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By:

Shoma A. Chatterji

21 August 2024 at 10:49:40 am

The Pallbearer’s Tragedy

Three decades after its premiere, Rangakarmee’s Mayyat remains a searing theatrical indictment of caste. Rangakarmee is perhaps the only theatre group that has been producing and performing plays in Hindi in Kolkata for 50 years this year. Founded and headed by the late Usha Ganguly, it is still as active and dynamic in presenting Hindi plays mainly new and sometimes recreating for the new audience, old plays that are timeless in their content and their appeal. The amazing feature of Mayyat...

The Pallbearer’s Tragedy

Three decades after its premiere, Rangakarmee’s Mayyat remains a searing theatrical indictment of caste. Rangakarmee is perhaps the only theatre group that has been producing and performing plays in Hindi in Kolkata for 50 years this year. Founded and headed by the late Usha Ganguly, it is still as active and dynamic in presenting Hindi plays mainly new and sometimes recreating for the new audience, old plays that are timeless in their content and their appeal. The amazing feature of Mayyat is that it was first performed by Usha Ganguly and her troupe way back in 1997 and has already performed around 500 shows spanning 30 years and signifies the cross-generational reach and popularity of the play. We saw a group of absolutely new actors dedicated to Rangakarmee. Their performance defined the strict discipline, the constant workouts and rehearsals to keep mobile and flexible because the very big cast needed to be perfect in body, mind and spirit during each 45-minute performance. What does the word Maiyyat mean? It is said to have its roots in Arabic and literally, it translates as ‘dead body’ or ‘corpse.’ The play is rooted in the deep internalization among the low castes of their exploitation and torture by the Brahmins of their village. The Brahmins are proud in their gait, their body language and even in their pure form of dress with the holy thread of Brahminism proudly on display. The custom of the proud, arrogant and rude Brahmins is to choose at least one among the four untouchables to become the pall-bearer when someone of the upper-caste dies. Instead of feeling sad or insulted, the chosen untouchable feels blessed and proud for being allowed by this strange custom of becoming a fake “Brahmin” if even for one day. Lakku is one such untouchable who lives somewhere near Aurangabad and leads a miserable life of poverty with the burden of a mentally deranged, motherless son he takes care of. The pall is decorated heavily with flowers and instead of looking like a bourse, it is decorated with lots of flowers like a palanquin. Someone obviously among the Brahmins is dead and the other Brahmins draw lots to find out which untouchable will be chosen to offer his shoulder to the bourse. `When Lakku’s name comes up in the shuffling of the paper chips, he is thrilled that at least for one day, he will enjoy the ‘blessing’ of becoming a “Brahmin.” But forced to run through the village on an empty stomach and with a weak body, Lakku collapses and dies before the bourse can reach the crematorium. Now, the question is – who will carry his body and carry it to the cremation ground? The entire performance, with 23 theatre actors, originally scripted, designed and directed by Usha Ganguly, is now performed by a new young cast under the guidance, training and supervision of Amal Saha, Deepesh Rajak, and Anirudh Sarkar. It has been conceived and designed like a musical opera with every Brahmin member of the cast, including the young women, dressed traditionally in pristine white with lots of marigold garlands and a sandalwood tikka adorning their foreheads. Though there are dialogues in the performance, these are either among the leading and decisive members among the Brahmins or scoldings and threats from the Brahmins to the four members from the untouchable tribe, each one representing a different low caste. These four men, alongwith Lakku and his mentally retarded son, keep waiting eagerly in one corner of the proscenium for the results of the lots to be drawn. They hug each other for joy when their names are announced and Lakku specially is thrilled with the responsibility of being pallbearer and becoming a Brahmin for just one night. Whose corpse is being carried in the bourse is not important. What is important is who are the pall bearers? At least, the Brahmins are not. What one carries home after watching a performance-play like Mayyat is the marvellous synchronization of the entire female cast wandering right around the proscenium space singing songs in complete harmony with not a note of error and the Brahmin men discussing, arguing and quarrelling over not how the corpse will be cremated but which low-caste man will become the pallbearer for one night. The bottom-line is caste is a continuous, historical evil. But should it remain so? (The writer is a noted film scholar. Views personal.)

The Day Cricket Broke Our Hearts

The triumph of Royal Challengers Bangalore came with a price too heavy to cheer.

It was meant to be the fairy tale ending. After 18 years of heartbreak and memes, Royal Challengers Bangalore (RCB) had finally lifted the Indian Premier League (IPL) trophy. For their long-suffering supporters, the ubiquitous slogan “Ee sala cup namde” (“this time the cup is ours”) was no longer a punchline, but a jubilant declaration. Bengaluru exploded in celebration. Fireworks burst into the sky, strangers embraced in the streets and a city exhaled years of sporting frustration in one collective breath of victory.

 

But just as that joy reached its crescendo, reality delivered a cruel blow. Eleven fans were killed in a stampede outside the stadium. The night of raucous revelry suddenly became one of gut-wrenching grief as laughter gave way to stunned silence. The same match that delivered sporting ecstasy had extracted a devastating human cost.

 

As the trophy was passed from player to player, and champagne sprayed into the air, television tickers quietly reported the deaths. The images didn’t seem to belong in the same world. Was this a celebration or a mourning? What does one do when the same moment births both triumph and tragedy?

 

Psychologists call this “emotional whiplash” - the paralysing collision of joy and sorrow. Like a computer receiving conflicting commands, the human mind struggles to process contradictory inputs. You do not feel numb because you feel nothing, but because you feel everything, all at once.

 

There is a reason happiness arrives faster. Evolution has wired the brain to respond swiftly to joy. It gives us a quick dose of dopamine, particularly when the reward has been long delayed. For RCB fans, this was not just about a cricket match but about identity, community and redemption. It was tribal - a collective absolution painted in red and gold.

 

Grief, on the other hand, is slow. It creeps and confuses. The news of the stampede didn’t instantly extinguish the glow of victory because tragedy often wears a mask of disbelief. The emotional high of the win clouded the immediate comprehension of loss.

 

The eleven who died were not passive bystanders. They were nothing less than ardent devotees. Fans who had painted their faces, braved chaos and dared discomfort to belong to something larger than themselves. In cricket, we often idolise the athletes, but it is the crowd that fuels the theatre. It is the fans who chant, sweat, hope and get hurt. Their presence is not background noise but the emotional soundscape of the sport.

 

At Sydney Cricket Ground, there is a statue of Yabba, a legendary Australian fan. It is no mere tribute to a man, but to fandom itself - the enduring, often unsung spirit of sport. Why shouldn’t every stadium have such a monument? A reminder that games are not won or lost solely on the pitch, but in the lives of those who fill the stands.

 

The uncomfortable truth of this IPL finale is what psychologists call co-occurrence dissonance - the inability to reconcile joy and grief when they arrive simultaneously. How does one cheer while others are mourning? How do we digest that the same event delivered someone’s happiest day and another’s darkest?

 

After Argentina’s World Cup win in 2022, celebrations in Buenos Aires turned deadly due to crowd surges. Sociologists termed it a “mass elation risk” wherein euphoric crowds ignore safety in pursuit of communal release. The machinery of crowd control is often outpaced by the human hunger for belonging.

 

In such moments, tragedy gets quietly pushed aside. The nation moves on. The media forgets. But grief lingers in the silence. Those who lost loved ones are left to mourn while the rest celebrate. That is why physical memorials matter. Not merely for commemoration, but for acknowledgement. A stand named ‘Fans Forever,’ a plaque or even a statue frozen mid-cheer - these become emotional anchors as public affirmations that those lives mattered.

 

Modern life teaches us to compartmentalise. We put joy in one box and sorrow in another. But reality does not offer such neat divisions. The real task of emotional maturity and of collective responsibility is to hold both truths together. RCB’s win and the eleven deaths are not two different stories. They are two halves of the same match. One is the cheer; the other, the silence that followed.

 

To forget the tragedy is to dishonour the victory. No trophy is worth more than the life of a fan who came to celebrate and never returned home. If we truly care about the game, we must learn to care equally for those who make its glory possible.

 

So next time you are in a stadium, take a moment to look around. Consider what stories lie behind the chants, the banners, the sea of colours. A stand named after fans or a sculpture in the likeness of a supporter may not alter history, but it may remind us to be better stewards of joy. That we must build structures not just for entertainment, but for empathy. Let the game remain glorious. But never forget those whose voices were lost in its thunder.

 

(The writer is a former banker based in Bengaluru. Views personal.)

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