MK Raina looking into the distance with his hand beneath his chin

All the World’s His Stage

The multi-talented, multi-faceted MK Raina is impressive on every platform he graces and expressive over every cause he embraces, discovers Irfan Syed

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With his twinkling eyes, salt-and-no-visible-pepper beard and easy demeanour, MK Raina comes across as the soft-spoken sort. But have a deeper dialogue with him or talk about causes close to his heart (there are many), and Maharaj Krishna Raina proves to be very outspoken. He doesn’t lose his cool – he seems too dignified for that – but he makes sure his viewpoint comes across resoundingly, using his theatre-cultivated voice modulation to precise effect. He is also quite individualistic and a bit of a non-conformist. After passing out of National School of Drama (NSD) in the early 70s, with an award for acting no less, he was clear about being only a freelancer – and has remained so ever since. Where does this rebellious streak come from? “My Kashmiri arrogance,” he replies, with a mix of jest and candour.

From his family, MK – as friends and acquaintances call him – also seems to get his activist genes. His father, Janki Nath Raina, was a renowned political activist of his times. MK’s thespian and creative talents though seem to be all his own. Born in a large brood of doctors and engineers, the stage called him early in life. He acted in a play in the fifth standard, and was immediately given in to the proscenium. It also helped that he had an encouraging principal, the illustrious poet Dinanath Nadim, or Nadim Sahib, as he was popularly known.

Raina joined NSD after college, clear on pursuing direction. The school and its then director, theatre doyen Ebrahim Alkazi, though had other plans for the young man. He was urged to sign up for acting instead, as the direction classes had too many takers and the acting ones too few. He agreed, but resolved that he “would join direction classes when available.” At the hallowed school, Raina handled every aspect of the stage, from lighting to set design. He eventually graduated with a best actor award, but not without a head-versus-heart tussle during his final viva. He had an opportunity to go to Paris on a scholarship, but his heart was more keen on discovering India. “I hadn’t even seen the Konark temple,” he recalls his frame of mind then. In the end, even after an intervention by Alkazi, he did neither – life again seemed to have other plans. He started his career, work and life as an independent artist.

MK Raina in a scene from 27 DownThat footstep soon brought him to then Bombay, because “Delhi will not give you all the work.” In the city of dreams, he met theatre pole-stars PL Deshpande and Vijaya Mehta and luminaries of Hindi art cinema like Kumar Shahani and Mani Kaul. The latter affiliation paved the way for acting in his first film, 27 Down, in 1974. Shot in B&W, the film is about a young man caught between following the path his father foists on him and forging his own. Raina plays the protagonist and looks a bit unrecognizable with an all-black beard and a head full of hair. Starring Rakhee as his love interest, the film enjoys cult status even now among aficionados of 70s and 80s Hindi parallel cinema. Raina soon found himself being cast in other art films, including Satah Se Uthata Aadmi (1980), Aghaat (1985) and Ek Ruka Hua Faisla (1986), based on Sidney Lumet’s classic courtroom drama 12 Angry Men. The latter two also star KK Raina, and here, this Raina answers an oft-wondered question: no, they are not brothers or even related, just contemporaries, although amicable ones; MKR older to KKR by a few years.

His parallel cinema journey, however, hit a road-block soon after, during the filming of Panchvati (1986), where this theatre maven from Delhi was “made to feel like an outsider” in the Hindi film industry. He tried switching gears to commercial cinema, with a role in Amitabh Bachchan’s Main Azaad Hoon (1989), but was next seen in Bollywood only over a decade later, in Lakhsya (2004) and later as the school principal in Taare Zameen Par (2007). After that, as he says, smiling, he appears in a film whenever “they want a daddy”.

Poster of the Hindi play directed by MK Raina, Hatya Ek Aakar KiIn theatre, the recently-turned septuagenarian is more of a grand-daddy – and this is neither in reference or deference to his age. He has been the architect of over 200 plays, grand and small, mainstream and experimental, in various languages and locations, including one 12,000 feet above sea-level. His plays have drawn on works of legendary playwrights and writers, such as Brecht, Gorky and Manto. Coming up, as a part of Gandhi’s sesquicentennial celebrations that commenced this October, are four plays on the Mahatma. The first, Stay Yet a While, based on communications between Gandhi and Tagore, was staged on Gandhi Jayanti. The second, Hatya Ek Aakar Ki, debuted a few days later to appreciative reviews. Yes, he is a Gandhian, Raina declares, as also “the best child of India’s socialism”. He has studied on scholarships, gone to places on fellowships and “has a home in every state.” When travelling for work or workshops, he puts up with friends, family and fraternity, you decode.

Gandhian values and principles will no doubt be invoked in a big way over the coming year. But it’s also compelling to ask Raina about Mantoiyat. Both because the writer is being celebrated presently, with the release of his biopic, and due to the attacks that artists have come under in the past few years, like Manto in his time. Raina is immensely familiar with the beleaguered writer’s work, having staged a play drawing on several of Manto’s stories, and has been his vocal self during the siege on artists. So, (how) is Manto relevant in today’s times? Raina responds with Manto’s famed aphorism: ‘Why do I write? I write on society’s blackboard with a white chalk so that the blackness of the board becomes even more evident.’

Another question about the artistic ethos, this time about Raina himself. If he loves theatre so much, having spent more than half his life here, why didn’t he set up his own theatre company – like so many theatre artists – especially as he was clear about being on his own? His response is characteristically candid, “I didn’t have any back-up.” He adds, though, that he is regularly approached especially by corporates to help set up theatre companies. He turns down these offers because he knows they are looking for “a shop or an institution”, which will need to begin showing profits soon; an actual theatre company would “only give dividends in its seventh year.”

This forthrightness and desire to do the right thing, does he get that from his father too? Or was there some other influence? There were two distinct triggers, Raina recalls, coming one on the back of the other around the early 90s.

In 1989, close friend and theatre activist, Safdar Hashmi, was attacked by political goons during the performance of a street play, succumbing to his injuries the very next day. Hashmi’s death left Raina deeply shaken. Putting his anguish aside, he decided to respond affirmatively. He spearheaded several communal harmony campaigns and marches and also became a founding member of the Safdar Hashmi Trust (SAHMAT), which works to engender creative and cultural expression.

In 1991, insurgency hit his home state Kashmir, forcing him to leave with parents and family and move to Delhi, where he has been ever since. The artist may have left his home, but home didn’t seem to leave the artist. Raina was restless. He longed to go back to Kashmir and help in some way. But how?

MK Raina during a rehearsal with Kashmiri folk artistsOne day, “without thinking”, he left for the valley state. On getting there, he was witness to heartbreaking sights, among people in general but especially among the rural artists. The militants hadn’t spared even art. Folk theatre venues had been attacked and their instruments all broken. The artists were in deep mourning. But seeing Raina, a familiar face and fellow artist, they felt they had something to hold on to. Raina too saw how he could help, through the only way he knew: theatre. Returning to the city (Srinagar), he first started theatre workshops and then initiated collaborations between city actors and their rural counterparts. Eventually, he moved the theatre scene from the city back to the villages. He remembers, when he started the collaborations, a couple of actors from the villages let out painful howls. They had found their release.

Raina, in addition to other Kashmiri artists, has also helped sustain bandh pather, the local folk theatre where men enact storylines often satirical or farcical in nature, offering a comment on some aspect of social or cultural life.

But Raina is also drawn to causes beyond theatre. Better still, and perhaps due to his standing and outspokenness in the artistic sphere, the torch-bearers of various causes are drawn to him. He is often called upon to speak on issues such as the attacks on writers and other creative folk that have been a constant the past few years and the need to protect the vernacular languages.

MK Raina speaking on the sidelines of Jashn-e-Rekhta 2018The artist-activist is especially given in to the latter cause. He is a multi-linguist, knowing tongues as diverse as Bengali, Rajasthani, Dogri, Punjabi, Sanskrit and Urdu, apart from of course Hindi, English and Kashmiri. This aptitude also comes from the fact that he’s directed so many plays in so many different languages over the years. His love for Urdu is evinced – apart from his knowledge of Manto’s works – from his WhatsApp profile pic, which is his speaker profile for Jashn-e-Rekhta, the annual festival held in Delhi to celebrate the language. His familiarity with Bengali is evident in his voice, which bears a hint of that rosogolla-laced tongue. That, he says is because, yes, he’s done some plays in Bengali, but also because his better half is half-Bengali.

There seems to be little in the public domain about his own family – or he hasn’t been as vocal about this aspect of his life – but now that it comes up, Raina is obliging. His wife is a doctor, and they have been married for 40 years, bringing up another personal milestone this year apart from turning 70. His son has followed somewhat in his footsteps. A freelance photographer and filmmaker, he has made documentaries, among other subjects, on Sufi music and more notably Zohra Sehgal. Raina himself was acquainted with the feisty and zestful dancer, choreographer and actor, having directed her in a play and film. Raina also has a daughter, who is into public policy.

The personal milestones do not seem to mean much to him. His 70th birthday earlier in the year, he says “was like any other day”. But on the work front, he seems to have moved toward new ones.

MK Raina in a scene from Three and a Half / Teen aur AadhaThree and a Half / Teen aur Aadha is a bilingual (English / Hindi) film about love, longing and loss, told as an anthology of three stories across three time periods, each story filmed in one continuous shot. Due for theatrical release early next year, the story featuring Raina is perhaps the most intriguing. It’s about the relationship and reflections, not all happy, of an older couple, and includes a love-making scene or two, going by the trailer. Was filming it uncomfortable, given that we live in a country and time where dada-dadi and nana-nani are meant to be seen more in a park than in a bedroom? Raina goes behind the scenes. On coming to know the hues of his story, he had put forth the name of his co-star (Suhasini Mulay, a shining silver and artist in her own right), as he shared a very good rapport with her, having known her for the longest time. It would be easier navigating those scenes with her, you decipher. It seems to have worked. From the trailer, all you see is: Love is love. Even when it is shaded silver.

Raina will also be taking a step into the mainly millennial playground of web series, with Kabir Khan’s upcoming The Forgotten Army, based on Subash Chandra Bose’s Indian National Army.

In between, he regularly features in ads, as the affable senior. Most memorable is the Visa card ad from early last year, which depicts him as a literature professor haplessly seeking change in a post-demonetization world. He is eventually helped out by a student he took to be a drifter, but not before the actor has delivered a few dozen brilliant micro-expressions aptly conveying the plight of the suddenly cashless citizen – those expressions the result no doubt of over four decades of delivering and dealing with the best in theatre. Similar themed, but more cheery, are the Amazon Fire TV Stick spots, which present him first as a quizzical grand-dad learning the use of the device from his grand-daughter and then as a savvy senior showing off the powers of the gadget to his grand-kids.

How tech-savvy then is he in real life? Well, he is on Facebook and uses an iPad to check and respond to mails. He has been learning technology and its benefits slowly but surely. “How else would we be able to have this interview with you there and me here sitting on the footsteps of this room in Bhilai?” he exults.

Plays, films, ads, web series, workshops, tours, talks, causes… How does he manage to stay fit and healthy for all this? “I lead a straight life. No late nights… Helps me have a clear day.” To add, he doesn’t smoke, but does enjoy a drink from time to time. And like the elixir of many a silver, practises yoga. Thanks to which, he was able to jump into a moving train with alacrity in a scene for Forgotten Army, he recounts.

While on matters physical, a trivial question pops up. What explains the bearded look, which he’s sported for over 40 years now and seen gradually go from pepper to salt? “Oh, that is just being too lazy to shave!” There are chuckles both sides of the line, but they don’t seem to be done. He continues, “The few times I shaved, I noticed I have dimples… so I stopped!” At the end, this silver with twinkling eyes and an easy demeanour leaves you feeling the same.

I wrote this piece for Harmony: Celebrate Age. Here’s the edited version on their site: This piece on Harmony

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Rage Productions' poster for the play

From Judging… to Understanding

If you are called upon to decide on a matter of grave import, especially one in the public domain, how do you ensure you are judging well rather than being judgmental?

A scene from the 1957 Hollywood version of 12 Angry MenThis compelling thought lies at the heart of the all-time classic 12 Angry Men. Penned by Reginald Rose in 1954, the play has been adapted into several formats and languages across the world, and continues to do so 60 years on. I myself have seen a Hollywood movie (the legendary Sidney Lumet’s 1957 version, starring luminaries such as Henry Fonda and Lee Cobb), a Bollywood film (1986’s Ek Ruka Hua Faisla, featuring a who’s-who of theatre and cinema stalwarts – Pankaj Kapur, Annu Kapoor, KK Raina – and directed by another great, Basu Chatterjee), a school play (performed by Standard XII students), and most recently, a contemporised version (by as-if-presciently-named-for-this-play Rage Productions of Mumbai). ‘Contemporised’ because, conscious of the need to be inclusive, the play is now named 12 Angry Jurors and features an almost equal number of women (five) in the cast.

The story though remains the same. An 18-year boy (technically, some would say a man) is accused of murdering his abusive father. The court proceedings over, the 12-member jury (the 12 in the title) now moves to the inner room to decide – and if needed, deliberate – on the boy’s fate. However, there seems to be no need for deliberation, as 11 have decided ‘Guilty’. But wait, as one has decided ‘Not Guilty’, there seems to be need for some discussion. The 11 though are flummoxed: how can one person not believe the boy is guilty when all evidence, witnesses, and as damningly, an overwhelming majority of them are saying so? What starts off as a tiny spark ignited by Juror 8 (the one believing the boy is innocent) leads slowly but surely toward an incendiary climax, as not just thoughts and arguments but accusations and threats are exchanged (the anger in the title). So, do the jurors remain enraged till the end, or do they become placative and reach a unanimous decision one way or the other (the requirement of the court)? In case you haven’t seen the play or any of its avatars, will leave you to discover the denouement for yourself.

An angered Lee Cobb in the 1957 Hollywood version of 12 Angry MenWhat is worth deliberating on however are the themes the play / movie explores. The tendency to evaluate something or someone only through one’s own (coloured) lenses. Juror 10 is unrelenting: the boy is guilty and needs to hang simply because he’s from the slums and “those people” are always like that. Prejudices, it is clear, run deep. And it appears, so do bad experiences, especially if they are close to home. Juror 3 wages the toughest, and roughest, battle against Juror 8. The reason? Juror 3 has had a strained relationship with his son, and having failed to resolve matters with his own kid, wants the accused kid to suffer in a vicious, vicarious form of retribution. And one juror, No. 7, has the flimsiest, whimsiest reason for sticking to his stance: he has tickets for a game and so wants the discussion to wind up asap, especially as all but one of them hold the boy guilty.

Bias, negativity, slapdash judgment… All themes as relevant in today’s social media-fuelled times, when people are quick to ascribe fault and guilt to a situation or a person without bothering to get to the truth. Because that takes time, effort and intellect. All of which seem to be in short supply these days.

A poster for the 1957 Hollywood version of 12 Angry Men, showing a lone white silhouette on one balance and 11 black silhouettes on the otherIt’s not all despairing though. The play urges you to stand up for what you believe is right, even when the world stands against you. Juror 8 fights alone for the longest time. When asked if the boy could really be innocent when the evidence, witness statements, and presently, most jurors are disfavoured to him, his constant response is a simple “It’s possible.” He merely wants to explore the possibility that the boy is guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Surely, that’s not too much to ask for, given that his life is at stake? The play also holds that it’s alright to waver, to not be sure. Juror 12 does what looks like a flip-flop in the eyes of the others: now she believes he’s guilty, now she believes he’s not. It’s ok, the play seems to say, to change your viewpoint as you receive more information. After all, it shows you are willing to be flexible, and more importantly, to think.

Not surprisingly, six decades on, 12 Angry Men (Jurors) remains a telling commentary on the way most people think and believe when it comes to others. And the way they truly ought to.

Cover pic for this post with the calling card of the play and my comment

Irficionado | Play | ‘Amrapali’

Logo for Irficionado series

The Theatre Nisha logoIt seems Theatre Nisha read my review of their last staged play, Gallantly Fought the Queen, based on the life of Rani Lakshmibai. For they seem to have incorporated the suggestions I made there into one of their latest staged plays, Amrapali. Well, technically, Amrapali has been on for some time. But it was finally satisfying to watch a rather rich production (content-wise) from Theatre Nisha, after two somewhat let-down productions (Gallantly and, before that, Flowers).

Amrapali, also in contrast to the previous two plays I had watched, was staged free. (And no, that isn’t the reason I liked it. In fact, because it was good, I felt they should have charged a nominal fee out of respect for the effort put in.) Also, watching the third straight monologue play from Theatre Nisha, I was able to possibly get the group’s strategy. I think they come out with these monologues as experiments, and the ones that click (Flowers and this one seem to have done well so far), they keep adding to, embellishing and enriching. The first shows seem less slick (I think Gallantly was in the initial stages of, well, being staged, but Flowers and Amrapali have had good runs by the time I caught them), and therefore a bit disappointing, but if the group feels they’re onto something, they don’t let go and keep chipping away until they get at least half a gem.

A calling card for Theatre Nisha's play, Amrapali

Anyway, enough theorizing and back to Amrapali. So, Amrapali seems to have woven in the suggestion I made of the one actor playing all the different characters. Janani Narasimhan, who played the courtesan, did so, and with aplomb, modulating her voice very effectively and perceptibly for the multiple characters, right down to the body language. Janani also moved around the four-sided venue, calibrating her movements, so that no one part of the audience felt tuned out. (Though I did catch one guy on the opposite side nodding off for the first part of the play, but that could be because he was done with his weekend. The venue, Spaces, is right next to the immensely popular and populated Besant Nagar Beach, or more fondly, Bessie, which has tons of eateries, hang-outs, activities, or in short, distractions.)

Actor Janani Narasimhan in and as AmrapaliJanani was also a very stoic performer, acting her solo part through the heat and sweat. I saw first sweat-beads form and then turn into rivulets and stream down her face, but she battled through them. (I’m guessing also the make-up was smudge-proof.) Compare this with most folk in the audience making fans out of anything they could get their hands on: the play flyer, newspapers, face towels, their hands; plus, the prescient had got actual hand-fans.

On the flip side, Janani did get some of her pronunciations wrong, and I also thought she was a bit of a miscast, as Amrapali – according to the writer of the play itself, V Balakrishnan, the director and force behind Nisha – was supposed to be a woman of extraordinary beauty. Which is why she was designated the courtesan in the republic of Vaishali. Nevertheless, matching the looks to the role is more of a movie necessity; in theatre, talent reigns supreme. So, nothing really to take away from Janani.

V Balakrishnan, founder and director of Theatre NishaBut even better than Janani’s performance, and which is why I loved the play so much, was the writing. Bala has invested a lot into the script; it’s easy to see that he wrote it with love and care and kept perfecting with each staging. I especially loved the piece on how an apsara’s breasts are useless, “mere ornaments, for decoration”, as they are not able to produce milk, and therefore any kid they beget, they can’t nurture. Amrapali, in fact, is one such child.

The skillful writing also shows in the symmetry of the play, though this could very well be the same in most accounts of the courtesan’s life: Amrapali, toward the end of her life, on relinquishing her erstwhile duties and taking to the teaching and principles of the Buddha, takes up habitat just where her earthly father had found her – under the mango tree. (That’s why she’s given her name, the sprouts of a mango tree.) The symmetry is sealed with Janani / Amrapali reciting the same Sanskrit lines at the end of the play as at the beginning; only, at the end, it’s with their meaning.

Kudos to Janani, Bala and everyone at Theatre Nisha for this fine endeavour. Would have loved it even more if the heat wasn’t such a sapper and as someone for the previous play had suggested, “there had been an AC at the (open) venue”. But then, as a member of Nisha had responded, “Spaces wouldn’t be the same that way”.

Chandramandapa at Spaces, where the play was staged

Chandramandapa at Spaces, where the play was staged

You can find out more about Theatre Nisha on their website: Theatre Nisha

Composite image featuring the poster and actor of Theatre Nisha's one-person play, 'Gallantly Fought the Queen'

Irficionado | Play Review | ‘Gallantly Fought the Queen’

Logo for Irficionado seriesThis was the second Theatre Nisha play I attended this year, and as it turned out, both had the same format. Both were around an hour long, both were monologues, both had two artistes accompanying, one a singer, the other an instrumentalist. To continue the similarity, both were conducted in small spaces (the first one in a yoga studio, yes, and this one in the Alliance Francaise auditorium) and both had similarly priced tickets. Just that the first one, ‘Flowers’, about a married Hindu priest from ancient times succumbing to the charms of a newly-arrived courtesan, proved to be better than this one.

Poster of Theatre Nisha's 'Gallantly Fought the Queen'This one, ‘Gallantly Fought the Queen’, was about a historical person again, but this time a real one, Rani of Jhansi, Laxmibai. It was based on Hindi poet, Subhadra Kumari Chauhan’s eulogy to the queen, ‘Khoob Ladi Mardaani’. The play’s title was a very astute translation of the poem’s title. Unfortunately, the goodness ends there. Ok, credit too to Meera Sitaraman, who played the queen. She put in a lot of zeal and effort, effortlessly switching from the Hindi stanzas of the poem to the English narration. Yes, the monologue was basically a narration of the events in the rani’s life from when the British begin laying siege to Jhansi to her eventual death. Interspersed with that, as just mentioned, was the recitation of parts of the poem, I’m guessing, in the order they are written.

Poster of Theatre Nisha's one-person play, 'Flowers'Watching this unfold, I felt either of two things. That this was an experimental play, like a test run before a bigger, more lavish mounting (and by god, would this subject look grand on a grander scale – the rani in her majestic attire, thundering her lines, tearing through the enemy; any wonder then Bollywood has been toying with making a movie on her for the longest time, and I’m already picturing Alia Bhatt or Kareena Kapoor). Alternatively, this was repeating the formula from the earlier ‘Flowers’. When something has worked, why tinker? (Though ‘Flowers’ itself was modest at best. Also, ‘Flowers’ had a more riveting tale.) In both cases, the reason seemed the desire to keep the budget low, or rather, work within the low budget. For ‘Flowers’, the only thing on stage was a big lingam; here, it was six black boxes (the same lingam dismantled?) stacked like a pyramid, perhaps to resemble stones or a fortress.

Meera Sitaraman in the titular role of Theatre Nisha's 'Gallantly Fought the Queen'

Meera Sitaraman in and as Rani Laxmibai in the play

If budget was really the issue, I have a suggestion (like I always do when I feel something has a decent premise, but seems to lack something in the final execution). This may also solve the problem of finding it boring to watch one person, that too just narrate a timeline of events. (I found many others, along with myself, trying hard to suppress many a yawn, during the 60-odd-minute runtime.) Perhaps the actor could have switched roles from time to time, with a modification of attire during each switch if possible. So, she could have been Tantia Tope when chastising his ineffectuality, about Lord Dalhousie when sneering at his haughtiness, or even her subjects when empathizing with their collective fears and mobilized courage. Like one actor playing multiple roles, as has been seen in some films too (Bollywood’s most famous example being Sanjeev Kumar’s ‘Nayi Din, Nayi Raat’). Would have definitely made for more interesting viewing, would have pushed the eager actor more, and most importantly, if they decided to do away with the accompanying artistes, would have made the most of the budget. In short, Creatively Should Have Thought the Team. Lacking which, the only thing gallant here proved to be the decision to produce a play within a seemingly small budget.

 

Ad for Ila, play by Patchworks Ensemble

Meview: Ila

As I mentioned in the previous post, as a part of The Hindu Theatre Fest (HTF) 2015 here in Chennai, the day before, I went for what has proved to be my best play of all time. Ila, by Patchworks Ensemble. HTF also has a Citizen Review, whereby readers of the paper and viewers of the play can send in their take on the play in 50-150 words. The best entry wins a dinner for two at The Park, a leading hotel here. Well, below’s my entry. And as it turns out, I won. Yippee. With very few edits. Double yippee.

At the end, find the link to the digital version of the paper’s section where mine and some other reviews appeared. Have also, but of course, posted a couple of pix. And oh, what’s a ‘meview’? Find out here.

Male. Female. Tick a box.

But what if there were more than two boxes? More male; More female; In between… What then of this person, and… stereotypes? Such as ‘Men slap their thighs, women cross theirs’.

Ila dares to examine this gender- and mind-bending question. Through an apt metaphor: the ladies’ compartment of a Mumbai local train, which turns ‘general’ by night – like its protagonist. (Ila draws from the myth of a king who, under a spell, goes between manhood and womanhood with the moon’s waxing and waning.)

It continues pushing the blue/pink envelope: several actors take turns playing the wo/man and, in literally a flicker, swings between Ila’s tragic/magic tale and that of a pregnant train regular. The music yin-yangs too: now actor-like – posing a conundrum, now audience-like – pondering that conundrum. By the end, everyone’s mind is prised open, at least a bit. Ila ticks all the right boxes.

Find mine and other entries here: http://www.thehindu.com/features/friday-review/theatre/ila-challenges-gender-notions/article7561429.ece

My winning Citizen Review in the offline version of the paper My winning Citizen Review in the online version of the paper

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Promo pic of The Siddhus of Upper Juhu

Meview: The Siddhus of Upper Juhu

I seem to have entered a poetic, verse, or at least a rhyme phase at present. Here’s my meview of the play, The Siddhus of Upper Juhu (which I watched as a part of The Hindu Theatre Fest 2015, over the weekend), in poetic form.

Life in a metro can get to you,

Is the theme of The Siddhus of Upper Juhu.

So, the Siddhus move into this “Bombay” highrise,

But find in vain, and pain, that it doesn’t suffice…

To keep away the din of the partying “airhostesses”; the neighbour, his kids, his wife;

The barking dog; the construction drill; and other dins of urban life.

To make things worse, Mr Bubbles Siddhu gets the sack,

And slowly begins turning into a cuckooish Jack.

To compensate, his wife, Behroze, takes up a job – and thus joins the grind…

But, as Bubbles seems to get better, she ends up losing her mind!

Rajit Kapur and Shernaz Patel play the afflicted couple to perfection,

And Rahul DaCunha is as astute as ever in his direction.

Do watch this play wherever you get the opportunity –

It’s a humorous lament on the cost of living in a city.

To read a non-poetic review of the play, go here: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/hindi/theatre/Theatre-review-The-Siddhus-Of-Upper-Juhu/articleshow/46622780.cms