National

Caught In The Act

Saira Menezes visits Chaufula, Maharashtra's Tamasha town

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Caught In The Act
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A fortnight ago, as Maharashtra Deputy Chief Minister Gopinath Munde hotfooted through a series of  searing questions from a prying press, people in the Tamasha town of Chaufula were marvelling at his fancy footwork. The likes of which had never been witnessed by the 44 Tamasha (dance-drama) theatres spread throughout the state—and which probably must have amazed the beautiful Tamasha artiste Barkha Patil herself.

Overnight the lady, her artful ways and her hometown Chaufula, 55 km off Pune on the Pune-Solapur highway, mixed a merry tune which surfaced up Munde's backyard and marched right into his bedroom.

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And after the initial interviews, Barkha did an act she was not accustomed to—a disappearing one. Her brother, Ashok Jadhav, owner of the famous Ambika and the under-construction New Ambika theatre, followed in her steps. Sister Menaka threw up her hands in dramatic despair at their more-than-modestly furnished Pune flat: "We have nothing to say. We are not interested in politics and, please understand, all this is harming our children who are studying in hostels." Earlier the elusive Barkha, while denying any links with Munde, had subtly added: "Politicians may not have morality, but we have it. And we do not want to ruin anybody's family life."

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Back home at Chaufula, nobody is impressed, least of all the Tamasha-the-atre performers. For years, Chaufula and its surrounding areas have been the highway stopovers of the rich and the famous—for the customary wine, women and song. Now the Barkha-Munde controversy has stanched the flow not only of money, but also of many hopes. "We all know one thing here. If you are beautiful, you can get a bungalow. If not, you stay like this all your life. Because of her we are facing this problem," says Lali, a 26-year-old Tamasha dancer.

There have been more reasons for complaint. The current controversy has undoubtedly chased away the Cielos and their rich owners who zoom in under the cover of darkness. As it is, artistes argue, the art has been reduced to a side show. Bapa, a harmonium player, says: "The show begins at eight and ends at 11. Each Tamasha troupe, often on an annual contract with the theatre, puts up a general performance for 20 minutes. What can the earnings be when the entry fee is Rs 10 per head?"

There are other problems. At the Renuka theatre, a stone's throw away from Barkha's Ambika theatre, two unshaven stragglers threaten to throw a couple of tenners at the dancers—heavily made-up teenage girls clothed in clinging nine-yard sarees—provided they bend forward and reveal a flash of flesh. The girls, completely clueless about the nuances of the traditional Lavni, mindlessly move each foot weighed down by ghungroos of 5 kg each to Bollywood's top 10 tunes. Pardesi, pardesi jaana nahin, Tujhe dekha to yeh jaana sanam, Mehendi lagake rakhna, Dil ke jharoke me aaja....

But there are bigger burdens to bear. "Behind closed doors, we are an accepted lot," says Rekha Narlekar, Renuka's owner. An expert exponent of Tamasha and Lavni, she rues the death of the art in the pursuit of more commercially viable songs. "People nowadays do not understand the real meaning of Lavni. They look down upon this highly respected art form. Otherwise wouldn't men who take their wives to the movies bring them along to the Tamasha? The men also want everything modern—from the songs to the way we dress. Just as there is a demand for fit-ting jeans, we use pins to pull back the folds of the nine-yard saree to give it a tight-fitting effect."

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The clientele is predictable. "Businessmen are better than politicians," is one candid confession; and the khasgi (private) baithaks held in small, divan-fitted chambers bring in the most money. "The rates are Rs 700, Rs 900 and Rs 1,200. And if the performance is appreciated, more money flows in. The earnings are split equally between the theatre owner and the troupe," says Shakila, a dancer.

It is between one song and the next, or more likely one visit and the next, that liaisons that never get legitimised are established. Faces are registered, notes are compared, car numbers sometimes noted, but names are never dropped.

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And so, women wear mangalsutras but, save for the music 'masters', the men are missing. Walls are adorned with pictures of themselves, their babies, even Indira Gandhi, Nehru and the Mahatma—but family photographs do not figure. "Most of us are unmarried," says a dancer "And if there are children, they are given the mother's name. The woman would most certainly know who the father is but the man can always turn around and say that the child could be anybody's."

As for Gopinath Munde, he could have averted driving into disrepute if only he had kept his eyes open. A traffic post just off Ambika prophesies: "Caution, Diversion Ahead."

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