Chetan Datar
RAMU RAMANATHAN
Photo: K. Bhagya Prakash
PASSIONATE Chetan Datar always wished to indicate to his audience certain paths and views that they could choose to follow, one’s that go deeper than mere portrayal
If you met Chetan Datar in the last months of his life, none could say it was going to be the last few months of his life. He was carrying the crucifix of the burden of sustaining Awishkar’s activity, Marathi theatre and perhaps the young peopl
e who flocked to him. The slender body had begun to develop a hunch. But he would prowl and strut, welcome you with a warm greeting, and burst into laughter. Or he would cock his head, smile, fidget and twitch, all at once and bellow “Ramu Ramuwalia”, for all the world to hear. That was his pet name for me.
B.S. Ramoowalia was a CPI-M MP and also the man who read aloud to the late Harkishen Singh Surjeet when his eyes started to fail. And so, I was Ramoowalia because Chetan thought I was a Comrade; and he Chikoo Master, which I improvised from his pet name, Chikoo.
As always, there are vignettes to share, the first meetings at NCPA, watching him at Tilak Mandir in Parle East where he was watching his own play (“Savlya”) being performed in the 80s with a first-time playwright’s awkwardness. He would watch some trashy Bollywood film and discuss in great detail the non-existent script, followed by a meticulous study of every nuance of Sharukh Khan’s ears, noses, wrist and walk. Seeing his young actors through Bollywood behaviour, he would say: “Some of these young chaps don’t have real emotions or real occurrences. Everything is borrowed. It’s scary.”
Of all the Satyadev Dubey’s disciples, it was generally agreed that there was none like Chetan. His background was similar to Dubey. Low profile, traditional Brahmin family: middle-class, well-read, RSS roots. But his approach was different. He focused on the “extremes”, the beginning or end of an action. Whereas Dubey worked like an “in-betweener”. Chetan learnt that and then quickly moved on; trying to do things differently. What mattered for him was the play and the theatre movement, and not the quality behind it. This let him suffer fools. “Is the person genuine, and why does he feel that way?” was the question he asked when he was confronted with someone’s new talent. As a young man he had dreamed of being a great playwright. He said: “Right from Tendulkar’s minimalist dialogues to Khadilkar’s dramatic text, the word is at the centre. Both are brilliant playwrights, though their styles of writing are diverse. Most of Marathi theatre I watched in my formative years was word-oriented.” This is what he wanted to produce. Within the theatre fraternity, he began to be counted as a director and it came easily to him. He said: “I have worked with and observed various working-processes like those of Dubeyji, Vijaya Mehta, Fritz Bennewitz and Damu Kenkre.”
Writer’s ego
He continued: “As a director I don’t prefer directing my own plays but I am choosy about who directs them as my writer-ego comes in the way. I like to indicate to my audience certain paths and views that they could choose to follow, one’s that go deeper than mere portrayal. I see that my work is not reactionary. Also, the group I’m working with, the performance space, lack of funds etc. inevitably puts restrictions on my visualisation process. But I don’t see these as obstacles as I am indirectly answerable to the theatre economics. Therefore, I prefer simple sets, working more on actors and doing more shows than, say, hiring a tempo for a set.” And so, his work as a director, roared from strength to strength. The constant search of scripts; the mute challenge of a mis-cast actor and the half-filled cups of chai; the schedule-sheet tacked to the drawing-board about next month’s programme, demonstrating the exact tone of the scene and the dialogue to first time actors; and the knowledge that the few props and broken planks in the back-room would be inadequate this time.
But Chetan seemed to make light of it, adoring the work and passing on his expertise enthusiastically to others. The only thing he possibly loved more was: reading and listening to high pedigree classical music. And I suppose these were the things that suffered, as he ran from rehearsal to rehearsal, huffing and panting and organising future shows and diffusing the politics and pettiness in a rehearsal.
In due course he used to say, he was on auto-pilot: everything functional, everything with a purpose.
Chetan was astonishingly brutal about his plays. He reflected: “It’s perhaps because I am staging somebody else’s thought.” And that always perplexed me. Why do it then? He would laugh at me and say, “somebody has to do the dirty work.” Those who remember him, think of him as acting and directing, rather than writing.
My memory of Chetan is him seated under a jacaranda tree with a big notebook, translating a German play into Marathi. In the 90s, I was part of a group of playwrights and directors who were herded to Ecumenical Centre in the outskirts of Bangalore as part of a Grips theatre workshop. While we boozed, bitched and barfed, he completed “Main Bhi Superman” , which became an important children’s play. Once he had it in his mind, Chetan could work, work, work.
We were friends not because I was a theatrewallah. I suspect he called me friend only when he learnt that I had read Laxmibai’s autobiography, “Smrutichitre” in Marathi. After which, he became my consultant on Marathi literature. His consultancy feeswould be salad and soups. Yes, his demands were simple and few.
Recently, I read Vinda Karandikar’s children poems. I told him it should be staged. He e-mailed: “They are a real delight… By god’s grace my father had an eye for good literature… When my father use to read it was a dramatic performance. That remains one of the great moments of my life … I am so elated Ramoowalia read it and liked it … Today, this Marathi Manoos is really happy…”
That was more or less the last e-mail I received from Chetan. I saw him a week before he passed away. He had shrivelled to one-fourth his size, squirming on a mattress, surrounded by members of his family.
His life mirrored the modern theatrewallah’s story; of disasters, failures, frustration and loneliness. And yet, he tried to shape it. Without cultural supporters or institutional backing, his was a difficult struggle. It was E-coli and infection, they say. But I think it was because his back was broken. What I also know is, without Chetan, Marathi theatre’s return to the top-most pedestal is going to be slower and less certain.
(The author is a well-known playwright and director)
Unrehearsed exit
Photo: K. Bhagya Prakash
HISTORY ALREADY? A scene from Mahesh Elkunchwar’s play Holi that was staged during Ranga Shankara Theatre Festival
Chetan Datar was always so unarmed. He had space for everyone
Chetan Datar and I go back a long way. I know him from when I was actively part of Marathi theatre. He was also a good friend of my late husband, Shankar Nag. In fact, Shankar and Chetan were part of Arvind Deshpande’s Aawishkar, and then they
were together in the Chhabildas Movement. In fact, Chetan was the big hope of that movement.
He worked very hard for serious theatre and fought tooth and nail against crass commercialisation. Even when I came away from Mumbai, it felt all would be well because there were extremely committed friends like Chetan, apart from others.
Chetan came for the first Ranga Shankara festival with his adaptation of Midsummer’s Night Dream, Jungle Mein Mangal. It was a riot, full of energy. That was when I decided that he should come and direct a group of youngsters.
He was the right man to garner their energy, considering how Chetan always had a band of youngsters with him. Chetan agreed, came back to direct Mahesh Elkunchwar’s “Holi” for the group Panchamukhi.
Language was going to be a problem. And Chetan fully aware of this, landed here six weeks in advance! He had people to guide him with the Kannada version; night and day one saw him working on language, its inflexions, its tone and how it sounded. He knew exactly what he wanted, even in terms of its ring.
Chetan was serious from day one, but the group took so long to put their act together; people would turn up for rehearsals, they would be away shooting… this, that and the other. But not one day did Chetan complain or yell in exasperation. He was not the kind to give up. At the end of it, the group had benefited not only in terms of theatre, but had grown as individuals too.
Suddenly to know that Chetan is not there, feels like the biggest let down. He had invested so much time in theatre, and just when it was time for things to bear fruit, he’s gone.
For all of us in theatre, rehearsal space is our home, our refuge. We hardly know each other’s homes. In the wake of such a tragedy, I don’t know how to get to Chetan’s home; all you can do is call friends in theatre and mourn.
He has made a quiet exit, much to our shock….
ARUNDHATI NAG
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