There have been times when I have walked out of a movie halfway because I could not bear the thought of sitting through another hour or hour-and-a-half. The last time I did that was while watching Noah : what a relief it was to fling the 3-D goggles back into the carton and walk out into the hum of the mall.
That’s why I generally avoid going to plays: you simply do not have the luxury of walking out at will. Even if you are seated in the back row, it is impossible to make a quiet exit without distracting — and irritating — those around you. And if you happen to be seated in one of the front rows, you will distract not only the entire hall but also the actors. Nothing can be more heartbreaking for the actors to find a member or members of the audience abandoning the play midway.
A few weeks ago, P.C. Ramakrishna — one of the pillars of The Madras Players, the oldest existing English theatre group in the country — invited me to watch Water , directed by him. Based on the celebrated Tamil play Thanneer Thanneer , it was to be staged at the Tag Centre in Alwarpet on a pleasant Sunday morning, preceded by a typical south Indian breakfast.
I had all intentions to attend the play, because I hold Ramakrishna in high esteem and have watched him perform before, but unfortunately forgot all about it when I woke up that Sunday morning. Ramakrishna forgave me for not showing up, and told me that he was going to stage the play again, this time on the lawns of the Madras Race Club, and that I should not miss it. At the same time, he cautioned me that the effect was not going to be the same open-air as in the auditorium.
I was only too happy to watch it in the open. I could sneak out whenever I wished to. In fact, I almost did when it was announced that the play was going to be 85 minutes long. On a Saturday evening, who had the patience to watch a play set in a water-starved village in Tamil Nadu? What made me even more impatient was that while people in the surrounding tables were freely ordering food and drinks while the play was on, I could not: I am not a member of the club, and the member who had signed me in was on stage.
As time wore on, I found myself slowly becoming oblivious to my surroundings and focussing on the stage. It turned out to be a gripping story: a murderer (who has killed a tyrant landlord) seeks refuge in a water-starved village; he is so moved by their kindness that he offers to bring them water every day from a far-off spring and eventually comes up with a simple plan to dig a canal into the village — a plan that is foiled by scheming politicians and red tape.
By the time the climax was being acted out, I was not sitting on the lawns of the Madras Race Club but in that drought-ridden hamlet near Kovilpatti, watching the villagers’ destinies being decided. Villages like that are reality; pubs and clubs are an escape from that reality. My heart bled for the villagers, and I wanted to slap the bad guys.
Only when the play ended and I went backstage and had a drink with the actors, did it sink in that it was only a play — and not real. But the fact that it felt so real — that’s the power of the play.
