Big City

Which is why the latest issue of the Prithvi Theatre Newsletter came as a delightful surprise. The newsletter focuses on the city’s auditoriums, past and present, through the eyes of two theatre personalities — Arvind Joshi, doyen of the mainstream Gujarati stage and Sunil Shanbag, representative of the more offbeat Hindi cinema. Both recall with varying degrees of nostalgia and affection the diverse places they had viewed plays or performed in.

Looking back, Joshi remembers the theatres of the past — the old Opera House with its lofted balconies, Daulat Talkies which was located in the red light area and is now known as Pilla House — a corruption of `play house’ — Roshan talkies, Alfred, Moti, Royal and so on which used to stage Gujarati, Parsi and Urdu plays. He also describes a phenomenon of the times: a long tin board in front of the rows of the pit class which would be stamped on by the audience to create a din, this being their way of demanding an encore.

He also describes Bangwadi, the famous theatre off Princess street which incorporated dwellings for performers and a company kitchen. In his words: “(It) had great atmosphere… there was the labyrinth of lanes leading up to the auditorium. Then there were the soft sounds of music, of laughter, theatre books for sale. All this made the experience of seeing a play truly wonderful.”

Today, to some extent, Prithvi still offers this sort of ambience, particularly during its festivals when it is abuzz with light, song and platform performances. Otherwise most city theatres limit interaction to the confines of the stage. Which is not to say that the others do not have their own personalities.

Sunil Shanbag, for instance, rhapsodizes over the old Chabildas — a school near Dadar station that became the focal point of a boom in experimental theatre in the ’70s-’80s. The facilities that played host to many highly ambitious productions were primitive. For Sunil, however, the more important thing was the way `life intervened.’ “The corridor,” he writes, “overlooked the chawls. The Chaya Geet evenings. The kulfiwallah who made his rounds about ten o’ clock. The night a murder took place. The rehearsing of Don Juan in Hell whilst India won the 1983 World Cup.”

Both have good things to say about Tejpal, the auditorium that has oddly served as a home for both mainstream and offbeat theatre. While Shanbag is critical of some of its features, he, like Joshi, is appreciative of the acoustics and the sense of intimacy it engendered. “We always felt close to the audience,” he says. Joshi also speaks fondly of the Jaihind and the old Bhulabhai with its jutting balcony. “It required a special technique from the actor on the stage… (he) has to look upwards or at least provide the illusion of doing so. Or else the audience in the balcony would feel left out.”

An interesting sidelight on the performer’s life. Shanbag and his group, on the other hand, harbour a special fondness for Prithvi which has been `home’ for several years. He does, however, have an interesting observation about the opening of the Tata. It “gave us a look at theatre as a ceremony. The large foyer, uniformed ushers, the chandeliers, the three bells which sounded like the bells of Big Ben from London.” In comparison, he finds the Experimental Theatre next door sterile. I agree.

I don’t know whether it is the uncomfortable seats or the half-finished feel of the place, but something doesn’t quite allow audience and performer to come together. But given the few precious theatres we have in the city, it would be nice if we could begin to see them not just as places where plays are staged but as important players in the development of theatre and our social culture.

(Amrita Shah is a writer and former editor of Elle)