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I saw it for the first time during a visit many years ago to the entertainment district of London, the West End; specifically around the Covent Garden tube station. There was a crowd gathered around a man who stood still as a statue atop a box, dressed as Abraham Lincoln, hair on head and beard precisely in place, but face covered with silver paint. For seconds, it felt like minutes sometimes, he would not move at all, and then, slowly, very slowly, he would turn a fraction, as if to let everyone know that he was flesh and blood, and not something carved out of stone.
As a ‘performance’ I found it, like everyone else around, astonishing: something done to near perfection. People would watch, and then walk away, leaving some coins in a ‘Lincoln’ hat placed close by. Then I saw it again, at a day-time wedding reception in Chandigarh, where, as a part of entertainment for guests, a young man stood motionless on the lawns in a similar fashion, but like a fashion model, toned body, bare torso, his whole frame covered with silver paint. Occasionally, he would move a bit but, in general, he was quite still. It was no longer new, and I did not find it too entertaining, but still, it was there. All of this came back to me when I chanced upon a booklet that spoke of a recent exhibition of photographs at the Art Heritage gallery in Delhi. The photographs had been taken by a Bangalore policeman, B. S. Shivaraju, who wants generally to be known as Cop Shiva. But what I found myself greatly fascinated by was the fact that, in this show, he had focussed upon two men who had dedicated themselves, more or less, to the performative art of impersonation. The word applied to their act has an almost illegal air to it; in any case, it sounds a bit pejorative. But the more I saw and read about their act, especially that of a simple teacher by the name of Bagadehalli Basavaraj, who almost routinely dresses up as Mahatma Gandhi — iconic dhoti around his loins, legs bare, torso wrapped in a chadar, simple chappals on feet, round-rimmed spectacles, a pocket watch dangling from the waist, staff in the right hand, the left holding a bound copy of the Bhagvadagita tucked under the armpit but face covered with silver paint — the more I was drawn to the idea. This man has been doing it for years, it seems, for he is driven by a sense of mission. Dressed like this, he would suddenly show up on a railway platform, walking the brisk Gandhi walk, paying no attention to his surroundings, and people all around would stop in their tracks, stare with their mouths open, disbelief in eyes. Not a word would be spoken, and yet something would stir in those people’s hearts.
Again, Basavaraj would appear, unannounced, at a school — teacher that he is — where children would gape at him for suddenly there would be a sense of disorientation. There is a wonderful photograph of him at a school, standing and staring directly ahead, next to a large calendar-image of ‘Bharat Mata’, while children are all gathered around this ‘Gandhi-ji’ in their very midst. The expressions of wonder and curiosity and disbelief ‘we thought he died a long time ago’; ‘were there two Gandhis?’; ‘why does this man not speak to us if he is here?’ must have been the whispers — seem writ on every face. One can be certain some of them must have tried to touch him, tug at his chadar, or tried to urge him to speak. One can equally be certain that, once back at home, they would talk to their parents about this phenomenon that appeared in their school today. The message will pass on. There are other images, other situations. In one, Basavaraj is seen driving a pair of bullocks, ploughing a field, having taken over from a family of peasants who walk behind him, other agricultural implements in hand. It is clear that this Gandhi is not good at this job: the angle of the body, the strain apparent in the stance, speak of this. But he is, at least, there, with them and for them. In yet another photograph, following Gandhi’s reservations about the break-neck speed at which the world is beginning to move, he gets on to a bicycle and rides it on a busy road while, somewhat amused, men on motorcycles and scooters whiz past him. There is a photograph of him seated on the floor of a simple school room, Bhagvadagita in hand, blackboard by his side, seven or eight slates scattered all around him but no student in sight. There is clearly a performative aspect in all this, but there are messages here, and they are all riveting. “Being Gandhi” — the title of this series of images — suddenly means something different. Compared to this, the other ‘impersonator’ covered by Cop Shiva in this show — Vidyasagar — who takes on the role of his great film idol — M. G. Ramachandran, MGR for short — moves about in a world not of ideas but of pop. I hope I am not being unfair about this — and surely there must be a great deal of competence and conviction in his act too — but to me, it seems a matter essentially of surface. Most interesting situations must surely be arising: like MGR, wearing the all-too-familiar sunglasses and fur cap and festooned with a garland round his neck, suddenly appearing at the doorstep of a lower middle class home, and waving; inviting himself to a meal at a film fan’s house; enacting scenes from one of his films for a gathered group. But, for me, that is pure, even if dedicated performance. Talking about all this, I do wonder what reactions will the sudden appearance of a Gandhi in our own midst, here in the North, elicit? At a busy city square, let us say, or in a crazy shopping mall? Will he be laughed out of his role? Or will he stir thoughts, at least in a few minds? It is hard to say.
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ART & SOUL
