REMEMBERING SHYAMANAND JALAN: Vikram Iyengar

Driving back home from a Ranan repertory session about 10.30pm on Monday, 24 May 2010 I received an SMS from one of the repertory dancers who is also a doctor at Kothari Medical Centre and Research Institute: “Shyamanand Jalan is no more”. He had passed away in hospital about 9.15 that night.

The next day at his Alipur home a group of us from Ranan stood amongst droves of people who had come to pay their respects. I looked around at the spacious house and was reminded of a conversation with his wife Chetna Jalan a few years ago. She was talking about the revamping of the house while Shyamanandji was recovering from his paralytic attack: the installation of a lift to the mezzanine level dining room and his bedroom on the first floor, the remote controlled curtains which allowed him to open up or shut off a window that looked down into the living room, and many more such little additions. All of these, while practically invisible to those who did not know about it, allowed this man full control, access and enjoyment of aspects of life which are so often cut off by illness and disability. SJ – as he was referred to by so many of us – refused to let an uncooperative body interfere with his ever alert, ever young and ever enthusiastic mind. Till the very end he was brimming with ideas, pestering people to think differently and creatively, and fully and passionately engaged with every single pie he had his finger in.

Arguably, many people have this zest for life – but few can boast of being able to infect others with it. Fewer still can claim to possess his incredible generosity of spirit. He will forever be associated with Padatik, Anamika Kala Sangam and Natya Shodh Sasthan among other institutions which are now so much a part of the contemporary cultural history of Calcutta and India, but it will never be possible to quite determine how many individuals he drew to him – perhaps even against their will – and encouraged to forge their own paths, purely because he saw in them possibilities which they themselves may have been quite unaware of. And the true extent of the impact that Shyamanand Jalan has on contemporary Indian theatre and performance must take into account the continuing work of individuals inspired, supported, cajoled and – yes – pestered by him over decades.

I count myself among those un/fortunate ones who he turned this gaze upon in early 2005. Before this, apart from knowing and greeting him on a purely formal basis, I had had practically no direct exchange with him. All that changed when he came to see Ranan’s dance and theatre version of Girish Karnad’s Nagamandala in February 2005. Looking back now, my direction of Nagamandala was amateurish at best, definitely not worth the notice of one of the veterans of modern Indian theatre. But SJ saw freshness and the beginnings of a search for a new performance language in the production. He summoned me to him – yes, summoned is the word – congratulated me, asked me about future plans (including sustainability issues) and offered me then and there the Padatik spaces and infrastructure to show my work in whenever I wished. And the entire meeting cannot have lasted more then half an hour at most! In fact, I cannot recall any official meeting I have had with him over the years that lasted more than that. He was precise, practical and pointed – and he demanded the same of you. No vague wishy-washiness could last long in front of him. Clarity of thought and immediacy of action – that was SJ all over.

Since Nagamandala, he has followed Ranan’s work with the avid and personal interest that he was so known and loved for. An interest that was never reserved only for work that came out of Padatik or Anamika, but a completely selfless one that actively looked for, enjoyed and encouraged fresh creative work from anyone, from anywhere. At every new production a message would come from Padatik: Shyamanandji is coming, please ensure the side door is open and a side seat reserved for easy access. Whether it was Gyan Manch, Rabindra Sadan, Padatik itself or any other hall – this message arrived well in time, so that it never interfered with the smooth running of arrangements. And every hall happily complied with this request. Every venue was used to this, used to the habits of this unstoppable, invigorating man with this enormous appetite for and encouragement of performance.

Free with his praise, he was just as free with his criticism – but always constructive, always helpful, always insisting on pushing forward and discovering new areas. If you did not raise the bar for yourself, he always did it for you and did it with the complete belief that you had the capacity to raise it further. Having seen the first of only two shows of Nagamandala, he sent a small group of dancers from Padatik to see the second one. Years later in April 2009 – after having seen the first part of the preview show of Equus – he sent around postcards to several of his friends recommending the production. On his word alone, Anamika Kala Sangam booked 200 tickets with us for their members. I treasure the SMS he sent me after Act 1 of the preview show calling the endeavour “Brilliant”. Unfortunately, his health would not permit him to see the whole 2 ½ hour show in one sitting. He vowed to see Act 2 at a later date: my one regret will be that he never did.  

This generosity and enthusiasm did not limit itself only to actual performances: he was interested in anything to do with furthering the cause of the performing arts. In January 2006, we shot our now internationally travelled dance film, Bahudha, at the Padatik Buildwell Theatre with Ranjan Palit. From March 2006 to January 2007 Padatik played host to the first year of our bimonthly informal discussion series, Proximities. And when he visited the new Ranan rehearsal and work space for our housewarming in June 2008, he nodded approvingly and stated with his trademark ‘do it now’ attitude: “I would like to contribute something to this space”. This philosophy of always giving, purely for the satisfaction of seeing something in which he had no direct stake grow and blossom, made him – and makes him still – unique.

At an individual level, I worked with him only on two projects. For both I received the ‘royal’ summons that cannot be ignored! The first was to put together the brochure text for Chetnaji’s last production E Mo Ko. Of course, most of my interactions here were with Chetnaji, but every now and again he and I would touch base. And each time I was struck by his incisive insight and clarity. He would have read through every draft before every meeting, outline his comments lucidly and convincingly always bringing you back to the central function of the programme brochure, and invite your responses and ideas – again, all within the space of half an hour.

Even with the Choreography Workshop of May-June 2009 which he asked –no, commanded – me to coordinate, my meetings with him were few and to the point. He constantly said to us – myself, Chetnaji, Sharmila Biswas and Priti Patel – take it forward and then come to me. And each time we did, he pulled our ideas together effortlessly, made calls to people we found unreachable then and there, egged us on our way and left us to it with full confidence in our abilities. And if any particular issue worried him or seemed to him not to have been adequately dealt with or articulated, he never ceased to exasperatingly harp on it until and unless we were able to clarify the matter for him – and often for ourselves. His ability both to see the bigger picture and to focus on the smallest of details was indeed something to learn from.

If you and your work were worth his notice and time, your response to his work was equally important to him. Not only did he invite and allow me to sit in on his final rehearsals for Madhvi, he turned to me after it and said – with absolutely no acknowledgement of the gulf of years, experience and expertise that divided us – “Batao, Vikram, what did you think?” This, from a director who has been in the field since the 1950s and whose impact and contribution to modern Indian theatre is lauded across India, to someone who is just starting out on his journey in the world of performing arts. And after the premiere shows, dragging me up to his flat along with others for dinner, to let our hair down and talk about the production and a dozen other things.

Working with him on the Choreography project over last year, I enjoyed several such interactions at his flat above Padatik and his Alipur home, with him and Chetnaji presiding as impeccable hosts. The playful and naughty child in him came to the fore on these occasions. His ample midriff would quiver with delightful chuckles at his own or someone else’s sarcastic and pointed jokes and comments. But equally he would draw visiting choreographers into discussions about the philosophy and practice of their work, and engage in the most enlightening conversations. And these conversations always included everybody, regardless of age or experience. He truly believed that everyone had something to contribute, everyone’s opinion and response mattered.

Turning to Kumudini Lakhia at one of these evenings at his Alipur home, he suddenly began talking to her about my production of Equus. And turning to me, Kumud-ji – an 80-year old Kathak pioneer – asked equally enthusiastically: “So when do I get to see it?” I think it is moments like these which bring home to us the true meaning of the word visionary. Visionaries are not those who merely carve out fresh avenues in their own work, opening up unexplored territory. That probably defines a genius, for want of a better word. But a visionary is someone who is constantly interested in the furtherance of his or her field not just through their own work but through the discoveries and explorations of others. A genius can be self- centred (using the word positively): a visionary never is.

Shyamanandji’s passing leaves a void in all of our lives, in the cultural life of Calcutta and all of India. And we must mourn it. But yet, my memories of him do not allow me sadness for very long. Anubha Fatehpuria – Ranan core group member and an actress who has worked closely with SJ – told me: suddenly you’ll remember something he said to you and you won’t be able to stop yourself laughing. The day after his demise when we met Chetnaji in the midst of the ceremonies at Alipur, she said to us: we must all meet and have a celebration in his name. And that is how we must remember and celebrate him: full of life and laughter. For wherever he is now, he is still laughing, still living (albeit in another realm), still giving, still pestering, still fully engaged with the next thing he has encountered. Of that I am absolutely sure. He could never be any other way. And that is his inspiration, that is his legacy.

SJ – we raise a glass to you and drink to the dregs, just like you always taught us to do.