Hansen, Kathryn;
Grounds for play: the Nauṭaṅkī theatre of North India
University of California Press, 1992, 367 pages fulltext
ISBN 0520072731, 9780520072732
topics: | india | theater
Many of the premodern forms of Indian theatre have religious roots, and earlier scholarship has focused on these genres, stressing the function of theatre as sacred ritual or doctrinal instruction. Less known are the secular stages such as Nautanki, although their folkloric interest and musical complexity arguably surpass those of sectarian theatre. Previous oversight of these forms may owe something to the prejudice against profane amusements held in certain sectors of precolonial Hindu and Muslim society, as well as among British officials and Indian elites schooled in Victorian taste. Political authorities, orthodox believers, and aspirants to respectability have tried to suppress popular cultural practices in many places and times. Nonetheless, secular theatre has enjoyed great renown in India, particularly during the last two hundred years, and forms like Nautanki have played a significant role in the cultural and social processes of the period. I came to the subject of Nautanki through my studies of modern Hindi literature. Trained to view a text as a composite of strategies, I had learned to gauge the artistry of Indian fiction by Western critical yardsticks. Yet the author I chose for my dissertation, the novelist Phanishwarnath Renu, was a master of regionalism. I could not understand his work without immersing myself in the folk culture and dialectal speech of rural Bihar. As I analyzed and translated Renu, I took an excursion into anthropology and folklore, where the seeds of this project germinated. Anthropology alerted me to the importance of cultural performances; folklore studies acquainted me with the large corpus of oral and written narrative in North India; Renu's fiction informed me of the existence of the Nautanki theatre. I approached Nautanki as a performance tradition of primarily verbal and musical dimensions, focusing on the complementarity of literary text and sung performance. Fortunately I encountered ample research materials on both counts. The collections of Darius Swann and Frances Pritchett directed me to the large repertoire of Sangit texts (Nautanki librettos) circulating in India.[10] The first texts to come into my possession were photocopies from the filmmaker Ron Hess. Following this auspicious start, I visited Chicago in 1982 to catalogue Pritchett's collection and augment my own. During trips to India in the summer of 1982 and the winter of 1984, I purchased more Sangits in Delhi, Lucknow, Mathura, and Jaipur. Meanwhile I learned of the old Sangits housed in the Oriental Manuscripts and Printed Books division of the British Museum and in the India Office Library in London.[11] I first visited the London libraries for three weeks in May 1983, returning for two weeks in October 1984. Working in the austere conditions of these remarkable institutions, I accumulated two copybooks of notes and entered catalogue details on hundreds of index cards. Eventually I obtained photocopies of certain texts and a number of rare photographs of illustrated Sangit covers, including those reproduced in this book.
First Meeting
Once in a land far, far away, there lived a princess of peerless beauty. She
dwelt cloistered in an impenetrable palace, surrounded by dense groves and
watched over night and day. Distant and inaccessible though she was, her name
had reached all corners of the country. Here was a damsel whose delicacy put
even the fairies to shame. The radiant glow of her body made the moon's
luster pale. Her eyes were like a doe's; she had the voice of a cuckoo. When
she laughed, jasmine blossoms fell. In the prime of her youth, she maddened
men with her lotus-like breasts and the three folds at her waist. Whenever
she set foot outside, she was as if borne aloft on the gusts of wind, like a
houri of paradise. Such was her supreme ethereality that her weight could be
measured only against a portion of flowers.[1]
This princess was known in many different regions of India. She appeared
under a series of names, each incorporating the word phul, meaning "flower."
In Rajasthani folklore, she was called Phulan De Rani, and she was pursued by
a prince who was the youngest of seven sons.[2] In the pan-Indian tale of two
brothers named either Sit and Bas-ant or Rup and Basant, princess Phulvanti
weighed only one flower.[3] In Sind and Gujarat, she was known as Phulpancha
(five flowers) because the fifth flower caused the balance beam to tip. Here
too she was associated with a two-brother team, Phul Singh and Rup Singh, the
younger
of whom was her suitor.[4] In the Goanese account, her name was Panchphula
Rani, as it was in one North Indian version.[5] The Punjabi tale styled her
Badshahzadi Phuli or Phulazadi, "Princess Blossom" as translated by colonial
collectors.[6]
In the latter half of the nineteenth century, when most of these tales were
recorded, a drama called Princess Nautanki (Nautanki shahzadi ) was also
being performed. It employed a music-laden style popular in rural Punjab and
Uttar Pradesh.[7] Nautanki was Panchphula literally weighed in a different
coin. Nau means "nine" and tank, a measure of silver currency equivalent to
approximately four grams. Thus Nautanki: a woman whose weight was only 36
grams. Nautanki was the princess of Multan, flower-light, fairylike, whose
fame had traveled far and wide. She was the beloved of the Punjabi lad Phul
Singh, younger brother of Bhup Singh. Her story is still being told.
What is it like, this roving theatre? What is its name, do you know?
This is Nautanki. That's right, Nautanki! The chief attraction of
village fairs in Uttar Pradesh. Several days before the fair starts, the
tents; and trappings arrive on a truck and are set up at a fixed spot. A
large tent is stretched out to form a hall. At its head, a good-sized
stage is erected and adorned with curtains. All the arrangements are
made for the lighting. In front of the stage, places are fixed for the
audience to sit. A big gate is put up outside, and a signboard attached
to it with the name of the Nautanki. As soon as the bustle of the fair
gets underway, the main performers arrive on the scene. Then at a fixed
time an announcement is made and the Nautanki commences. The same
individuals you watched putting Up the tents and curtains now appear
before you on stage, acting out roles and singing and dancing.[8] p.10
NAVBHARAT TIMES INTERVIEWER: Your name has become almost a synonym for
Nautanki nowadays. When and how did you become associated with it?
GULAB BAI, FAMOUS NAUTANKI ACTRESS OF KANPUR: This is the result of my
fifty-five years of self-sacrifice. My father was a poor farmer. He was
the one who had me join Trimohan Lal's company in 1929. I was only eleven
years old at the time. With Trimohanji's guidance, I worked in the company
for roughly twenty years. In the beginning, I got about 50 rupees a month,
which later rose to 2,000 rupees.
NAVBHARAT TIMES: After working in Trimohan's company for so many years, why
did you decide to leave and form your own separate company? And how did
you become successful at operating it?
GULAB BAI: That decision grew out of an unfortunate incident. My sister fell
off a balcony and was seriously injured. I asked Trimohanji for money for
her medical treatment. He put me off with "Come back tomorrow." I told him
any number of times that her condition was deteriorating, but he wouldn't
listen to me. So that was when I left the company. Later I got together
with my sisters Pan Kunwari, Nilam, Suraiyya, and Chanchala Kumari, and we
formed a separate company. We organized the costumes and props and so on
and started playing for wedding parties. The audiences praised us. In that
way, we started up, with our own dedication and others' blessings.
NAVBHARAT TIMES: Up until now how many performances have you given?
GULAB BAI: It's difficult to tell exactly how many performances there have
been. But by 1942 I had performed approximately twenty thousand times.[9]
MALIKA BEGAM, NAUTANKI ACTRESS OF LUCKNOW: Previously, big officers used to
call for us every day. They'd summon the Nautanki company managers and
tell them to make the necessary arrangements. Then all the big
officials, their wives, all the best gentry, all kinds of people would
come. . .. The public was extremely fond of Nautanki. Whenever a program
was over and we were leaving by bus or train, all the students, leaders,
and so on brought bouquets and bade us farewell. Such respect, how can I
tell you? . . . When we were on stage, there could be a dead body lying
at home, but when we went on stage, we thought that if we were playing
Laila, we were Laila; if we were playing Shirin, we were Shirin. We
forgot our everyday reality, whatever we were.
KATHRYN HANSEN: How many people were in your company?
MALIKA BEGAM: At that time, including labor, there were eighty. It depended
on the scale of the company. If it was small, then fifteen, twenty,
twenty-five men; if large, then eighty or a hundred, including
labor. There were four managers in each of the big companies.
KATHRYN HANSEN: How much did you make back then?
MALIKA BEGAM: Sometimes 2,500 rupees a month, sometimes 2,000.[10]
The Hindi author Phanishwarnath Renu describes the encounter of a cartman and
a Nautanki actress in his short story "The Third Vow."
Everybody had heard of Hirabai, the actress who played Laila in the
Mathura Mohan Nautanki Company. But Hiraman was quite extraordinary. He
was a cartman who'd been carrying loads to fairs for years, yet he'd never
seen a theatre show or motion picture. Nor had he heard the name of Laila
or Hirabai, let alone seen her.
So he was a little apprehensive when he met his first "company woman" at
midnight, all dressed in black. Her manager haggled with him over her
fare, then helped her into Hiraman's cart, motioning for him to start, and
vanished into the dark.
Hiraman was dumbfounded. How could anyone drive a cart like this? For one
thing, he had a tickle down his spine, and for another, a jasmine was
blooming in his cart. Only God knew what was written in his fate this
time!
As he turned his cart to the east, a ray of moonlight pierced the canopied
enclosure. A firefly sparkled on his passenger's nose. What if she were a
witch or a demon?
Hiraman's passenger shifted her position. The moonlight fell full on her
face, and Hiraman stifled a cry, "My God! She's a fairy!"
The fairy opened her eyes.[11]
Hindi dictionaries do not include the term nautanki before 1951. It occurs in neither Thompson's Dictionary in Hindee and English (1862) nor Platts's Dictionary of Urdu, Classical Hindi, and English (1884). Of the Hindi-English dictionaries currently in wide use, Chaturvedi and Tiwari's Practical Hindi-English Dictionary contains no entry, and the Minakshi hindi-angrezi kosh says simply "folk-dance, village-drama." [Nautanki's absence from the lexicons:] A clue may be discovered in the unusual association of a folklore genre with a female character. The fetching Nautanki of legend may be intent on conquest, but her territory is the heart, not the battlefield. Does this make her theatre less noble than the epics of the heroes? What is implied when a theatrical tradition is identified with a woman, a supremely desirable woman? The nomenclature linking this folk theatre with the female gender may be the most singular indicator of its nature. It suggests the sociolinguistic and cultural veils that have cloaked Nautanki in mystery thus far. Forbesganj was Hiraman's second home. Who knows how many times he'd come to Forbesganj carrying loads to the fair. But carrying a woman? Yes, one time he had when his sister-in-law came to live with her husband. They put a canvas enclosure around the cart, just as Hiraman was doing now. The fair was to open tomorrow. Already a huge crowd, and the camps were jammed with tents. First thing in the morning Hirabai would go join the Rauta Nautanki Company. But tonight she stayed in Hiraman's cart, in Hiraman's home. Next day, Hirarnan and his two companions entered the eightanna section. This was their first look inside a theatre tent. The section with the benches and chairs was up front. On the stage hung a curtain with a picture of Lord Ram going to the forest. Palatdas recognized it and joined his hands to salute the painted figures of Ram, princess Sita, and brother Lakshman. "Hail! Hail!" he uttered as his eyes filled with tears. Dhan-dhan-dhan-dharam ! rolled the drums. The curtain rose. Hirabai immediately entered the stage. The tent was packed. Hiraman's jaw dropped. Lalmohar laughed at every line of Hirabai's song, for no good reason. "Her dancing is incredible!" "What a voice!" "You know, this man says Hirabai never touches tobacco or betel." "He's right. She's a well-bred whore."
The word Nautanki first entered my vocabulary when I read Renu's Hindi short story, "The Third Vow." Set in his home district of Purnea in Bihar, the story follows a rustic cart driver as he hauls an unusual load — a Nautanki actress — to a rural fair. During their journey, a tender and sheltered friendship develops between the illiterate laborer Hiraman and the urbane, glamorous Hirabai. The friendship somehow survives the disorienting experience of the fair, where Hiraman attempts to protect himself and Hirabai from the common view that the Nautanki theatre is disreputable and its actresses dissolute. Renu writes into his text the sensory dimensions of experience, the sounds and smells, the feel of the countryside. The lurch of the cart into the ditch, the fragrance of night jasmine, the crescendo of kettledrums, the tingle of fear and pleasure down the spine: these details carry the reader into a palpable realm where emotion and sensation intermingle. Meanwhile, the story creates a rich contextualization of Nautanki, evoking the theatrical experience in rural India, and telling us much about the mythic meanings of folk theatre for its audience. Renu places Nautanki in the premodern landscape of India's northern plains. In this world of villages, cartmen, loads, and country fairs, transport by rail or truck is yet to come. Goods — be they legal or contraband, tied down or unwieldy, inanimate or dangerously alive (as narrated in the tales of Hiraman's cloth smuggling, bamboo hauling, and tiger transporting, all activities he has now foresworn)—move on creakyaxled cart beds drawn by recalcitrant bullocks. The carts wind down dusty tracks, or stray off to less-worn paths, crossing dry riverbeds and pausing beneath the occasional shade tree for respite from the sun. The sites of fairs and markets are the nodes in this network of tracks, bringing together drivers and their customers, and offering opportunities for camaraderie, entertainment, and relaxation. It is natural then that the cart driver Hiraman should react with apprehension, even terror, when he first encounters an actress, Hirabai, late one night. He fears she might be a demoness or a witch: dangerous residues of repressed female rage, who return after a woman's death to torment her former oppressors. Instead, in the moonlight Hirabai's face reveals her to be a fairy (pari ), an equally unearthly but beneficent supernatural. Paris are the residents of heaven in Indo-Islamic mythology, counterparts to the apsaras of Hindu legend, and they appear in many late medieval narratives as well as in the drama. Ethereal, unweighable, borne on the breeze, the fairy is a paragon of beauty, the ideal form of the beloved. As the story advances, Hiraman domesticates this otherworldly being — paradoxically, by deifying her. He interprets her kindness in conversing with him as a boon of the goddess, an act of grace. To Hiraman, it is as though one of the celestials is riding in his cart, a reference to the practice of publicly parading the temple idol in a cart during annual temple festivals. The dedication and service that Hiraman offers to Hirabai — his protection of her inside the canopy, his ritualized offering of food and drink, and his constant attentions — are the appropriate gestures of a devotee toward the divine. All these behaviors are justified and symbolized through the appellation he gives her, "Hiradevi," Hira the goddess. The status attached to god or goddess implies a hierarchy, the worshiper figuratively and literally placed beneath the deity. Yet in India, the relationship a worshiper enjoys with the divine is intense and volatile in affect. A widespread cultural metaphor likens the deity and the devotee to lovers in the most intimate emotional bond. Within this mode, opportunities exist for the worshiper to invert the hierarchy and "dominate" the chosen deity with demands, pleadings, and offerings. Hiraman's deification of Hirabai keeps her at a safe distance, but it also provides a known avenue of approach. His response illustrates the comfortable adulation heaped upon theatre artists and other celebrities by the rural audience. "Gods from another realm" is one way in which they can be appropriated and rendered manageable. Against this cluster of admiring attitudes stands the complex of prohibitions and taboos associated with all secular entertainments, but especially dance, theatre, and film in India. Hiraman, an innocent, has never seen a theatre show or motion picture, largely because he fears his sister-in-law's disapproval. When he meets his fellow cartmen in Forbesganj, they make a pact that none will mention their Nautanki experience back in the village. The basis for their circumspection is guilt by association, for "company women" are reputed to be prostitutes. This widely held perception challenges Hiraman and torments him throughout his stay in Forbesganj, but he continues his protective behavior toward Hirabai, brawling with audience members who "insult" her and later suggesting she abandon acting and join the more respectable circus. No specific information is presented in Renu's story about Hirabai's sexual life, and to the end the reader remains in the dark (as does Hiraman), unable to determine if Hirabai ought to be ranked as a goddess or a whore. This authorial withholding is one of the sources of bittersweet ambiguity in the story. Beyond the text, however, the selling of sexual favors is not essential to the definition of a stage actress as a prostitute, either in North India or in other societies. Gender roles in this agriculturally based patriarchal society are defined in spatial terms, with women occupying private inside spaces and men public outer ones. "Where's the man who said that? How dare he call a company woman a whore?" Hiraman's voice rose above the crowd.. "What's it to you? Are you her pimp?" "Beat him up, the scoundrel!" Through the hullabaloo in the tent, Hiraman boomed out, "I'll throttle each and every one of you!" Lalmohar was assaulting people with his bullock whip. Palatdas sat on a man's chest pummeling him. The Nautanki manager rushed over with his Nepali watchman. The kotval rained blows on all and sundry. Meanwhile the manager had figured out the cause of the fracas. He explained to the kotval, "Now I understand, sir. All this trouble is the work of the Mathura Mohan Company. They're trying to disgrace our company by starting a brawl during the show. Please release these men, sir. They're Hirabai's bodyguards. The poor woman's life is in danger!" The kotval let Hiraman and his friends go, but their carter's whips were confiscated. The manager seated all three on chairs in the one-rupee section and told the watchman to go and bring them betel leaf by way of hospitality. Hiraman turned his head when he heard Lalmohar's voice. "Hirabai's looking for you at the railway station. She's leaving," Lalmohar related breathlessly. Hiraman ran to the station. Hirabai was standing at the door to the women's waiting room, covered in a veil. Her hand contained the coin purse Hiraman had given her for safekeeping. "Thank God, we've met," she held out the purse. "I had given up hope. I won't be able to see you from now on. I'm leaving!" Hiraman took the purse and stood there, speechless. Hirabai became restless. "Hiraman, come here inside," she beckoned. "I'm going back to the Mathura Mohan Company. They're from my own region. You'll come to the fair at Banaili, won't you?" Hirabai climbed into the compartment. The train whistled and started to move. The pounding of Hiraman's heart subsided. Hirabai wiped her face with a magenta handkerchief and, waving it, indicated "Go now." The last car passed by. The platform was empty. All was empty. Hollow. Freight cars. The world had become empty. Hiraman returned to his cart. He couldn't bear to turn around and look under the empty canopy. Today too his back was tingling. Today too a jasmine bloomed in his cart. The beat of the nagara accompanied the fragment of a song. He looked in back — no gunnysacks, no bamboo, no passenger. Fairy ... goddess ... friend ... Hiradevi — none of these. Mute voices of vanished moments tried to speak. Hiraman's lips moved. Perhaps he was taking a third vow — no more company women. Ananda Kentish Coomaraswamy Book Prize, 1994