Drama beyond the arclights

Mathivanan Rajendran, who performed for an eclectic audience at the National Arts Festival, Grahamstown and for prison inmates at the town’s correctional facility, recounts his diverse experiences

July 18, 2014 05:16 pm | Updated 05:16 pm IST - chennai:

Mathivanan at a performance.

Mathivanan at a performance.

“Where are you? You need to be in prison in 30 minutes,” a voice calmly states over the phone. I jump out from under four layers of blankets. “Get there chop chop,” says the voice before hanging up. It takes me a few seconds to figure out where I am; I look out of the window of my unheated dorm room, the sounds of tribal chants come from the streets. Yet there’s a row of Victorian buildings in sight.

Grahamstown, South Africa. That’s where I am. Home of the National Arts Festival, the largest arts festival in Africa rivalled only by a handful worldwide. I’ve had three shows; I’m tired, cold and late for an outreach programme to perform at the prison in Grahamstown.

I make my way through the colonial facades to the 1820 Settlers Monument; from here I’m guided by the warden to the Grahamstown Correction Facility. A serious-looking man with a wry sense of humour, “I’m afraid we can’t let you go now, India wants you in jail,” he says, chuckling at his own joke with restraint.

What are you performing he asks me, a question which almost got me into trouble at immigration. I say “Who is Your Osama?” My words taper at the end of the phrase, unwillingly completing my sentence.

He pauses, looks at me, looks at my beard and says “You do look like him.” Produced by Stray Factory, the 50-minute play was designed as a one-man show for the festival.

After a pat down, I’m escorted to the building which on the outside has the architecture (and character) to rival the engineering college I went to, but that’s another story. I make my way through the corridors and I realise that the inmates are clamouring to see me as though I am on display, which I am technically.

The iron gate slamming behind me is a feeling I liken with that instant when the first ray of light streams onto the floor as you walk onto stage, the moment you know, the show has started and there is no going back. In spite of being immersed in this moment which demands philosophising I can oddly think of only one thing: My lines. I am not scared of being there as much as I am about forgetting my lines.

I’m in the courtyard now, there are about 35 inmates freely walking around it. They are friendly and welcoming; their bright orange jumpsuits the only thing that gives them away.

I’m nervous, again not about performing to the inmates but about improvising. I decide to take all the interactive elements in the play and weave a story around that.

I slowly transform into the protagonist Rajini Hassan. I recount how cinema was responsible for impacting the social fabric of Tamil Nadu in the 50s and 60s allowing people to co-habit a common space for the first time in their history. I can sense some interest, but I understand that the only way to engage them is their language, the one language that seems to connect all black Africans — rhythm.

I wear my shades and play ‘Puthiya Vaanam’ and proceed to educate them about how MGR won his audience with his songs. I teach them the moves and they follow with absolute ease.

I want to ensure they get an introduction to South Indian culture, I sell out and weave some of my lines into other quick Kollywood 101 exercises outside of the play ranging from lungi tying to an ensemble ‘dabban koothu’. As I wrap up I’m met with warm glances, one of them requests for my glasses, a request quickly shot down by the warden.

To be honest, I didn’t have time to reflect on who I was performing for until I walk back through the corridors. Having built a decent rapport with the warden, I finally ask him what most of them were inside jail for. “Crimes against women,” he says.

Had I just danced with the devil?

The ride back is quiet, I have mentally moved onto my next public show which is on in two hours. It was an intriguing moment; I really felt like an actor, to have just done my job and walked away.

At that evening’s show I stare into a ‘colourful’ audience, in every essence of the word. Often, I pause and look for an Indian face to see if they recognise the stories of Annadurai and Ellis R. Dungan we have woven in.

After the show, I am befriended by an Indian gentleman who in spite of his Versace hat and Burberry jacket exudes a familiar aura.

“Would you like to join me and my family for some jazz?” he asks. Next thing I know, we are sitting at a bar talking about the history of Indians in South Africa. He speaks no Tamil but fluent Afrikaans and immaculate English. He shares his history and says he is the son of a hawker with his roots near Chennai. ‘What do you do?’ I ask him.

He happens to be one of the first coloured judges in the province. We debate, as he takes me through the apartheid and what it was like for him as a law student and later as an advocate fighting alongside the African National Congress (ANC) in the late 80s. Stories worth gold. We become good friends and we meet through the festival.

“Dancing with prisoners by day and dining with a judge by night.” The rich dichotomy of the experience is overwhelming. The truth that the prisoners felt as familiar to me as the judge really intrigues me.

Perhaps, it’s just the weight of performing at this proverbial cradle of humanity, that’s pushing me to dig deeper. This festival in its 40th year still manages to attract tens of thousands of patrons to its 5,000 odd shows. It pushes us to lift our heads, wilfully acknowledge each other’s existence and encourages us to engage with one another at a much deeper level.

The writer is founder, Stray Factory

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