At the end of June, heads of theatre groups assembled at Prithvi House, as they normally do for regular meetings. This time around they were greeted by two officious looking gentlemen wearing ties, not a visual one often sees at theatre gatherings. The men in question were Chartered Accountants, and they had come armed with a laptop and a slideshow to help explain GST to the theatre junta. Now most of us are unfortunately not gifted with the sharpest financial minds. And complex accounting processes just give us severe acidity.
On a more serious note, whatever the positive ramifications of this new tax system may be for the nation, the fact of the matter is that small theatre groups have been dealt a crushing blow. This is a “death knell”, as someone at the meeting said.
Going rate
Here’s how vicious the circle is. If a theatre company’s annual turnover is less than ₹20 lakh, they are exempt. Sigh of relief, right? Not really. Whatever the turnover, that is, however low, if they wish to sell tickets through an online booking agent, they have to get their GST number, and everything it represents is then applicable.
If they choose not to sell online, they risk bad houses, since the trend of pre- or e-booking is catching on. Added to that, some venues are committed to selling through these platforms, and hence that makes it mandatory if you wish to perform there.
Another clause states that if a ticket is under ₹250, it is exempt from GST. Now, after 17 years of doing this business, I can vouch for the fact that ₹300 is the minimum ticket cost you will need to put out there to stand a chance of breaking even at the most affordable venue. Now, however, a ₹300 ticket will have to be sold at ₹354, or a ₹500 ticket (not uncommon) will now cost ₹590 for the customer. What this does is change the perceived cost of the ticket. Spending patterns are never easy to change. So, either you stick to your going rate, include GST in that, and dig your own grave. Or you take the plunge and see if your hesitant ₹500 buck spender loves you enough to consider ₹600.
Drifting away from the GST rant, I recently went to watch a play that caters to an extremely different type of spender. The cheapest ticket for Mughal e Azam is ₹1,000. And prices go up to ₹7,500. And yet, they hold a record for every single show, in four seasons of the play, being house full.
Of course, it’s a spectacle, and a dazzling one at that, but even then, I was wary of shelling out ₹3,000 to get my wife and me not-so-great corner seats. Which opens up an entirely new discussion about the way we think, because I have spent more than this to get one restricted view seat at West End. I’ll save that discussion for another column.
But, like I said, spending patterns are never easy to change. Or are they? When Disney staged The Beauty and the Beast here, people dug deep into their savings. When Coldplay came down to perform, those who avoid spending 150 bucks a month on an Apple Music subscription gave up their monthly salary to get a pass. Recently, closer home, continuing with our recent spate of shows at alternate venues, we performed to two packed houses at a new eatery venue. The ticket cost was ₹1,000 (plus GST) and included a complimentary drink and some appetisers. Clearly, it is a concept that clicked. And the audience response has been phenomenal. But should one allow oneself to be plagued by questions like are they here for the play or for that drink? And is the play really that enjoyable or is the booze adding that little extra decibel to their laughs? And does it matter if that is the case?
We Indians are an adjusting lot. And the most flexible subset of this adjusting lot is theatrewalas. We coped with demonetisation far sooner that other people did. A big Marathi play even put out an ad saying ‘Watch now, pay later’. Now, GST might challenge us. We’ll adjust. We’ll get CAs. The smaller groups will flounder for a bit, but they will find a way to survive.
We made it
There are, of course, an enormous number of petitions floating around on Facebook. Chances are that even if they get the adequate number of signatures, nothing concrete will come of it. But what these obstacles do is get the theatre fraternity closer.
This one time, when we were starting out, we killed ourselves selling tickets for a show, and amassed ₹12,000. A huge amount for a play back in 2000. It covered our costs and we were left with just about enough for a drink after the show. On the way to a rehearsal, the girl handling our production and carrying all our earnings was robbed on a train. She was shattered.
We were somewhat distraught too. But we made it. We adjusted. We even won an award. But the best thing that happened that night was that the team of a competitive play got some money together and offered it to us as a contribution, to help us tide over our tough times. So that’s what every new challenge really is for us theatre folk.
A solid reminder of the only thing we’ve always really had and can always fall back on. Each other.
The writer is a theatre producer and director and hence often broke. To cope, he writes and directs films and web series and occasionally acts, albeit reluctantly.
