Naseeruddin Shah's son Imaad says actor refused to pay for his FTII education, asked him to fund it himself: ‘Baba has his own relationship with…'
'I felt we have the resources, and we'd really like our kids to have formal education opportunities. But all of them rejected those opportunities,' said Ratna. 'They did their basic education, but no skilling kind of training did they want from a formal setup. And it bothered me a great deal,' she added.
In the podcast on the YouTube channel of Aadyam Theatre, Ratna and Naseeruddin's elder son Imaad Shah recalled that when he told his father he wanted to go to the Film & Television Institute of India (FTII), he asked Imaad to fund it himself. 'Baba had his own relationship with FTII,' said Imaad.
For the uninitiated, when Naseeruddin Shah was a student at FTII Pune, he participated in a hunger strike because the direction course students outsourced more experienced actors for their short film instead of hiring actors from the acting course at FTII. 'There were actually students of acting who went through their two years without once facing a camera,' he wrote in his 2014 memoir And Then One Day, adding that the event created 'lasting animosities.'
Like Ratna, Naseeruddin also wanted his kids to be educated even if they wanted to be actors. 'What the acting profession needs is educated actors. That's a very strong belief I have. Every young man or lady who comes to me and says I want to be an actor, I tell them don't think that means you can skip your education. It's a crying need today. We've had uneducated actors ruling the roost long enough,' said Naseeruddin.
Ratna added that she's glad their kids pursued advanced education eventually, even though that was self-taught. 'They are all genuinely self-educated in spite of all the formal education opportunities they had. Their work-related education is almost entirely self-motivated. I find that very fascinating. I wonder what the drawbacks of that are. There are a few, I can see. But it's a terrific way to approach training yourself,' she said.
Also Read — 'Grumpy and disinterested' Sanjeev Kumar told Sai Paranjpye that he could spare just 15 minutes for narration, backed out of film because he had beef with Basu Bhattacharya
Naseeruddin quoted the examples of late actor Om Puri and late cinematographer Ashok Mehta as self-taught masters of their respective professions. He lauded daughter Heeba Shah for writing plays, which he or Ratna has never achieved. While Imaad also learnt music, and is a member of the band Madboy/Mink, the younger son Vivaan Shah is an author apart from being an actor. He's written three books so far.
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Indian Express
a day ago
- Indian Express
Mukesh Khanna on making Shaktimaan for Gen Z: ‘I will show mobile phone as villain in the first episode'
During this interview, Mukesh Khanna, best known for playing Bhishma Pitamah in Mahabharat and the iconic superhero Shaktimaan, makes it clear that his journey has always been on his terms. Describing himself as a 'dramatic actor,' he shared that he has acted in only 60 films, waited nearly eight years before his breakout role, and never chased fame or work. 'God has given me a lot of security… I have never been over-ambitious,' he said. Now, as he steps into Gujarati cinema for the first time, the veteran actor opens up about playing India's OG superhero, why Shaktimaan can't be compared to the Avengers, his views on Gen Z, and the disciplined lifestyle he has lived by for decades. Read the edited excerpts below. Mukesh Khanna: My journey has been as per my terms. I live and work at my own expense. Whatever I have done to date has been at my own expense. So, I am not a struggler who will go to a party and ask for a film role. I have never asked anyone for anything. Whatever I have got, God has given. So, my journey has been superb; it's more than I could have asked for. Mukesh Khanna: The industry has changed drastically. Earlier, scripts came first, and then actors were cast. Today, once you get a big star, the script is written around them. Back then, there was more honesty in storytelling. For example, Zanjeer went to seven actors before Amitabh Bachchan got it. These days, the stars are a little oriented, and the content is getting beaten up a little, which is very sad. I say so because it is always the script – whether it was Bhishma Pitamah in Mahabharat or Shaktimaan – and not Mukesh Khanna who made these popular. Somewhere, I feel that the value of writers, who should be paid more than the stars, has decreased. Also, the atmosphere was different. Earlier, there was a family-like vibe. People would sit together and eat on the floor. Now it's all vans and isolation. Groupism has also taken over. The focus has shifted, and that has affected the spirit of filmmaking. Mukesh Khanna: My heyday was in the 80s, and it continues. I was in Mahabharat in 1989, and in films before that. I've never been a downer. God has given me a lot of security. I was born in Mumbai, always had a roof over my head. I am BSE, LLB, and then studied at FTII. I am not overambitious. If I am good, the makers will call me. But I should also need them, it's then that I enjoy working. I have lived according to my standards. I haven't missed anything. However, I might have become a plastic engineer, if I hadn't become an actor. But I didn't get admission there, and chose acting. A post shared by Mukesh Khanna (@iammukeshkhanna) Mukesh Khanna: I usually don't do regional films, barring a few in Punjabi and Marathi. If I don't have command over a language, I don't enjoy performing. I love delivering my own lines. My dialogues are good because I don't throw them away, I don't swallow them either. Even today, I remember 20–25 dialogues from Mahabharat. When I was first approached for this film, I declined because I can't speak Gujarati fluently. But when the director said my dialogues would be in Hindi, I agreed to hear the script. I found the role meaningful; it addresses the problems affecting our youth today. I play a bureau chief appointed by the government to tackle these issues. It's a powerful film, and for a Gujarati production, the scale is commendable. Mukesh Khanna: You can't say it's something out of the world. But I have used my personality to essay the part. I'm not one of those actors who completely get into the role, like Irrfan Khan or Nawazuddin Siddiqui. I am a dramatic actor, and use my body, language, and voice, and that was exactly what the role needed. Mukesh Khanna: The most important thing is what I'm doing in the film. Not the money, not the producer. Once, I even turned down a Hollywood film because they wouldn't tell me the story or my role. They just said, 'Send us your portfolio.' I replied, 'Send me the script first –– what am I doing?' That's how I am. I need to know what I will be doing in the film. I don't care who's big or famous in front of me. I've done three films with Dilip Sir, Rajkumar Sir. For me, what matters most is my role. That's my criteria. That's also why you see me in fewer films. In my entire career, I have done only 60 films. Mukesh Khanna: Shaktimaan is like Ramayana or Mahabharat — you cannot change its essence. I've spent the last four years working on the reboot with Sony International, and casting the new Shaktimaan is a crucial decision. He must look honest and pure. People say, 'The Avengers have come; increase Shaktimaan's powers.' I say no. Shaktimaan's powers come from his inner strength, not gadgets. Iron Man and Spider-Man are earthly creations. Shaktimaan is rooted in Indian values. Yes, we will modernise the presentation – the look, the gadgets – but the soul of Shaktimaan will stay the same. If we bring it back today, it won't compete with the Avengers. It will compete with the original Shaktimaan. Today's kids need him more than ever. They're lost in a digital world. If I were to make it today, I'd show the mobile phone as the villain in the very first episode. The threats have changed, but Shaktimaan's values remain timeless. Mukesh Khanna: I've never believed in achieving things by hook or crook. I waited eight years before Mahabharat made me a star. I had already acted in 15 films, some flopped, some didn't. But I never chased fame or asked for work. Maybe God gave me the strength to wait. I've always told people: 'Give me an offer I can't refuse.' That's my version of the famous Marlon Brando line. I have rules — I won't play a villain, I won't shave my beard, I won't do romantic scenes. Take me as I am, or don't. That's what keeps me mentally strong. People often say, 'Sir, you talk too much. No one will give you films.' And I reply, 'Then I'll make my own.' That's the attitude I carry. Mukesh Khanna: I'm a strict vegetarian. I've never had even a sip of beer — never smoked, never tried a cigarette. It is not difficult for me to maintain discipline. I also practise yoga and strongly advocate for it. Forget everything else, do yoga, meditate, do pranayama. I've been doing this for over 20 years. Yoga takes care of the body and the mind. And it's the mind that creates restlessness. Control the mind, control your breath, and you'll find balance. I truly believe that if you exercise in the morning, the day belongs to you. I live by that. A post shared by Mukesh Khanna (@iammukeshkhanna) Mukesh Khanna: Honestly, I've never had such desires. I never idolised anyone. I didn't dream of working with anyone. Yet, I played Dilip Kumar's son. I did three films with Raj Kumar. Shah Rukh Khan once played my son. Karisma Kapoor and Akshay Kumar both debuted in films with me. So no, there's no particular ambition. What I wish is for people to feel the desire to work with me. Shweta Sharma leads the lifestyle section at Over the years, she has written about culture, music, art, books, health, fashion, and food. She can be reached at ... Read More
The Hindu
2 days ago
- The Hindu
From Ritwik Ghatak to John Abraham: A Radical Cinematic Legacy
Published : Jul 26, 2025 17:49 IST - 14 MINS READ The birth centenary this year of Ritwik Ghatak, the redoubtable chronicler of the partition of Bengal as also of the naxalite movement, is as good an occasion as any to recall the insightful words of the independent American critic Jacob Levich, who studied the cinemas of both Ghatak and, arguably, his foremost student, John Abraham, with equal keenness: 'Ghatak's stint as vice-principal of Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) for a short while in the 1960's left something of him in his students. A John Abraham would never have happened were it not for the tutelage of Ghatak. Abraham did what he did because Ghatak validated his angst. Perhaps, similar was the case with his other protégés, but besides these few men, the legacy of Ghatak seems to have terminated. We need more people to be aware of this great man's ouevre and humanity. We need young filmmakers to continue in the tradition of this alternative school of filmmaking.' When Abraham died at the age of 49, there died with him a part of what is known as the 'Ritwik vision', for none of his Institute students had so tenaciously stuck to his credo, if not his craft, as Abraham. Ghatak had faith in Abraham; he sensed in the young man a capacity for creativity springing from a sense of protest that he did not find in too many of his students at the Pune institute, or elsewhere. Talking to an interviewer, Ghatak said that he 'pinned' his faith on Abraham; and Abraham did not fail his Ritwik-da. Especially in his last film, Amma Ariyan, which may be read as a homage to both Mother as well as to Mentor, but in a language far removed from that of the Bengal master. We should not fail to notice that though their social philosophy was uncannily similar, the two were quite different when it came to the use of poetics or aesthetics to make their respective personae felt. It was poor consolation to those who knew and loved Abraham that the short, lean, bearded man died with the knowledge that his last film had won two prestigious prizes at the National awards for 1986: the special jury award for excellence in direction and another for best black-and-white cinematography (by the gifted Venu). The New Wave I first heard of Abraham sometime in the second half of the 1970s when his second film, Agraharathil Kazhuthai (Donkey in a Brahmin Village), caused a wave of critical interest. Made in Tamil and not in his native Malayalam, Donkey was a delightful and disturbing satire on Brahmin bigotry and superstition told through the story of a little donkey. The poor creature is blamed for all the ills that descend on the village and is ultimately killed by some people hired by the local Brahmins. But the tongue-in-cheek Abraham would not let the story rest at that. The humble four-legged on which The Family rode into Bethlehem was invested with posthumous miraculous powers as also a frightening capacity to invoke an apocalyptic end. Following the death of the donkey, an absconding son returns out of the blue, a lame woman is able to walk again, so on and so forth. The sinner becomes a saint overnight: a temple is raised to the memory of the benevolent creature, and black humour expressed in an almost documentary style has a field day. While the film was eminently successful in giving an idea of how people with closed minds give birth to a rigid and cruel society, it could also be read as an allegory with recognisable parallels in human experience. Many an innocent person is hounded out of his wits in his lifetime, only to be pronounced blameless, even blessed, when he is safely dead and buried or cremated or whatever. Also Read | What happens to radical cinema in reactionary times? When Ghatak was alive and made his kind of films with a conviction and vengeance hard to come by in Indian cinemas, which naturally caused a lot of discomfort to varied vested interests, he was declared to be insane as a result of excessive drinking over a period of many years. But once he was dead and could no longer be a thorn in anyone's flesh, or so they thought, retrospectives of his films began to be held all over, and such homage started being paid to him by word of mouth or in writing as would have perhaps caused him to wither away in embarrassment had he been living. A similar fate was reserved for Abraham. For many years, he was treated as some kind of a joke, on account of his drinking and his offhand lifestyle. Little or no mention was made in well-defined circles of his importance as a filmmaker and intellectual. But those who knew him well and had also done a bit of history-reading could easily make out that those who laughed at him were extremely nervous in their laughter, for they saw in Abraham a threat to the iniquitous established order of things. Born in Changanacherry in Kerala, Abraham graduated from Kerala University. After adorning a clerical chair at the LIC office in Bangalore for a while, he joined the FTII in Pune. His first film won the National award for best story, but went largely unnoticed. It was with Donkey, his second film, that he made many sit up in admiration. It was five years before he could make his third film. Amma Ariyan, his fourth and last work, made Abraham a legend. Rarely has a film established a director as firmly in the minds and hearts of viewers as Amma Ariyan did. Crossing State boundaries and regional frontiers with a sureness that was difficult to believe when it first began to happen in the late 1980s, Amma Ariyan has acquired a pan-Indian audience today that is characterised by mature thinking about cinema as art, politics, and philosophical discourse, not confined to metaphysical niceties. Abraham's political philosophy is full-bodied, rooted in the searing lives and experiences of the people he chooses to portray, and yet ethereal in a moving, contrarian sort of way. One of the mysteries of what goes by the name of New Indian Cinema, that never ceases to haunt me, relates to the question of what further conquests Abraham would have made had he not died at the young age of 49 after taking that quantum leap with Amma Ariyan, which could be the dream of many a filmmaker of high substance. To leave just at the moment when one is poised to join the pantheon is a sadness that is difficult to express adequately. It is impossible not to get emotional while discussing this unforgettable 'people's artist', not so much in the sense of social realism as value-driven humanism with an unflinching agenda not to submit to the tyrannies of history or the market, come what may. While on the subject of the near-hysterical allegiance on the part of many viewers in Kerala, Bengal, and elsewhere to the artistic and political legacy of Abraham, I strongly repudiate any suggestion made by some 'established' filmmakers that the allegiance is juvenile or mindless over-enthusiasm. It is the likes of Abraham and Ghatak who have given to film art in India that cutting edge, without which the viewing experience is reduced to, well, viewing for the sake of viewing. Cinema is a many-roomed mansion; and the master and his pupil, who was himself maturing into a master when prematurely snatched away, inhabited a particularly ill-furnished chamber reserved for those opposed to mathematical precision or clinical cleanliness in art. Perhaps, making it big in the world in his lifetime may not be the best thing to happen to an artist. A teacher's worth It has been said that one reliable way of measuring the worth of a teacher is to explore the quality of the work done by his best students. By that standard, Ghatak appears to have succeeded splendidly. For the brief period that he taught at FTII, he had among his students some brilliant young minds who, in subsequent times, went on to be major contributors to what is known as New Indian Cinema, a creative and interrogative movement lasting all through the fourth quarter of the last century. They included Mani Kaul, Saeed Mirza, Nirad Mahapatra, Kumar Shahani, and Abraham. It was only to be expected that a modern and powerful medium like film should take note of the naxalite movement in its different regional avatars in this vast and variegated country. In this connection, two films immediately come to mind—Ghatak's Jukti Tokko Aar Goppo (Reason, Debate and a Story) and Abraham's Amma Ariyan (Letter to Mother)—not only because they deal with a common theme, but also because the viewer is repeatedly reminded of the commonality of their makers, their attitudes, purposes, and sensibilities. Abraham was able to direct only four films in about two decades. Of these, the last, Amma Ariyan, gave rise to important discussions by virtue of its depiction of what the director perceived to be the naxalite persona in Kerala, and many things besides. Amma Ariyan has a slow, stretched-out beginning lasting for half an hour or so. For those who know their Abraham well, there is nothing exasperating in this; for others, it could well prove to be a test of patience. But for those who pass the test, the next one and a half hours could come as a revelation. The film is structurally reminiscent of Jukti Tokko Aar Goppo, which tried to come to ideological grips with a group of militant young naxalites holed up in a jungle, both fearless and vulnerable at one and the same time. Ghatak's film starts in the port city of Calcutta and ends in wooded hill country; Abraham's starts in the northern highlands of Kerala and ends in the port city of Cochin. Both cities carry memories of the arrival of foreigners who turned into exploiters. Thematically, too, the two films are of a piece. The same attempt at indicating the historical links between the past, especially the post-Independence past, and the present; the same fierce faith in the coming generations which, however, would do well, or so the directors seem to maintain, to seriously examine the dialectics of human relationships before plunging into the maelstrom of political and social liberation and, finally, the same preoccupation with the idea and being of the Mother as the fountainhead of strength and energy. Amma Ariyan's camerawork is tailored to a feverish design, in tune with the film's total spirit, reflecting the director's vision and convictions. One sequence, in particular, should be mentioned: Purushan, the protagonist, and his small band of comrades coming out of an ancient church in Cochin. Unforgettable in its quiet impact, it summed up the feeling of unity of humankind in the service of a common ideal. 'We ought to miss original men and artists like John Abraham or his teacher, Ritwik Ghatak, if we are to defeat the mediocrity currently invading our regional cinemas.' It is this oneness of spirit that is at the core of what Abraham himself had to say about his last film: 'Amma Ariyan is an analysis of the extremist movement in Kerala during the late seventies. Many of my intimate friends connected with the extremist group committed suicide in that period. They were very intelligent, sensitive and had high aesthetic sense. Their deaths were haunting me and this provoked me to make this film. The way I see it, films should speak to the people and people should speak through cinema. The cinematic experience should rouse the social consciousness of the audience. Through Odessa [a film co-operative started by Abraham and his friends to reach good cinema to the masses], I will show my films to the people. If they don't have money, I'll show them free. Amma Ariyan is an open letter from a pampered child to his mother and it is also a letter from all those of my generation who cannot communicate. I am writing on behalf of them to Mother.' How do we bring back originality? In the premature death of Abraham, Kerala's New Cinema, which had a profound impact on filmmakers and audiences throughout the country, lost one of its brightest and most original practitioners. The word 'original' is being used with a definite view in mind, for one heard the criticism after Amma Ariyan, that it resembled Ghatak's last film in some ways, for some people's comfort. Yes, Abraham was influenced by Ghatak, which the former readily conceded with a touch of unmistakable pride, but he never imitated Ghatak: he was too talented for that. Abraham was too much of an artist and an individualist to imitate anyone. Like all original talents, he would take whatever he needed from one or more sources and then mould them according to his own artistic notions and political needs; according to his own vision of place and people, of ideology and history. In fact, we ought to miss original men and artists like Abraham or his teacher, Ghatak, if we are to defeat the mediocrity currently invading our regional cinemas. If the naxalite movement was aimed at radical political change, the small band of artists that sought to record different aspects and delicate nuances of that movement may be said to have infused fresh and challenging vision into the largely moribund film scene in the country. Also Read | Aravindan at 90: A legacy outside the market How deeply Ghatak was embedded in Abraham's soul, in his psyche, in his absurd and fanciful ways, comes across vividly in a poem called 'A Tribute To Ritwik Ghatak', snatches from which may be recalled: Ritwik Daa,/ let me call you Ritwik Daa, / I know that you are no more./ But I am, alive for you, believe me./ When the seventh seal is opened/ I will use my camera as my gun/ and I am sure the echo of the sound/ will reverberate in your bones,/ and feed back to me for my inspiration./ Thank you Ritwik Daa,/ I am thanking you/ not with impotency and insipidity./ Ritwik Daa,/ I remember you,/ when the words fail to criticize you,/ Ritwik Daa,/ eternally you are/ in my brain/ in my spirit and / in my Holy Ghost/ Amen. Nearer home, another homegrown poet but certainly not blessed with an iota of the social or artistic credentials of such extraordinary intellectuals as Ghatak or Abraham, sought to give vent to his soul thus: Some artists die/ go to heaven/ or some such place/ rub shoulders/ with heroes and saints/ spend/ rest of their lives/ like museum pieces/ cold/ remote/ untouchable/ Other artists die/ go to hell/ deserve or not/ they burn/ head heart liver spleen/ lower organs too/ burn and burn/ till to ash/ gas/ they turn/ There's one other set/ smallest/ select/ they die like the rest/ but cannot leave/ for another shore/ love of earth/ love of fellows/ follow them/ like hunting shadows/ Love of students/ love of donkeys/ love of cruel deeds/ love of mothers/ love of letters/ love of reason/ love of stories/ love of arguments/ love of fumes/ love of myths/ love of roads rivers/ love of the absurd/ love of the impure/ love of love/ pursue them/ singly/ and in packs/ to hold them back/ where they were/ No heaven/ no hell/ no earth/ no in-between/ only where they were/ exceeding god/ shaming satan/ these unquenched artists/our pride/ joy/ solace. To return to where we began, namely, the brief period during which Ritwik set FTII on fire with his alcoholic tantrums, not to mention the depth and range of his reportedly past-midnight lectures away from the classroom. Saeed Mirza, who went on to build a formidable reputation with his kitschy working-class classics around the violent and sordid underbelly of Bombay, is on record that Ghatak was given to saying that to be a filmmaker, one must carry his childhood in one pocket and, in the other, a bottle of alcohol! While Saeed or Nirad Mahapatra, the one-film Odia auteur remarkable for his poetry of small-town dailiness, took their teacher's mock-heroic, impish advice as no more than an enjoyable metaphor, Abraham embraced it so literally as to singe and scorch and finally burn himself to an untimely end. But not before he had proved himself a resounding credit to his angry, sad, great teacher. Vidyarthy Chatterjee writes on cinema, society, and politics. For several decades now, he has pursued New Malayalam Cinema with great devotion.
The Wire
2 days ago
- The Wire
The Theatre of Ratan Thiyam: Profound Beauty on the Modern Stage
I remember Ratan Thiyam, almost always dressed in black, performing an elaborate curtain call along with his actors at the end of his show. Together they would all go down on their knees and touch their foreheads to the stageboards so as to thank the audience for coming to the performance. The grace of this gesture in some sense encoded the essence of Ratan's theatre work – its formal rigour and its elegance as it walked the fine line between performance and secular ritual for, and of, the modern stage. One the most celebrated theatre makers of India, Ratan Thiyam, who passed on July 23, 2025, in Imphal at the age of 77, was in command of many roles at one and the same time throughout his life. He was a theatre director of brilliance, but was also a writer and a poet, a theatre teacher, a guru, a distinguished organiser and a leader – heading institutions like the National School of Drama as its Director (1987–88) and as its Chairperson (2013–17), while creatively shaping the artistic style of the renowned Chorus Repertory Company that has performed across India and the world to great acclaim for more than four decades. However, let me begin this tribute to Ratan by taking a step sideways. It is said that there is a philosophical connection between landscape artists, horticulturalists and theatre makers. All of them understand the effects of a slant of light, the depth of shadow, grades of colour, chiaroscuro, and the inter-relationships, by placement, between nature, humans and objects. I had the occasion several years ago to visit the Chorus Repertory Company, located at the edges of Imphal city, and I vividly remember the nearly three-acre site: the neatly trimmed hedges, the small pond, the clusters of trees with blossoming vines wrapped around their trunks, the flower beds, the vegetable patch, and the gravelly pathways connecting one part to another. The vegetables harvested from the fields fed everyone who lived on site including Ratan. He lovingly introduced the garden, the water body and the plants, many of which he had planted himself. Also read: Ratan Thiyam, the Risks He Took and the Future of Indian Theatre Working the land was a part of the daily routine set up several decades before the connections between agricultural activity and theatre practice had come into focus, as they have done now. Apart from this there was, and still is, another routine in place – of practising movement, breath, vocalisation, song and music derived from the vocabularies of Manipuri dance traditions, martial arts and ritual practices. This training happened in a cluster of buildings set amidst the landscape, that included an exhibition space, a rehearsal space, and a blackbox theatre equipped with light and sound systems. Away from the noise of the city, the Chorus Repertory as imagined by Ratan functions as a sort of ashram, where skill is transferred to the shishya – student – on a daily and continual basis, a mode of transmission different from the segmented time-tables of 'modern' theatre training institutes. But back to the theatre maker and the horticulturalist, and their understanding of atmosphere – which is objective and subjective, material and non-material, at the same time; something that you can breathe in and recognise it to be joy or peace or melancholy for instance, but not know what it is that you have drawn into your lungs. Ratan's use of light and shadow in theatre is unparalleled. He was able to create degrees of darkness on the stage – experienced as sometimes dense and sometimes diffuse with a precision that requires an exact understanding of the properties of lighting apparatus. At one moment the lights dimmed so low that you might see nothing but the glint of sequins on the potloi (the structured skirt worn by Manipuri dancers) as a group of performers glide across the stage; at another moment you might see a slash of light illuminate fingers wrists and upper arms flickering against the cyclorama – leaves, insects or distress signals from a drowning chorus? From the dark upstage you might see a tall, white fabric umbrella, held firmly by an actor, float downstage, to form a halo ─ marking a passage to the heavens? The tumultuous clang and flash of hand-held gongs deafen and blind the spectators as the chakravyuh gains the velocity of a tornado in a circle of red beams. And who can forget the often-cited image of an elephant materialising on stage as if in a dream, in his memorable production of Agyeya's Uttarapriyadarshi! These are stage effects that cause the heart to pound. Almost nobody understood the magic of the image in theatre better than Ratan Thiyam. And almost nobody used the proscenium arch theatre, also known as the picture-frame stage, better than him. The picture-frame stage, brought to India by the British to house their theatricals, has given rise to much debate. The proscenium, as we know, is the architectural frame that edges the opening of the stage. The major experiential convention it produces is a play of dark and light; the stage being illumined while the audience is in darkness is as much an emotional experience as it is material. What effect does such architectural framing have on traditional forms and their grammars? How does it change our viewing habits and our expectations? Ratan Thiyam's work, performed primarily in the proscenium, disturbs assumptions and generates a contradiction. Even when he remodelled traditional grammars, and reshaped gestures drawn from Manipuri martial arts and dance forms so as to align them with the enclosing edges of the frame, Ratan produced performances that have often been understood as, or even become synonymous with, Indian theatre. A description that we must inflect, gloss and interrogate by keeping his remodelling, his refashioning of form stance and music in mind. Ratan Thiyam's luminous stage work exceeds description; what stays in our memory is his love for the craft of theatre, and the beauty it can produce. It reminds us that meaning-making in theatre is not by word alone but by all the elements that make up the performance – from minutiae such as glinting sequins and flying tassels on costume, to the voluminosity of shadowed tableaus and grand battles choreographed to thunderous percussion that judder the very foundations of the auditorium. Our homage to Ratan Thiyam: the person who ignited the spell of material fiction that is theatre; the one whose aesthetic and pedagogical imagination enhanced the discourse of modern Indian theatre.
