The second year student’s production of Kalidasa’s Abhijnana Shakuntalam had plenty of Urdu and Sanskrit dialogues. Director Rita Ganguly tells Utpal K Banerjee that she used Sanskrit texts because the essence of the poet cannot be translated in any other language
Kalidasa’s best-known play, Abhijnana Shakuntalam — penned conjecturally two millennia ago — is what fairly tales are made of. The comely forest maiden — abandoned at birth by a heavenly nymph after an act of love with a sage and protected under a vulture’s wings (hence the name Shakuntala) — was fondly reared up by another sage, Kanva, in seclusion from the outer world. The Hastinapur king, Dushyanta, came a-hunting, was won over by the demure girl's grace and enticed her into an impromptu wedlock. When the wife, now expecting, went to claim her lawful place at the palace, she was promptly thrown out. Rejected and utterly dejected, she gave birth to the royal scion in isolation and, later on a chance-meeting, returned the son to the father, but the question remained, would she refuse to return herself, in perhaps the earliest win for the entire femininityIJ
Abhijnana Shakuntalam, recently presented by the second-year students of National School of Drama, was a charming production in all its classical flavours. Designed and directed by the thespian Rita Ganguly — also equally noted in dance and music — converted the entire auditorium into a proscenium: tastefully—painted with panels of medieval sculptures from Khajuraho and Konark. Called Vikrishtamadhyam style in the old treatises, the display culminated into carved pillars and sculpted conrnices on the stage. In the latter’s ample space, the dramatist personae strolled and sauntered in gracious gait — groomed by the Bharatanatyam danseuse Geeeta Chandran — gesticulating with flowing mudras (hand-gestures) and rhythmic footwork. The entire ambience was lyrically poetic, with costumes and coiffures as tasteful as would behove an ancient culture. All through, Sanskrit chants resonated in Rita’s own classical voice, aided by the gifted Carnatic singer OS Arun and a phalanx of north and south Indian musical instruments.
What happened on the stage was a predictable tale, told in total stylisation. Incidents were well-known, made remarkable for their visual quality: with characters appearing and disappearing from behind Kathakali-like curtains; hand-held screens shifted to and fro; Shakuntala emoting from within picture-frames; and folks moving in and out, in coversation, on a mid-way ramp within the spectators, as seen in a Kabuki play. Shakuntla’s eventual letting down of Dushayanta echoed a millennnia-later theatrical phenomenon: Nora’s emphatic denouement of her husband in A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen.
When asked how she picked up a hoary play at this day and age, Rita replied, “There is a growing awareness in the world to preserve ancient traditions. Thus, Globe Theatre of Shakespeare's era is being revived in london; Noh and Kabuki Theatres are zealously preserved in Japan; and Classical Greek Theatre is spruced up in Greece. In this backdrop, it becomes imperative for us to look at our own heritage and attempt to revive our classical theatre which goes back at least 5000 years.”
She added further, “This Shakuntala — like Ramayana’s Sita — declines at the end to re-unite with the rich and mighty Dushyanta, here with denouncing the obligation of playing the role of wife, and sends his son Bharat to his father, instead. This frightened deer of Kanva’s hermitage finally travels a long way to emancipation!”
Out of the four epithets used in a Sanskrit play for its heroines — padmini (lotus-like), hamsini (swan-like), shankhini (conch-like) and hastini (elephant-like) in their order of beauty and beatitude — Rita made Shakuntala to be alluded to as hamsini throughout. She explained, “Hamsini symbolises the dual nature of a being who is a part of the world and yet unattached to it. That is Shakuntala, in essence.”
About her use of a surprising mix of Sanskrit, Hindi and Urdu in the dialogue, the director defended, “The poetic brilliance of Kalidasa cannot be translated in any other way. Hence an attempt has been made to incorporate works of Hindi and Urdu poets like Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, Kumar Narayan, Qateel Shifal and Munir Naizi, to communicate similar thoughts for contemporary
audience.”
On the play’s relevance today, “When molestation, rape and child-abuse have become frequent phenomena in our society, it is surprising to observe those centuries ago, Kalidasa wrote a play that was named after, and spoke about, a woman who was cheated in the name of love. My version of the play does not limit itself to a pathetic story of a woman wronged. On the contrary, it exudes the spirit of emancipation: not merely from the shackles of male dominance, but also from the mundane values of life, thus leading to the right to love as an independent identity,” the director concluded.