Shraddha’s Ramanujar (script — Indira Parthasarathy, direction — G. Krishnamurthy) left much to be desired. The characters — many in number — simply entered without any preamble, and there was no clarity about their place in the overall scheme of things.
Events being portrayed in quick succession, without a smooth narrative flow, gave the play a jerky effect, and made emotional engagement difficult. Trying to connect the dots to get an overall picture made for strenuous viewing. The play seemed like a collection of fragmented vignettes from the Acharya’s life. The actors were inaudible most of the time, despite the audience demanding that they speak up.
Music for some of the pasurams — ‘Anbe Thagaliya’ in Sahana, ‘Poliga, Poliga’ in Revathi, ‘Muzhudum Vennai’ in Kapi and ‘Oon Vaada’ in Mukhari — was appealing. ‘Thirukkandaen’ in Desh failed to capture the rapturous tone of Peyazhwar’s outpouring. Orchestral support by Jusdrums Murali and Emani Poornima was apt.
While the play was anaemic for the most part, some scenes stood out. Ramanuja talks Bittideva’s daughter out of her fear psychosis, just as a modern counsellor would. No driving out of evil spirits here, as in the traditional accounts.
Thanjamambal, Ramanuja’s wife, appears before him (in a dream?). She asks him if he could not have spread his philosophy without becoming a sanyasi. Thanjamambal’s question makes us ask — which is greater — duty to one’s own kin, or the larger duty to mankind as a whole? Does the larger purpose exclude one from what seem smaller responsibilities? Ramanuja tells Thanjamambal that Sankara’s achievements were possible, only because he became a sanyasi. Likewise, sanyasa was a necessity in his (Ramanuja’s) case too. But the pasuram sung in the background — ‘Oon Vaada’ shows that Thanjamambal’s question does not go away, although she has left. In this pasuram, Thirumangai Azhwar asserts that one does not have to undergo the travails of penance, when a visit to Tiruchitrakutam will grant us the same benefits.
Endless questions
When the God worshipped by Ramanuja is so undemanding and so accessible, why did he have to impose on himself the rigours of sanyasa? And Ramanuja comes to the conclusion that no one has answers to all questions, and just when we think we have answered a question, another pops up. He finds that thoughts are like an ocean, and questions that clamour for answers are like waves that dash against the shore. They keep coming ad infinitum.
This is the moment when Ramanuja comes closest to being one of us and is not just a saint we revere from a distance. This scene draws us into an arena where music, poetry and powerful dialogue come together beautifully. Sadly, such scenes did not predominate in Shraddha’s Ramanujar , which, despite its duration of more than two hours, failed to capitalise on the greatness of its subject.
