Theatreperson Habib Tanvir brought folk and urban face-to-face in his plays, and took the best of both.
I was recently looking at a video clip of a rehearsal in progress. There was this tall, sophisticated, ageing figure in a smart black shirt and black corduroy pants and golf cap, smoking a pipe, sitting and giving instructions to his performers in a deep, cultured voice. Next, he stood up and started dancing by way of demonstrating some naacha steps to his actors with an ease one would not associate with this clearly city-bred figure. Soon he was firing his folk actors in Chhattisgarhi, swear words and all, followed by an enactment of a comic scene in that dialect. He then turned his attention to one of his urban actors and explained something in English, in a somewhat anglicised accent. The contradictions in this entire visual somewhat define what Habib Tanvir, the theatre actor, director, writer and activist, was — both in his personal life and in his theatre.
With his childhood and early education in Chhattisgarh and theatre education in England, he clearly had the background to tread at ease between the folk and the urban, Indian and Western. But then so many of us in post-independent India have such a background. Yet, rarely does anyone make this easy fusion into a way of life or of artistic expression. Habib-ji did. He decided early in life not to negate his past nor to negate the colonial legacy, but to take the best of both to create a theatre that connects with both sensibilities. It is in this sense that his theatre was truly modern and truly representative of the sensibility of the majority of the people in this country.
In this decision several factors must have played a role — his stint with IPTA in the 1940s, which possibly gave him an insight into the strength of the folk arts in reaching out to the people, and the dedication to people’s art, along with a sociopolitical commitment; reaction to the predominance and prestige of English theatre or theatre with a Western sensibility in a city like Delhi, or a desire to create his own brand of theatre as distinct from the prevailing trends. One of his first original plays, Agra Bazaar, on the life and poetry of Nazeer Akbarabadi, a people’s poet, whose verse was remembered by the uneducated man on the street, may have also become the inspiration behind his kind of theatre in the years that followed.
A great deal has already been written about him, but I would like to underline for the sake of some of the readers that, with his long journey in theatre, starting 1945, he will be remembered for the simplicity of his theatrical expression, a simplicity that had the capacity to capture the profoundest of truths of our times. He managed to do this because he amalgamated folk and rural actors, languages, stories, music and sensibilities quite seamlessly, to create a very unique and charming theatre that entertained while it commented and protested. What is most significant is that his relationship with folk theatre or artists was not at all patronising or condescending. There was real sharing, and enjoyment in that sharing. He took up plays ranging from those based on folk tales to Sanskrit classics, Shakespeare to Brecht, right down to the absolutely contemporary, and presented them in a mix of Chhattisgarhi and Hindi. His folk actors particularly challenged their urban counterparts to perform with their spontaneity, energy and humour.
This doyen of Indian theatre passed away last month. It might sound like a cliché, but his death genuinely marks the end of an era. He, like M F Husain, was targeted by communal, right-wing activists for his play Ponga Pandit, against the caste system. One will miss the courage and defiance that he displayed in taking them on by going on tour with that play. He risked his life to keep open the rational critical space that theatre provides. His audiences supported him wholeheartedly. We salute his spirit, commitment and faith in the people.
