Time travel: What makes us connect with our past, asks theatre director Neelam Mansingh Chowdhry

There is something pleasurable about discovering the ancient, and finding connections. I love ferreting out old stories and drinking in the ancient well of knowledge. The story that has held me in thrall is about the nature of ‘time’.

A guru and his disciple are on a journey. As they travel through mountains and across rivers, under the burning sun and strong winds, the guru begins to feel thirsty. He hands his disciple a lota and asks him to bring water from a nearby village. The disciple goes to the village, knocks at a door, which is opened by a beautiful maiden. Wonderstruck by her beauty, he falls in love and subsequently marries her. Many years pass by. The disciple is now a father to three beautiful children. One day, a flood in the village reminds him of his guru waiting for water. Chastised, he brings out the lota, which is now covered with dust, cleans it, fills it with water, and climbs the mountain. He finds his guru still standing where he had left him, waiting for water.

This story made me understand the flexibility of time, the varied ways in which time is perceived, from temporal to cosmic.

In his book ‘Midnight’s Children’, Salman Rushdie wrote: “No people whose word for ‘yesterday’ is the same as their word for ‘tomorrow’ can be said to have a firm grip on time.”. This is because the Hindi word kal means both ‘tomorrow’ and ‘yesterday’.

The story of the guru and his disciple is from the ‘Mahabharata’ and made me realise that the ‘Mahabharata’ is omnipresent — in ditties, parables, folklore, traditional arts, popular culture and cinema. It is amazing how we as a nation connect through an epic poem, and its characters, divine yet flawed, make us understand that even gods are humane and subjected to the wheels of destiny.

What interested me in stories from the ‘Mahabharata’ was their positioning in the literary journey — from the past to the present, and back to the past. It is interesting to emphasise that most of the characters looked in both directions: from the religious dilemma of good versus evil and tales of morality to the complex ambiguities of modern sensibilities, enabling us to transit through history and mythology.

TS Eliot says: “Time present and time past/ Are both perhaps present in time future/ And time future contained in time past.”

If all time is eternally present, as Eliot suggests, then time is not linear, it is cyclic, it loops and swirls. If this is so, how can the past not belong to us and how can the present not be part of the past? These are questions that came into mind, while watching ‘Urubhangam’, a Sanskrit play written by Bhasa, a 3rd century AD playwright considered the father of Sanskrit theatre.

Amongst all the Bhasa plays, ‘Urubhangam’ has an eternal relevance that cuts through centuries. In this oldest surviving one-act play, the hero is Duryodhana, the eldest Kaurava prince, usually regarded as an anti-hero. Duryodhana, wounded by a lethal blow inflicted by his cousin Bhima during the Kurukshetra war, awaits his death stoically. Filled with remorse, he seeks reconciliation with his cousins, the Pandavas. It can also be described as the first anti-war play written in India. The play humanises the villain, Duryodhana, offering an alternative perspective to the grand narrative in the process.

Recently, I saw a performance of ‘Urubhangam’, done in the Kootiyattam form, which is the oldest Sanskrit theatre genre from Kerala. Originating more than 2,000 years ago, Kootiyattam represents a synthesis of Sanskrit classicism and also encompasses within its fold the local traditions, beliefs and aesthetics of Kerala. It is a stylised and codified theatrical language, derived from ‘Natyashastra’, the earliest treatise on music, dance and drama, written somewhere around 200 BCE by the great Bharata Muni. A compendium of theatrical techniques, ‘Natyashastra’ codifies all aspects required for staging a play in minute detail. From backstage discipline to an actor’s relationship with the audience, from the structure of a performance to acting grammar, body language, costumes, make-up, music and the musical instruments played in theatre.

The treatise also laid down the architectural dimensions of the stage and backstage, to its height and seating arrangements, along with decorations and placement of oil lamps.

Kootiyattam is traditionally performed in a space called Kuttampalams, which is located within the precincts of a temple complex in Kerala. The actors trained in Kootiyattam, as attested by purification rituals prior to the show, are considered sacred. Traditionally, the Kuttampalams are illuminated by large oil lamps on stage during the performance, to symbolise the presence of the sacred.

The performance that I saw at the Rangshankara auditorium in Bengaluru a couple of days ago was seeped in mythology and led to a host of questions within me. What is it that makes us connect with our past: is it the characters, the narrative, the religious content? Or do we seek identification with it because of our collective heritage?

‘Urubhangam’ was directed by G Venu. A well-known research scholar, author, performer and director, he has been responsible for the rejuvenation of several rare traditional art forms of Kerala His magnificent daughter, Kapila Venu, learnt Kootiyattam from her father and played the role of Gandhari, the mother of Kauravas.

After the great battle is over, Gandhari goes to Krishna and curses him for not ending the battle even though he had the power to do so. The monologue, where she laments on the futility of war and the loss of her 100 sons, is expressed with fiery poignancy. A unique world — of gods and demons, a lamenting mother and a warrior in the throes of death — is created on the stage. Elaborate headgear, the swirling skirt, the painted faces, the guttural voices, the Mizhavu drummers, the huge brass lamps...

Aided by modern technology, these larger-than-life figures come alive on stage before a mostly urban audience. The shift from temple space to proscenium arch does not, in any way, diminish the impact of these powerful performers. Time stands still, and the epic figures from the ‘Mahabharata’ come alive; they were relatable and not alien figures from an unfamiliar past. When Duryodhana, wounded by Bhima, flailed in pain, his dying breath filled the auditorium.

As indicated in the ‘Natyashastra’, death is not shown in Sanskrit theatre. A hand-held curtain, or Rang-Patti, appears instead. The actor playing Duryodhana removes his costume and walks away from the stage in a mundu. The curtain covers the pile of clothing, almost like a shroud. The gold head gear at the helm looks like a glittering epitaph, commemorating the fallen hero.

Peter Brook very eloquently said: “Even if it’s ancient, by its very nature, theatre is always an act of modernity. A phoenix that has to be constantly brought back to life.”

Kootiyattam is a living tradition and comes alive every night in the chassis of the actor and the imagination of the audience. Watching a performance far removed from the familiar helps to avoid the indisputable separations between the known and the unknown. The tagline should perhaps be: keep your antennae out always, something unusual can happen!

— The writer is a Chandigarh-based theatre director