Abhimanyu stands behind sheer curtains under a full moon and stars, as falling snow gathers at his feet. In the foreground, his estranged sweetheart Savitri looks longingly at the moon and croons about her lost love.
Backstage, Hidimba’s costume turns out to have a hole, and a woman cradling a sleeping baby rushes in with a needle and darns it. Meanwhile, the woman who plays Subhadra rushes back to attend to the rice on the stove. “We use cookers without whistles here. You don’t want it going off when Gitashree is romancing Abhimanyu,” she laughs, before running back to the foyer for her last act.
I am watching a play by Surabhi theatre, which turns 80 this year. In a parking lot of Hyderabad’s Public Gardens, which has been Surabhi’s impermanent home for a decade, there’s a stage, an orchestra pit, and some benches on a dusty floor for the audience. Backstage are makeshift areas for make-up and props, and the living quarters of the 50-odd members of Surabhi — a theatre group run by one large family. Since its inception in 1937, Surabhi has staged plays from the Puranas and the epics with poise, incredible effects, imagination and intellect. In the next few scenes, I see papier mache birds glide across the stage and the arrows of the Pandavas and Kauravas colliding to create fire and rain. Forests and valleys, dungeons, castles and streams, a demon with mobile eyes and fire-spitting dragons, all literal and metaphorical, bring to life Mayabazaar, a popular folk tale set in the Mahabharata, where Krishna and Ghatotkacha conspire to reunite the lovers.
A quick touch-up before the next act
Bedroom to green room
The present director of the theatre group is Rekandar Nageswara Rao, better known as Surabhi Babji. His mother, the fiery R. Subhadramma, carried forward the legacy of her father, R. Rao, who founded Surabhi. “Amma specialised in male roles, particularly characters like Duryodhana. She would wear a moustache made from goatskin. She made a handsome man,” says Babji.
“Kamalabai, another member of the Surabhi family, went on to become Telugu cinema’s first female actor. But the first woman from the family to take to theatre was my grandmother way back in 1885,” he says. Govindraju, Babji’s grandfather, impressed by a Devadasi performance in his village, encouraged his wife Pappabai to act. She lent her voice for a traditional leather puppet show, but refused to appear on the stage when the credits were announced.
Telugu theatre then had few women on the stage, but Surabhi was different. Actors and backstage members, all came from within the family and so were sheltered from social criticism and scrutiny. “We train everyone from birth,” says Babji. Everyone can play multiple roles and easily replace each other.” The youngest member is four months old and is carried on stage by Yashoda in Krishna Leela , and the oldest is Babji’s 86-year-old aunt, who trains the younger members.
Most of the Surabhi women are graduates and a few have Master’s degrees too. Nirupama, one of Babji’s granddaughters, is pursuing a Ph.D in Telugu poetical drama. The Surabhi women paint intricate backdrops and curtains with acrylics, teach and learn classical and folk dances, sew costumes, make jewellery from paper, conch shells, beads and golden threads, and handle sound and light. “They sometimes work with dangerous props like fire, or climb poles to execute special effects,” says Babji.
After the interval, I decide to watch the play from backstage. Shabby, grey rooms are divided by tarpaulin sheets. Stoves, pots and pans and water filters are squeezed between beds and trunks of clothes. People and masks and props jostle for space. Figures move about, carrying stage sets and screens.
A boy removes make-up with coconut oil and another retouches his face from a tray of colourful zinc oxide. Shashilekha adjusts the padded bosom and posterior of Hidimba, played by her cousin, who is bandaging a blistered heel. On stage, finally, Krishna’s wit and Ghatotkacha’s valour have brought the lovers together. As the stage transforms into a royal banquet hall with a handpainted backdrop, young girls and older women rush out for the final dance.
Cheese in Paris
Every day, the artistes finish their household chores and meet in the foyer. Sitting on the dust floor, they revise lines, mend costumes, paint signs, clean props and learn new dance routines. School-going children join later in the evening, after studies. All members, backstage or actors, get paid the same amount. On weekends, they help each with hair and makeup and gear up for the 90-minute performance. The group has a repertoire of 25 plays, including Mahabharata , Ram Leela , Krishna Leela , and Luv Kush .
Five years ago, the group was invited to Paris to perform at the Cent Quatrecultural centre. It was a memorable trip; a three-month voyage, tasting cheese for the first time, Srilakshmi’s first-ever escalator. But it’s their performance that still rings loud. They got a standing ovation.
As I leave their small, dim-lit, makeshift cocoon, which sits by the massive Lalitha Kala Thoranamat the Public Gardens, which hosts performances from across the world, I hear them laugh about a goof-up in the play that evening and chide a boy who started a song late. I turn back and notice that their quarters are covered by a curtain beautifully handpainted with images of deities. Below it, in Telugu, is written “ Aade Bomalu Memu, Aadinchi Sutramu Neevu ,” which roughly translates to “We are the puppets who play, you are the everlasting puppeteer.”
Author of The Lost Generation: Chronicling India’s Dying Professions, the writer digs coffee shop talks and pens them into stories for a living.
This article has been corrected for a spelling error.
