RAGHAVA - SOME MEMORIES

K. V. GOPALASWAMY

[To readers of Triveni Sri T. Raghavachari (popularly known as Bellary Raghavachari or Raghava, 1880-1946) needs no introduction. The very first volume carried an article on him and he himself contributed articles in later numbers. Raghavachari was one of the top actors of South India. He was acting not only in Telugu dramas, but also in Kannada, Tamil, Hindi and English. Not only that, he had the privilege of visiting England and enacting in the presence of Bernard Shaw. He was a leading advocate, playwright, patron of arts, philanthropist and social reformer. His birth centenary is being celebrated with great eclat this year in Andhra Pradesh. The author who is the President of the A. P. Sangeeta Nataka Akademi reminisces in the following article his association with Raghava. –EDITOR]

Raghava visited me on the evening of January 30, 1946, as I was about to leave for a reception given by the citizens of Guntur at the Town Hall on the eve of my departure for Waltair. Some members of the Committee of Hosts who came to escort me requested Raghava to honour the function with his presence and he readily accepted the invitation. The reception was rounded off with a performance of Rajalakshmi by Vinjamuri Sivaram, presented by the Natya Samiti with which I was closely associated for four years as Producer and President. Raghava insisted on meeting the actors at the end of the show and praised their acting most generously, particularly Paturi Sreerama Sastri, who appeared in the role of Timmarusu. He asked Sivaram whether he would collaborate with him in dramatising the life or Viswamitra on lines which he had sketched out, and Sivaram agreed to do so. Dining with me and the members of the Natya Samiti that night he was pleased to remark “I have noticed remarkable unity in tonight’s performance, which I hear, was a premiere.” Turning to me he continued, “I now understand your insistence, all these years, on the importance of proper direction and constant rehearsals for achieving such excellent results.” He outlined the episodes from the life of the Rajarshi, which he wanted to be included in the play Viswamitra. He asked the members of the Natya Samiti whether they were willing to act with him in staging the play and they were most enthusiastic about their participation. Finally, he asked me whether I was prepared to produce the play. This was indeed a unique honour from the greatest actor on the Indian stage, which could never be rejected except for insurmountable difficulties. However, I said, reluctantly, that I was leaving for Waltair that night, that I would not have any breathing time till the arrangements for the rehabilitation of the Andhra University at Waltair were completed for which purpose I was being specially deputed and that in any case I could not take any kind of leave till the 30th of May, by which date I expected to publish the results of all the university examinations. But, I was also moved by the eagerness with which our members were awaiting my acceptance and I said that I would most gladly produce the play, if Raghava was willing to stay with me for a fortnight in June at Guntur, and direct the play himself. He was very pleased and agreed to come about the 10th of June. Sivaram said that there was ample time for completing and polishing the play in close consultation with Raghava. That was the last night which Raghava and I spent together. Two months later I had sent him a copy of the current issue of the Theatre Arts Magazine, which was returned to me with the endorsement “addressee deceased.” That was the end of a friendship which I had greatly cherished.

Over a quarter of a century, between the year 1919 and 1945, I had occasion to see Raghava in several roles in many languages. Comparing him with the great actors appearing on the stage during these years in India and abroad, I was of the view that he was incomparable in India, and that he was comparable to any leading actor in Asia, Europe or America or anywhere else. He was like Garrick, dominating the stage, wherever he appeared. His eminence was all the more remarkable because the Indian theatre of that period was the negation of all the recognised principles of play-production then current.

My contact with Raghava, however, began in a very impersonal way, but under circumstances which were by no means auspicious. On a short six-week visit to India in 1932, I had occasion to see a performance of Othello at the Midland Theatre, Madras, in which Raghava appeared in the title role and Mark Hunt as Iago. The lady who was advertised for appearance as Desdemona was not available and Narasimham who frequently appeared in female roles opposite Raghava in English plays, took up the part at short notice. I happened to review this performance in a manner unknown to Indian journalism at that time. Actually the review was rejected by the Madras Mail, The Hindu and The Justice on rather flimsy grounds. Even the Swarajya then on its last legs, published it only after considerable hesitation, a week after the performance. I did not find fault with the acting of Raghava or Narasimham, both very experienced actors, nor did I severely criticise the miserable performance of the rest of the cast. But I did tear up the production in a style quite common to reviews in England at that time but not agreeable to editors of Indian dailies. The costumes and make-up of this performance were very much below par, even by Indian standards. The get-up of Iago upset me particularly. Mark Hunt, whom I had seen before in Grant Anderson’s productions, appeared with a bandaged leg culminating in a foot ensconced in a Punjabi sandal, which was in glaring contrast to even the otherwise unattractive product. I could not imagine any dialogue between an immaculately clad Moor (alas, Raghava was none such) and this pathetic figure in bandages, which could go beyond Othello’s expression of profound concern for Iago’s health and immediate medical attention to his wounds. Nor was there any design in the arrangement of the stage curtains, which were painted with the intention of being useful for any mythological play in Tamil. The entrances and exits were without meaning, and the stage movements were lacking in purpose. The editing of the play was bad. There was obviously no direction and very few rehearsals. The performance was during the afternoon on a sultry day in August. The hall was built for a cinema and unsuited for drama. The fans circulated hot air and distorted voices. I went home in a hurry and wrote the review in bad temper and in great haste, as if it was against a date-line before midnight and due for publication next morning. The review appeared over my initials. Raghava was deeply hurt, but in spite of several attempts could not trace the reviewer till a year later.

It was only during the Third Andhra Nataka Kala Parishat, held at Madras in December 1933, that I came into somewhat closer contact with Raghava, who was the President of the year. I was the Treasurer of the Reception Committee. At a meeting of the General Council, held on the last day of the Parishat, we discussed the implementation of the two reforms for which Raghava pleaded in his presidential address– (1) that only women should appear in female roles and (2) that acting alone should be of primary importance in theatre. No one could question these most desirable reforms. But, Raghava, who was in the chair, went further in his elucidation, and said the costume, make-up and scenery were hardly necessary. He referred with admiration to a performance he had seen in Germany, which had none of these. Participating in the discussion without at all questioning the necessity for the reforms suggested by him, I expressed the view that we might profit by adopting some of the modern techniques of play-production then in vogue in Europe in the Experimental Theatre, which were by no means expensive. The style of my speech, the tone of my voice, perhaps, rang a bell of alarm, in the memory of this eminent actor, who looking once again at my name in the agenda paper, connected it with the initials over the review of Othello. At the conclusion of the meeting he complimented me on my speech and invited me to sit with him at dinner that night. As we were breaking up after the dinner, he asked me almost casually, but without any attempt to suppress a mischievous smile, whether I was reviewing the previous evening’s performance of Chandragupta in which he had appeared in the role of Chanakya, and I replied that my immediate concern was with the alarming state of the finances of the Parishat, and that in any case the Swarajya was no longer published, indicating that it was the only journal that might indulge me.

Since then Raghava and I met frequently, and everytime he came to Madras he wrote to me well in advance about his visit and how long he would be staying. We spent at least one evening together on every one of his visits. Our social life was of kindred spirit; we had many interests in common. We had several subjects for our conversation, and we generally avoided discussing theatre. But in 1935 he was scheduled to appear as Rajarajanarendra in Sarangadhara, with Sthanam as Chitrangi and Banda in the title role, the rest of the cast provided by the students and staff of the Politechnic. The performance was for the Politechnic. The performance was for the benefit of the cultural association of that institution. I bought two tickets and wrote to Raghava inviting him to supper after the performance. He accepted the invitation promptly, but made it a condition that I shall not see the performance. I was naturally amused, but I wrote to him accepting the condition and offering to pick him up at the theatre after the performance. I had timed my arrival at the theatre for about a quarter of an hour after the expected end of the performance. Actually I had to wait for a whole hour outside the theatre before I could see him in the green-room, and when I did he was in a Lungi and Kudtha but insisted on leaving immediately.

As it was nearing midnight I took him to my club. Most members had already left, but some who were about to leave joined us, when they recognised Raghava, with whom they were well acquainted. Our company was congenial and soon became hilarious. Raghava was at first somewhat dejected, but tried not to show it. He soon got over the depression. Under, persistent pressure of his old friends he gave recitals from well-known, less-known and almost unknown passages from plays in English, Telugu and Kanarese. I had never seen him on the stage at any time in such great form as he was that night before an audience of less than a dozen people. An infinite variety of emotions poured forth in quick succession from this unrivalled actor. We were, of course, deeply moved but no one amongst us suspected that he was acting under irrepressible strain, indefinitely stretched. When I dropped him at his hotel it was almost dawn. It was only on the following day that I heard from the friends to whom I had given my tickets, about the conflict between Raghava and Sthanam, which started with improvised verbal annoyances, continued through physical violence and culminated in the disastrous performance of Sarangadhara. Reflecting on the recital at the club which followed the performance at the theatre, it dawned on me that Raghava was acting just as much to entertain a few friends of fastidious taste, as to regain his confidence in himself, after a disastrous show earlier.

In 1936 Raghava appeared for the first time on the screen as Suyodhana in H. M. Reddy’s Drowpadi Mana Samrakshana. As another picture on the same theme, Drowpadi Vastrapaharanam was released at the same time with Yadavalli Suryanarayana in the role of Suyodhana, inevitably there was comparison between the two films and the interpretation by the two great actors. Yadavalli had the great advantage of appearing in a traditional role in which he had made a great name on the stage; Raghava had given an interpretation which was well above the intellectual level of the average film-goer. Neither of the films was a financial success. There were great differences between Raghava and H. M. Reddy during the production of this film, and they broke up without much chance of reconciliation. H. M. Reddy, who had been producing at Poona, moved to Madras. He came to me with proposals for his next picture. He wanted to direct the first social picture in Telugu and had the script ready. He sought my intervention to induce the Sri Rama Films Ltd., of Nellore, in which I had a small financial interest, to finance the production, to patch up his quarrel with Raghava and persuade him to accept the leading role in the proposed picture, and to help him in finding suitable actors for all the important roles in the film. Although the estimated expenditure was unbelievably low, the Directors of Sri Rama Films to whom I put up the proposal rejected it off-hand. The Chairman of the Directors of the Company, a friend of long-standing, said to me pleasantly that the unpredictable expenditure of Reddi’s direction, the temperamental acting of Raghava and my aesthetic values would guarantee the liquidation of the company financing the venture. Actually, the next venture of the Sri Rama Films was a mythological picture which without any redeeming feature tarnished the image of a sensitive poet, who was persuaded to direct it. This ill-cast film, owing to the inordinate delay in its production, under pro rata contracts, provided some nest eggs for the retirement of senile actors in their declining years, and also made an obstetric history. Whatever satisfaction the directors and other financiers derived from this production, it was not in the form of dividends, because this private limited company was soon liquidated without any return for the shares. Raghava was so disgusted with the film world, at this time, that I could not persuade him to act for H. M. Reddy, although he bore him no ill-will. Sometime later Raghava accepted the invitation of Ramabrahmam, which was also conveyed through me, and appeared in his Rythu Bidda, and subsequently in Chandika. In spite of all the reverses. H. M. Reddy persisted in seeking my advice in casting his film Grihalakshmi, which he produced in record time, bought up all the shares for double their face value within a month of its release, and made a fortune out of the venture.

Perhaps the most crucial turning point in the life of Raghava was his visit to Europe in 1928. During the next five years he frequently spoke about the two immediate needs of the Indian theatre, which he spelled out in greater detail at the Parishat in 1933. His respect for women, always very great became more intense after his return from Europe. Only a day or two after his return in August 1928, I happened to witness an incident at the Spencer’s Refreshment Room at the Central Station, where Raghava was dining alone before catching a train for Bellary. As he was leaving the restaurant, he saw a couple of rowdies harassing an Anglo-Indian girl and interceded by asking them to apologise to the lady for their behaviour. As they turned nasty, Rangaram and I who were at a table farther away, rushed to his aid. But, before anything worse happened. Fallen, the manager of the restaurant sent a few waiters to remove the rowdies from the premises. Raghava thanked the manager and walked out serenely. At the time, to our young minds the whole episode appeared to have come straight out of Cervantes. When I became better acquainted with Raghava, I recalled this incident while discussing the problem of women on our stage, and conveyed my view that in our country we were still a long way from civilised behaviour towards women appearing in public. He thought that things were bound to improve if respected women appeared on the stage instead of women of questionable background. I did not pursue the discussion out of respect for his age and experience. But my own aquaintance with the state of affairs in our theatre during the past half a century did not leave me any such hope. Raghava is reported to have quoted George Bernard Shaw as having said “Why do boys play the roles of girls in India? Are your girls so bad-looking?” When Raghava met Bernard Shaw the playwright was 72 years old, which might have accounted for his equation of good looks with acting talent.

The emphasis which Raghava laid on the importance of acting over other aspects of theatre can be best understood by looking into the conditions prevailing in the decade 1920-’29 in the Madras Presidency and its neighbourhood. In the Tamil theatre at Madras the utmost importance was given to music was–it was the era of Sundarambal, Subbaiah Bhagavatar and Kittappa, with Devudu Ayyar at the harmonium. In Mysore, under the patronage of the Maharajah, Carnatic music had attained great heights, which, understandably, had its influence on the stage – Aswathamma came into prominence. Balagandharva ruled the Marathi stage–each Keerthana sung by him lasted at least thirty minutes, exclusive of encores. On the Telugu stage Ragalapana had made great inroads into recital poetry, which was kept under stricter control in the previous decade. Spectacle began to dominate over the script and the actor. The Baliwala theatre drew crowds of spectators, who did not understand a word of Urdu, the language of its plays. Gubbi Veeranna of Mysore and Gunnayya of Madras adopted the transformation scenes and other tricks of the Farsi theatre, to meet its competition. Money was plentiful in certain quarters in Coastal Andhra, derived mainly from zamindars, who had still another quarter of a century before their liquidation. The theatre offered a field to men who could afford to be reckless in financing expensive productions, but who were often persons without taste, abysmally ignorant of the drama. Some actors and other satellites who managed the theatres for them, took full advantage of the weaknesses of the financiers and drew unconscionable sums, which ensured the ruin of these patrons. The plays which dominated the theatre of that period were pseudo-historical spectacles, political propaganda, debauchery masquerading under a moral garb. Sambandam Mudaliar in Madras, T. P Kailasam in Mysore and Raghava in Andhra were crying in the wilderness for the re-establishment of the higher values of the theatre.

When the First Andhra Nataka Kala Parishat met on June 19, 1929, it was primarily a gathering of Pundits more than of players. It was not till the Third Parishat met at Madras under the presidentship of Raghava, in 1933, that the current problems of the Telugu theatre were discussed seriously. Raghava’s appeal to us to improve the standards of acting impressed us a great deal. Some of us felt that the newly-established Andhra University may perhaps be able to do something in the matter. On August 22, 1936, Dr. Toleti Kanaka Raju moved in the Senate a resolution for the introduction of diploma courses in dramaturgy recommending: (1) provision for a modern dramatic stage in the university auditorium or convocation hall; (2) institution of a diploma course in dramaturgy; and (3) formation of an academy for dramatic training. The resolution was considered by the Syndicate on 23-10-1937, and a committee lifting of Raghava and Sambandam Mudaliar was constituted to consider and send up proposals for instituting examinations in the subject. The committee sent draft syllabuses and regulations, but did not recommend the institution of examinations without providing adequate facilities for the teaching and practice of dramaturgy. The Syndicate accepting the report on August 21, 1938 expressed itself against the institution of examinations in dramaturgy.

Since 1936 the question of opening courses in dramaturgy was mooted more than once in the Senate, but owing to financial stress nothing could be done in that direction till several years later. Some of the suggestions made in the Senate were implemented from time to time. When the University moved in 1942 to its war-time headquarters in Guntur, the University Experimental Theatre was established in 1943, with the full co-operation of the University and the three affiliated colleges then functioning at Guntur. The temporary Open Air Theatre constructed at Guntur became the centre of considerable theatre activity providing free entertainment for thousands of people, and Raghava had the satisfaction of seeing for himself some of the plays presented on this improvised stage. When the University returned to Waltair in 1946, theatre activity was intensified, but the process was somewhat slow. With the financial aid of the Government of India, the University stage and Open Air Auditorium were constructed in the Erskine Square and placed at the disposal of the Andhra University Experimental Theatre in 1957. With the active co-operation of the students in the University colleges, and the teaching, engineering and administrative staff of the University, workshop activities were carried on by the Andhra University Dramatic Association and more than one hundred and fifty plays were produced over a period of twenty years during which the Experimental Theatre functioned. Experiments were carried out in stage design, lighting and sound. Lectures on the history of drama, theatre organisation and production techniques were organised at several centres under the University Extension Lectures Schemes of 1957 and 1959. Drama competitions were held for the affiliated colleges for nearly twenty years. Raghava did not live to see all this intense activity.

Raghava died before the film industry in India came of age. He had emerged from the theatre of amateur tradition with the expertise of a professional artist. He was an amateur only in the sense that he was motivated by passion rather than money. His training, experience, skill and achievement were those of the greatest professional artists of the world, and remuneration to him was ever of secondary importance. He might have been a superb link between the two worlds of film and theatre. He died before India attained independence – his cherished dream of reviving superb plays, banned by a colonial government, unfulfilled. He could have opened the eyes of the erstwhile ruling class, with whom he moved socially as an equal, but obeyed the censorship they had imposed because he was a law-abiding citizen. He was a rebel against the restrictions of caste, who gave up his distinctive suffix to his name to which he was entitled by his birth. He died before the Constitution removed the barriers imposed thousands of years ago on a stratified social structure. In his death I had lost the friendship of an affectionate elder, a friendship which survived acute differences over values in the world of theatre.

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