(30 Aug ‘07)
This was the first time I didn't have to take a day off (casual leave in
local parlance) to stand in the queue for the free passes. Naturally, my queue
friends all apparently missed me (other mad theatre freaks …I think
'worshippers of the performing arts' sounds better). I had a meeting on that
day that couldn't be avoided (and that was eventually cancelled), and a fellow
crazy who understood the agony of missing the year's phukat fest organized some
passes for me. Interestingly, another acquaintance, again a play fanatic, did
the same, which has led me to believe (why was I so naïve to begin with??) that
there are many passes kept aside for 'certain people'. Am not sure I'd like to
get the passes thus, because this annual ritual of standing in the queue with
friends, armed with flasks of lassi and packets of sandwiches, book on lap,
plonked by the kerbside, has its own charm. Age, income groups, social status,
all get erased. Like in the ICU of a hospital.
For a lifestyle as
hectic as mine, the timetable on the festival days went something like this:
0630 hrs, awake with much ringing of the bell by a conscientious part-time maid
(this early-morning variety is a Mumbai product). Quickly make breakfast, pack
tiffin, arrange pass-books to get updated at the bank, take bath, change, and
race to work. Throughout the day one has
to keep an eye on the clock, ‘specially if there is an afternoon and evening
show involved, for that means persuading the boss to give a half day off. The
leave card states "domestic work".
No question of going home before nine, then quickly cook up a dinner and
gulp it down whilst reading the morning's paper and accessing the email. On
yoga-mornings, the time-table gets tighter still. At the end of the ten days,
one's exhausted, wondering how to cope with such a fast pace. And yet, no one
wants to give it up. People come to Mumbai from all over, crib their hearts out
about how dirty, crowded, inhuman, awful the city is, and stay on generation
after generation. Never mind that. Let me tell you about the festival.
Those who stood for a
day to acquire the passes now stand in a queue to get in each evening for the
show. It doesn't matter whether you understand Assamese or Magic Realism or
whatever is being staged, the idea is to witness a live performance that will
'culture' you a bit. Once you've managed to get past the usher who has
scrutinized your bag for chips/water/apples/biscuits, you race inside for a
good seat. That involves some manouvreing. You can't keep a seat for your
spouse or child or friend, because along will come a Human Rights Activist with
slogans of equal rights for all. But ah, once that initial scramble has
settled, you can leave your ticket, or a hanky on your seat, and tell the
person next to you to keep watch, and you can saunter out for a coffee or a
wada. Might as well do so before the show, because in the interval there will
be another queue or another scramble for the eats. More interesting are the loo
queues….people actually bond there, exchange visiting cards and telephone
numbers, and offer lifts home. Swear. One lady did stick to her word and gave
me a lift home one night. Those lifts
are important because once the play is over, the entire audience…oh it's like a
wave of humanity….initially crawls, then trots, then settles into a comfortable
walk across the main road near Worli, where Haji Ali meets Lotus, for this
festival is at Nehru Centre. The traffic has no choice but to stop until the
senior women have hobbled across. The buses that speed at this time of the
night screech to pick up retirees. And all this excitement comes to an abrupt
end….until next year's fest.
@@@@@
No comments:
Post a Comment