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Indian Express
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
Ratan Thiyam showed that the more rooted you are, the more universal you become
Written by Salim Arif It was in Lucknow that I first got to see a Manipuri production of Bhasa's Uru Bhangam, done by actors from Imphal. The person who had directed that exceptional piece of theatre was Ratan Thiyam, and the play left a huge impression on me. The combination of raw tribal intensity and lyrical visual dynamics lent the Mahabharata-based text a new vigour and sensitivity rarely seen in Indian theatre. For me, Thiyam became a director to follow. It would be later that he would become a friend and mentor. Indian theatre, then, was finding its idiom with the incorporation of elements of traditional performing arts in contemporary plays. Hayavadana, Ghashiram Kotwal, Charandas Chor, Ala Afsar were part of this new trend of using traditional folk and classical art embellishments in theatre. Habib Tanvir, BV Karanth, KN Panikkar were creating exciting productions that inspired several young directors to follow suit. Ratan Thiyam was one of them. A painter and a poet, what made him different was his keen understanding of the traditional performing art forms of Manipur and a unique visual sense. Thiyam's parents were acclaimed Manipuri dancers, and Ratan da, (as I called him) imbibed the delicate nuances of dance form and music before he joined the National School of Drama (NSD) in 1971. He was also an expert thang-ta (the vigorous sword fight of Manipur) practitioner. The training under Ebrahim Alkazi at NSD opened a whole new world of visual and performing arts for him. Yakshagana, kathakali, tamasha, bhavai, nautanki, as well as kabuki and noh were all part of the training exposure. These were complemented by regular visits to art galleries and film festivals. He also acted as Yuyutsu in Alkazi's ambitious Andha Yug, done in kabuki style and staged at the Purana Qila open-air theatre — a role he got, he was fond of saying, because of his ability to run and climb the steep stairs of the ancient fort. Ratan da understood the value of a culturally rooted theatre during his days at NSD. He learnt the importance of stagecraft — of a well-mounted production with aesthetically used colour schemes, spectacular visuals created with the precise use of lights and aural texture — under Alkazi's watchful eyes. These would become his hallmark in plays like Uru Bhangam, Karnabharam, Chakravyuha, Ritusamhara, Uttar Priyadarshi, to name a few. Like Akira Kurosawa, Thiyam assimilated the narrative traditions of Greek and Japanese theatre and our own Natyashastra to create a spectacular body of work. After graduating from NSD in 1974, Ratan da opened his Chorus Repertory Theatre in Imphal, his hometown, in 1976 and started to groom actors. By 1978, he was touring with his plays to far-off places across the country. It was in January 1984 that we, as third-year students of NSD, went to Imphal to work with Ratan da for three months and do a production of Andha Yug using Manipuri art forms. Those three months gave us an insight into how Ratan da kept his theatre going in difficult conditions. Those were the days of insurgency, and curfew was imposed by 6 pm every evening. Working with Petromax lanterns, without electricity or basic facilities, we were kept away from the city in a camp created on the land where his repertory stands today. It was an open field near a pond, and each day we were shown several performances and learnt from various gurus in that space. Afterwards, all these elements would come together in our production of Andha Yug. At the time, the only access to the outside world was the evening newspapers that came from Calcutta by air, and we would rush to get them and return before curfew set in. This was the way his actors were trained for years, and we were only following the pattern. It was remarkable that all the props, costumes and accessories were also made by his team, some of whom would also cook for us. The financial support that Ratan da got for his company as a grant was not much, and he subsidised it by hiring out light and sound equipment to others and getting some additional money for his team. Since that trip, Ratan da remained a life-long mentor and a friendly elder who would look me up whenever he was in Mumbai. I still remember his calls after he saw my work in Bharat Ek Khoj, Mirza Ghalib and Chanakya. I would also look forward to opportunities to visit Imphal to meet him. Ratan da became the director of NSD in 1987 for two brief years. Before he left, he organised a much-awaited convocation that had batches from 1974 to 1986 return to take their diplomas from Alkazi, who agreed to come back for the occasion. It was interesting to see Ratan da take his own diploma certificate — signed by himself — from Mr Alkazi. Later on, as the chairperson of NSD, he was responsible for getting the Theatre Olympics to India in 2017-18. Ratan da put Manipuri theatre on the world stage. After Habib Tanvir, he remains the most acknowledged and awarded of Indian theatre practitioners abroad. Like Habib saab, he brought a socially conscious worldview to his plays. But unlike Habib saab, his plays were created in difficult political circumstances. The yearning for peace amidst Manipur's political turmoil remained a lasting theme, often layered under the spectacles he created on stage. The fusion of a strong regional sensitivity with a modern sensibility will remain Thiyam's lasting legacy, proving that the more rooted you are, the more universal you become. The writer, an NSD alumnus, is a theatre practitioner and costume designer
Hindustan Times
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- Hindustan Times
Ratan Thiyam: Thespian who stretched limits of Indian stage
Ratan Thiyam, one of modern Indian theatre's most influential directors and the founder-director of Chorus Repertory Theatre in Manipur, passed away in the early hours of July 23 in Imphal. He was 77. Over five decades, he shaped a theatre of discipline and immersion, where visual precision met a deep faith in the actor's body and its possibilities. Productions like Chakravyuh, Andha Yug, Uttar Priyadarshi, Lengshonnei, and Lairembigee Eshe were more than adaptations of familiar epic narratives. In Thiyam's hands, they became orchestrated acts of endurance, where time stretched and performance brushed against ritual. In doing so, he transformed the Indian stage's relationship to time, movement, and scale. Thiyam graduated from the National School of Drama in 1974, the first ever from Manipur to do so, alongside peers such as Rohini Hattangadi and Rajesh Vivek. In 1976, he returned to Manipur to set up Chorus on the outskirts of Imphal, on a quiet stretch of land bordered by paddy fields, red earth, and the open sky. Recognition did not come easy. For an artist from Manipur, it meant building not just a body of work, but an entire ecosystem of rigour, almost from the ground up. The space he created was part theatre, part training ground, and part retreat, where actors trained for years in voice, movement, martial arts, design, and stamina. As he once said, 'I have always found human expression more convincing when it is physically portrayed, when there is a body rhythm.' That rhythm governed everything, from lights and costume to sound and blocking. The ensemble didn't simply perform roles; they held presence, moving like figures in a long ceremony, stretching gesture into image, and image into duration. Critics at the 1987 Edinburgh Fringe Festival hailed Chakravyuh as 'sheer poetry in motion,' with a 'brilliant piece of choreography… unlike anything seen elsewhere.' Even for audiences unfamiliar with Manipuri, the energy held them for over two hours. In Japan, Andha Yug, staged in 1994 on the anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing, was praised for its intense intimacy and seismic resonance, shifting ancient epic violence into a contemporary register. Recalling his early years at NSD, he reflected in a 2020 The Indian Express profile: 'I came out knowing all about Greek and European theatre… I wanted to learn about indigenous Indian theatre. After all, we go to the roots to learn of our identity.' That search shaped his entire practice. Thiyam's aesthetic drew from the performance codes of the Natyashastra, Manipuri martial traditions, and Buddhist philosophy, not as fixed heritage, but as living systems that could be retooled to meet the urgencies of the present. Chorus Repertory became a site for a radical 'new form', one that refused both colonial mimicry and the comfort of cultural revivalism. Too often packaged into the shorthand of the 'Theatre of Roots', his work rarely romanticised the idea of 'roots'. It interrogated them, using tradition as a medium of confrontation, not comfort. 'I believe that, in order to work, a piece of art must strike at the system and break convention,' he said. Over time, others echoed, and gradually diluted that grammar in their own productions. Thiyam's visual language, with its epic scale, ritual intensity, chanting chorus, and slow stylised gestures became the default setting for Indian theatre at festivals and in state-funded productions. What had once signalled radical decolonisation began to mirror establishment cultural displays. Many mistook his style for spectacle, missing the deeper provocations embedded in his form. Although Thiyam's theatre was often seen as less overtly political than that of his contemporary Heisnam Kanhailal, the difference lay in form and method. Thiyam chose spiritual gravitas and formal rigor over direct protest. His many institutional honours — the Padma Shri in 1989, the Sangeet Natak Akademi Fellowship in 2012 — did not blunt his dissent. In 2023, when Manipur was engulfed in ethnic violence, he refused to stay silent. Nominated without consent to the Centre's symbolic peace panel, he resigned in protest, demanded real action, and sharply asked, 'Are we a part of India?' Thiyam held two key leadership roles at the National School of Drama. His first, as Director in 1987–88, ended prematurely amid student unrest and institutional challenges, despite his emphasis on rigour and discipline. He returned as Chairperson from 2013 to 2017. During this tenure, he critiqued the overuse of technology in performance and strongly defended indigenous theatre practices. His departure in 2017 marked the end of a tenure that underscored the friction between his singular aesthetic and a shifting theatre landscape. While the impact of Thiyam's absence will echo across the theatre world for some time, the structure he built endures. Chorus Repertory will continue, with his son Thawai and members of the ensemble carrying the work forward, as they have been doing for years. The writer is a theatre practitioner and stage commentator
Indian Express
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
‘Theatre was his protest': Pune remembers Ratan Thiyam
Around 50 people gathered at the condolence meeting held at The Box in Pune to remember one of the most towering figures of Indian theatre, Ratan Thiyam. The event had eminent director Atul Pethe reading excerpts from a write up about Thiyam and playwrights Ashutosh Potdar and Satish Alekar and filmmaker and film educator Anupam Barve talking about Thiyam. Thiyam died at 76 at the Regional Institute of Medical Sciences (RIMS), Imphal. The condolence meeting recalled the influence of Thiyam, who had brought many of his iconic plays to Pune. Alekar shared many important incidents, facts and insights about Thiyam, his theatre and Manipuri tradition and culture. Thiyam's works seamlessly merged ancient Indian performance traditions with contemporary narratives. His death marks the end of an era in Indian performing arts. Thiyam was a recipient of the prestigious Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1987 and is remembered as a theatre guru who redefined the language of stagecraft in India. 'This is a massive loss to the cultural field of Manipur, and Indian theatre as a whole. A few years ago, we lost the other side of the coin, the director Heisnam Kanhailal. Now, with Ratan ji gone, Manipuri theatre has lost both its giants,' said Alekar, a Marathi playwright and co-founder of the Theatre Academy of Pune. Born on January 20, 1948, Thiyam was a student of Ebrahim Alkazi at the National School of Drama (NSD) in Delhi. 'He didn't replicate Alkazi's theatre. Thiyam created his own theatre with his own roots- Manipuri roots, which are distinctly different from Indian mainstream traditions,' said Alekar. In plays, such as Antigone, Urubhangam, Ritusamhara and Andha Yug, Thiyam developed a language of theatre that was spiritually intense, visually immersive, and politically resonant. 'Andha Yug was not just a play. It was a complete visual and sonic experience. The chorus was composed entirely of Manipuri performers. It became a tragedy of the people of Manipur told through a new angle. That was the genius of Ratan Thiyam,' said Anirudha Kuthwad, director and theatre educator associated with NSD and FTII. Thiyam often referred to theatre as a medium of protest, not mere performance. 'He believed in theatre as a tool to voice the pain of his people. He once said in a discussion, 'I see theatre as protest. I see the play as a protest.' And that's how he lived it,' added Kuthwad. One of his later landmark productions, When We Dead Awaken, an adaptation of Henrik Ibsen's work, was placed in the contemporary context of Manipur's turmoil, reinforcing his commitment to using myth to critique the present. Kuthwad echoed the sentiment, 'We may never see someone like him again. His devotion, his creative energy, even in his senior years was unmatched. He didn't just take Manipuri theatre to India, he took it to the world.' 'The government should take note of what Ratan and Kanhailal built. What Manipur needs right now is not more politics, but cultural intervention- classical concerts, traditional performances, contemporary plays grounded in reality. That would be the true homage to Ratan Thiyam's life's work,'said Alekar.
Scroll.in
08-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Scroll.in
What timeless literature tells us about injustice, war and human nature
A work of literature is called great when it remains contemporaneous across time spans and ages. In our civilisation, the Mahabharata is one such epic. One can spend a lifetime poring over the plots and subplots of this epic, examining the complexity of its countless characters, the inter-relationships and crosscurrents among them. Why is it so? Have our moral values, emotions, and social complexity not changed a bit over the ages? It does seem that when we look closely at the incidents of the Mahabharata that nothing has changed. Draupadi's cheer-haran (disrobing) in the Grand Assembly of the Kauravas is one such incident. Dhritrashtra's Grand Assembly was graced by fearless, brave warriors without number. Celebrated intellectuals, spiritual greats, and policy analysts – all were present there. In this assembly of greats, Draupadi was dragged in by the hair like some object, like a seized object, and her disrobing began. Not one man in this Grand Assembly of Aryavrat's most powerful people dared to unseal his lips in the face of this outrage. Courage, bravery, morality – all got muffled up when confronted with the might of the State. Similar outrages have been recurring in every era over the ages. But in that Assembly, there was one man who did dare to raise his voice against injustice. Dhritrashtra's eighty-sixth son, Yuyutsu. Yuyutsu not only rebelled against the Kauravas but also fought alongside the Pandavas in the ensuing battle. The irony and tragedy of being Yuyutsu has been illustrated by Dharmveer Bharati in the play Andha Yug. After the devastation of war, Yuyutsu, the only Kaurava alive, goes to the palace to meet his parents, only to discover that Dhritrashtra and Gandhari are filled with deep loathing towards him. They snub their rebel son. Dejected, Yuyutsu steps out and his eyes fall on an injured Kaurava soldier. He fetches water for the man, but the soldier recognises him as his aggressor and rejects the water touched by the enemy's hand. Yuyutsu had set out to befriend the truth, but the truth of war turned out to be something else altogether. In the end, Yuyutsu found neither the truth he was seeking nor the love of his parents. Finally, he took his own life. The absurdity Yuyutsu faces is the irony faced by every person down the ages who has stood up for truth and justice before State power. To be rejected by one's own becomes his destiny. The Pandavas wanted to give the Kauravas a fitting reply in the very language the Kauravas deployed. Till the last moment, Krishna made every effort to avert the war. In the end, the Pandavas fought back using the same language that the Kauravas used. Every kind of deceit and deception was deployed. At the end of the Mahabharat, the Kauravas were erased but what became of the Pandavas? The ageing Pandavas survived the war but their next generation was destroyed. Arjun and Subhadra's son, the unarmed Abhimanyu, got trapped in the Chakravyuh he knew how to enter, but not exit, and was killed. Draupadi's five sons were deceitfully murdered while still asleep in the camp. The only remaining trace of the Pandavas was Abhimanyu's unborn baby in his widow Uttara's womb. Ashwatthama, Dronacharya's son, bent on taking revenge for his father's death by deception, aimed the Brahmastra at Uttara's womb. Brahmastra, meaning the nuclear weapon of that age. Krishna somehow neutralised the Brahmastra and cursed Ashwatthama to an eternity of wandering in the wilderness, dragging his countless wounds. War can always justify itself but Krishna tells that the man who uses weapons of mass destruction is always detested and abhorred, the way Ashwatthama was. Ashwatthama wanders with festering wounds even today, telling the world what punishment for genocide looks like. In the preface to his timeless novel, Tamas, Bhisham Sahani writes, 'Those who learn nothing from history are cursed to repeat it.' The dialogue that Rahi Masoom Raza wrote for the screenplay of the televised Mahabharata also express this sentiment. The beautiful title song by Pandit Narendra Sharma has this line: 'Let the times gone by teach us, let us welcome a new era.' But who learns from times gone by? Time flows on, new generations come and repeat the old mistakes. Time and again, the hostile emotions of men push great civilisations towards destruction. This happens in every corner of the world. Not for nothing did Stephen Hawking say, 'We are in the danger of destroying ourselves because of greed and stupidity.' Many centuries after the Mahabharata, the great Hindi novelist Premchand wrote the story Shatranj ke Khiladi in the 20th century. As a metaphor, chess is equivalent to the dice game chaupad that the Pandavas played and lost. The situation, the setting, the characters, the plot; are all different in this story but the tragic sense of irony is the same as Mahabharat. Meer and Mirza were addicted to chess the way our modern society is addicted to narratives of war. While worries of the East India Company launching an attack cloud the future of the 19th-century princely state of Awadh, the two men are worried that the Nawab might summon them to the battlefield and they would have to leave their game of chess midway. To escape the royal edict, the two addicts repair to ruins away from the city, so that they may continue their game of chess. Such is their enthusiasm in the two opponents to save their badshah, their chessboard vizier, that they exchange heated words over a move and then pull out their swords. The two ultimately kill each other as Awadh is occupied by the East India Company. The make-believe world of chessboard victories and slights that Meer and Mirza delight in is much like the war cries and victory chants issued from the televisions in our drawing rooms. Times change, but the ironies of human existence do not.
Hindustan Times
19-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Hindustan Times
Novel muses for Indian museums
Multiple events in Delhi on May 18: Baltazar Theatre's "Help, I'll help!" at NSD, 17th Habitat Film Festival, Asmita Theatre's "Andha Yug", NHM Wildlife Photography Exhibition, Festival of Ideas, Rahul Dua's comedy show, and Umang Fashion Jewels Lifestyle Exhibition.
