logo

Vijay Tendulkar is no more.

The sms was short.

A very dear friend, one who guarded Tendulkar’s life had sent it. It said: “He’s gone.”

Gone?

And what remains?

Memories? Staccato conversations? Longish silences.

Tendulkar’s body of work is formidable. He has penned 28 full length plays, seven collections of one-acts, six collections of children’s plays, four collections of short stories, three collections of essays, a novel, and 17 film scripts, in a short span of 50 years.

Everyone knows that.

What is unheralded is, his non-theatre jotting. His sketches on P L Deshpande, men in power; unknown underdogs are his best work as a journalist. The piece on Amar Sheikh and Hamid Dalwai is stunning. The Walk the Talk (before TV invented Walk the Talk) with Vasantrao Naik is Dario Fo.

He once said to me: “It’s never about the writing. Anyone can write. It is about the observations.”

His project with TISS on Violence is a tour de force with its meticulous compilation of case-studies which have been gleaned from India’s jails. He used to unfold the most macabre episodes in a quiet pacifist tone. It was eerie.

In the tradition of Marathi playwrights, he was a brilliant reader. I attended a Tendulkar reading. It was a simple, unfussy format. He was alone on an enormous stage, accompanied by a few sheets of papers. He read his favourite poems by the new generation of Marathi poets, short stories, even newspaper columns. Basically, fragmented thoughts, and remarkably, the audience sat in rapt attention for more three hours. This was the magic of the word.

Of course, it also provided a big boost to the popularity ratings of the poets, authors, essayists. In recent times, it boosted the career trajectories of many a medicore playwright or poet. His preface to Manaswini’s collection of plays is a case in point. But he was blinded by his love for “the young ones.”

Pillar of Indian theatre

Above all, Tendulkar was one of “the famous four Indian playwrights” who changed the face of conventional theatre. He inhabited a Nehruvian world. After a few wars and riots, India was witnessing a decline of idealism, there was disillusionment with socialism, the gentrified society was showing its greedy fangs.

Writing contemporaneously with Mohan Rakesh, Badal Sircar and Girish Karnad, Tendulkar tried to bring this sensibility to theatre, one which marks him out as having made a unique contribution to the way theatre has been practised. If Karnad delighted audiences with overturning conventions, and a freewheeling use of mythology, Rakesh brought a vibrancy to naturalistic theatre, and Badal Sircar introduced a new politicisation to theatre, Tendulkar transformed the most fundamental tool of theatre, the spoken word, and even more than the spoken word, the text (and its context) which had been hitherto used in theatre. The pauses and silences, the conventional communication between human beings was replaced with the staccato of the unsaid and the unutterable.

Did he succeed? In the larger pantheon of things, yes. Tendulkar became a media icon. Importantly, he mastered the art of maintaining his mythic status.

He could do no wrong. It was a crucifix he had to live with.

Is he a good playwright?

I am uttering a blasphemy but I don’t think so. Today, almost each and every one of his plays is passé. Baby and Mitracha Ghosht and Gidhade are cringe-cringe-cringe.

He is a tough playwright to stage. Everyone speaks of 6,000 shows of Ghashiram Kotwal. But other than Jabbar Patel’s production of the play, almost all the other seven productions I’ve seen have been shoddy.

His last book, last three plays (like Girish Karnad’s last three plays) has been an embarrassment. The Fifth Woman (his first play in English) should be hidden from the rest of the world.

Having said that one is aware that in these days, it is not easy to write a play. For a playwright, in today’s time to confront a new-age audience is untenable. This is true for a Tendulkar and Karnad, leave alone lesser mortals like the rest of us.

Mediocre people are hell

A few months ago, when Tendulkar Saab was ailing, I visited him in Pune. A bunch of loyal friends had cast a protective ring around him. They call themselves the Shakha (they were obviously spoofing the Shiv Sena Shakha system) and met for chai-poha on Sundays and discussed movies, literature, politics.

The Shahkha managed to prevent the news from leaking out to a predatory media. Tendulkar sat like a royal king on the bed. The body was frail. The mind was agile. He wanted to know about Naseer’s Creon in Antigone. He was working on a translation. In the evening, Mohit Takalkar was going to read passages from Pamuk’s latest.

Tendulkar Saab commented: “The characteristic note of our time is the mediocre man, and his commonplace mind. And this mind knowing itself to be mediocre, has the gall to its right to mediocrity, and goes on to impose itself wherever it can. Be it our theatrewallahs, be it our politicians. This is a living hell.”

The tragedy of Tendulkar has been, he had to suffer fools who inhabited the very same living hell, he was opposed to!

The final finale

What would he say if he reads Bal Thackeray’s quote in the Saamna in which Thackeray says: “Vijay was my pal.”

What would he say when he saw the shradhanjali on Star Majha with actors who have, quite obviously never read a play … reading a Tendulkar play and messing it up.

What would he say, when he saw people bawling (dramatically) along with their sound bytes.

I half expect, Tendulkar to get up and say: “Fooled ya buggers, I was not dead. I just wanted to see how all of you are making me into a God.”

The Final Act.

Salaam Ten. Have fun wherever you are.

One day we shall meet … in heaven or hell or watching a play in a run-down auditorium in Bhandup …