, he’d been too ashamed to admit that he was afraid. He preferred to say that he didn’t like Yakshagana. Even as an adult, he’d been socially obligated to attend a few in Renuka’s hometown. But traditionally, Yakshagana started at dusk and went on all night, and he’d never been able to keep his eyes open for more than an hour.
Moving away from tradition, Yakshagana artistes had started devising shorter shows more amenable to a restless city audience, and this was the first time he’d be watching such a show. Perhaps this would be more conducive to his attention span.
He sat, tapping his feet, waiting for the show to start. Just as he was thinking of checking out the stalls to see if they sold dried mango pulp, the roll of drumbeats signalled the start of the performance. The boom of the drums – the maddale and the chande – washed over him in waves, causing vibrations that began somewhere in the pit of his stomach and travelled upwards, reverberating across his trunk, and seemed to linger in his vocal chords.
Ishwar Prasad’s pulse skipped several beats.
The curtains opened, and the instrumentalists came into view, sitting at a corner of the stage. Two men with the maddale and the chande, and a third with the taala, cymbals, which he clanged in rhythm to the drum beats. The man with the cymbals was the narrator too, and he spoke, telling the audience that they’ll be performing a story from the Mahabharata, the story of Abhimanyu, the sixteen-year-old son of the warrior Arjuna, who showed exemplary courage in the great Mahabharata war. He then started singing, with a voice like thunder, that belied his tiny frame. There were no microphones – none were needed.
And then the drums and cymbals reached a crescendo – and the first performers appeared on stage – swirling and whirling, jumping in the air. They were a sight to behold – awe-inspiring, colourful figures. Fearsome, with painted faces, eyes lined to make them look larger. Fierce, caterpillar-like eyebrows, and huge black moustaches. Headgear that surely weighed several kilograms – how did the performers balance them on their heads? They had on spiked bhujakeertis – epaulettes that increased their shoulder width by half a foot, certainly? Their gilded and beaded pith armours were studded with mirrors that sparkled and shone in the light of the lamps. Their dhotis were lined with zari, and on their ankles, they wore wide anklets with brass bells that went jhann-jhann with every step they took.
The performer with the more imposing moustache was Bheema, and he tried to dissuade his inexperienced nephew Abhimanyu from joining the war, but Abhimanyu was adamant. They talked to each other in impeccable Kannada that only existed any more in folk dance and drama. Their voices were loud, and very like the drums that punctuated each climactic dialogue. Abhimanyu danced, stamping his feet, asserting that it wasn’t age that mattered, it was ability. And he had it in him. He was indeed capable of penetrating the enemy formation. But he asked for a few hours to bid goodbye to his bride, and the two performers whirled out of the stage.
Ishwar Prasad stole a look at Renuka. She was sitting ramrod straight, her eyes shining. For the first time, Ishwar Prasad began to understand her obsession with this dance form.
The scene changed, and Abhimanyu told his wife that he was going to war. She, knowing that he was heading towards certain death, wept, and asked him what he was out to prove. You are good, she said, but no match for the seasoned warriors out there. Abhimanyu replied that he had got to prove his might and that she shouldn’t stop him. She said that she wouldn’t, but asked him for only one thing – a child to remember him by.
To Ishwar Prasad’s surprise, his nose tingled, and tears pricked his eyes as the drums and cymbals beat out a plaintive rhythm and the couple exited the stage. Ishwar Prasad marvelled at Abhimanyu’s body language. He had had no idea that emotions could be expressed through anything other than facial expressions, and this performer, with only his body language, emoted valiance in the first scene and tenderness in this.
In the battle scene, Abhimanyu danced like one possessed, turning round and round, brandishing his mace, shouting challenges at the opposing army, and stamping, advancing, retreating, bringing alive the terrible battle he was fighting. Menacing characters who played warriors from the opposing army surrounded Abhimanyu and struck the young warrior mercilessly as the drums and cymbals reached a climax and Abhimanyu fell down, dead.
Ishwar Prasad blew his nose surreptitiously into his handkerchief, and Renuka sobbed into her saree as the rousing but plaintive mourning song filled the air and Abhimanyu’s family wept over the wasted life.
And just like that, the show was over.
Ishwar Prasad sat there for a while, shaken. He looked around in a daze as people got up. He checked his watch. Three hours? He’d been sitting rivetted for three hours? Renuka glanced at him and smiled through her tears. She found a friend and started an animated discussion with her.
Ishwar Prasad knew it would take her a while, and he wandered off. Without being aware of it, he found himself backstage. Children from the audience flocked around the artistes, and some fans were taking selfies with the performers. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Congratulate them, perhaps?
The crowd of admirers grew, and they pressed forward. Ishwar Prasad hesitated, and then turned to go.
He’d taken a few steps when someone patted him on the back. Ishwar Prasad turned around, to look into a painted face. He took a moment to recognise it as Abhimanyu’s.
Ishwar Prasad clasped the man’s hands. ‘Brilliant!’ he said. ‘What a performance! Nothing like I’ve ever seen!’
The man grinned, yellowish teeth in a painted white face. ‘So, I’m not exactly a waste fellow, no, sir?’
Ishwar Prasad stared. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The man gestured toward his costume. ‘My first love sir. But a degree is important, so … I’m not very clever, but I’ll try harder sir. Sorry sir.’
Even then, words failed Ishwar Prasad. Avoiding looking at his face, he squeezed the young man’s shoulder, waved, and stumbled away.
What theme are you addressing in your piece? Why is this important to you?
Shruthi Rao: When I was very young, a song by ABBA, Nina Pretty Ballerina, made a huge impression on me. It is about an ordinary young person who goes about her work every day, and she doesn’t seem special in any way. But in reality, she is a ballet star and is the queen of the stage during weekend performances. This song compelled me to believe that every person is special, that they have an astounding story in them, and that every person has achieved something remarkable (even though socially, it might not be considered ‘an achievement’.) I can’t believe how we walk through life, blind, judging people left and right by their beliefs, habits, appearances − assuming that everybody else is no good. Imagine how much love there would be in the world if we recognised that each one of us has something worth emulating! I put this feeling into this story, and wrapped it up with details of the Yakshagana, a traditional dance form from Karnataka that I enjoy.
What a delight the style of narration and the story itself are! The build up to the climax has been symbolically achieved through the build up in the yakshagana story and it’s climax. Beautiful.
Thank you so much!