Censorship and Theatre

Sudhanva Deshpande New Delhi

Let me begin by going back in time, to the beginning of the century. Bombay, July 1908. The tallest nationalist leader of the time, Lokmanya Bal Gangadhar Tilak, was put on trial for having published ‘seditious’ editorials in his paper Kesari. He was sentenced to six years’ imprisonment. In response, the Bombay working class went on a massive strike for six days, one for each year of the sentence. As many as 76 out of 85 textile mills struck work for a full week. The colonial regime called out the police and the army. According to official reports, 16 workers were killed, and nearly 50 wounded. Most workers, in the early 1900s, were illiterate. And yet, at least sixteen workers laid down their lives for editorials that thousands of others could not even read. This was the first mass political demonstration of working class unity for issues that did not, strictly speaking, concern them and their class. The Indian working class was coming of age, as Lenin noted with satisfaction.

And now the twist in the tale – Tilak himself was incarcerated for editorials he did not write! They were written by Tilaks' editorial colleague, Krishnaji Prabhakar Khadilkar, among the leading playwrights of the time. Perhaps fittingly, the hidden hand of the playwright moved many, many actors to acts of courage and sacrifice. Khadilkar himself earned the wrath of the colonial regime as well, when his play Keechakvadh was banned in 1910 under the notorious Dramatic Performances Act of 1876. This Act was passed specifically to deal with nationalist sentiment that was becoming more and more apparent in the theatre of the time, particularly in Bengal, in plays like Neel Darpan by Dinabandhu Mitra. Much has been written about this play, so I will not go into that, except to say that there were in fact a number of ‘darpan’ plays that were written at the time, which held up the mirror to the colonial masters. Subsequently, the Act was used by the British to try and silence many nationalist playwrights.

The most famous of these attempts was possibly Khadilkars' Keechakvadh. The Bombay Times of India of 10 February 1910 described it as ‘a play abounding in every form of incitement to an emotional audience’, and having exerted ‘a most pernicious influence . . . all over the Deccan, as well as in Bombay city.’ The paper describes, in wonderfully graphic language, ‘the tense, scowling faces of the men [in the audience] as they watch Kitharas' outrageous acts, the glistening eyes of the Brahmin ladies as they listen to Dhrupads' entreaties, their scorn of Yudhishtiras' tameness, their admiration of Bahamas' passionate protests, and the deep hum of satisfaction which approves his slaughter of the tyrant.’ The paper saw a connection between the play and acts of violence against British officials: ‘the teaching of the play is bearing fruit. Within two years of its first appearance [1907] and in the same presidency an attempt is made to assassinate Kichakas' successor, Lord Minto. And it is in a native theatre which has seen ‘Kichakavadh’ acted that [the Collector] Mr Jackson is murdered.’

The Dramatic Performances Act of 1876, then, was a draconian law put in place by the colonial state to deal with opposition to it. It was to be expected that after Independence, such laws would be abolished. That, however, has not happened. While the Act does not exist any more at the central level, most states have their own versions of the Act. However, it should be noted that the opposition to DPA has existed for as long as the Act itself. Two of the best-known cases of political censorship in the post-Independence era took place in West Bengal. In 1966, Utpal Dutts' play Kallol on the RIN Mutiny of 1946 aroused the wrath of the Congress regime. Utpal Dutt was imprisoned for six months. This did not deter Utpal Dutt and his actors, however, and they faced tremendous odds – including physical threats, boycott by the press, withdrawal of advertising, and so on – while continuing to perform the play to huge audiences. Eight years later, in 1974, Utpal Dutt was again the target of state wrath, and was this time charged with sedition for his play Dushwapaner Nagari (Nightmare City). There were huge protests from all quarters against this, the CPI (M) provided physical protection to the play, and eventually the government had to withdraw the case under overwhelming popular pressure. When the Left Front came to power, it scrapped the Act.

In Delhi, theatre groups have to seek police permission as well as a tax exemption certificate from the entertainment tax authorities, but censorship – where every play script is minutely scrutinized – is not strictly followed. In some states, like Maharashtra and Gujarat, ordinary theatre groups face censorship routinely, every time they have to perform inside an auditorium. In Gujarat, I am told, the Censor Board is a very large body and you need to have the play passed by any one member. There are, of course, brokers who will ‘arrange’ this. In a recent case where an Ahmedabad group, Fade-in Theatres, was doing a play on the riots of 2002, they had the play sent to one of the very few secular individuals on the Board, and were thus able to procure a certificate.

In Maharashtra, on the other hand, the Board as a whole has to pass the script. This can sometimes lead to hilarious situations. Here is what happened to Vijay Tendulkars' play Gidhade (Gidh/Vultures). The actor-director Dr Shriram Lagoo describes his first encounter with the play, sometime in the early 1960s:

I had never read a play that ran over me and stamped on my chest like this. The play was very violent and very alive. With great ferocity, the play tore me to shreds. Mercilessly it poured my blood down a gutter and then filled a tumbler with it, put it to its lips, drank it down, and burped aloud, disgustingly satiated. (Lamaan, p. 95)

Lagoo realized it was impossible for him to do the play – Marathi theatre was too middle class to accept it just yet. Years passed, and in 1970, Satyadev Dubeys' Theatre Unit decided to produce Gidh under Lagoos' direction. So it was sent to the Censor Board, which asked for about 150 cuts. The play is full of foul language, virtually all of which the Censors wanted cut. This was unacceptable, so they went ahead with the play, without the Censor Certificate.

As soon as the play opened, it took Maharashtra by storm. Very strong pieces were written in the press on it, both for the play and against it. The Censor Board summoned the producers. The Board asked: ‘Is it true that you are doing the play without a single cut that we had recommended?’ Yes, they answered. ‘Why?’ Because those cuts are not acceptable to us, replied the producers. The Board said: ‘Then why didn’t you say so? We could have had a discussion about it.’ The producers said: ‘We had no idea this was possible.’ ‘Well, it is’, they were told. The Board would meet in another three months’ time to decide the matter. In this period though, there were some 15-20 shows of the play lined up. What about those? The Board said: ‘No problem. You go ahead with the play. But you will not get the final certificate before a formal decision is taken.’ So the play continued merrily, uncensored, with the full knowledge and encouragement of the Censor Board! Is Mr Anupam Kher listening?

After a delay of several months, the Censor Board finally cleared the play, with three cuts. Two were specific words. For instance, the Board objected to a brother calling his sister ‘whore’. The third cut was visual. The brothers beat up the sister and her foetus is aborted. She appears with a blood red spot on her sari. The Board said that is much too graphic. Three cuts then, out of one hundred and fifty. The producers agreed to take these cuts. Only to realize later that none of the cuts now being demanded were a part of the original 150! Then Dubey had a brainwave. Since the Censor Board objected to the red spot on the sari, what if the spot were blue, not red? So that is how the play got done after that: the spot remained, and in the advertisements of the play, spectators were asked to ‘imagine that the blue spot is red’!For a while in the 1970s, Tendulkar became a favourite of the censors. His Sakharam Binder created a storm, as did Ghashiram Kotwal. In fact, with Ghashiram, we see the beginning of two sorts of censorship that have become all too frequent. The Brahmans of Pune saw themselves being depicted as a thoroughly decadent and degenerate lot, and one of their historical icons, Nana Phadanvis, as nothing more than a scheming, power-hungry, dirty old man. First, the old guard within the group doing the play, the Progressive Dramatic Association, self-censored themselves into not doing the play. This led to the breakup of the PDA and the formation of the Theatre Academy to triumphantly continue Ghashirams successful run. Then, the Shiv Sena decided not to allow the play to travel to Europe. ‘The cast went into hiding until they could be smuggled, under police escort, onto the plane that eventually carried them to Delhi, and from there to Berlin.’ (Shanta Gokhale, Playwright at the Centre, p. 211) On its foreign tour, the company had to read out a statement that said, basically, that the play did not depict historical fact. However, even today, years later, although Ghashiram has been hailed as a modern classic, one particular auditorium in Pune will still not allow this play to be staged.

The sort of thuggery one sees the Shiv Sena indulge in has, as I said, become all too common. We all know about the attack on Jana Natya Manch that killed Safdar Hashmi in January 1989. That attack did not come from the Hindu Right, but it is useful to remind ourselves, from the same Congress whose victory we all celebrated in May. This is the same party that ushered in the Emergency in 1975, and launched a semi-fascist terror in West Bengal, which killed, amongst others, Ashis Chatterjee of Theatre Unit in 1972, and Prabir Datta of Silhouette in 1974.

Now, there is no doubt that by and large, the theatre community in India has remained secular. But what happens if it doesn’t? Recall that play, Mee Nathuram Godse Boltoy, that came into prominence some years ago. There were protests by Congressmen against the play, and demands that the play be banned. I am sure much can be said in favour of such a ban or against it, but I personally do not favour banning such plays. I believe that if someone really wants to put up a third rate play, he should have the right to do so. We have to oppose these things politically, not by invoking laws that more likely to be used against us.

There is no question that the biggest danger to performers in today’s India comes from the Hindu Right. Last year in August-September, Habib Tanvir and his Naya Theatre actors were made the target of vicious, sustained, and pinpointed attacks in several cities of Madhya Pradesh for a play called Ponga Pandit, also called Jamadarin. Interestingly, this is a play neither written nor directed by Habib Tanvir, nor by his actors. This is an old Nacha piece, and has been in performance since at least about 1935. Naya Theatre has been doing the play since the 1960s. Tellingly, however, the play first came under attack in the immediate aftermath of the demolition of the Babri Masjid, and since then has been attacked a number of times in a number of places, including Britain. In all these attacks, the strategy is basically the same: to create an atmosphere of fear and intimidation, so that spectators are driven away, and the authorities take the position that the play cannot be performed since there is a threat to law and order. If the individuals in positions of authority are sympathetic to your point of view, which is rare, you can expect some leeway. But, as it often happens, if they are apathetic or hostile, you will be asked not to perform. And since you care for peace while the protestors do not, you will end up not performing.

Extra-legal censorship is today the most potent weapon that the Hindu Right has. However, let me not give the impression that official state censorship is a minor problem. For groups in Maharashtra and Gujarat and some other states, state censorship has become somewhat like traffic jams: it’s a routine irritant, completely beyond your control, and barring the odd occasion, something that does not really prevent you from reaching your destination in the end, however late.

Extra-legal censorship, on the other hand, can be more ferocious; it can get you killed. However, there are ways you can hoodwink the fascists. In Bhopal last year, Habib Tanvir was scheduled to perform Jisne Lahore Nahi Dekhya Voh Janmya Hi Nahi, an anti-communal play. Habib Tanvir of course makes the Muslim fundamentalist say everything that your friendly neighbourhood Bajrang Dal goon would, but the Hindu Right cannot object to it, since it comes from the mouth of a Muslim. Anyway, after the performance, the organizers asked Habib saheb to introduce the actors. He said, ‘Hum to kalakar hain, hamara parichay hamari kala hai. So would you like to listen to some folk songs?’ The audience said yes. The actors sang. Then Habib saheb said, ‘We also have a little Nacha play. Would you like to see that?’ The audience said yes. The protestors from the VHP and the BJP were outside the auditorium, and had no idea that the actors in the meanwhile were doing Ponga Pandit inside! On another day, as the actors were going to perform at a certain town where the VHP was waiting for them, Habib saheb stopped at a village and asked the villagers: ‘Would you like to see a Nacha play?’ Some of the villagers recognized his actors, and said yes. A makeshift stage was created at the chaupal, someone organized a couple of halogens and microphones, and the villagers watched Ponga Pandit with great enjoyment, as they had done for decades. And there was the occasion in Vidisha last September which Sanjay Maharishi and I were present at – in fact we have made a small film on that called A Day in the Life of Ponga Pandit – where, when Habib saheb asked the audience, ‘Would you like to see the play?’, one single person got up and said no, and the police, armed to the teeth, moved with amazing alacrity to vacate the entire auditorium. Habib saheb watched this happen in silence, and said in the end: ‘We have come to perform the play, and we will. Even if there is no one watching it.’ And he did. The only spectators present were Sanjay and I!

Five aspects of this attack stand out.

One, that it is relentless and repetitious. They pursue you all over the place, in every city and town and village. In the process, they seek to simply tire you out.

Two, these attacks get wide publicity in the press and so on. This is important for them, since it creates an impression that something is wrong with the play – but also because it creates an overall atmosphere of fear. When terror squads begin attacking works of art with regularity and success, the artist himself or herself begins to reformulate his or her creative expression for fear of offending someone or the other. Most such reformulations do not appear to be big compromises, and there is always some factor that justifies the compromise. But no matter how invisible, no matter how intangible, self-censorship is a form of censorship. It is a tribute to Habib sahib’s courage that he did not allow this to happen to him, but we all know of other artists, celebrated and otherwise, who wilted.

Three, the state apparatus almost always colludes with the fascists under the guise of maintaining ‘law and order’.

Four, it is possible to resist this kind of censorship with a combination of street smartness, guts, and sheer insolence. And theatre is a potent medium for this resistance, since it can become quite agile and unencumbered by technology.

Five, we often view this as an attack on the freedom of expression of the artist, which of course it is. But it is also an attack on the freedom of expression of the spectators, who, in the act of watching a play, are also expressing themselves. We often lose sight of this fact. And we simply cannot afford to, since it is the people who will protect the artist in the end. As Brecht put it: ‘There is only one ally against the growth of barbarism: the people on whom it imposes these sufferings. Only the people offer any prospects. Thus it is natural to turn to them, and more necessary than ever to speak their language.’

The question of freedom of expression encompasses the whole of society, the toiling people in particular, for whom it translates into the right to protest their miserable existence. And this is the first right to be curtailed in any authoritarian setup. It is not a coincidence that precisely at the time that the question of censorship of art has burst upon us like this, there have also been attacks, judicial attacks I might add, on the workers right to protest and strike. There is a connection here that we’d do well to think about. The workers understand this. Sixteen workers gave their lives in that distant July for Tilaks’ right to publish editorials which most of them could not even read. In my own experience, I have seen how thousands upon thousands of workers and others raised their voice in protest and anger at the brutal murder of Safdar Hashmi in 1989. It can be argued that without that protest, the protest of the artists and intellectuals may not have amounted to anything more than a few photographs in some newspapers. We are not in this alone. Our strategy to fight censorship will have to revolve around the larger unity of artists with the working people. Our art must address them, must speak their language. This is of course not easy. But it can be learnt. It is a question of survival. Our survival. Thank you.

Sudhanva Deshpande is a New Delhi based theatre activist with Jan Natya Manch, and is the editor of LeftWord.

It is not a coincidence that precisely at the time that the question of censorship of art has burst upon us like this, there have also been attacks, judicial attacks I might add, on the workers right to protest and strike.