Kavan and the Himalayas
What do you do when certain things and objects witnessed only through peeks and corners on one fine not-so-eventful day, They Are In Your Face. You can’t escape them because They Are In Your Face. You don’t have to consciously look out for them as They Are In Your Face. Visible from every angle and perspective – literal and metaphorical, that its surreal. Surreal, often the Salvador Dali way. How do you act, react when the very thing you long to witness – a conversation, a spectacle – is determined to make itself seen in an In-Your-Face style and mannerism?
I was recently at a village in Kumaon region of Uttarakhand to “waste” a part of life. To wander, sun-soak, nourish with delish food and fruits. And there it were! Every day and evening and noon and mid-day – the Himalayas. I saw them from almost all the nearby villages wandering. It seemed as I can touch them. That’s how near they felt. They were in my face every day. Everyday. For the Himalayas which I had witnessed in moments – a glimpse here, a peek there, to a tough climb through the forests; to see them from every corner was surreal in a dreamy sort. There wasn’t any hide-and-seek, no chase, just them and I being simply there. Existing. Them existing In My Face!
“That was disturbing.” – Was how two friends described it within their private conversation which I eavesdropped on. At a degree, I was able to relate with them. This ‘disturbing’ bit was Kavan – a performance-play at Prithvi Theatre, Mumbai.
Kavan in Marathi language is a musical opera performed by Shahirs. Shahirs are poets who weave stories and narratives in a lyrical from to express aloud the human-created social evils experienced by them and the people around them. Their verses, music, dialect and comedy are contextual. The opera through its Phules-Amberkarite-Marxist take weaved a satirical, leaning heavily towards dark comedy storyline on Caste in the cities – the lovelessness (as expressed by bell hooks) and the greed, generational poverty – of income, education, health and knowledge, fused with cow adoration (not worship, but love and compassion for the animal/s), to utlising a popular a gameshow format to describe and chatter with energetic and vile intensity the tactics to instil fear, hate and demonise fellow citizens – the Musalman.
SHIT! Shit didn’t hit the fan; it hit the Face. One can smell it. One can feel it in that dark air-conditioned room.
The conversations people on whichever side of ideology (now, we as a country go by ideologies – right, left etc. and not the need for dialogue), have had or overheard within their bubbles, or those which have been happening in their head but because of either political correctness or anxiety of disagreement, were never uttered; they were out in open. Performed on a public forum. In Your Face. With nowhere to escape. But to sit with that ‘disturbing’ feeling steadily creating unease from your throat through the body. Surreal, in a Salvador Dali way.
After having watched the film Santosh, a friend expressed how relieved they felt that their dating-person - who’s a Muslim by identity, wasn’t around. – Of how uncomfortable and distressing it would have been for them. While it’s true, it was ever more confrontational for the friend and others who were present (including I), as our caste-based identities and the power they occupy were in our face. This topped with a feeling of powerlessness – a powerlessness so overwhelming that the will to act feels a futile effort.
I don’t know how to end this. I don’t want this to end, methinks. I like to carry this as a constant reminder. – A hope that fellow-people and I find more and more opportunities to confront things – be it the uneasy conversations on lovelessness in Indian cities or the Himalayas.