(Continued from Part 1)
There is another dimension — the metaphysical. In your Nāṭya, one witnesses a movement from the mundane toward the metaphysical. What, then, is the metaphysical in your Nāṭya? What is adhyātma for you?
In truth, I have lived my entire life within the metaphysical. I inhabit the mundane world very little. Rabindranath spoke of the kalpaloka — and it is within that realm that I dwell. My room, my objects, colours, fabrics — everything I arrange differently. This has nothing to do with wealth. There was a time when I had no financial stability, and yet that kalpalokaexisted within me even then.
I never learned how to compromise with the metaphysical. I play the vīṇā. I rarely go outside. I have no friends. Even today, I do not use plastic flowers in my Nāṭya. I use flowers made of śolā, though they are more expensive. Because plastic carries no human consciousness within it.
None of the props in my Nāṭya are machine-made. Even the cloth you see hanging behind is entirely handwoven. I seek to bring together the consciousness of many individuals into a single locus, allowing a collective consciousness to condense and become present. It is within this condensation that the metaphysical emerges — the inherent potency of human consciousness.
Therefore, when we dismantle the stage, we do not treat it as inert matter. We perceive it as a form. This way of seeing brings about real transformation.
For this reason, in my process of Nāṭya-making, the consciousness of the śiśikṣu — the learner-disciple — is given primacy. There is little attempt to impose or force; instead, space is allowed for the inner consciousness to awaken through its own participation.
Soon after receiving the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award, you said in a conversation with an English portal that, as an artist, you believe in “totality.” From the time I have spent with you, I sense that by totality you do not mean material completeness, but rather a kind of fullness. Is that so? If so, could you explain what constitutes fullness for an artist? What is this sense of fullness?
It differs from artist to artist. I cannot define it — because to define it would become an act of imparting knowledge. I perceive fullness simply as fullness.
I wish to break myself apart. I wish to move beyond my limits. I want to float in the infinite; I do not wish to remain confined within limitation. Fullness, for me, is not an end — it is a pursuit toward the infinite.
When these works are presented on stage, when Sayak recites śāstra, even those in the audience who do not know Sanskrit feel its essence and respond with spontaneous applause. Members of Gen-Z create reels, while viewers unfamiliar with the subject and its mode of presentation nevertheless forget their spatial and temporal coordinates and become absorbed in the aesthetic experience of the performance. As the creator, how do you perceive this? Is this the Indian consciousness that lies deeply dormant within, and awakens at a single touch?
My understanding is that whatever may be called the “material attraction” of my Nāṭya is responsible for this. I do not think in terms of whether someone responded after seeing, or after understanding.
Someone creates a reel and says it has received many views, and that makes them happy. But if I were to say that when I walk down the road, cows, calves, crows, animals, birds, trees, mountains, dust, houses — everything is looking at me, and therefore I must be someone of great importance — I would consider that a symptom of madness. But that is my view. I do not know the view of others.
Three decades ago, there was a certain sense of necessity behind this practice. Do you still feel that same necessity today?
Three decades ago, I did not possess mental maturity. I did not know what consciousness was. The upheavals of life taught me. (Pauses.) One cannot become conscious — one can only cease to remain unconscious.
Now, my life has no specific purpose. Therefore, I feel no urgency to establish this Mārga Nāṭya within society. At one point in my life, I realized that I was the epitome of unconsciousness, and that was the cause of all my suffering. I have been attempting to move beyond that suffering.
Because I have seen that if I experience suffering, that frequency is transmitted to others as well. Therefore, if I wish that others suffer less, I must first transcend the level of my own suffering. That is the work I have done through art. I am a born artist. It seemed to me that this is what I must do.
(Pauses again.) Nothing in life is planned. Whether something happens or does not happen — both are acceptable. Yet work must continue. One must take care of people, maintain buildings, arrange for resources. The day I am able to move beyond these necessities, I will no longer require money — that is the plan.
We create nothing. We merely carry the arrogance of creation. Even if we build a house, the land belongs to the earth, the bricks belong to the earth, the cement belongs to the earth. Everything is borrowed from the earth.
I have the wish to build a Bharata Nāṭya Maṇḍapa. It has seemed to me that nothing exists on this earth in the name of Bharata Muni. Many attempts have been made, but it has not come into being. I will attempt it once myself. I do not have the confidence that I will succeed — but there is no harm in trying. If it comes into being, it will come into being. If not, then wherever I arrive at the end of my life, I will erect a simple structure of brick and bamboo, dedicate it, and depart.
That earlier sense of necessity no longer returns to me now.
Do we live only in response to necessity, or is there something beyond necessity? That is the real question.
Let us now turn briefly to West Bengal. Over the past seventy years, what has been most widely practiced here has been political theatre, much of it shaped by colonial inheritances. What is your view on this political theatre of Kolkata?
I do not encounter so-called political theatre in that sense, nor do I have the opportunity to observe it closely. In truth, art is an expression of the inner consciousness of the individual. One whose inner consciousness is shaped by politics will create political theatre.
I am not connected with politics. Whether politics is underlined within my theatre or not — that is for others to perceive, if they can. I will not tell the audience what it is that I am showing through my Nāṭya.
If someone declares, “I am presenting politics,” that appears to me to be a form of foolishness.
In our country, what we call politics is something we ourselves do not fully understand — and it is precisely because of this lack of understanding that we become subject to it.
Across West Bengal — whether in the districts or in Kolkata — theatre practice has become deeply dependent on grants from MoC, GoI. Yet even within such structures, fragmentation, internal conflict, slander, and ultimately insecurity remain common experiences. And yet, from within the very centre of this ecosystem, without relying on salaries or grants, without proximity to power or patronage, and without taking any money from students, Chidākāśa has survived for more than a decade and has become one of the country’s most active institutions. If someone were to ask how this has been possible, what would you say?
Grants have their necessity — I do not deny that. But I was never aware of such things in my own life. I did not come from any position of institutional support. I learned art and conducted my research through my own earnings.
May I ask a personal question? Many people do not know that you are a descendant of Mahāmahopādhyāya Haridās Siddhāntavāgīśa, the great commentator on the Mahābhārata. From Mahāmahopādhyāya Haridās Siddhāntavāgīśa to Mahāmahopādhyāya Piyal Bhattacharya — does it ever feel to you as though a circle has been completed?
That “Mahāmahopādhyāya” was something I once wished to become — but I could not. When I studied Sanskrit, I felt a deep attraction toward such scholarship. I thought I would pursue extensive study. But I lived alone; I had no support structure. Eventually, I was unable to complete my formal studies. I have no hesitation in admitting that.
Sometimes, when something lies beyond the capacity of a child, the father comes and says, “You wanted a bicycle, didn’t you? Here, I have bought it for you.” In the same way, I had a curiosity about what it meant to be a Mahāmahopādhyāya — not an ambition to become one, but a desire to understand it. And then one day, someone simply conferred the title upon me.
Am I truly worthy of it? I have my doubts. That is why I do not write it before my name.
A great Guru felt that I was a Mahāmahopādhyāya in this field, and so he gave it. It is strange. In fact, I was supposed to receive the Puru Dadhīca honour. Suddenly, one day, I was told, “You are being given this title.” I was surprised — “Why me?” Yet it was given. I have kept it hanging on the wall of my room.
My final question. Awareness of the Nāṭyaśāstra has increased considerably in recent years. It is now frequently referenced in seminars, podcasts, and discussions on artistic practice. Several years ago, a leading English daily described you as the ‘Guru of a Lost Tradition.’ What advice would that Guru offer to those who are curious about and drawn toward the Nāṭyaśāstra?
I have no advice to give.
If curiosity has arisen within someone, they will come to know — this is what I believe. The answer already exists within our śāstra; that is why the question has arisen in the first place. If a question has awakened in their mind, the path will also open.
But they must know in their own way. If they know it in my way, it will become a problem.
One who truly wishes to know will know.
I would be happiest if they did not come to me at all.
That is my only advice.
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