GREEN ROOM MYSTIQUE

What was garish in the green room became perfect on stage, writes J. Vasanthan


A GREEN room is where actors put on make-up and get ready to perform on stage. The origin of this term is not clear. Even the Oxford Dictionary is uncharacteristically silent about it. It merely defines it as a place where actors relax between scenes.

Inside a Green Room


One of my earliest experiences with a green room was when I was about fourteen. The well-known actor, M.R. Radha, and his troupe camped in my hometown for about three months, and performed several plays.

My friend and neighbour, Joseph, who was about my age, got so taken by the performance, that he started hanging around the thatched shed that made do as a theatre. Soon he got to know some actors. They offered him a role in the plays. They needed many people to play in the crowd scenes.

Soon Joseph was coming on the stage in walk-on parts. A couple of our friends and I got to see the performances every day free of charge. And we went backstage along with Joseph and entered the new and fascinating world of the green room.

The Leading Lady


The main actress in the group was plump and fair. The first time we saw her in the green room, she was gaudily attired, richly bedecked with costume jewellery and heavily made-up. But later we got to see her lounging around, speaking vulgarly, using obnoxious expletives and double entendres, and laughing raucously at her own jokes. She was a coarse woman.

We had never seen this kind of a woman before. She was in stark contrast to the womenfolk of our homes. And yet when she went on stage, she became demure, and played the chaste maiden quite believably. Similarly, M.R. Radha who was very crude in the green room came off as a dignified and virtuous young man on stage.

Transformation


I realised then that the green room was a transit point, where the actor gets converted into the character. It was here that the mask was given as it were, to the actor to conceal his real self and project his stage persona.

Though the transformation from the loud-mouthed actor to the refined stage character fascinated me then, I didn't realise the full implications of this mystery.

Several years later when I started putting up plays, I again noticed the phenomenon of green rooms. When we performed plays in Madras Christian College, I noted the transformation process.

A Make-up Expert


When I came to Madurai and started the Curtain Club, we engaged a make-up man called Villi Babu.

He was a true professional, and went about his job with single-minded devotion. But I felt that the make-up was too thick and overdone. When I mentioned this to him, he said, "It will look alright on stage, Sir". And so it did.

When I saw the performers on stage from the distance of regular viewers' seats, they looked really impressive.

What was garish in the green room became perfect on stage.

When some people visited us in the green room to wish us success, they saw the made-up actors and were shocked. "They look horrible" one gentleman whispered to me. "Wait till you see them on the stage" I said confidently.

Green Room Protocol


Later I prevented people from dropping into the green room. I felt that once an actor had donned make-up, he should be seen only on stage. To sustain the make-believe it was essential that audience was in the dark about the process of preparation.

I also instructed my actors not to go out of the green room to meet friends after putting on make-up.

The paramount concern of the director and his troupe should be sustaining the illusion, which is what drama is all about.






© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

DRESSING UP

Very few students wore trousers those days. Some rich boys wore trousers and shirts tailored in Madras or Bombay, recounts J.VASANTHAN about the dress code of youth in his college days.



UNTIL I finished my schooling, I was always dressed in shorts and shirt.

When I completed my SSLC and got admission in a college I never thought of changing my attire.

Two days before my departure to Madurai to join the American College, a relative of ours happened to visit us. When he heard that I intended to continue wearing shorts in college, he persuaded me to try wearing a dhoti. He took me to a shop and made me buy a few single strand dhotis (naalu muzha veshti).

Changing to dhoti

After some practice I managed to `tie' the dhoti properly. But I was in constant fear that the dhoti might slip at some inopportune moment. So I wore my thick khakhi or white drill shorts underneath. And for additional safety I started wearing a belt.

When I reached the college, I found most chaps in my class wearing the same type of dhoti.

The B.A. and B.Sc students wore double strand dhotis (ettu muzham) of a fine cloth that was almost transparent. This was known as "mill veshti". Sometimes they wore this in a way that made the inner strand a little higher than the outer, a style that was the envy of the single-strand novices.

Very few students wore trousers those days. Some very rich boys wore trousers and shirts tailored in Madras or Bombay. We were very conscious of the difference in cost and style between our clothes and theirs. So were they. And so there was a becoming distance between us.

An exception to this rule was a jolly fellow called Venkatesh. He wore immaculately tailored trousers and shirts ordered from Madras, without being conscious that he was well-dressed. He got close to a group of dhotiwallahs to which I belonged. Incidentally, Venkatesh was a brilliant tennis player who reached the finals in State collegiate tennis tournament only to lose to Ramanathan Krishnan who was in Loyola College at that time.

Town Hall tailor

Venkatesh persuaded some of us to try wearing trousers. So we went to a tailor in Town Hall Road, who perhaps had never made pants before, but pretended to be an expert. The finished product was nothing like DoVenkatesh' s. The trousers were so tight that we were hardly able to sit. One pocket was so deep that we had to bend double to take anything from it; the other was so shallow that things kept in it were forever falling out.

At that time there was a young man who had a small cloth shop called `Silk House' opposite to the college. He was an extraordinarily handsome man whose charm and courtesy made his business flourish until it eventually occupied three shops in the American College Shopping Centre. He wore a long shirt over his trousers instead of tucking it in. Some of us started following this style since it helped conceal the deficiencies of our trousers.

Our professors were always dressed in suits, which from their looks, appeared to have been perhaps stitched by the same tailor in Town Hall Road. Some young lecturers wore white trousers, cream or fawn coloured jackets, red ties and brown shoes. This was almost like an uniform. One young lecturer, P.T. Chellappa, just back from the US, appeared in a single button jacket and a bow tie, and won our admiration. But after a while he went the Town Hall Road way too. Some older professors came in dhotis (pancha kacham), long coats and `angavastrams'. Some wore turbans too.

White clad gang

There was a group of senior students who dressed differently. They came from big cities and had a standard pattern of dressing. Their white trousers were worn very low on the hips and yet ended well above the ankle, revealing red socks to go with black shoes. Their white shirts were tucked in loosely, giving the impression of a very long torso and very short legs. The shirt sleeves were rolled up very high. The shirts had no packets, and so money was kept in the rolled up sleeves, which bulged sometimes with coins.

Wherever on campus you saw this white clad gang, they always stood together in a group, sometimes in a line, as if they were posing for a photograph. Sometimes they broke up to pursue their love interests. There were several coconut trees near the wicket gate towards the north of the campus. A girl would lean against a tree while one of the boys would stand stylishly placing one hand on the tree above her head, and utter what we assumed were sweet nothings for her ears only. The palm tree lent itself to this romantic pose since it was slanting and uncluttered by foliage. We cast envious side glances at them as we passed by.

Pairing under the palm

These guys also had a harmonica (mouth organ) each, which they carried in their hip pockets. In the evenings they were found in the vicinity of Lady Doak College, which was in its infancy. There was no compound wall around that college, just a fence. The harmonica toting Romeos would park themselves outside this fence and pour their souls out through their harmonicas, wrong notes and all, getting in return coquettish glances and giggles from the girls of their choice. To my knowledge at least two of these cases ended in matrimony.

One of our great desires at that time was to come back to the college for BA, wearing white trousers and stand under a palm tree. In my case, I came back after a four year break, still in dhoti though, only to find that the palm trees had vanished. The administration had cut down the trees, perhaps in an effort to curb romance. That was over fifty years ago.

The old trees may have gone, but new ones have grown. And romance goes on, as it always will.




© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

AN EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT

The West Masi and North Masi Street junction was a favourite place for music maestros to render concerts, recalls J. VASANTHAN.




TODAY OUR entertainment is film-oriented. In the evenings we can either go to a cinema hall or watch a film or serial on TV. We could also borrow a VCD for viewing at home. The choice is limited. But in the 50's a citizen of Madurai had a wide variety of choices when it came to entertainment. Of course, films were also there even then. But there were other options too - classical music concerts, dance performances, religious discourses, and many more. And these were not meant only for an elite audience in posh auditoria. They were performed on street corners for the common man too. Carnatic music stalwarts like Madurai Mani Aiyer, T.N. Rajarathinam Pillai and Mysore Chowdiah performed at road junctions without any fuss. The West Masi and North Masi Street junction was a favourite place for these concerts. I once attended a concert by Manakkal Rengarajan in a corner on the Workshop Road. Chowdiah was the violinist. His altered violin had a typical resonance of its own, and he was capable of achieving stunning effects with it. When he broke into a solo (thani aavarthanam), Manakkal Rengarajan applauded and said, "It is your concert today". The next day there was a violin concert by Chowdiah in the same place. Palghat Mani who accompanied him enthralled us with his wizardry on the mridangam. Chowdiah clapped and said, "Today's concert is all yours". But in a way our favourite was Madurai Mani Aiyer, particularly when he launched into his `English notes'. The dancers who performed in Madurai included the teenaged Vyjayanthimala, the very young Lalitha, Padmini and Ragini and Kumari Kamala (later Kamala Laxman). These performances were in cinema theatres when there were no film shows. Lalitha and Padmini used to include short dance dramas in their repertoire. And in one such, Lalitha as the sad wife, weeps, wipes her eyes with her saree and then wrings it as if it is saturated with water. The audience laughed, and Lalitha burst into laughter too, and so did Padmini (the husband). Everyone had a hearty laugh for a while and then it was back to the tearful routine. The religious discourses were held in the Adi Streets or in East Masi Street and attracted large crowds including college students. These discourses were witty and scholarly, interspersed with music. Scholarship sat lightly on the shoulders of these wonderful entertainers. Another kind of dance frequently seen those days was known as a `record dance', and was performed in the Tamukkam grounds on temporary wooden platforms. Loudspeakers spewed forth film songs and a provocatively dressed young woman danced vigorously, giving the lyrics her own interpretations. Most men who attended these dances came with huge turbans or covered their faces with towels since they were conscious of the low level of the entertainment. Occasionally police raided these performances, and as the crowd scattered and ran the towels sometimes slipped and revealed the anxious faces of some VIPs of the city. There were also football matches, rekla races and an occasional cricket match in the Race Course grounds in which the only national level player from Madurai, N. Kannayiram, took part. Among the more popular shows those days were the freestyle wrestling bouts. Staged in Mathichiyam, where the Anna Bus Stand later came to be. Star wrestlers like Dara Singh and King Kong panted and groaned and rolled about to entertain the Madurai crowd. Dara Singh was young and well-built, and became the favourite of the crowds. King Kong was massive with a bald head and a well-trimmed beard. We were told that he ate twenty ducks' eggs a day among other things. His daily menu was publicized to cause awe. He was billed as the mountain. During one match an arrogant young wrestler kept pulling King Kong's beard. The enraged man mountain threw the hapless chap down and sat on him. The man had to be carried out on a stretcher. A rumour went about that he had been squashed to death. King Kong was a big draw. Goldstein was a handsome golden haired wrestler who always played by the rules and was courteous to his opponents. Zepisco from Poland looked like a huge white ball. We used to crowd around Zepisco after the regular bouts. And he would hand wrestle with us, and pretend to lose, which brought on gales of laughter. These were the heroes. There were villains too. The masked Red Scorpion was reputed to be a master of the chop at vital points. When he delivered his chop his opponent fell on the ground and writhed in agony. The crowd hated Red Scorpion and was eager to see him lose. So when a match was announced between him and Dara Singh, record crowds turned up to see the foreign stringer being vanquished by the desi hero. But it was not to be. The scorpion stung as usual, and Dara had to be carried out. The crowd was unhappy. And then over the loudspeakers came an announcement. Dara Singh's guru had arrived that evening and seen his sishya being beaten. So he had challenged Red Scorpion to a bout the next day to avenge his pupil's defeat. Red Scorpion promised to remove his mask if he lost. Dara Singh's guru was comparatively small made but very tricky in his manoeuvres. He managed to keep the scorpion at arm's length, and not a single chop could be landed. The Indian won, and we were eagerly waiting for the Red Scorpion to remove his mask. But an announcement was made that Dara Singh had learnt a few lessons from his guru, and now wanted a return bout with the scorpion. So the removal of the mask was postponed. We knew in our heart of hearts that the whole thing was being stage managed and that we were being taken for a ride. But we rode along willingly because it was exciting after all. The next day there were huge crowds. Dara Singh imitated his guru's technique and won. But again they dodged, and we never could get to see the face of Red Scorpion, which was a good thing perhaps. Most of us who enjoyed all these shows cannot but feel that now the variety has gone out of entertainment. Well, those were the days!

(The author of this article can be contacted at the E-mail: jvasanthan@sancharnet.in)





© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

THE SUDERSANAMS

A charming reminiscence of a doctor and his family



Dr.G.S.Sudersanam was a senior doctor in the old Nizam's State in Hyderabad. As a resident medical officer he was entitled to a huge bungalow and all other kinds of perks wherever he was posted. He was a good doctor who lavished great tenderness and care on his patients.

At that time the purdah system was prevalent in the State, and women wore heavy veils, from behind which their eyes peered at the world through a tiny opening. The doctor was not allowed to look at the patient's face nor touch her. Since there were no lady doctors there at that time, Dr.Sudersanam had to manage somehow. So he trained one of his daughters to check the pulse and to administer injections. He took her with him whenever he had to treat these gosha women.

A cosmopolitan family


Dr.Sudersanam was a native of Andhra. His wife Sunderamma was from Orissa. They had four pretty daughters and two handsome sons. The parents gave the children a free hand when it came to marriage. The eldest daughter was married to an Andhra doctor. The second one, who had won a couple of beauty contests, fell in love with her college mate in Vellore Medical College and married him. He was from Uttar Pradesh. He became a professor in The Administrative Staff College in Hyderabad. The third one (the proxy doctor) married a Tamilian - me. The fourth one was a bubbly character full of fun and laughter. When she went to study in Allahabad, a Bengali college mate fell for her like a ton of bricks. They got married, and later the man rose to a high position in the UNO. As for the sons, one married a girl who was half Tamil and half Coorgi. This chap became a colonel in the Indian Army. The last boy completed the circle by marrying his eldest sister's daughter. They settled in the US where he became a businessman.

When we all got together on some vacations, the dining table seemed to be a cross section of the nation. The Sudersanams seemed to be a model family for national integration.

A rhapsodical ride


Mrs.Sunderamma Sudersanam must have been a great beauty in her younger days. I first saw her when she was in her late fifties, and there still were vestiges of that beauty in her face. Dr.Sudersanam also had sharp and pleasant features. They made a handsome pair.

One night Dr.Sudersanam and I went to the railway station to receive someone. The train was late, and so we sat on a bench and chatted. He recalled his early days in the Nizam's medical service, and his family life in those enormous houses. One thing he said sparked my imagination.

When they had to go from one place to another, he had to ride a horse, and Mrs.Sudersanam was carried on a palanquin. "Aunty must have looked quite impressive in that palanquin", I said.

"Yes" he said, his face all aglow. "She was like a princess". And then he became misty-eyed with memories of those glamorous days. After a long silence he came back to the present with a sigh. Obviously he was very much in love with her.

Together until the last


Later Mrs.Sudersanam had a stroke and was confined to a wheelchair. The doctor was also afflicted with several ailments. They were both sliding into their last stages.

A romantic nurse who was looking after them, pushed their beds together, and placed Mrs Sudersanam's hand in the doctor's. Even though he was only partially conscious, Dr.Sudersanam perhaps instinctively knew that it was his wife's hand, and he clutched it firmly. The nurse summoned the family and showed them the clasped hands. It was a beautiful moment.

One day, in one of his lucid moments, Dr.Sudersanam told me, "I must live longer than aunty. I must be there to look after her, you see"

But that was not to be. He passed away before her. He was ninety five. Mrs.Sudersanam didn't realize what had happened. A couple of days later she asked her children where their father was. After trying to dodge the question for a day or two, they had to tell her the truth. She broke down and went into a non-communicable stage. She pined and died shortly after. She was ninety.

Theirs was a beautiful love story.






J.VASANTHAN



© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu