Gowrii Ramnarayan tells Utpal K Banerjee that she was fascinated by tiger lore while she was working on a play based on Meerabai’s songs in Rajasthan
Does the forest need its tiger as much as the the tiger needs its forestIJ Is the carnivore safe todayIJ The forest nourishes its tribals, but are these marginalised communities sustaining their way of life under the razor’s edge of the modern worldIJ How can these oppressed classes assert their rightsIJ How can they resist both threat and blandishments of commercial lucreIJ
Night’s End, presented by JustUs Repertory from Chennai under the baton of the veteran Gowrii Ramnarayan, raises these and other uncomfortable questions: why should one live on this planet where everything — living and non-living — does not have the right to coexistIJ Above all, what is one’s duty as a human being first, as a feeling person (sahridaya) next, and finally, as an artistIJ
The lonely forest-guard Krishnan (sheejith Krishna) in Ranthambore’s tiger-belt is a renegade from Kerala who had strayed into his vocation, having many demons to live down. Coming from a Kathakali village — where he was steeped into his art as a child and an adolescent — he lost his father early and had one source for delight: his five-year-old cuddly sister Prema, literally reared on his shoulder. This was until the villagers began laughing behind his back at his affection for the child: born much after his father’s death.
The distracted youth never knew whether his mother actually had an illicit relationship with his grandfather — as darkly hinted at — but he fled the village the farthest he could, to Rajasthan. There — befriended by the tribal Billu Mogya and serenaded by the curiosity-ridden tribal lass Chandni Mogya (Akhila Ramnarayan) — he would exorcise his demons by losing himself into his prolonged, solo performances of Kathakali: sans makeup, costume and audience. Here, he would picture own mother after the image of the Pandava-mother Kunti, forsaking Karna, the first-born, into the river.
Creating an evocative forest-scenario and with haunting imagery, the play makes out its mark: amidst simmering light-zones and flit-footed flights of Chandni. The latter is eventually caught in the machinations of the poaching mafia who lurk for their tiger-prey. When Chandni surrenders for sex, she is paid for trying to lure the alert guard. Somewhere in between, the hand-reared tiger-cub — only hinted at but never seen — fits beautifully in the surrounding wilderness.
Excerpts of interview with the director:
What’s the significance of the play’s titleIJ
Night’s End could mean dawn, but both ‘night’ and ‘end’ are not comfortable words. I seek to make us uncomfortable and perhaps see the tiniest sliver of hope at the same time!
What has been your inspirationIJ
I was invited to Rajasthan to do a play on Meerabai’s songs and I was fascinated by the tiger-lore. I ended up writing this play, besides doing my chore of the Meerabai drama.
What do the two protagonists representIJ
Krishnan and Chandni are lonely waifs, repressed by society. But when they speak, their voices hold up a mirror to the rest of us. The issues I investigate through Night’s End are not abstract concepts, but experiences that sear the artiste and sahridaya. They keep me up at night…
How have you structured the musicIJ
For Krishnan, I have used Carnatic music. He is a gifted musician, too, besides being a trained Kathakali dancer. I have also interspersed the play with Rajasthan folksongs, since the milieu is that state!
Krishnan does a fascinating job of impersonating many characters…
It is easy for a professional dancer to go in and out of many characters, rather than an actor to do so. This is because classical dancers are groomed in ekaharya abhinaya: single dance doing multiple roles, while performing on stage.