|
It hardy looks like
Grenwich Village, New York, but in spirit and content it is the
Indian equivalent of a slice of a city, where those who worship art,
live. The name is Kathputli Colony and it is not on any official
tourist map. That’s because it hardy has the outward glitter
that most tourist places have. But this amazingly enough, is a
bastion of Indian culture, nurtured by artistes whose traditional
skills have been handed down through generations.
The mud huts, are not
just mud structures to stave off the extremes of climate that the
capital is known for. Wandering puppeteers form Rajasthan have shaped
with their own hands star-holes in the walls which remind one of
origami. Wooden doors are carved with intricate designs, or painted,
or have colourful banners strung over them. The compounds of the
huts as well as their interiors are spotlessly clean. The impression
of squalor is merely derived form the absence of properly laid-out
streets and lack of water or electricity.
Meet Jagdish Bhatt,
puppeteer par excellence, who explains that the colony has been named
of puppeteer families are settled here. Otherwise there are enough
musicians, sculptors, wood-carvers, weavers and craftsmen to be found
here. A strapping young man, Bhatt is uncomfortable meeting visitors
in his ordinary clothes and soon dons hi silk kurta (shirt)
and turban to impress upon his guests the glory that is his when he
is on stage. He is the sutradyhar or story-teller, narrating
the story enacted partly in song and partly as elocution of the most
dramatic variety. He is in fact the leader of his troupe, and each
costume each, each puppet is made at home by his wife and children.
His favourite stories are those handed down by his forefathers, but
regrets that audiences prefer modern love stories, influenced by the
relentless onslaught of cinema and television. At the same time he
is enlightened enough to concede that it will not do to glorify child
marriage, sati (burning of widows on the funeral pyre of the husband)
and other social evils by sticking too strictly to the lores of yore.
The spate of Festivals of
India in America, France, U.S.S.R. and Japan have brought fame and
fortune to a large number of artistes in this colony. These flights
into distant lands, where the slights, sounds, food and luxuries are
so exotic as to lead to possible disorientation (that’s what we
imagine), are taken by these unlettered lovers of art very much in
their stride. Because however strange the surroundings or the skin
and colour of the people, the instant rapport established with the
audience is evident in the applause that they get after their
performance, the obvious adoration they get from children, the
enthusiasm with which their products are bought. A musician who
plays an ancient instrument, for instance, is in touch with a
Japanese admirer, who will soon be visiting him in this very mud hut.
They hoard with great pride, the letters and cards they receive from
their foreign fans, many of them children and the cuttings from
foreign papers where their performances have been recorded, though
they may be in languages they can never hope to understand.
The artistes who have
been abroad for a Festival or as part of a cultural exchange
programme have made plenty of money, some enough to buy a proper
house elsewhere, but they cling onto Kathputli Colony because of its
creative atmosphere and also because they have a dream, a dream
envisioned by Rajiv Sethi, a patron of culture. Sethi hopes to
transform the colony into a rural village building on its site a
model village with modern facilities.
The lovers of Indian
culture can still flock to see the artistes in their natural habitat,
buy handicrafts, enjoy folk music and dance, and watch puppet shows
in an atmosphere filled with nostalgia for times more leisurely and
more colourful. As night descends on the city and electric lighting
feeds a million street lamps, neon lights and bulbs, Kathputli Colony
is clothed in darkness except for the feeble flickers of candles and
kerosene lamps. Some transistors are on, playing film music but
unlike every other locality, however rich or poor, there is no
television. Somewhere in the darkness, a flute is tremulously making
its tryst with melody, while elsewhere a singer cries out,
accompanied by his harmonium, the lyrics of a new dirty he hopes will
feature on All India Radio. Mohammed Iqbal the singer used to be
just a qawwal (singer of qawwalis – music sufi in origin
but he soon learnt that people who pay for his kind of music at
weddings and other celebrations are a dying breed. So he managed to
establish some sort of credibility with the government, composing
little musical messages to spread the word about birth control,
driving carefully, what to do when malaria strikes etc. While
bemoaning the days when people clamoured for his performances, he is
now hoping to get a chance on television. For that is the medium
which can bring instant fame to him and his neighbours. The
woodcarver, at this time of night, merely sits slumped against a wall
waiting for his wife to prepare dinner. For after dusk he is unable
to practice his art and has to wait for daylight to pick up his
chisel again.
About 20 years ago when
wandering nomads from Rajasthan settled in this corner of west Delhi,
the city had not yet reached Shadipur. Around them was an industrial
area, hardly an inspiring environment for artistes, but at least
there was some greenery. Now a huge flyover dominates the skyline,
but the process of development brought its own gains. Over the
years, earnings changed form the erratic and uncertain to a contract
for Jagdish Bhatt’s troupe to join the puppet theatre classes at
Sri Ram Centre for Art and Culture close to Connaught Place. Here
they received regular salaries and interacted with educated young
people form the city who gave them due respect. They had arrived on
the culture scene.
| 
