Agony well-conveyed

A chapter from the chequered life of actress Hamsa Wadkar was brought alive at Amethyst the other evening. ELIZABETH ROY shares her experience with the readers.

HAMSA WADKAR was 50 (give or take a year or two) when she died in 1972. There was only the usual and the expected in the storyline that society drew for her. At 11 she was plucked out of school and pushed into acting in films to earn Rs. 250, so she could augment her drunken father's income and keep her brother in school.

Hamsa was born with stunning looks, she was enormously talented and at the time India was struggling for independence, she went on to become a highly sought after and successful actress.

In 1970, two years before she died, she narrated her autobiography `Sangatye Aika' (I'm Telling You, Listen). The oral documentation points to an extraordinary woman who lived ahead of her times and left behind 30-odd films. She sought honour in her work, and rebelled when she could not follow her heart. She learned the meaning of fortitude as only a woman can.

Hamsa changed her name because her brother was ashamed of the profession that fetched money to put him through school.

At 14 she married Bandarkar who had been courting her for eight years. She was at the time three months pregnant in defiance of her mother. The husband who was ``good'' to her allowed her neither the peace of a domestic life nor the joys of motherhood. One daughter escaped the snares of abortion. She continued to earn for an exploitative husband.

Hamsa repeatedly left home to roam mother earth in a woman's ``eternal search.'' What started off as a little tryst with a rich landlord landed her as a third, unofficial wife, confined to domestic labour. She managed to get word to Bandarkar who rescued her with police help but not before the magistrate got her away alone, beat her and raped her. She returned to her daughter and home after three years.

By the time the State honoured her with an award, she was an alcoholic, living a solitary life away from her daughter and impetuously in the company of younger and younger actors.

Shyam Benegal paid her homage by making ``Bhoomika'' in her memory.

Prasanna Ramaswamy chose a chapter (in translation) from this autobiography to direct Bhagirathi Narayanan for a Madras Players Theatre Club evening at the Amethyst.

It was an engrossing evening for many reasons. Both Prasanna and Bhagirathi have been for years engaged in the enquiry into a woman's world and her space.

The director's choice of the text was fascinating. It gave you a glimpse of a different world seen with a different perception. It raised several present day issues from a woman's point of view. While much has changed in the life of a woman in India today the ingredients remain the same, and in a strange way, much has not changed.

Bhagirathi did a superb job of bringing to life basically a chapter out of an autobiography written in a very oral style. Being a seasoned actress, she put a lot of feeling and emotion into it, reflecting the emotions that Hamsa would have gone through, internalising the sub-text as she always does.

The large and ancient hall of Amethyst with its black and white flooring, intricately worked doors and windows and, more interestingly, Kiran Rao's antique furniture (on sale!) created a wonderful ambience and a perfect setting. The performance had the audience stunned into silence.

The production (informal though it was) was meticulously planned and every little detail taken care of.

The footage from one of Hamsa Wadkar's films, which opened the evening, was fascinating. It helped to locate the person being discussed. It moved into the typical touch which has become a signature of Prasanna's direction - a moment in the reality of the present of the actor (as different from the character he or she later plays), usually a telephone conversation.

In this case Bhagirathi is translating Hamsa's autobiography for Susie Tharu and Lalitha's anthology of women's writing and conversing on the telephone about it. Movement of light and she takes on Hamsa, 50 now and narrating her biography.

The little pockets of conversation that followed the performance, into the yard, indicate that the production generated several interpretations and a range of responses.

While there was no question about the quality of performance from Bhagirathi, the standing of the actor was in question. Who does she stand for, who does she stand on behalf of? Was she the translator? Was she the actress? In which case, to whom was she talking?

The problem perhaps points to the question, can a biography be performed unless you put it through the paces of what actually happened and with enough happening around it to fill in the gaps.

Is one suggesting that text should have been an adaptation of sorts? Perhaps Sangatye Aika is difficult as theatre material? Perhaps it is story-telling material and there could have been a storyteller who wanted to share with her audience an interesting text she came across? For those who took this view the aesthetically designed setting was redundant and the crowded moves distracting. And the striking movement of lights was wasted on limited canvas the text permitted.

Interestingly, this systemic confusion did not detract from the immediacy and the impact of the performance per se.

It was a privilege to encounter a text that has so much going for it and had the audience entranced.

Prasanna and Bhagirathi brought it alive for the people of Chennai. As we walked out on to the road that night, one could almost sense Hamsa within the confines of Sunder Mahal, still gorgeous in her advancing years, turning to alcohol and solitude for answers.

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