And Then One Day: A Memoir (29 page)

Next morning all the participants, about fifty of us of every nationality, assembled and we were finally admitted into the mysterious portals of the institute, to a huge room where about half of us would spend that night before heading the next day into the forest where the work was to be conducted. Grotowski came in and addressed us for about an hour. I am not quite sure what he said because I didn’t understand most of it, save when he spoke of the need to unlock potential, and that our so-called truthful behaviour is actually no more than a series of ‘conditioned responses’; therefore the need to discover the ‘primal condition’. He preceded and interspersed every remark with pauses long enough to let the silent anticipation of the listeners grow so thick I thought his spectacles would fog over. The rest of what he said sounded so convolutedly esoteric he might have been talking in code, and I wondered what his reply would be if I asked him the time but no questions were allowed and we were given no inkling what the work would actually consist of, but were made to practically take an oath never to divulge anything to anyone about it and also not to discuss it among ourselves. We were also informed that consuming narcotics would not be permitted during our stay. I have no idea about the others but my unease certainly grew.

There were three other Indians apart from Rekha and myself. They were all from Calcutta—Deepak Mazumdar and Probir Guha, both theatre practitioners, and Gaur ‘Khepa’, a Baul singer of great repute. The verdant, pristine forest we drove into next morning evoked Andrzej Wajda’s films, the pines glistening in the morning dew, the seemingly manicured meadows glowing in the sun, an occasional horned stag bounding past kind of thing. In the heart of the forest was a clearing where two newly built barn-like cottages stood. We unloaded our things, found spots to sleep in and were introduced to the work, if I can call it that. I was prepared for rigorous exercises in physical control and voice work to start with; I had no idea what else would follow. Instead we were divided into groups of five, each with an instructor, and after doing some ritualistic unrhythmic kind of dance which was totally uncoordinated and stayed so as long as I participated, we’d sit in a circle, palms almost but not quite touching the person on either side, and were told to experience the vibrations, while the instructor, in an almost inaudible tone talked of being aware of the grass and the earth beneath it and asking us to feel the sun and the breeze. I was straining so hard to hear what he was saying that all I could do was give thanks it wasn’t raining.

At various times different groups of five would go off among the trees and return looking worn out, sometimes drenched, sometimes muddied but always deliriously disturbed. Nourishment consisted of bread and cheese, cold meat, potatoes and, if you were quick enough, eggs. These had to suffice at all mealtimes.

The days went very slowly past trying to comprehend— while running down a forest path to a clearing, doing some incomprehensible ritual and running back; or wading across a chilly stream, or rotating blindfolded on a sawed-off trunk, or listening to the same repetitive percussion played for hours every night—what connection all this had with what I had come to learn. Discussing it with the others was forbidden anyway and in any case they all seemed happy enough submitting to the restrictions. I was perplexed, not least because we hadn’t even had the benefit of interacting with Grot at all through the week. The prospect of a session with him was always tantalizingly held out to us but he never showed up. I was reminded of Amjad Khan. In the course of one of these exercises, however, fearing for my life while swaying precariously atop a towering pine, I caught sight of him sitting all by himself in a clearing some distance away. I hadn’t even known he was around. Somehow the suspicion that he had planned this appearance just didn’t go away, particularly as he still refused to have anything to do with any of us. Every question asked of the instructors would elicit either silence or an incomprehensible profundity, which actually said ‘I’m not telling’. After a week we were given a break, taken back to civilization and eatable food for two days. I enquired if, while we were here, it was possible to attend a performance at the institute and was greeted with a sigh, a sideways glance and a smiling reply, ‘No more performance. ‘

My burning desire to see Grotowski’s work remained unfulfilled and we were not even permitted anywhere near what used to be the performance space. When he did perform, apparently even witnessing a rehearsal was not possible; he now no longer had audiences and the place was unused except for workshop sessions by some of his ex- students, but we were barred even from attending these. The previous week’s experience in the forest and now this ‘secret ceremony’ attitude was making absolutely no sense, and the condescending attitude of the instructors didn’t help. Gaur ‘Khepa’ moodily informed me he had wanted to leave almost as soon as he arrived but in an ominous twist had his passport taken away, and he was being practically compelled to stay on. I was baffled and disturbed by the goings-on, but he detested the whole affair and resolutely refused to take part in any of the exercises. Laughing continuously through the phlegm in his chest and calling it all ‘mano chodan’ (mind fucking) he would emit clouds of smoke, sadly only of tobacco, from his chillum, hoist his ektara and go off into orbit for hours. I had no such outlet. We were not permitted even to read.

The second session in the forest was the same old thing with some additional stuff, which I will respect the oath I took and not talk about, except to say that Grotowski took part occasionally and some of it was pretty scary and it still made no sense whatsoever. I had an eerie sensation of being initiated into some sort of a cult and knew this was not what I had come here for. The resolutely unquestioning way all were going about what was asked of them unnerved me. I decided that since I couldn’t read and was not participating any more, to write about this whole experience which I started to do, only to discover to my disbelief all those pages torn out of my diary a few days later. Deciding I had had quite enough of this concentration camp with Big Brother watching all the time, I booked myself a ticket back to Bombay via Warsaw and quit the workshop after twenty days.

The feeling that I was losing my bearings would start turning more acute after another week in that forest, that was for sure. Waiting at Warsaw airport for my flight back, I saw a Sikh gentleman for the first time in Poland and I felt grounded again and halfway home already. I had had no telephonic contact with Ratna all this time and I wasn’t supposed to return for another month, so all were duly astonished when I reappeared, sans my luggage which Lot Airlines had misplaced and which finally got to me a month later. This whole misadventure didn’t have too many after-effects except for a foot infection and the dawning of the realization that no one at all could in fact help, and whatever I wanted to learn I’d have to do on my own.

For quite a while I kept grappling with what the scenario might have been had I stayed on; I even kicked myself a couple of times. Had I chickened out? Was I not ready for Grotowski? Did I need to evolve much more before I could comprehend what he was doing? The fact that Grotowski after he passed away sometime later left no lasting legacy except a bunch of very well-equipped but pathetically ill-adjusted actors banished from my mind any doubt I may have had about having missed an opportunity to grow. My own world was where I belonged and it had begun to seem like a mirage. This whole misadventure had turned out a foolish waste of hard-earned money and, more important, time. Whatever it was they were trying to impart to us in that forest, I knew it was of absolutely no use to me. After achieving the primal state, what? Does one then try to cohabit with bears in the jungle? And I was not looking for a guru who would provide answers if you waited long enough. I didn’t need any answers, I needed to hone my craft. And if physical prowess was what this was about then I had, even before coming to Poland, waded in enough streams and climbed enough trees and wandered in enough forests to be able to find anything new and elevating in all that.

I had gone there looking to gain some insight into my work which I was, by and large, happy in and which I intended to continue doing. Here I felt I was losing my wits and it was not a comforting thought; no way did I want to lose touch with my reality, there was too much there that I loved. The ‘primal state’ and ‘conditioned responses’ part had made sense, though, and I was dimly aware that if I could shed the second and gain the first or get somewhere close, that could be of enormous help in my acting, but this seemed to be more than just that. This had the smell of proselytization and prophet-building. The unquestioning submission asked of us I just did not take to, nor the air of mystery created around everything. I have to say I had visions of another Jonestown. Setting himself up as a guru and withholding information from disciples is all that Grotowski seemed to have assimilated from the Indian guru-shishya tradition, with the difference that in return for this loyalty he actually gave back nothing the way a guru does and should, he seemed only to be taking; putting us into situations, observing us, probably reaching some conclusions which none of us at least were privy to. I felt like a guinea pig must feel in an experiment. (This feeling came upon me again with full force when playing Rosencrantz in Grotowski’s most celebrated disciple Peter Brook’s
Hamlet
in Paris in the year 2001. Peter was equally intent on mythologizing himself and had not only never bothered to learn how to pronounce the word ‘Mahabharata’, he turned out to be easily the vainest, most self-absorbed person I have ever met. Never once coming anywhere near to divulging any insight into theatre work or the meaning of the play, he stayed completely oblivious to all of us except the leading actor. )

My attempts in Poland to delve into what it was that those who seemed adjusted found stimulating had elicited only vague responses like ‘it’s so liberating’, ‘I’m just experiencing the energy’, ‘it’s enough just to know he is around’, ‘my life has expanded’ and so on. I wondered then how many of them could actually relate any of it to their work, and wonder now how many of them came away with anything tangible. I do know, however, that two of them from India who thus far had been pretty active in the theatre never ever attempted another play again, nor anything else as far as I know; one of them continues to do whatever it is he does, in a forest near Calcutta, and Gaur passed away shortly after. So bizarre was this whole experience that I was almost grateful to start shooting a Hindi commercial potboiler again—the one I hadn’t been able to pull out of before leaving—and wallowed in the perks that go with a job of that kind, including first-class travel to Dubai, five-star comfort there and the heavenly Helen sitting on my lap (in a scene, of course!)

The news of Richard Attenborough’s dream project—to film Gandhiji’s life—had been circulating in India since I was a child in school. I had even read a news item about his having attended a film festival in India to announce this intention. The person slated to play the part then was Sir Alec Guinness but at that time it was just an announcement. Over the intervening years many other respected thespian names were floated: Tom Courtenay, Donald Pleasence, Anthony Hopkins, Brian Blessed, John Hurt. And just around the time that
Aakrosh
came out, the news broke that an Indian actor would be chosen to play the part and Sir Richard was to visit Bombay shortly to look for such an actor. My antenna vibrated madly, I thought I was in with a pretty good chance. When I had first learnt of the prospective film (1964 I think it was) I didn’t give a thought to the possibility of playing the role—hell, I was fourteen, I wanted to play Zorro not Gandhi; but now closing in on thirty, I thought the prospect was worth pursuing. I thought I could age convincingly, I had done it several times onstage, but getting the eponymous role in a huge Hollywood biopic—it all seemed too unreal to actually happen but reason told me it wasn’t impossible at all. Which European actor would be able to get Gandhi’s body language, I thought vainly; and there weren’t too many other accomplished actors in India either who could manage the physical resemblance. Nature had given me a slight physique and a funny face for this reason alone! If it were to be an Indian actor, it had to be me.

Not suspecting that the dice was loaded, I got an appointment to meet Sir Richard, friendliness itself. He had just seen
Aakrosh,
waxed eloquent about my work and kept addressing me as ‘maestro’. I told him I had admired his acting in a couple of little-known films,
The Angry Silence
and
Guns at Batasi.
He seemed to have forgotten them and was indifferent, but we hit it off rather well and he said we should meet again. Every second actor in Bombay was making the rounds of the Taj Hotel where he was staying, in the hope of a meeting, but I secured another one at which he asked me if I would like to travel to London for a screen test. I was growing a beard for a forthcoming movie but hastily got rid of it, leaving the moustache, got into one of the new suits I had by now acquired and embarked for Vilayat for the first time, travelling executive class along with Smita Patil, Bhakti Barve and Rohini Hattangady, all contenders for the part of Kasturba Gandhi. Two Rolls-Royces with the personalized registration numbers RA 1 and RA 2 awaited us and we rode in splendour to Oxford Street where we were lodged in rooms that had TV. Having no clue of the bill I would later be hit with, I telephoned Ratna and she told me that news had already appeared in the Indian papers that I had been cast. My spirits soaring like the clouds on that gorgeous summer day, I swaggered down Oxford Street, soaking London in. I was in England at last and again I realized I was missing Baba.

Next morning at Shepperton Studios, the first sight that greeted me in the corridor was the back of Ben Kingsley’s head and my heart sank. He turned around as we were introduced and it went further down somewhere near my ankles. The man already looked more like Gandhi than I ever could. I had been too smug in my belief that there couldn’t be an English actor who could manage the resemblance but here he was right in front of my eyes. The other ‘contender’, also present, with calf- muscles like a tennis player, was John Hurt. I later deduced that Ben had in fact already been cast, as had Rohini, and this whole business of tom-tomming all of us being tested and sneaking the news to the press in India that I had been chosen was a masquerade conducted to pre-empt objections that inevitably would have arisen if a white actor were announced straight away. And of course it had to be a white actor—the Oscar campaign had probably begun even before the shoot started.