1. Theatre in the east a survey Faubion Bowers 1

FAUBION

BOWERS

THEATRE IN THE EAST

A Survey

of Asian

Dance and Drama

Thomas Nelson & Sons Ltd.

London, Edinburgh, Paris, Melbourne, Toronto, and New York

Grateful acknowledgement is made

to the New Yorker, Saturday Review

and Holiday for permission to use

excerpts from this book which first

appeared in articles expressly written for those

magazines Special acknowledgement is

made to Eliot Elisofon of Life and to

Ewing Krainin for their kind

and generous permission to

reproduce certain of their

photographs

Copyright, 1956, by Faubion Bowers

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American conventions Published

simultaneously in New York by Thomas Nelson

& Sons, in Canada by Thomas Nelson & Sons

(Canada) Limited, and in Edinburgh by Thomas

Nelson & Sons Ltd.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number. 56-8995

First printed in the United States of America,

in 1956

To

K

C.

P.

NOTE

In terms of theatre, Asia defines itself clearly as that area which starts with India and extends eastward as far as Indonesia and the Philippine Islands, and northward through China and Japan as far as Siberia.

There is a body of opinion which includes the vast Mohammedan world lying north and west of India in the concept of “Asia,” and terms such as “Middle East,” “Near East,” “Asia Minor,” and the like give substance to this idea of a broader area of the East, the Orient, or Asia, even including parts of Africa. As far as dance and drama are concerned, those countries are not, however, what I feel to be characteristically Asian.

That area has in common the Mohammedan religion, which on the whole condemns theatre, and must of necessity be omitted from our attention, partly because of the virtual absence of dance and drama there, partly because of the “un-Asian” atmosphere of what little has survived.

When you move into Asia proper, in the sense I use the word, you are suddenly and dramatically in an area of tremendous artistic activity, and even the pockets of Mohammedanism found in the heart of this Asia, such as Indonesia and the South Philippines, teem with dance forms.

You can scarcely help being astonished by the wide-spread, wide-scale popularity of the theatre arts available almost everywhere in all these countries. No other geographical area of the world I know compares in extent or volume at all levels of appreciation.

While differences between one Asiatic country and another are enormous, and the arts of each express unique and exclusive qualities, certain aspects and even themes course through them all and unify them on a broad and specific basis—F. B.

TABLE

OF

CONTENTS

1

INDIA

Background and History . . . . 3

Religious and commercial expansionism abroad, artistic decline at home,

dance and drama origins, influence of epic poems, Sanskrit dramas, basic

elements of Asian drama, religion and love

Dance Today . . . . . . 33

The four classic schools, folk dancing, nationwide dance revival, movie

dancing, general aesthetics

Drama Today . . . . . . 60

Growth of modern theatre, influence of the West, regional theatres, in-

fluence of the movies, professionalism

2

CEYLON

Dance . . . . . . . 84

Devil dancing, Kandyan dances, miscellaneous dance forms

Drama . . . . . . . 99

Variety of forms, folk plays, modern theatre

3

BURMA . . . . . . 108

History and growth of puppets, modern theatre, types of performances,

pwés, spirit dances, Upper Burmese animal and fighting dances

4

THAILAND

Dance-Dramas . . . . . 130

Social dancing, dance-dramas, noble performances, Silpakorn Theatre

Dance . . . . . . . 149

Varieties of pure dance

Drama . . . . . . . 156

Popular semi-classical theatre, disappearance of modern theatre

vii

5

CAMBODIA........ 165

Historical influences and effects, Palace dancers, royalty and dance, basic

exercises, minor dance forms, modern theatre

6

LAOS . ..... . 183

Types of dances

7

MALAYA . . . 187

Influence of English and Chinese, trance dances

8

INDONESIA

Dance . . . . . . 191

Social dances, regional dance forms area by area, court dances and their

acsthetics, fighting dances

Drama . . . . . . 217

Folk and traditional forms, plight of modern theatre

Bali . . . . . . 222

Changefulness of Balinese dance forms, description of dances, crotticism

and dance, leading dancers of Bali, trance, drama forms, reasons for Bali-

nese dance genius

9

PHILIPPINES

Dance . . . . 249

Four types of dances Spanish, Filipino, aboriginal, Muslim

Drama . . . . . . 264

Folk dramas, operettas, modern theatre, present-day activity

10

CHINA. . . . . 272

Aesthetic differences with Indian areas, Communist influence, Mei Lan

Fang, opera, operatic classifications and techniques

Modern Theatre . . . . . 293

History and playwrights

viii

C O N T E N T S

11

VIETNAM . . . . . 303

Operatic types, modern theatre

12

HONG KONG. . . . . 308

Cantonese opera, stars

13

OKINAWA . . . . 313

Influence of Japan, dances, geishas

14

JAPAN . . . . . . 320

Dance and drama forms from archaic to modern, changes of recent years,

New Kabuki, New Historical plays

Modern Theatre. . . . 348

History, plays, playwrights

BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . 361

INDEX . . . . . . . . 364

ix

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

(Between pages 54 and 55)

Balasaraswati

Hashish Smoking Scene

Backstage at the Manipurı Theatre

Kolam Folk Drama

Kandyan Dance

Kolam Scene

The Dancer Tilaka

Gunaya in a Series of Poses

Po Sein and College Sein

A Sword Dance of Upper Burma

Scene from a Likay Drama

A Lakon Dance Drama

(Between pages 150 and 151)

Two Palace Dancers at Angkor

Full Cast of Palace Dancers at Angkor Vat

Folk Dance of Flirtation

Obesiance in Dance

A Dance During the Annual Water Festival

A Demon-Monkey Battle

Menora Dancer in Trance

A Princess of Wayang Orang Dance-Drama

A Heroic Warrior

Combat Scene

War Dance from Sumba Island

Folk Dance of Sumatra

Men's Dance of Flores Island

From the Wayang Orang of Solo

Sumatran Folk Dance

War Dance of Nias Island

War Dance of Nias Island in Full Action

Love Dance of Timor Island

Patriotic Dances—Celebes

(Between pages 246 and 247)

Stock Characters of the Dance-Dramas

Dharmini, Bali's Greatest Dancer

Rehearsing a Gabor Ballet

Two Penchak Performers

Anak Agung Ngurah

Ida Bagus Ôka of Blansinga

Scene from The Love of Lenor Rivera

A Head-Hunting Dance

Fighting Scene from the Classical Opera of China

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Puppets of the Shadow Play (China)

The Courtesan Yang Kuei Fei

Mei Lang Fan, Santha Rama Rau, Faubion Bowers, and Ts'ao Yu

Scene from Classical Opera (China)

Yu Chen Fei

Hsun Hwei Sheng

Three Scenes from Chiao Ju Ying's Peach Blossom Fan

(Between pages 342 and 343)

Two Poses from the Old Man's Dance of Longevity

Carding Dance

Gesture of Embracing One's Absent Lover

Kichiemon

Geishas of Kyoto

Puppet Theatre of Osaka

Shimpa Actress Mizutani Yaeko

Koshiro and Utaemon

Koshiro in Toribeyama

Bugaku Masked Dance

Utaemon Waiting Under Stage

Chekov's Ivanov

Mizutani Yaeko and Ichikawa Ennosuke

Two Scenes from Summertime, Nude Studio Ballyhoo

•

1

•

INDIA

The Background and History

In exploring systematically the dances and dramas of Asia, a Westerner and particularly an American finds himself wishing for a somewhat different geography.

If one sets out from, say, New York, one must either pass by way of Europe and the Middle East before arriving in India, the starting point of theatrical Asia, or go via San Francisco and begin one's experiences with Japan, Asia's outermost periphery. In the first instance, by reaching Asia through Europe a certain tempering of point of view takes place simply from exposure to the drama en route. Nothing could prepare one less for Asian forms of drama than the taut realism and naturalism on which the lifelike theatres of Europe focus themselves. And the Middle Eastern countries of Egypt, Arabia, Aden and even Pakistan produce in the theatre-minded traveller a curious sense of dislocation. In those areas, regardless of what other virtues they can boast, there are few if any dramas, and dance for the most part is in such profound disrepute it seems negligible.

If, on the other hand, one begins with Japan and works westward through Asia, one sees theatre from the wrong end of the kaleidoscope A sort of historical disorder ensues. One finds oneself wondering incorrectly when the Japanese gave the Indian theatre its masks, or if the Indonesians might have introduced sword dancing, say, to China. The confusion would be analogous to that of an American visiting London for the first time and asking how we happened to teach the British their English.

The logical beginning, theatrically, is made in India. India was the source of most theatre in Asia and still remains the immediate origin of some of its most highly evolved and important arts. From there

3

one can orient oneself naturally and with proper perspective for a

comprehension of the whole of Asia's variegated and complex fabric

of actors and dancers and their craft. From India the miscellaneous

fragments and pieces fall into a reasonable pattern of association one

with the other. More important, perhaps, is the fact that out of India

and from Indian theatre-forms themselves an aesthetic basis applica-

ble to all Asian dance and drama definitely emerges. Even in those

instances such as Chinese opera or Japanese theatre, where Asian arts

flowered independently, the underlying principles are similar and a

subtle relationship binds them. There is a kind of uniformity in mo-

tivation, in aim, in style, in execution of dance and drama which con-

nects it all together and makes it "Asian" theatre rather than Euro-

pean, African or anything else Disappointing as it may initially seem

to the foreigner, it is easier for an average Asian seeing a play or ballet

of another Asian country for the first time to understand and fol-

low it than it is for a European or an American.

Fortunately this applies only to the beginning. Once the funda-

mentals are recognized, and a few sample performances witnessed,

then Asian theatre becomes as comprehensible and enjoyable to us as

Broadway or Drury Lane or even Hollywood has been in the past,

and still is, to Asians.

The impact of ancient India on the rest of Asia was, as is well

known, one of the most powerful exertions of cultural and religious

influence in world history. Several centuries before Christ, a north In-

dian prince, later known as Gautama Buddha, appeared. The reli-

gion which sprang from his holy example and sacred precepts was so

vital that it spread as far north as China and Japan and as far east as

the farther islands of Indonesia. Its force has not yet diminished be-

cause Buddhism remains today as the most widely practiced religion

in the world.

Its tremendous extent was partly due to the fact that being reform-

ist and opposed to Hinduism, the religion proper of India, it was after

a period gently expelled from its home. Another cogent reason was

that it, unlike Hinduism, encouraged converting and proselytizing. Its

missionaries and pilgrims consciously set out on their wanderings

with the purpose of preaching the truth and propagating the faith.

Their success in Asia resembles that of Christianity in the West.

While these pious men were Buddhists by faith, they were Indian by

culture, and they carried with them Indian manners and customs.

There is, for instance, very little difference between a monk's robe

and the modern Indian sari. The language they spoke and the lan-

guage the devout all over Asia adopted was Prakit or Pali, Buddha's

vernacular in India. The scripts they introduced—and much of Asia

was illiterate until this advent of Buddhism—and which are still in

wide use were Indian. They carried with them dance movements,

drama forms, pageantry, musical instruments and a set of aesthetic

principles which never would have entrenched themselves along the

precise lines they did without this new religion to introduce and sus-

tain them. These aspects of Indian culture, while being of enormous

importance to us, were, however, only incidental to the initial reli-

gious, and sometimes refugee, impulses of the pilgrims and monks.

Meanwhile for a long period—from a century before the birth of

Christ until almost ten centuries later—South India was expanding

overseas in another way. Sometimes it was by armed conquest, as in

the case of Ceylon where the powerful Tamil kings of South India

frequently dispatched their armies, but more often it was the desire

for commerce that drove them as individuals to the rich lands and is-

lands of the East. As soon as they began their trade in Malakka,

Kambuja, Svarnadipa (land of gold), or what we know today as Ma-

laya, Cambodia, and Indonesia, these Hindu merchants sent for their

priests and families. The superiority of the Indian was immediately

accepted and India's culture was adopted and imitated by the origi-

nal inhabitants. They copied the South Indian sculptures, even im-

porting their craftsmen, learned their arts of warfare, borrowed their

musical instruments and dances, sometimes without even bothering

to adapt or modify them. In many cases the Indians associated them-

selves with and even married into royal families.

The King of Cambodia, for example, by virtue of this ancient con-

nection, has as one of his names to this day varman, originally a royal

title for South Indian kings. Even now the court at Cambodia, al-

though thoroughly Buddhist, still maintains a souvenir of this epoch.

Three Brahmin priests are permanently attached to the Palace. They

wear their long hair knotted at the back according to the custom and

over one shoulder crosses the sacred thread of the Hindus. They,

while worshiping Hindu gods, officiate at all the most traditional

ceremonies.

The combination of the Buddhists and the South Indian expan-

sionists resulted in the civilizing presence of India being keenly felt

throughout Asia This culture reaching out from India and engulfing

area after area produced the concept historians refer to as “Greater

India,” now more narrowly called “Southeast Asia.” Never before

had India reached such heights of grandeur or fame. The indelible

impact of Indian culture was so renowned that it was the “Indies” the

West was looking for in the days when Europe began her first voyages

of exploration. Whether it was Molukka, the Spice Islands in Indo-

nesia, or merely Malabar, where Thomas the Apostle of Christ first

proselytized, the word used was “Indies,” and it referred to the whole

area, conjuring up a picture of riches, panoply and Asiatic splendor.

The name still perseveres—in Indonesia, literally the “islands of the

Indies,” and as far as Indo-China, the geographical meeting place

where India’s and China’s cultures each stop any further outward

movement.

In looking at the past, the present sometimes becomes obscured, in

pointing out the dynamism of ancient India I do not imply that the

superiorities that once existed over her neighbouring countries, partic-

ularly in the arts, continued unabated. India abroad represented a su-

premely instructive element with regard to dance and drama, but

over the centuries at home in the very country of their origin, they

perceptibly declined. As time passed, India’s arts grew more and

more fragmentary and piecemeal. Many of them died out altogether.

The great Mohammedan invasions from the 12th to 15th centuries

paralyzed most Hindu artistic activity, although, simultaneously,

the Muslims were to a great extent being assimilated and absorbed into

the ineradicable, if not stronger, Indian culture. The conquering

Muslims desecrated Hindu holy places, and today as you visit these

deserted or dead temples you will see row after row of statues with

the heads chopped off, or empty niches from which the images were

wrenched and thrown away. According to the tenets of the Koran,

representational arts are disavowed, and dance and drama suffered

accordingly, as we will see more precisely later. If art depicted God or

was used as part of religious worship, the Muslims regarded it as blasphemy. If it was secular, it was felt to be somehow immoral and a violation of the ethical code. Aside from the abstract arts of architecture and music, and the one important exception, painting, the Muslim domination of India was aesthetically stifling.

The final blow, less tangible but nonetheless real, to the continuity and outward flow of Hindu culture was the arrival around a hundred and fifty years ago of the British in India as a determined colonizing force. One by one educated Indians turned their attention toward Europe, particularly if they hoped to rise in this new world and cope with their foreign rulers. With the removal of this class of intelligent and enlightened people from the scene of indigenous expression, dance and drama fell helplessly into desuetude. Throughout the country a kind of shame in all native arts developed. This was partly fostered by the arrogance of the British of those days, and partly it was due to the Indians themselves, who felt insecure, understandably enough, after having been once powerful and now being confronted with another civilization which brought not a little contempt for everything their way of life offered.

Until a few decades ago, when artists and scholars of vision started revivals of various remaining art-forms in several parts of the country, few people in India had interested themselves in the merits of their own dances or dramas. By then the great arts of India's past had been decimated and what remained was to a large extent scarcely more than vestigial. Fortunately, any further decline has been arrested, and now the re-emergence of India and Indian values is being effected with a rapidity that refutes the cliché that the East is “changeless.”

All across Asia, however, the evidences of India's past great influence persist. And surprising as it is to the outsider, an Indian as great as Rabindranath Tagore was prepared to recognize the fact that today the finest Indian-based, Indian-inspired dancing in the world is not in India but in Bali, a tiny island off the coast of Java in Indonesia. Equally, even the most amateur explorer can see that the best theatre in Asia is in Japan. Japanese theatre, of course, developed along different lines from India's, but the effect of Indian Buddhism and even Hindu aesthetic principles was vital. Dances such as Bugaku with masks and movements from India are still performed in Japan, although they are forgotten and unknown in India itself.

In the oldest

dances of No, such as Okina, an invocatory ceremony of longevity,

phrases of a special Sanskrt are still sung, but they are unused in the

country of their provenance.

Perhaps the most vivid carryover, theatrically speaking, of India's

artistic influence through the Buddhists is the prevalence of lion

dances in Japan or China, either in the form of street performances

or in the theatre on a high professional level. The lion is indigenous

to India, it was known only through rumor in those countries where

it now figures so prominently Whatever the connections were be-

tween India and Japan or China, and irrespective of how they may

have been filtered through other countries, the fact remains that the

more drama declined in the one place, the more it seemed to rise in

the others.

Theatre in India is supposed to have begun with the gods. Brahma

himself, the breath of the world, commanded this first dramatic

representation According to the oldest holy books, it appears that

in heaven long before the world was created, when good and evil lived

side by side, the gods fought and defeated the demons. In celebration

of the victory Brahma asked the gods to re-enact the battle among

themselves for their own amusement During the course of the pro-

gram, the demons became mortified at the recollection and filled the

air with their invisible presences to obstruct its progress. Once again

a real fight occurred, and once again the demons were beaten-this

time with a flagstaff that was near at hand. Brahma then explained

that such performances were for the entertainment of all of them,

and thus pacified, the demons promised to be amenable. But never-

theless it was decided that in order to protect theatre in the future a

sacred pavilion would be provided to shelter the players and the area

would be marked and made sacred by a flagstaff. This tradition to a

certain extent has endured in villages all over Asia. It is a common

practice in many places for the stage to have a roof while the audi-

ence sits in the open air on the ground, and nearby a long bamboo

pole with a banner designates the area where performances take

place.

Brahma later, after the creation of the world was completed and

mortals desired to imitate this pleasurable theatre of the gods, con-

fided all his secrets of dramaturgy-dance and drama in all its forms

-to a sage called Bharata. This became the massive treatise called

I N D I A / The Background and History

Bharata Natya Sastra or Bharata's Canons of Dance and Drama and,

although considerably more exhaustive and comprehensive in con-

tent, it is roughly analogous to Aristotle's codification of Greek

drama. After centuries of oral transmission, the Sastra was finally re-

corded in writing around the fourth or fifth century A.D. In it you find

lists of the fullest details of a performance from costume and makeup

to the permissible movements of the neck and eyeballs, and from the

plot situations and scenes which are disallowed (eating, adultery, and

death were not proper for onstage depiction) to the various body posi-

tions and postures of dance (one is so acrobatic that to form it a

dancer must place her head, face upright, between her legs). Every

aspect of stagecraft is prescribed and annotated. No other theatre of

ancient times has been so exhaustively documented in a single work.

Dance began with Siva, the creator and the destroyer of the world,

and the second (along with Brahma and Vishnu) of the Brahmanical

trinity of the Hindus Siva, like all the deities in Hinduism, has many

aspects and attributes, but one of his most important forms is as the

King of Dancers or Nataraja; as such he is worshiped in many parts of

India still today In the beginning of time, Siva once stood with his

feet on a demon, and began shaking a little hand drum (exactly like

the tsutsumi used in Japan, although it has disappeared from most

parts of Asia) which he held in one of his four hands. This sounded

the world's first rhythm and as he started to move his body in keeping

with its beat, the world gradually took shape. During this act of crea-

tion, fire appeared in the palm of another of his hands, and he con-

tinued to dance until his world was complete and provided at the

same time with the means to destroy itself.

This story is rather more than mythology to Hindus. The devout in

India regard it as creed or dogma, and believe that at every sunset

time on the crest of the Himalayan mountain, Kailasa, Siva repeats

this dance for the faithful to see in their mind's eye. As the sun dis-

appears, his dance of creativity asseverates the renewal of the next

day's morning light. Siva later, according to Bharata at least, wit-

nessed one of the dramatic representations commissioned by Brahma

and found the element of dance lacking. He ordered the angels to em-

phasize it more, and since that time drama and dance have been in-

separably linked. As a result there are no distinctive words in Sanskrit

or modern Indian languages for "dance" and "drama" as disparate

entities. Drama in the form that we know it in the West existing independently of dance continues to be regarded to this day in many

parts of Asia as some sort of aesthetic dichotomy, unfamiliar and disconcerting.

Apart from the world of remote gods and the far distant, legendary origins surrounding India's theatre, two rather more tangible factors

began several thousand years ago to govern the structure and themes of the dramatic arts These were the great and powerful epic poems,

the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. One immediate parallel with the West that springs to mind is the Iliad and the Odyssey Like

them, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata are long, rambling adventure stories dealing with gods and mortals, supermen and miraculous

animals, and are filled with morality and maxims differentiating between noble and base behavior.

In barest outline the Ramayana recites the story of Rama, a king and an heroic man of invincible virtue. His beautiful wife, Sita, a

woman, naturally of impeccable rectitude, is kidnapped, while pursuing a golden deer into the forest, by the wicked demon-king of

Lanka, or Ceylon as it is known in the West. Rama assembles an army of monkeys led by Hanuman, the white monkey, and after many dif-

ficulties lasting ten years finally reaches Lanka and regains his wife. This is, of course, only one (perhaps the most famous) of the several

themes within the Ramayana. There are other episodes—with Rama's brothers, with his mother, between the monkey-brothers and their

enemies, between Ravana and his ogress sister.

The Mahabharata, an even more complex and lengthy poem, eight times the bulk of the Iliad and Odyssey combined, basically tells of

the five Pandava brothers opposing their cousins, the five Kaurava brothers, and their vacillating struggle for power over the country.

Arjuna, the most beautiful and perfect of all possible men, plays an important if extraneous role in the story, and his moving poetic col-

loquies with the god Krishna on the righteousness of waging war are renowned as a separate book, the Bhagavata Gita or Song of the

Devotee

Summary translations of both the Ramayana and the Mahabharata are available in several editions, and a knowledge of their contents is

essential if the student hopes to follow the thread of not only Indian but most Southeast Asian dance and drama. They make absorbing

10

I N D I A / The Background and History

reading because they are good stories filled with interesting incident,

but also they reveal the substance of the mentality of the peoples who

have created and perpetuated these myths. Both the Ramayana and

the Mahabharata exceed their merit as literature They tell almost un-

consciously the actual foundings of India, explaining its origins, re-

cording its first history, suggesting even an interpretation of the race's

earliest memories Sociologically, the Ramayana probably describes

the Aryanization of India which is supposed to have taken place

around 5000 B.C. in actual history The triumphs of Rama over de-

mons and monkeys were the conquest and later absorption of the orig-

inal inhabitants of the subcontinent by the invading Caucasians from

the North. And the Mahabharata is the story of intrigue and event

within India's earliest ruling houses when the dynasties were con-

nected with planetary worship Their preeminence in culture, reli-

gion, literature, society, and above all else in drama and dance is

unique in the world

The first written and recorded versions of these two epics are now

about fifteen hundred years old, but they were recited and acted,

sung and chanted, for at least a thousand years prior to this They are

still firmly entrenched in the hearts of the people, and today in any

village or city you can for a few rupees call in a professional story-

teller who will start his narrative anywhere you ask and continue

from memory, of course singing and pantomiming the story until you

ask him to stop. Throughout the centuries the Ramayana and Maha-

bharata have afforded an inexhaustible supply of incident, anecdote,

and plot situation suitable for innumerable drama and dance forms.

In areas of Bengal, there are special Jatra or Yatra troupes (some-

thing like what our strolling mummers must have been) who will per-

form these same stories endlessly. The great folk-drama of the north,

called the Ram Lila, and enacted annually in Delhi, India's capital

city, depicts with giant painted-paper figures, like Mardi Gras carni-

val floats, excerpts from the Ramayana. The entire repertoire of the

South Indian dance-drama form, Kathakali—where the performers

spend all day painting their faces in grotesque, feature-disguising pat-

terns and dance all night scarcely pausing for rest—draws its themes

equally from the two sources.

Even today, when poet Vallathol, who rescued the art from near

extinction a few years ago and who founded the only remaining

11

Kathakali School in India, writes a new text, he draws upon charac-

ters and scenes out of these same religious books. Convention has it

that no matter what the originality of the message or the new inter-

pretation of the ancient event may be, it must be said within the

framework of the classics. No troupe, and I imagine no reciter either,

can perform the whole of either epic—so comprehensive is the poten-

tial and so agglutinative have the more recent versions become with

the emendations and additions that time and history have grafted on

to the originals. For instance, at Vallathol’s Kathakali School, if you

give them a little advance notice, they could perform their full Ra-

mayana and Mahabharata programs of all that remains now from the

once complete repertoire and give you a different play each night

for a month.

To the modern Indian the Ramayana and the Mahabharata have a

significance of considerably more intensity than the words “epic

poem,” even in their historical and ethnological context, imply They

have, of course, the colorful romance of the Iliad and the Odyssey, but

they also command the allegiance that, say, the Bible does in the

West They hold a deeply religious meaning, and Rama or Arjuna or

Krishna are worshiped as gods rather than as humans or mythologi-

cal characters dramatized from the nation’s past. “Rama” is the word

Hindus hope to have on their lips when they die. (It was Gandhi’s

last utterance.) Children are named Sita, Laxman, Bharata, and oth-

ers, after characters in the two epics in the hope that they will grow to

be like them in virtue They are so named also as religious insurance.

Anyone bearing a god’s name will be safer, it is assumed, than one

with a more mortal one, just as a Catholic is normally given a saint’s

name.

Passionate attitudes exist toward the Rāmāyana and Mahabharata

even now. In recent years one theatrical representation, for instance,

of the Rāmāyana ended by being a sensational court case. Near

Madras in South India, a man named M. R. Radha wrote a new play

which he advertised as “The Ramayana.” In it he showed a number of

the traditional heroes in an unflattering light and introduced a consid-

erable amount of sexual romping. These new twists of the old theme

attracted huge audiences, partly out of curosity and partly because

of the scandal the first performance created. However, despite box-

office success, the play offended the susceptibilities of a large number

of people who quickly assembled outside the theatre to demonstrate

against future performances. Before the police could take control a

riot between the orthodox and the less religious partisans had taken

place Those who had bought tickets and wanted to see the play lined

up against those who did not want anybody to see it. Scores of peo-

ple including several distinguished local citizens were arrested and

charged with unlawful assembly, rioting, being armed with deadly

weapons, and the like. While the legal pros and cons were argued

back and forth, the public was already certain where the wrong lay.

The disparagement of the Ramayana, even by a playwright to whom

licence is normally given, is the offence, not the lesser crimes perpe-

trated in connection with that.

Both the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, despite the sensitivities

surrounding them, provide ground for arguments of a more academic

nature. In Madras city, the cultural capital of India, the newspapers

announce every day at least half a dozen public lectures and dis-

courses devoted to them At a social party you will often hear edu-

cated Indians discussing the meaning of various passages or rational-

izing in a novel way on the moot actions found in the texts There is

even respectful comment on the books' fundamental morality It is

often cited that Ravana, although a demon, acted with perfect pro-

bity in not taking advantage of Sita after abducting her and whisking

her away to his palace Rama is criticized for being so careless a god as

to lose his wife, and then for subjecting her to the ignominy of what

amounts to a trial by ordeal to prove her chastity after their long pe-

riod of separation. The morality of these epics was applicable thou-

sands of years ago and many still operate in vast sections of the coun-

try, but time alone subjects it to a more careful scrutiny For instance,

when Rama is wrongly exiled through the conniving of one of his

stepmothers, he weeps The only thing that prevents him from dis-

obeying and curbs his furious desire to be destructive or punitive to-

wards his father's kingdom is simply fear of social calumny (there is a

Sanskrit word for this: lokavadabhayena). "What will people say if I

disobey my father's command?" is roughly the gist of the passage

While this is comprehensible even in the 20th century, it is some-

how an ignoble motivation for a modern hero acceptable to us. The

theatrical device of social pressure and arbitrary ethical codes as a de-

termining factor cannot survive, at least in drama, the vast changes

13

history has made in our lives. Even in Japan in the puppet theatre or

in the Kabuki plays of Chikamatsu Monzaemon (another instance

where fear of society's ill-will often compels the acceptance of evil),

the hero is invariably weak and his actions flimsy. Perhaps the most

original of new interpretations of either of the epics was Gandhi's ex-

egetical invention that the Bhagavata Gita took place within Arjuna's

mind and that Krishna exhorted him to fight only the battle within

the heart, not in the field. The instigation supplied to drama by these

questions rising from changing moralities and critical examination of

traditionally accepted precepts can be likened to the intellectual stim-

ulus Ibsen provided the West with in his plays.

The Ramayana and Mahabharata still hold an unshakable grip on

the whole of Greater India, particularly in their dance-dramas Cul-

turally, just as Homer is familiar in all countries of Europe and Amer-

ica almost as much as he is in Greece, these two epics belong now to a

large part of Asia. Throughout all of Southeast Asia, you can still hear

these same stories and incidents being recited, and you will see the

main episodes being danced everywhere In Indonesia, the Mahabha-

rata may be called the Brat Yudha /(The Battle of Bharat or India),

or in Cambodia the Ramayana may be pronounced in an unrecogniz-

able way, but the stories and characters are little changed. In Burma

the only surviving troupe of masked dancers still perform episodes

from the Ramayana. In Thailand, Rama, as he comes dancing into

the arena with his high crowned headdress of gold will be called

"Buddha" by the crowd of eager spectators and Ravana "giant" or

"demon," but it is still from the same Ramayana. Or in Laos, Ravana

is transmuted into the hero and Rama becomes a subsidiary charac-

ter. Only at the very end does he get his wife Sita back, and even then

she goes home reluctantly and weeping Again, in Ceylon, Ravana's

home according to the Ramayana, you will see one popular play-

interlude during a demon-exorcizing ceremony titled "The Killing of

Rama." Here it seems Rama, when he finally reaches Ceylon in pur-

suit of his abducted wife, has great difficulty with the Sinhalese lan-

guage. A merchant mocks him, and thinking he has stolen some

cloth, beats him to death. In the end, however, he repents and tries

to revive Rama. In high comic fashion he shouts to the dead man,

"Your mother-in-law has come, now get up!"—but even that fails to

14

bring him back to life. Finally the gods take pity and Rama is re-

stored. Or in Indonesia, which is the largest Mohammedan country

in the world, these Hindu epics still persist in a curiously contradic-

tory way, flouting the newer religion. At the Javanese courts of the

Sultan of Jogjakarta, or of the lesser ruler, the Susunan at Solo, the

palace dancers moving with slow, sustained gestures against the back-

ground of great orchestras of rippling, bell-like instruments, enact

precisely as they have for a thousand years the courtship of Arjuna

and Sembodro, for example, from the Mahabharata, or the battle

scenes between the two opposing families of Pandava and Kaurava

cousins.

The extent to which the Ramayana, particularly, has affected the

theatre arts of Southeast Asia is further demonstrated by the fact that

the common word to indicate dancing in parts of Malaya, most of

Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos, derives from Rama himself and is

pronounced variously as rom, lam and ram, depending on the linguis-

tic facility of the peoples concerned. Echoes of the Ramayana are

even found in certain Chinese operas During the recent tour of In-

dia by the cultural group of the People's Republic of China, a special

scene from one of the classics was performed to the delight of Indi-

ans—a good general recruits an army of monkeys to fight on the side

of righteousness. This was clearly reminiscent of the Ramayana.

While the Ramayana and the Mahabharata fed the religious de-

mands of the Indians and satisfied most of their instincts for folklore

and theatre, as well as simultaneously supplying inspiration and for-

mat to their cultural realms overseas, a body of relatively independ-

ent dramas grew up in India itself. For a time, for approximately the

third century A D to the eighth, the first Indian dramas in the sense

that we in the West understand the word flourished, and this period

is generally known as the Golden Era of Sanskrit Drama The most

celebrated of the great number of playwrights flowering at that time

were Kalidasa, Bhasa, and Sudraka, and plays by them, such as Sa-

kuntala, The Little Toy Cart, and a few others are even known in

translation in the West. The majority of the great Sanskrit dramatists

drew their themes at least in part from the Ramayana or Mahabha-

15

rata, and while their dramas are secular in every meaning of the word,

a severe moral and religious overtone was carefully preserved and de-

rived from the older texts.

Sakuntala is a case in point. For it, Kalidasa took his theme from

the first part of the Mahabharata, and in the course of seven episodic

acts tells the story of the love of Sakuntala for the King Dusanta. In

rough outline and shorn of its poetry the story is simple. Dusanta

while hunting in the forest with his courtiers pursues a stag, shoots

him with an arrow, and is reproached by a holy man passing by for

his cruelty to living things He begs forgiveness and is finally par-

doned and given a blessing. He sees Sakuntala by accident and falls

immediately in love with her His love is modestly and decorously

reciprocated. They are married Dusanta gives Sakuntala a wedding

ring, with the promise that she is soon to follow him to his capital.

Because of a strange curse on Sakuntala, the king forgets the incident

entirely. The finest scene of the play is the departure of the faithful

Sakuntala from her parent’s home There her sorrow on leaving all

that is familiar to her, mixed with her anticipated reunion with her

husband, is interspersed with words of good advice (vaguely parallel

with Polonius’ speech to Laertes) from her father on the virtues and

property a wife must exhibit. Sakuntala reaches the capital, but the

king neither recognizes her nor remembers the marriage. Meanwhile

she has lost the ring; her last vestige of proof is gone. Shortly after-

wards, a son is born to Sakuntala, the ring is discovered by a fisher-

man who extracts it from a fish he has caught, the memory of the

king is restored through the intercession of the gods who have been

moved to pity by Sakuntala’s plight, and the couple with their child

are happily united.

Perhaps an illuminating sidelight on how an Indian scholar differs

from the Westerner in his approach to drama can be obtained from

Dr. V. Raghavan, the eminent Sanskrit authority, who describes Sa-

kuntala of Kalidasa as the presentation of “the ideal of love at first

sight getting purified in the fire of separation, and sublimated in the

joy of the offspring.” While the foreigner is equally moved by the

same drama, his reasons, at least as he formulates them, are different.

There were several exceptions to the rule of dominance set by the

Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Some of the masterpieces of the

Sanskrit dramatists were entirely original in plot and based on actual

I N D I A / The Background and History

events of the times or recent history. Bhasa's best drama, The Dream

of Vasavadatta or Swapna-Vasavadatta, in six acts is an instance of

this. The Chief Minister of King Udayana for reasons of political

strategy wishes to arrange an alliance through marriage with a power-

ful neighboring kingdom. He informs the king that his wife, Vasava-

datta, has been burned to death during a conflagration in the palace.

In reality, he only disguises her and places her in the custody of the

new junior queen. Despite his second marriage, the king has various

intimations that Vasavadatta is still alive, one of which is the dream-

scene from which the title of the play is taken. The crisis between the

two kingdoms is weathered; the Chief Minister reveals that Vasava-

datta is safe, and she returns to the throne, amicably grateful to all.

The Little Toy Cart by Sudraka, the playwright king, who is remem-

bered more for his dramas than his reign, derives from a popular story

of the time and has no direct plot-connection with either of the

two great epics. It tells the story of Charudatta, a Brahmin, and

clearly the most lovable man of the city, who becomes destitute

through his over-generous, charitable practices. He falls desperately

in love with a beautiful dancing girl and the play revolves around the

vicissitudinous course of their love. Charudatta is for some reason led

to the gallows, but the villainy of the accusation against him is discov-

ered in time. As a background and reinforcing plot, the author

weaves a story of political intrigue within the realm and vyings for the

throne engineered by the righteous king's own brother-in-law.

Nearly all of the work of this Golden Era was in Sanskrit—once

the spoken language of ancient India, and, of course, even now that of

all the holy books and the great epic poems. Oddly enough, Sanskrit

by the time India's first dramatists appeared had already become some-

thing of a scholars' language and the preserve of the religious pundits.

It had lost touch with the people, pretty much in the same way that

Greek and Latin in Europe became dead and were superseded by less

inflected, less complicated dialects. In fact, one of Buddha's great re-

forms was to use the vernacular instead of Sanskrit in his religious

teachings. And because of this linguistic closeness between the peo-

ple and their saints, drama has probably thrived to a greater degree

in Buddhist countries—at least until the vernacular in itself became

an antiquated language—than it did in Indian or Hinduized areas.

There is an unfortunate historical irony in the fact that India's

17

greatest dramas were, by virtue of the obscurity of their language,

destined to be short-lived and, for lack of popular appeal to the less

educated masses, forced to disappear from the stages of India. They

remained in a sort of hearsay limbo, known only to those profession-

ally concerned. Bhasa illustrates perhaps the extreme of the neglect

surrounding Sanskrit drama. Until 1912, when his first manuscripts

were discovered, he had been only a name, references to which had

been found in other documents. In the nineteenth century the trans-

lation of Kalidasa and Sudraka into European languages made In-

dian classical drama famous among the intelligentsia of the West.

Goethe wrote an extravagant eulogy of Sakuntala; The Little Toy

Cart was even performed in a place as far off as New York. This had

repercussions in India, and as more and more monographs and theses

appeared in the West, the further the subject was explored and re-

awakened in its home country by scholarly, artistic and even patriotic

circles

Until their recent revival, ancient Sanskrit dramas had long since

ceased being general theatre fare for the people. But as narratives

and moral forces, their power was somehow consistently present

within Indian society. No matter what folk dramas supplanted them,

or what new forms evolved, or what dances arrogated pieces of their

ideas and themes, or what decline they themselves suffered, their in-

nermost, basic, aesthetic core also remained constant and deep in-

side the minds and tastes of Indians. The canons of theatrical art

which Kalidasa, for example, put into practice and perfected have,

with very little modification over the centuries, remained as a kind of

invisible law. While India has never again produced so many play-

wrights of fine calibre as during that brief period, and has not even

faithfully maintained recognition of those that were, the artistic prin-

ciples of their works have been unvarying. Somewhat as we in the

West can with reasonable clarity trace our modern theatre succes-

sively back to the Greeks, and find that not only its general form but

its sense of tragedy and comedy, its concept of the frailty of man and

the relentlessness of destiny, its emphasis on characterization of the

individual rather than on a stereotype, and even a large part of its

morality all still operate and subtend our plays, so does Indian dance

I N D I A / The Background and History

and drama of today reflect its own set of ancient tenets and identifying aspects.

Going even further back to the very beginning, we find that the

fundamental aesthetic principles propounded by Brahma and Bharata in that felicitous conjunction of god and man have endured,

and if in certain fields only thinly, they nevertheless have managed to

perpetuate themselves. The actual foundation of Indian theatre and

all Asian art affected by it has survived despite vicissitudes for several

thousands of years. For the student of theatre nothing proves so

abundantly clearly the elaborate development and refinement of India's ancient stagecraft, and, conversely, nothing emphasizes more

sadly its later decline.

The formulae evolved at the height of Sanskrit drama (and these

in turn were naturally based on still older techniques whose actual examples were never recorded) are still active. Certain broad dramatic

principles stemming from this Indian past now are hallmarks of all

Asian drama, bringing about a wide difference from other forms in

other parts of the world. Broadly speaking, the three root-elements

characterizing Asian drama are simply poetry, music and dance. Each

of these appears in a balanced fusion, each has adjacent and adjunctive qualities, and each presents certain difficulties for the spectator.

But their inextricable and synthetic connection with drama is the

premise from which we must approach Asian theatre. From here we

build our platform for viewing the entire panorama, and without it

we cannot proceed in any effort towards understanding Asian theatre.

Of the three, it may be claimed that the poetic element is the most

determining. The poetry of words, to begin with, takes artistic priority over all action and narrative. The staging of drama in Asia is primarily the problem of enacting poetry, and this poetry ranges from

the simple representations of epic poems to passages where the playwright toys for as long as he can with chains of assonant words, double meanings, rhetoric, tropes, aposiopesis, and even puns. In

Thailand, for instance, actors of Likay, the popular form of drama,

interrupt the flow of the play at will with improvisations of rhymed

and metrical couplets. Some of the Kabuki plays of seventeenth- and

eighteenth-century Japan border on the nonsensical simply because

of the fury of their poetic tricks.

Poetry too, being a literary form rather than a medium of slice-of-

19

life modern theatre, leads in a number of instances to a disregard of

the unities. Time and place scarcely restrict an Asian playwright

when he has an entire language of florid metaphor and simile in

which to set his scenes and spread his backdrop. As a result these

dramas often have an air of formless, unrestrictive roving about

them. Scenes follow uninhibitedly in arbitrary succession, and the

poetry easily shifts you in an instant from one place to another.

While this is not unfamiliar in Shakespeare and Elizabethan drama,

the excess of such poetic licence in many parts of Asia nevertheless

surprises us.

The willingness to have a poetic, rather than a logical, action-

packed story-play requires a certain patience from the outsider, not

only because of language difficulties but also because poetry invites a

more static mood. Poetry retards the normal speed of action and

forces on an actor surplus time–time to pose, to enlarge and expand

a gesture, to draw out a movement, to fill in with “business.” In this

onslauge leisure the artistic purport of a scene blooms The whole

world can be invoked symbolically and the fullest feeling surround-

ing a phrase embroidered Poetry provides a springboard for the actor

to enrich his action and to entice from the spectator a series of emo-

tions which extend and change the quality of what straight enact-

ment produces. To the Asian, the essence of drama lies here, not

within the mere telling of a story alone. Regrettably for us, there is a

poverty of plays really adaptable to the Western stage and even syn-

opses in English of many Asian plays border on the pointless while

in their original, resplendently poetic form they are often magnifi-

cent.

Because of this heavy overlay of poetry, Asian plays require a spe-

cial device–the storyteller or extraneous performers outside the actors

to sing or declaim the most specifically poetic passages. This is partly

too a natural extension from the past. Drama everywhere in Asia

technically originated out of simple chantings of the holy books and

recitals from epic poems. Gradually the narrators began to add gestic-

ulation to their performances and started miming what they said or

sang More and more realism crept in when separate actor-dancers

took over the dialogues and delivered their own pertinent lines. But

the role of the reciter still continued.

In Sanskrit drama he is called the sutradhara or “string holder,”

20

and he literally holds the thread of the story together. He lays the

scene, describes background information which characters in the plot

cannot convey in action, speaks their thoughts out loud, and inter-

prets moods. He keeps the denser sections of expository poetry as his

own, leaving conversation to the actual performers. In Kabuki, a side-

singer, the equivalent of the sutradhara, accompanied by a samisen,

frequently intones the story while the actor with vast gestures and ex-

pansive mime intensifies his emotion and only takes over the best

speeches In the puppet plays of Japan, a single singer even speaks all

the lines for the entire cast In the No plays, again of Japan, an entire

chorus accompanied by flutes and drums fills in all necessary detail,

even explaining action when the performers move so subtly that the

meaning is visually incomprehensible.

In most parts of Southeast Asia, the storyteller appears in another

way Dancers or actors who are too old to perform active roles any

longer join the chorus of side-singers which sits with the orchestra to

sing out the narrative. The young artists on stage silently and obedi-

ently execute their words In Indonesia, audiences often listen to the

dalang or narrator rather than watch the action, and it is not un-

usual to congratulate him on his recitation before crediting the danc-

ers with a good performance.

Poetry, obviously, as a matter of language, and in this connection

the linguistics of Asian drama pose a number of questions for the

spectator as well as the actors, and determine another aspect of the

form which most of the plays take. The problem of language commu-

nication has beset Asian drama, and even now that their plays for the

most part are classical and traditionally accepted, a new difficulty has

arisen, that of their becoming more abstruse, both poetically and

linguistically, as they become older and further removed from mod-

ern times and audiences. Into this is woven another almost contradic-

tory factor-the poetry on which the drama is based somehow has

aged more rapidly than its gestures or stories In Sanskrit, the lan-

guage was already obscure by the time it was used in drama. The

storyteller who spoke or sang at the side of the stage was insufficient

almost from the beginning to convey precise meanings to audiences

who were illiterate or uncultivated. A further complicating element

was that the leading characters then were and still are in most dramas

today preponderantly gods, kings or nobles. Their language of neces-

sity had to be highflown, elegant and characteristically Asian in its

poetic indirection and subtlety. The spectators, however, were com-

moners unfamiliar either with the linguistic involutions of the schol-

arly playwrights or the complexities of the courts' special vocabulary

and syntax. In the outer reaches of Greater India, dance-dramas

based on the epic poems and Buddhist themes were literally in for-

eign languages. Some were garbled Sanskrit, some Pali or Kavi, and

it was the special affectation of the educated classes abroad to use

these Indian tongues in all their art forms.

This may seem unduly complex to a Westerner, but it was

thoroughly acceptable to the Asian. The concept of linguistic obscu-

rity has always been familiar to him—from the variety of races and

communities which live in close proximity, and from the caste or class

distinctions which separate even one neighborhood from another.

The speech of each Asian country has a complexity about it which is

apt to stagger the modern Westerner There may be, for instance, in

certain areas no word for “insect” or “bug” as a collective or generic

term, but there will always be precise words for beetle, mosquito,

firefly and the several kinds of each, and even these will vary from vil-

lage to village and community to community. In the highly ad-

vanced countries of Japan and Java, for instance, you find three dis-

tinct forms of address within the language itself—high, middle and

low, to be used according to whether you are talking to superiors,

equals, or inferiors—and in instances, special words and sentence

structures are reserved for women and men, and even a different lan-

guage is used for writing. The poetic possibilities of this richness are

self-evident.

The importation of a new mode of speech from a neighboring civ-

ilization was not strange. But the problem of how to clarify drama's

meanings to the people had to be solved. Pantomime was the imme-

diate answer, but this was not enough. Another answer throughout

Asia was also often given by the comedian, who served as a subsidiary

explainer in the everyday language. While it seems that much theatre

there is now overabundantly supplied with the comic element, its orig-

inal purpose was to a large extent merely to help the audience under-

stand. In Bali, for example, in the drama form Arja, whenever a god

or nobleman enters, he is invariably followed by a silly retainer who

repeats everything he says in low Balinese so that even the peasant

22

I N D I A / The Background and History

can follow his words. (He also parrots his gestures in ludicrous fashion to emphasize their difference in station and to make quite clear what is happening ) In China, to cite another instance, after long arias by emperors or generals, a comic interlude in simplest Chinese (or in the local dialect if the Pekinese language of the arias is incomprehensible) will keep the audience abreast of the plot and the story

In the Sanskrit dramas, often it was only these comedians who could make the actual storyteller's meanings clear, the rest of the play being appreciated for aesthetic rather than literal values. Of course, the use of comedy was also for contrast with the sobriety of the main characters and for relief from their dramatic tension. But their function of informing the audience never lessened.

Gradually, as the dramas were enacted again and again, year after year, a kind of familiarity with them arose, and while few could understand the actual words, everybody knew the characters and what their story was And it was this very familiarity which tied many of the dramas over transitional periods when classics grew even more incomprehensible linguistically, when poetry became even more remote from daily life; fortunately for those interested in preservation of traditions, it was this which finally deterred and delayed the appearance of anything very new in Asian theatres. Asian drama on the whole has remained more traditional and the repertoire more permanent than theatre in the West. The emphasis came to be on how a passage was acted, not on what was being acted. This is almost antithetical to the Western conception of theatre where we want to hear and understand every word of the play. And although the poetic element has determined the form of the play and the style of acting, it suffices in Asia to see how an old, familiar story is being performed and what is being done on the stage rather than to hear what is being said and understand its meaning

An illustration of this difference in approach became clear to me once when I went to one of the first performances ever staged of a modern play in the contemporary language in Cambodia. Two old ladies who had obviously never seen anything except their traditional dance-plays were sitting behind me. Half way through one of them remarked to her friend with considerable surprise, "It's more interesting if you listen to what they are saying."

Poetry also, I think, was responsible for the religious and moralistic

themes of most plays of Southeast Asia at least All of it in the beginning stemmed from liturgical works and since much of it was supposed to have a divine origin, the gods are nearly always present. No matter what baseness may be described in the poetry, the righteous ultimately win. As a result, there are no tragedies in Indian drama, and, with the notable exceptions of China and Japan, very few elsewhere in the classical theatres of Asia. There is confidence that good has to triumph, and if the gods are in their heaven at all, that is the least they can perform for the mortals on earth. The optimism of Indian drama in particular is most clearly expressed in Bharata's canon that all progression on the stage or development of action in the theatre can only be made, conjunctively or interactively, by five elements: beginning, effort, hope, certainty, and success No note of pessimism can be sounded here The theatre to many people of Asia still mindful of its ancient origins is where the gods enact their will, and their will ultimately must be good. Religion often is the only reason for any dramatic representation—temple festivals, holy days, the inducing of the favor of the gods, the expelling of demons—and for a play to have a tragic ending would be as curious as if we perform the Passion Play as far as the Good Friday scene and omitted the Resurrection.

Poetry, itself an abstraction from reality, naturally was inseparable from music, an art even more intangible and removed from the intermediate occupations of ordinary everyday life and the subject-matter that preoccupies human beings most urgently Dance or drama in the form that they took in Asia begged by their natures, obviously, for music to assist their poetry and heighten what otherwise might be verbose or artistically lacking The place of music in Sanskrit drama is well documented. Chinese traveler-pilgrims of the seventh century describe dramas accompanied by “strings and pipes.” One of the musical assemblies mentioned consisted of twelve male and twelve female voices, twenty-six flutes, six large drums and three smaller ones. The earliest commentaries on dramaturgy agree that a production lacks color without music and that every dramatic situation can be enlivened by it. “Instruments are the very bed of a performance,” Bharata exclaims in his treatise. One Sanskrit dramatist in talking about the number of songs within his plays justified them because

24

I N D I A / The Background and History

they “delight the hearts of the audience and establish the emotional

continuity.” Various ancient authorities on drama assigned specific

types of melodies and kinds of rhythms for almost every conceivable

situation—for entrances and exits, for separations of lovers, for fa-

tigue, for the tranquility that follows anxious thought, for drunken-

ness, for burnishing a mood already introduced, and even for a type

of song that was reserved for covering up a gap or mishap in the pro-

duction. There is in Asia no exception to the rule that all classical

and semi-classical drama must be accompanied by music, and a ma-

jority of modern plays as well embrace this ancient aesthetic princi-

ple

From the Western point of view Asian music presents an even

greater problem initially than language or poetry The saying that the

appeal of music is universal is certainly inaccurate Many expatriates

in Asia who adopt native dress, master a local dialect, and live hap-

pily with the local traditions and customs, cannot listen to the music

of the country whose manners they assimilate and whose tastes other-

wise they affect with such sincerity. The barrier between countries

and peoples musically applies even within Asia itself In India, for ex-

ample, the South and the North have irreconcilable musical systems,

and audiences who appreciate the one are inclined to feel distress at

hearing the other. Music is so intimate a national expression, so col-

lective a reflection of racial and group feeling, so patently a matter of

custom and habit, that it of necessity requires the most delicate ad-

justment and conditioning on the part of the outsider

Listening habits in the West are basically inimical to hearing Asian

music In the West we expect our emotions to be aroused in a warm

and affectionate way, with voluptuous harmonies pouring over us and

compelling us to react to mood and meaning within the music. Our

ears are attuned to incidental rather than abstract music—a minor key

to make us sad, a tremolo if the mood is ominous, a crash of chords if

the gates of Heaven are opening, and even a castanet, say, to let us

know we are imaginatively in Spain Of course, there are exceptions

to this, and not all music appreciation needs to be so literal. But in

contrast with Asia, the pictorial use of sound is the West’s most strik-

ing quality. And perhaps we do not realize the number of conven-

tions we accept so casually, until we try to listen to Asian music as in-

telligently as we hear our own.

25

There are, of course, instances where certain drumbeats indicate

rain or mountains or snow. There is a passage in one of the Kabuki

masterpieces of Japan, Kumagai's Camp, where the samisens flutter

over a long melismata to indicate the ascending smoke of burning in-

cense. An extreme of this appears in India where special melodies or

ragas are reputed to produce fire, invoke the night, or even charm

snakes. But on the whole Asian music provides no clue, either to us

or the Asian himself, except by previously understood conditions and

conventions as to what it is trying to do. Happy music can sound

more somber than its Western equivalent could possibly permit

Even when you see an audience weeping at a concert, the music will

not be sad. Emotions and their moods in the way that we under-

stand them are reserved for other arts, not music. During a tragic mo-

ment in a play the accompanying music is designed often only to fill

in the silences or in a Japanese phrase "to keep the stage from being

empty." Music is thought to intrude if it tries to imitate or duplicate

the emotion of an actor and his words At best it burnishes. At most,

it adds only repose or agitation, quiet or exuberance.

Fundamentally, listening to music in Asia is an exercise of the in-

tellect and the emotional experience it induces is abstract and un-

empathetic. Yehudi Menuhin speaking of Indian music says, "The

mathematical exercise becomes an ecstatic kind of astronomy."

When you approach Asian music you must wipe from your mind your

ears' preconditioning by harmony and the forms you associate with

musical structure in the West. You must listen for the infinite me-

lodic variations, the subtle contortions of the basic theme, the

gossamer-fine tonal web of clear, thin pitch, and the formality of pro-

gressing from the simple to the complex, from the slow to the fast, or

for the introspective, thoughtful strumming when the musician plays

with after-resonance, vibration, or the contemplative setting of mood.

In principle it works this way. Always there is a steady drone bass

or a single tonic which serves as a backdrop to enhance the tonal vari-

ation Over this the melodic differentiations waver like spun thread.

Against it sound the intricate rhythmic patterns.

The music in India and Southeast Asia, with the exception of Bali,

is nearly always improvisatory, the creation of the performing musi-

cian in that moment and almost never the interpretive rendering of

another's recorded composition. With the exceptions of Thailand,

I N D I A / The Background and History

Cambodia, Java, and again Bali, no music in Asia is continuously chordal, orchestral, or even contrapuntal, and the harmonic development even here is mostly one of accident and the collision of the several instrumental melodies. While to the Westerner this may appear as a deficiency, to the Asian our vast orchestras and the ubiquitous piano have only deadened our ears to his more exact tunings and more subtle metres Where one is finely melodic, the other is richly harmonic. Where one depends on drums, and their infinite possibilities of rhythmic intricacy, the other sacrifices this for a broader coordination and variety of timbres. Altogether, the technical and aesthetic differences between Asian and Western music are hard to resolve.

Our responses and appreciation of music naturally rise from the earliest sounds we have ever heard around us and from the fact that our daily life, as it is constituted today, is never without music in the form we now approve. We recognize the evocations of our music as inevitably as we accept our food habits and behavior patterns The Asian feels the same way about his own music, but because of the long centuries of colonialism and the impact of Western music on Asia, he is better able to accept our music than we are his If the student of Asian dance and drama is to arrive at full understanding, he must make his greatest effort on music. It must be listened to with the mind without reference to his own conventions He must try, despite the handicap of inexperience, to catch the microtonic tonal divisions and the elusive pulsating rhythms. At the end, finally, familiarity will allow the unconscious and relaxed attitude which indulges the emotions.

The rewards are great Emotionally, it is as affecting and inspiring -in different ways and in different areas of aesthetic sensibility-as our own. And certainly Asian music extends our preconceptions of the theory of music into reaches scarcely imagined before by us. Its delights and pleasures, once the fundamentals are grasped, are quite as profoundly gratifying as the more immediately accessible dances and dramas

With the various attributes and qualities engendered by poetry and music, dance bursts into Asian theatre like fireworks. No matter how full of splendor the drama may be as drama or how beautiful the po-

etry or music, the spectacle of dance enlivening, interpreting and

compounding the aesthetic delight provides the audience, foreign or

indigenous, with its most significant area of appreciation. Unlike lan-

guage and sound, the movement of the body before onc's eyes lays

few burdens on a spectator. His understanding is less taxed here than

in almost any other field of contact between nations.

Of all the components identifying Indian drama and its deriva-

tives, the peculiarly intimate relationship between it and dance is its

most salient feature to the student. In the West, the two grew into

separate arts. And due in the main, I feel, to the influence of Christi-

anity and the reservations it made regarding any use of the body as an

instrument of pleasure, dance as an art became a secondary, almost

minor, part of our life. Perhaps because of this drama excelled itself.

But in India from the beginning the two have been indispensable ad-

juncts of one another. Dance approximates in movement the poetic

flights of words in ideas. It also fills the stage while the reciter is tell-

ing his part of the story. And with the reciter at his side, the actor is

free to match with dance the flow of words when simple gestures in

mime would seem to be too brief or arid. The Asian stage provides

a natural framework for dance in every way But even this is not

enough. Plots are slanted so as to make dance appropriate, and every

opportunity is taken to fill the drama with dance sequences IIeroes

fall in love with dancing girls Festivals, which require dancing, are

the background to a climactic action. Dancers attached to the courts

of kings appear on stage ostensibly to divert the mind of a troubled

ruler. Command performances by kings become integral parts of the

narrative A marriage celebration requires a full-scale dance program.

A hero dances before going into battle He dances when he wins.

United heroes and heroines dance for sheer joy. And gods dance to

exhibit their divinity. After all this, even at the conclusions of plays a

character dressed as a god may dance simply as a benediction for the

audience If this preponderance of dance seems undue to the West-

erner, it must be remembered that at the time the older dramas were

written, it was part of verisimilitude; dance figured prominently, as it

still does in daily life and those dramas were scarcely being more than

lifelike.

It is a very small step from creating situations in the theatre calling

for dancing to letting the dance take over without a specific connec-

28

I N D I A / The Background and History

tion with plot, and finally for dance to become altogether independ-

ent of drama. But the majority of dances in Asia even out of their

context still retain a strongly dramatic element Over the centuries of

Asian theatrical growth and development, dance came to exceed

drama both in frequency and in popularity Today, throughout a

large part of Asia, dance is the only theatrical outlet and the nation's

only professional entertainment. With the exception of China, it

would be relatively easy to find Asians who had never seen a play, but

it may be doubted if there is one who has not seen dance perform-

ances all his life, and more than likely, taken part in any number of

the non-professional ones.

During the twelfth to seventeenth centuries a shift occurred in the

Indian concept of religious worship. What happened was, simply

stated, that a cult arose whose founders and adherents had begun to

believe that Vishnu in the incarnation of Krishna, the sportive cow-

herd, was the central and most powerful deity of the pantheon The

themes of the literature, dramas, operas and dances evolving at this

time most frequently told the story of Krishna and the milkmaids or

gopis. Krishna was always in his garden with his cows or playing

pranks. The milkmaids were constantly finding him as they went to

the well with their large earthenware pots to draw water. All of the

milkmaids love Krishna equally, but Krishna, while reciprocating all

their love, has his favorite, Radha The plots centered on these love

entanglements in some form or other. Sometimes Krishna and Radha

are separated from each other, at other times all of them play to-

gether, swinging in swings, sitting in flowery bowers, teasing, laugh-

ing, or enjoying their bliss in the garden paradise Often they become

angry with each other, and Radha pouts with jealousy or Krishna

prostrates himself with remorse after some infidelity.

Certain new religious techniques accompanied this change in Hin-

duism. It was thought that the mere repetition of the names of God

(and by this time God had accumulated an even greater number of

names and reincarnations than in the beginning of Hindu literature)

could effect salvation, that the surest, most expeditious way of man

to contact God was through organized singing and dancing, and,

finally, that the central theme of all religious endeavor should be love.

29

This latter was the most sweeping of the innovations, and while in

the West the idea of God is Love has a certain acceptance, in India

the point was more that Love is God. Nothing basically radical or un-

known was introduced by all this and much of it was a reiteration of

what had been adumbrated since time immemorial. But in sum total

the emphasis and approach were sufficiently fresh to make for a sem-

blance at least of a different brand of Hinduism. The widespread ac-

ceptance which greeted this mode of worship relinquished none of

the hold of the older gods or even of the sanctified books of the

Ramayana and Mahabharata, but it was nevertheless an unprece-

dented alteration in the religious life of the country. A vast revival of

faith swept over the people and the arts of course were profoundly

affected since art and religion were inseparable. Music and the sing-

ing of hymns were stimulated.

A large and beautiful literature of love appeared—the masterpiece

of which remains the Gita Govinda (Song of the Cowherd). Its in-

fluence was so strong that grammar all over India and its rules of

etymology, orthography, phonetics and rhetoric soon incorporated

love as a special department with its own syntactical canons of struc-

ture. Drama and the underlying principles governing its related arts

took a different direction and the new aesthetic theory which ulti-

mately evolved was a peculiarly Hindu one, cut off even from its do-

mains overseas.

In effect, Mohammedanism had forced Hinduism to retreat within

itself and the outward forms of worship consequently sank into mys-

tic secrecy In Bengal, for instance, even these new singing and danc-

ing convocations were often, when discovered, suppressed by the

Muslim administrators. The building of temples ceased. And because

of the private and interior aspect religion took, art remained well

within the country. The days of India's expansion were over. The

new theatre and its music did not spread to other parts of Asia. They

remained carefully centered in India.

To understand exactly what happened artistically, one must go

back once again to another aspect of India's ancient aesthetic theo-

ries. The rudiments of India's approach to the performing arts, as laid

down in the oldest treatises, concern rasa and bhava. These words

convey so complicated a meaning that even when speaking in Eng-

lish, Indian intellectuals will use the original Sanskrit and, leaving it

30

at that, hope that the thought is communicated. Newspapers refer to

the rasa of a work, much in the same way that we would talk about

its "story" or "gist." An artist will be congratulated on her handling

of bhava, although the conversation is being conducted entirely in

a foreign language.

The concepts of rasa and bhava are elusive for the Westerner.

Roughly put, rasa means feeling or flavor and is the permanent

mood with which dance or drama concerns itself. There are nine of

these: heroism, fear, love, laughter, pathos, wonder, terror, loathe-

someness (including its sense of contempt and revulsion), sorrow,

and spiritual peace or sublime tranquility. These are the major emo-

tions, with all their attendant psychology, imbedded in the soul of a

human being. Bhava, on the other hand, consists of the situations

and acts which evoke specific responses, and there is a large variety of

them Bhava may be either enduring or transitory, a cause or effect,

or even an ensuant or excitant. Taking the rasa of love, for example,

its bhavás can be the causal one between a husband and wife or be-

tween two strangers. The bhava of effect will be that of undying de-

votion, if it is permanent, or longing, despondency or doubt, if it is

transitory. The ensuants can be sidelong glances or coquettish smiles,

and the excitants, moonlight, a beach, or a soft, zephyrous breeze.

When all these minute bhavás are properly portrayed, the rasa ap-

pears as a kind of telling reaction from within the spectator, and this

rasa is an overpowering aesthetic delectation which according to the

Hindus only true art can arouse in man.

By the intensity of love the new Krishna worship introduced, the

rasas and bhavás became limited, and drama and dance were finally

reduced to a few themes and situations The only rasa that Indian art

subsequently concerned itself with was love in both its erotic and

spiritual forms. The chief bhavás left were the various relationships

which produced different sorts of love. The bhavás rising from these

plays and which touch the spectator must depend in the main on five

possible relationships between the characters. Drawing upon the

Krishna example, we find the following One of the milkmaids thinks

of herself as the servant of Krishna, his mother, his friend, his per-

sonal lover, or, finally, the most difficult of recognitions to engender

in a spectator, his devotee, and here the point is to show the peace

and silence resulting from contemplation of the Lord and the mere

sensing of his divine radiance. This is not too strange for the

Westemer if he recalls how poetry in the West has virtually become a me-

dium for love too and its romantic aspects have for the most part ex-

ceeded its epic or heroic capabilities.

But this whole web of flavors and feelings which rasa and bhava im-

ply produces an aesthetic principle which is far removed from anything

we are familiar with in the West. Dramatically speaking, a number of

obstacles too presented themselves by the new reaffirmation of the

connection between theatre and God—assuming again that by drama

we mean the visual representation of a story with action, literally and

comprehensibly portrayed. The story of Krishna’s life and the innu-

merable incidents connected with it (he was a naughty child, he was

bitten by a snake, he stole butter from the milkmaids as fast as they

churned it, he hid their clothes while they were bathing in the river,

and the like), and the very real and temporal love that he shares with

the milkmaids, are all tangible enough and have some appropriate

moments for stage performances in our sense of the word. But when

the aim is to induce ecstasy or to demonstrate religious experience,

and when love is the means and shantih or sublimity is the ultimate

rasa, drama, and, to a lesser extent, dance are curtailed and become

unsubstantial from a Western point of view. When the aesthetic prin-

ciples subtending this type of performance are further restricted to

love and to possible relationships between lover and beloved or be-

tween worshiper and his God, the area of drama in its broadest hu-

man sense shrinks. This injures Indian drama and was responsible for

its further decline. Such ramifications were too much even for most

Indians It was too difficult except for the saints and the devout

either to arrive at intense religious experience or to sustain it once it

was reached. The majority of the people looked to those parts where

the love was clearly physical, which was comprehensible to them and

which they could interpret as being simply the relationship of one

human being with another. It was simpler as the centuries passed to

transform this new aesthetic into a representation of mortal love

rather than let it exist, as it was intended, as a method of spiritual ac-

complishment.

By no means am I criticizing the arts produced in India at this

time even from the standpoint of international theatre. Nor do I find

fault with those illustrations of it which have endured down to the

I N D I A / Dance Today

present This kind of art is simply different from the predilections

found in other parts of the world. In its own field and on its own

ground, it is a unique and extraordinary theatre. The harmonious

unity between man and god in these dramas and dances reveals a

happiness and joy that borders on magic and the mystic. Equally

powerful is the strange tension the spectator feels when that equilib-

rium is suspended—when Radha and Krishna are separated or quar-

rel. And when with the resolution the lovers are reunited and

Krishna is forgiven, a tearful, almost hysterical ecstasy of relief floods

over even the foreigner Perhaps these situations are impractical in

the theatre as we think of it, but in themselves they are nothing short

of miraculous.

From the seventeenth century onwards religion still flourished.

Music was still a major form of devotional worship But drama con-

tinued its decline, and the blissfulness of the Krishna impetus re-

mains for us today captured only in excerpts from the dance.

(Manipur is a notable exception for reasons explained elsewhere.)

Except for itinerant players touring the provinces and performing

religious stories of the Ramayana and Mahabharata on festival days,

singing parties devoted to the love of Radha and Krishna, and tem-

ple pageants, drama in the form that we know it remained absent

from Indian life until about a century and a half ago.

Dance Today

Early in India’s history, dance began to dominate the theatre in-

stead of remaining an integral but subservient part of the art as a

whole Consequently, during the dark years of drama’s decline in

India, disintegration of dance was considerably more gradual By the

turn of this century, many dance forms still remained but there were

relatively few dramatic performances to be seen

A variety of reasons account for this fact Dance is less complicated

to mount as a production. It requires no props. Often it is only a

solo with one singer and one drummer as accompaniment. Dance,

too, is more direct and personal in its contact with the spectator and

33

therefore more widely practised by a greater number of people.

Drama, on the other hand, needs at least a complement of special-

ists—a playwright, a troupe of actors and stagehands. Dance and

drama both rise from the human being's elementary urges toward

make-believe and magic, amusement and recreation, and out of these

emerge the complicated, narrative stories we associate with drama.

However, in India, as well as in a good part of Asia, dance ab-

sorbed the various disparate dramatic elements as quickly as they

appeared and finally overpowered any particular compulsion toward

realism, contemporaneity, clear dialogue, or rational portrayal of im-

mediate problems to connect the stage with the people's day-to-day

life These latter aspects of theatre are primary Western conceptions.

And while, on the one hand, today we see trends in the West toward

the Asian approach to theatre with our new musical comedies, our

increasingly unrealistic stylizations, and our warm applause of those

visiting Asian dancers who have appeared abroad, we find on the

other hand in Asia itself, generally speaking, theatre without dance

and without gods and divine beings as the central characters really

only beginning after the arrival of the West there. Because of dance,

drama movements in Asia were until quite recently often abortive or

frustrated.

In India, where there are vast areas of land and huge populations

often quite separated from each other geographically and racially,

you naturally find a wide variety of cultural habits In all these com-

munities, whether they are agriculturalists (as, of course, they are)

in the majority, or fishermen, or naked head hunters or aboriginal

tribes, pockets of whom are still found in every part of India today,

you have a people both dependent on themselves for entertainment

and infused with an urgency to be in some sort of mystic contact

with nature and the elements that determine their lives. Conse-

quently there is no part of India which has not found expression in

dance to exhibit and maintain some sort of propitiatory or grateful

connection between the people and these forces. Dance anywhere

in the world is one of the most primeval manifestations of worship,

and its connection with magic, with invocation and appeasement,

has been demonstrated now for so many thousands of years in Asia,

it almost becomes difficult to discard it as superstition. In India you

still find people dancing in the fields before they plant, dancing

34

when the harvest is in, dancing for rain, dancing to stop the rain,

dancing to celebrate an especially abundant catch of fish, dancing to

drive away sickness and plague, and to prevent famine. Perhaps the

extreme example of the prevalence of dance I can cite is a bhangra

or group dance a gang of masked dacoits (robbers) performed not

long ago after they had raided a township in Central India, killing a

number of people and looting the area. More pertinently, a group of

masked lamas in Kashmir danced recently for “the establishment of

world peace”

Despite all this, the path of dance in India was still tortuous. Along

with the gradual urbanization of India, resulting from the opening

up of the great ports of Bombay, Madras, Calcutta, and others, and

the concentration of administrative functions and industries in large

cities such as Delhi, Bangalore and Jamshedpur, together with the

other changes introduced by colonization and the new kind of civil-

ization from the West, the mood and occasion for dancing lessened.

Many of the people who used to dance were sucked out of their

isolated villages into towns where they found little excuse for danc-

ing. Their compulsion was lost, and besides they were more busily

occupied than they had been in the villages Perhaps, most impor-

tant, was the fact that they were no longer responsible for entertain-

ing themselves. They found among the clusters of people in the cities

numerous other amusements. There were all the dance substitutes—

motion pictures, radios, circuses, theatre houses, books, magazines,

public speeches and many groups whose sole profession was to de-

light, divert the mind, and leave the spectator passive and non-

participating Year by year, folk dances became fewer.

All of these factors have operated in one way and another, to a

greater or lesser extent, to the detriment of dance Still another com-

plication hastened the near-disappearance of dance in India. Some-

where along the years, and it is impossible to pinpoint this moment

in history although certainly the Muslims and the British had a hand

in it, the exalted perfection of the ancient dance began to warp

Dance was the art that once dignified Sanskrit dramas. It was the

mode of worship that celebrated the gods and sparkled brightly

within the sacred, inner shrines of every temple. It was the pastime

of kings and queens, or rajas and maharajas, and palace dancers gave

glittering performances on every possible occasion.

Little by little this glory started to tarnish, and dance became the province of the degraded castes and the pursuit of prostitutes. Tem-

ples dedicated to dancer-queens with their platforms of black marble slabs lay empty and unused. Dance left the hands of men and be-

came a practice of women, who used it often as a means merely to seduce. In the South, devadasi, literally servants of gods or girls who

are dedicated at infancy to a temple to dance before the idols, turned into women of pleasure, for the priests first, then later for anyone

who paid their fee. In a moralistic outburst some years back, the practice of dedicating these girls was forbidden by law, and the law

with its clumsy ruthlessness unfortunately banned all their dancing as well. From time to time, even now, groups of enraged citizens

when they hear of areas where the law has not yet penetrated dis-tribute pamphlets—the latest one at the time of writing was titled

"Devadasi A Burning Problem in Karnataka (Mysore State)." In the North, the word nautch became famous as far as Europe and

America as a synonym for a dancing prostitute In conventional Indian society, if a young man said he was going to see a nautch, his

horrified family could only feel he was going to-a whore. If he did go to a house of ill-fame, it was very likely that the woman would

first dance for him as a stimulus.

In the early part of this century in the northeastern State of Mani-pur, the poet Rabindranath Tagore discovered and extracted from

the local religious opera of the region a type of dancing which he imported into his school at Santiniketan. Sadly enough, it was hailed

as the only respectable dance left in the whole of India.

Out of this contumely and from among these remnants of dance, a number of Indian intellectuals and artists rescued their dance. Less

than a half a century ago, several individuals, working apart from each other and along different lines in separate parts of the country

with each pursuing his own special interest, began resuscitating the dances that were in the process of disappearing Wherever they could

find dance, they began protecting and encouraging it They recon-structed still others from temple sculptures which illustrated dance

poses and groupings and even costumes in meticulous detail, and from ancient manuscripts, often relying on the instincts and intui-

tions with which their national heritage more than generously endowed them.

36

I N D I A / Dance Today

Respectable Brahmin ladies began to dance in public, the first being Rukmini Devi of Kalakshetra in Adyar. Great devadasi like Balasaraswathi began to perform on stages before ticket-buying audiences far away from the temples and well within the law. Scholars like Dr. V. Raghavan of the University of Madras made dance a special field of serious study. Pioneers like Uday Shankar performed abroad and attracted a réclame there which added lustre to their names and the art at home. Poets philanthropically gave their fortunes to newly formed academies of dance and gathered together the last remaining teachers to instruct a new generation of performers. Along with all this ferment, political and administrative leaders of good reputation began to grace performances with their presence and write approving, quotable sentiments in the guestbooks and albums of the schools and artists.

From this emerged what we now know as the four schools of Indian dance, Bharata Natyam, Kathakali, both of the South, and Kathak and Manipuri, from the North, all of these being modern designations for ancient forms. At present it now appears that once again dance is clearly delineated and defined, codified and examined, and never before has it cut through regional barriers and geographical distances and become so widely familiar as a whole throughout the entire country.

The achievement of reinstating dance in so short a time was something of a miracle. A complete revival of any nation's dance arts is patently not an easy task, and although all of the Four Schools as we know them today are fragmentary, vestigial, and even have crippling defects and lacunae in many instances (in the same sense that the movements of classical ballet are formalized and restrictive in the range of their expressiveness), a vitality has remained within them. The direct line that runs from them back to ornate sculptures in ruined temples and musty, moldy, faded manuscripts, as well as their relationship with dance forms in other parts of Asia, connects them directly with India's purest antiquity. Despite the growth and decline, the development and regression, the dance in India today testifies to the endurance of a genuine art instinct and demonstrates that the underglow of appreciation never quite died out but smouldered deep within the soul of the nation and its once great past.

In the light of the energetic dance activity of the past few years,

37

to talk about the streams of Indian dance and drama drying up is misleading. So much has remained, so much still is accounted for.

The disruption in Indian theatre arts is of course an historical fact,

but the amount that still exists and is re-emerging is nothing short of

astonishing. Other countries may have more dancing, or more easily

procured dances, or even greater arts, but the reminders of the past

have always persisted in India. The Indian's unconscious rapport

with his great traditions has given a natural continuity. And because

of India's geographical vastness nowhere in a single country are there

more contrasts, more diversity, more challenging propositions laid be-

fore the students of movement and seekers after aesthetic pleasure.

Few will dispute that of the Four Schools, Bharata Natyam (the

name is derived from Bharata's canonical treatise on dramaturgy, the

Bharata Narya Sasstra) as it is seen in Madras today where the best

teachers and dancers have gravitated, is the most significant in India.

Certainly even in its present form it is the most completely preserved

and the most anciently documented of any living classic. An entire

recital of Bharata Natyam takes around two and a half hours, and

the solo dancer, usually a woman (performances by men ceased

several centuries ago), presents a series of items designed to display a

rich variety of body movements, vertiginous speed in stomping com-

plex rhythms with her feet (made more audible by anklets of tin-

kling bells), and almost superhuman endurance of strength and

stamina.

In the middle of her program she offers a series of Padas. These are

songs in Sanskrit, Tamil or other South Indian vernaculars, which

are sometimes slow and sentimental, sometimes changeable and

abrupt with contrasting expressions of emotions, and always deeply

religious and devotional in import The dancer, either singing the

words in unison with her accompanists or forming them silently with

her lips, enacts the song in minutest detail with highly exaggerated

expressions of the face and clear formations of the fingers and hands,

generally referred to as mudras, to interpret each word, meaning by

meaning, in a special gesture-language.

Padas occupy a special place in the hearts of South Indians whose

understanding and feeling for Bharata Natyam is keen. Whereas

we in the West are inclined to applaud, say, a brilliant pirouette or

the perfect precision of the "dance" part of a classical ballet rather

than its thin story, the Indian approaches his art differently. He will

watch, appreciatively or critically, the initial portions of the program

where the emphasis is on virtuosity, mastery of detailed movements

and closeness to the oldest traditions, but he relaxes and settles in

when the Padas with their poetic narrative begin. The recital then

takes on a private tone, and a kind of intimate relationship develops

between the dancer and the spectator. When a genuine artist like

the great Balasaraswathi of Madras performs Padas, her forte, she

endows the art with a luminosity hard to find among dancers any-

where else in the world

The secret of the Pada is twofold: one, to convey the meaning of

each word, phrase, and sentence with literal gestures and precise facial

expressions, and, two, to interpret the sentences of the song over and

over again in a variety of completely differing, contrasting ways. For

instance, if the sentence is “I worship you, oh my Lord Siva,” the

dancer literally acts out those words with her hands and face, but

then she must improvise further interpretations “Worship” can be

indicated humbly or proudly (as a wife worships a husband), re-

ligiously (as a penitent undergoing austerities or praying in the tem-

ple) or profanely by coyly flirting with the god as if he were human.

Or she can be angry with the god and twist the theme into “Did you

think I did not worship you?” Simply put, the gesticulation can

describe adoration in any spiritual or temporal manner.

The name of any god in India carries with it an unlimited number

of manifestations and forms, all of which lend themselves to inter-

pretive movement. Every god has his attributes, characteristics and

symbols. Siva can be the cobra, the bull, the river Ganges, the

trident, the moon. He is the creator, destroyer, dancer or warrior.

The permutations of any word of a phrase are almost incalculable,

and an accomplished dancer exploits them to an extent which ex-

hausts all possible variants.

One of the finest Padas performed by Balasaraswathi is the cele-

brated Krishna ni begane which simply means “Lord Krishna, come

to me.” There is one line in the song which goes “Thy mother saw

all the world reflected in Thy mouth,” and here in one of

Balasaraswathi’s interpretations a climactic moment comes. She

shows the god Krishna as a naughty child and calls him to her, but

as she looks down into his eyes she is overcome with love—the love of

a mother for a son. She cups his face in her hand and leans over to

kiss him, but at that moment it suddenly becomes the kiss of a man,

and she darts back startled and troubled by the strange shift in the

relationship. The god is become a lover. This example shows how far

afield from the simple text the acting or expressiveness (abhinaya in

Sanskrit) can go, but the inventiveness and originality permitted the

dancer in Padas is one of the greatest concepts ever advanced in

dance.

For the foreigner, Padas at first may seem a little too dense a tex-

ture both linguistically and religiously. But if you take with you an

expert interpreter who is familiar with and patronizes the dance, the

experience of hearing his explanations serves to convey the sensitive

beauty of the original It is possible in this way to sit through a per-

formance enjoying and reacting exactly as any knowledgeable specta-

tor does The difference is that you are hearing in English what the

others are hearing in Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu or Canarese. But what-

ever the language, the gesturing is virtually international and the in-

tellectual mechanics of understanding arc, of course, universal. As a

general principle anywhere in Asia, the foreigner should exercise the

greatest discretion in trusting his artistic intuition at first. The initial

differences between the arts of Asia and the West are enormous, and

until you are fairly well acquainted with the conventions and have

a sense of the proper aesthetic approach, you had best rely on an

interpreter. I have never heard a seriously unappreciative remark

about any of Asia’s major dance or drama forms, except from a

philistine unsympathetic to his own arts or from an outsider who has

wandered into a theatre without a guide to tell him what was being

performed. Similarly, I have also heard people dilate ecstatically

about a dancer when the explanation has been coherent, and others

deplore the same program when they have not been clearly or in-

telligently informed of what they were seeing

Of course, the spectacle of dance in Asia is nearly always exciting

for the Westerner who is accustomed to more drabness in his theatre.

Even a Bharata Natyam recital, which is one of the more restrained

and subdued programs in Asia, being a solo and performed in a

single costume, is still colorful and impressive simply to look at. The

palms of the dancer’s hands, the soles of her feet and a large round

circle between her eyebrows are stained bright red with temple pow-

der. Her sari, tightly fitted around her body and thighs, will invariably be of gold embroidery and a patterned mixture of clashing, riotous colors. Her jewellery is of special appeal. A dancer can wear as many rings as she likes and on any finger, bracelets, and elbow armlets of gold In her ears, she wears jewels not only in the lobes but in the upper part of the ear as well. In either nostril she will certainly wear a diamond or ruby, as well as a coruscating pendant hanging from the cartilage separating the nostrils. Down the part in her hair a row of gleaming diamonds will lead to a large oval of gold inlaid with precious stones which hangs over and covers the top of her forehead. In a large circle at the back of her head she wears garlands of flowers —jasmine, marigolds, frangipani or tuberoses—which wind in a chain down the long braid of hair. All these decorations indicate respect to the gods, an ornate display that all the preparations of beauty and devotion have been made before the god is further worshiped through the sacred ritual of dance. To add to the glitter of the stage, the musicians and singers, who are always men, usually have large sparkling diamonds flashing from their pierced earlobes

After the interlude of Padas, the dancer has rested and recuperated her strength. She then performs a few more items of purely technical and rhythmical dancing. The recital concludes with a Tillana, one of the most exuberant outbursts of sheer dance movements. A Tillana is usually short and explodes on to the stage with swift, lively bends and dips, bursts of smiles, symmetrical leaps back and forth, to the singers, fluttering hands beating the drums, and a shimmering whir of the dancer's anklebells. Tillanas tell no story nor are they even descriptive in a general sense. They are performed to an accompaniment of chanted, meaningless syllables, often without regard for the melody of the music The dance conveys joyousness and abandonment to that peculiar thrill associated in India with religious ecstasy, the ultimate emotional state of the human being when in attunement with his gods.

Along the West coast of South India, in the Malabar area, you find the home of Kathakali (literally, recited action) dance-dramas, the second of the Four Schools Because of Kathakali's exotic setting amid lamp-lit, sandy beaches, coconut palms and tree-shaded temple parvis, and because of the impracticability of transferring it to the

41

harsh glare of the stage, only a few sporadic and modified performances have ever been given outside its native home. But even there,

performances of it have become rare. The troupe which the Maharaja of Travancore briefly supported before the princely States were

merged into the Union of India and had their powers and purses curtailed, has been disbanded. Villages spend their surplus money

on other entertainments now, and many of the traditional dancers have been reabsorbed into professions which guarantee them a stead-

ier livelihood.

Today, the only place to see regular Kathakali performances is at the poet Vallathol's school, Kerala Kalamandalam. There it is at its

best and under its most ideal conditions. To reach it you must fly to Cochin in the heart of Malabar, then make a three-hour train ride to

Shoranur, then either walk or ride in an oxcart (there might be some local official's car at the station which will give you a lift) for a mile

further inland across the river to the village of Cheruthuruthi where there is a simple Guest Bungalow next to the school. At your leisure

you can see the young dancers practicing throughout the day—the training is rigorous and requires lengthy massages to limber the body

so that it can hold the correct positions—and you can order in the evening a full-dress performance for around twenty-five dollars. You

can commission specific scenes from the Ramayana or Mahabharata and even select the type of excerpts you wish to see—love scenes of requited or unrequited love, heroic battles, scenes of cruelty and

bloodshed, or the dance sequences which have no story attached to them.

Four aspects may startle the outsider witnessing Kathakali for the first time, and he should be prepared for them First, all the dancers

are men. Young boys take the roles of women with yellow painted faces, false breasts, and a large cloth draped over their head to hide

their short hair (short, that is, by Indian standards).

Second, the make-up for characters such as the demons and gods and monkeys is extremely, almost frighteningly, grotesque. On the

day of a performance, the make-up artists begin work in the early hours of the morning and continue until late afternoon. They mix

the paints (they used to grind lapis lazuli and mix it with mustard oil to produce the special blue) and apply it line by line to the

actor-dancer. They slowly and carefully trace design after design of

42

curling, twirling lines of black, white, orange, red and blue over the

cheeks and forehead. For demons they stick gobs of putty like huge

bulbous warts on the nose and forehead. For other characters, they

paste semicircles of scissored paper along the jawbones. Finally the

dancer inserts a tiny seed into each eye which immediately inflames

the whole eyeball and the bloodshot expression adds to the fearsome-

ness. At the end of these elaborate preparations, the features of the

dancer's face are quite obliterated, and his normal appearance com-

pletely disguised.

The third surprise for the foreigner is that the costumes are not only

strange but almost monotonously uniform. Nearly all characters of

the play wear huge crowns and halos of painted circles, encrusted

with shards of sparkling mirrors, all of them wear long-sleeved jackets,

on to some of which they sew yards of colored fringe, and all are

dressed in huge billowing skirts and underskirts of white cotton cloth.

While the performers practice and rehearse in the near-nudity nor-

mally appropriate to the tropics which permits seeing the movement

of each body muscle, for the actual performance they cover their

bodies so heavily with cloth that only the hands and feet are visible.

The fourth unusual aspect for the outsider is the deafening roar

of the drums which starts long before the performance opens, con-

tinues during it, and does not stop until the morning hours when

the play comes to an end. The drummers who pound their instru-

ments incessantly and with all their strength perform in relays. When

one exhausts himself, another immediately takes over and continues

the raucous tattoo of rhythmic patterns.

Kathakali performances take place around a tall, waist-high, brass

lamp stand filled with coconut oil and sputtering, hand-rolled, cotton

wicks. The lamp illuminates the performance, a substitute for foot-

lights, and whenever a character has an important moment to dance

out, he rushes to the lamp, fans the air around it which makes the

gutting wicks flare brightly and light up his weird face of quivering,

bloodshot eyes and trembling chin and cheek muscles.

Kathakali is the only dance of India which uses any form of a cur-

tain, but it is handled in its own unique way and at considerable

variance from its function in the West. A typical curtain consists of

a wide rectangle of tricolored cloth held between the stage and the

lamp by two stagehands in ordinary dress (barechested, except for the

three Hindu threads over the shoulder and a necklace of balsam

beads, and a long draped loin-cloth of white cotton). They stand mo-

tionless holding the curtain taut while the dancers perform a series of

behind-the-scene dances When Ravana or Rama are to make an angry

entrance, they perform the thrilling and terrifying sequence colloqui-

ally known as "peering over the curtain." The character grabs it and

pulls it with all his might in and out, thus fanning the lamp until

the flames are dangerously high. Then, while still hiding his face, he

runs his hands, ornamented with long, curved, silver claws, along the

length of the curtain and, stomping loudly, rattles the rows of bells

on his legs which encase not only the ankles but the full length of

the shin. When the proper tension is built, he finally shows the awe-

some aspect of his make-up When the action of the dance proper

starts the curtain drops to the floor and one of the men whisks it off

to the side until it is required again for another spectacular entrance

In sharp contrast with Bharata Natyam which is essentially a

woman's art, Kathakali is extraordinarily virile. Its actions are bom-

bastic and exaggerated, its pace grandiose with huge leaps and jumps,

and even moments when the dancers leap into the air and plunge

down on the floor with their legs stretched in a full split. The danc-

ers never speak, except for an occasional shrill cry, and the musicians

who stand at the back beating gongs and cymbals sing the poetic

stanzas into the ears of the performers describing their actions and

exhorting them to greater and more gigantic tasks. Throughout the

entire performance, a dancer's hands are active. He forms with

mudras and gestures each word the singer enunciates. There are

specific finger positions and hand movements not only for nouns

and adjectives, but special formations which by convention stand for

adverbs, conjunctions, and declensions as well. Any competent

Kathakali dancer knows about five hundred mudras and can, if you

improvise a sentence on the spur of the moment, put it instantly,

even while you talk, into this sign language of the dance.

The only woman dancer who has ever made a genuine study of

Kathakali is the Bharata Natyam dancer, Shanta Rao, who has ap-

peared in New York with signal success Her femininity within an

essentially masculine form gives Kathakali an extraordinarily affect-

ing aesthetic reaction. The original ballets she has composed in

44

I N D I A / Dance Today

Kathakali style are unquestionably the most brilliant contribution to modern Indian dance since Uday Shankar's creations.

Kathak, the third of the Four Schools of Indian dance, belongs to North India. Lucknow in the province of Uttar Pradesh (formerly the United Provinces), maintains the Hindustani School of Music which has a department of this style of dance where the best of the traditions are studied and taught. Jaipur, the important tourist center in Rajastan famous in the West for is enamelware jewelry, its rose-colored palaces, its polo and its affable maharaja, is, artistically speaking, the home of some of the country's finest Kathak artists There is a friendly rivalry between Lucknow and Jaipur over which has the best dancing. The differences between the two styles are subtle, and for the outsider on the threshold of his dance study, his preference will depend on the personality of the dancer rather than on the intricate difference between specific steps and movements which the local expert finds so engrossing.

The Northern part of India was the first area to be conquered by the invading Mohammeddans, and it was from the North that the mighty Moghuls ruled. Near their courts cultural Mohammedanization was most apparent, and Hinduism along with its arts and habits submitted to greater changes there than in the areas further South where vast distances separated the Muslim rulers from their subjects. According to the religious tenets of Mohammedanism—the invasion of India was in the beginning a holy war of conversion—representation of god or the graphic depiction of god or god's work, man, was proscribed in art The religion of Islam is primarily an austere one. And even today in India the mosques are empty rooms, the sermons advise the faithful on the rigid conduct of their daily lives, and the Muslim when he prays faces an invisible Mecca Dancing has always been condemned, in theory at least although the practice has been impossible to suppress, throughout the Muslim world not merely because it is often a temptation and corrupting influence in the social life of the people, but because it approximated too closely the worship of god in man's image This latter has invariably been precisely the point of Hindu dance—to represent god, to imitate him, to copy his celestial movement on earth in front of his pious human devotees.

Thus, while the Hindu arts have been interpretive to the point of

45

voluptuousness, the Muslim ones have been almost antiseptic in their

abstraction. Their genius has flourished in the fields of music and

mathematics, architecture and decorative embellishment. Kathak is a

marriage in dance, workable if not ideal, of these two diametrically

opposed religious opinions. The style of North Indian dancing that

the Muslims first encountered was sacrilegious and anathema to

them. But the dynamics of Hinduism were not quite destructible.

Gradually, as the rulers became more and more Hinduized and In-

dian, the irrepressible place of dance among the people became more

acceptable. The result was that Kathak, the old Hindu dance, turned

into a mathematical exercise requiring an almost purely intellectual

and non-emotional attention.

Kathak as it stands today comprises several hundred rhythmic pat-

terns—some only a few bars long, others of enormous complication

lasting for a hundred measures with more than a thousand prescribed

beats regulated within them. These rhythms are chanted by a singer

sitting near the tabla drummer with special syllables, indicating all

the stresses, caesurae, slurs, off-beats, and syncopations. This pattern

is then copied by the clicks, thumps and thuds of the drums in a

simulacrum of the vocal rhythm. Then the dancer taps out the identi-

cal meter with her feet, embellishing it with stylized movements of

her arms and body. Because of her anklebells, the audience can de-

tect the slightest deviation from the model established for her by the

singer and the drummer. The spectator sits in judgment on the

dancer almost as if waiting for her to make an error. Because

the rhythms are traditional and familiar to any accomplished artist,

the singer, dancer and drummer during a performance sometimes

plunge simultaneously into the same rhythmic pattern with only the

slightest signal or forewarning almost as if by intuition. Artists of the

foremost rank, like the Maharaj brothers, will occasionally improvise

one rhythm against that of their accompanists. Their triumph comes

when they all finish on precisely the right beat at the end of this

rhythmic counterpoint.

An audience at a Kathak recital listens rather than looks, and a

thoroughgoing critic of the dance prefers to sit with his eyes closed.

The bulk of a Kathak program consists of these rhythms, exhibited

serially one after the other, and ranging from simple to difficult. The

I N D I A / Dance Today

dancer stands in the center of the arena, her flesh quivering as she

slaps her feet steadily against the floor (usually of tiles, to increase

the resonance) and the allotted metrical pattern increases in celerity

and intricacy The number of body movements a dancer uses in the

course of these rhythms is limited The arms swing in the air pick-

ing out of it invisible designs and forming charming configurations

of the body and its postures She spins her body around in a series of

turns without leaving the designated spot in the center of the stage.

The spectator grows dizzy at the sight, as the dancer looks like a blur

of whirls.

After a suitable interval, the program becomes lightly representa-

tional with Ghats whose fragments break the focus and intense con-

centration required of the spectator by the number of successive,

complex rhythms. Ghats reveal only the merest suggestions of a

specific action—women carrying pots on their heads, a god playing

the flute, ladies strolling in the garden—and they are the only Hindu

remnants left to this otherwise Mohammedanized dance.

Some Kathak dancers, however, conclude their program informally

by sitting down before you and singing gazals or short stanzas or

poetry. As they sing they improvise vague gestures. Each song con-

cludes with an unexpected play on words or a double meaning, re-

vealed only by the last line which conveys an entirely different mean-

ing from the one anticipated. A Kathak enthusiast once illustrated

this convention for me with an impromptu poem Remembering the

court setting of conventional Kathak he recited, “The Queen is

uniquely lovely. Her face is round, of a shining beauty. She illumines

the darkness of my nights . . .” but at the moment when the poem

might be considered lèse-majesté, he added, “She is the queen of the

night—the moon” (There was also an interior Indian play on words

—typical of the gazal—for “queen of the night” is the Hindi name

for a sweet-smelling jasmine of romantic associations )

Gestulation in Kathak is always understated (as the Padas are al-

ways over-played) and there are no mudras of any clarity or belong-

ing to an accepted convention Kathak is an extreme and uttermost

attenuation of what obviously once was a literal and expressionist

dance form. But this rarefication gives it a special flavor unique in

India, and a taste for it, once acquired after a recital by artists like

47

Shambo Maharaj, or Brijju, his nephew, or Kumari Roshan, a young newcomer, or the more pyrotechnical, meretricious display of the movie star, Sitara, is hard to lose.

Kathak is a new name for the old nautch, that most alluring and most degraded of Indian dance forms From the foreigner's point of view, the eroticism associated with this form of dancing is somewhat obscure But the Muslims found it so titillating that women were discouraged from performing it except in the brothels, and young boys in the Court and in public often substituted for them. Scarcely awakened youths were originally introduced in an effort to make the dance sexless. But it was not long before they were imitating the soft feminine movements, tapping out the rhythms, and in the Ghats, enacting subtle, half-indicated love themes, as lecherously as if they were really girls Even the poetry speaks in places of the lover as a boy, although from the convention you know that actually a woman is meant To refer directly to love and woman was apparently too arousing

The predilection for male as well as female dancers endured and Kathak today is the only dance of India which still is traditionally performed by either men or women With the cxceptions of Kathakali, folk dances, which are communal affairs and danced by the entire village, and Kathak's sexual ambivalence, dance in India as it has evolved today is preponderantly a pursuit of women While there is no stigma attached to male dancers—considerably less, one would venture, than in the West—it has now become more usual and acceptable for women to take precedence in the field. I know of no male movie stars, for instance, who dance, yet every actress is called upon sooner or later to perform at least a few steps There has been for several years a quibbling controversy waged over the propriety of men dancing Bharata Natyam, although every evidence of the past justifies it. This heavy emphasis on women as dancers throughout India is particularly surprising since all dance teachers without exception are men. In most areas, the profession of teaching is hereditary, and generation after generation of fathers have handed their secrets down to their sons. Strangely, some of the greatest dance teachers in India today have never taken a dance step even in class, but continue to produce star pupils among their female dancers.

48

While the woman dancer may likely never teach, her teacher's sons however will continue the tradition

The fourth of the Four Schools, Manipuri, derives from the dances found in the princely state of Manipur, now incorporated into the province of Assam, India's northeasternmost province on the border of Burma. Manipur is both a country and a valley. The country, some 7,500 square miles in size, is mostly mountainous (the highest being the lowest of the Himalayan range) and is inhabited by tribes of naked, headhunting aboriginals called collectively Nagas (each of their folk dances is different and engrossing). The valley, only 700 square miles, contains a marvellously civilized and artistic people

In this valley against the dusty brown hills nearby and the dim blue higher hills of the distance, with a massive dome of sky holding one captive in paradise, live these fair-skinned, Mongolian-looking, gentle and graceful people Their costumes vary from a loin cloth on casual occasions and in the home to a formal sarong wrapper of striped purple hanging from breasts to knees for the women and a thin, white dhoti around the hips and legs of the men.

As one arrives at Imphal, the capital and the site of the maharaja's palace, one is struck at once by the colorful charm of the people, the magnificence of the landscape, and the bracing coolness of the air (the valley is 6,000 feet high). The country is blessed naturally with life's basic necessities and a generous number of its luxuries. rice and vegetables flourish, edible birds and wild game abound; cotton and the silk worm are both indigenous; jungle timber clutters the hillsides, indigo and tea can be found wild; hashish grows everywhere without supervision; and the orchids are so unusual and profuse that the government forbids their export for fear of undermining the Indian flower market. But of all the attributes of paradise which Manipur has, none is more vital and engaging than its theatrical arts.

For several centuries now Manipur has maintained a prodigiously high standard of art—in music, dance and drama—and the only comparable country I know of for national artistic excellence is Bali in Indonesia. Rabindranath Tagore discovered Manipur sometime in the 1920s and exported to his school the first Manipuri dance teacher ever to leave the country. Manipur became famous over-

night, and because of the first teacher's success several other teachers

left Manipur to seek their fortunes in Calcutta, in Delhi, the capital,

and in Bombay, the commercial capital. The popularity of this new

style of dancing was immediate everywhere, and Manipuri dance,

in one form or another, is now practiced wherever there is dancing

in India The chief reason for its wide appeal and appreciation is its

easy comprehensibility. It is also the least difficult to perform In

general, it has become the amateur's delight

In Manipur itself, however, the dance now universally known as

"Manipuri" is deplored. Whenever, for instance, a newsreel in a

theatre shows it being performed before some national dignitary or

on some special occasion, the Manipuris titter with exasperation.

There is a wide gap between what Indians think Manipuri is and

how the Manipuri themselves dance The costume, for instance,

which is always associated with Manipuri dancing is in Manipur

itself reserved only for the most sacred performance of their operas

It is the lovely velvety hoopskirt studded with sequins and discs of

silver, a tight bodice of bright peasant colors, and a shimmering veil

of silver gauze sprayed with mica which hangs over the head and

face. The dancer's hair is knotted at the side of the head and circled

with a ring of fragrant white flowers.

The short dances on themes which figure in the repertoire of

Indian-style Manipuri dancers are usually the created invention of

teachers and pupils outside the country and unknown in Manipur.

The usual themes for these dances are mood pictures of spring, of

going to the temple with flowers to place at the feet of the image of

Lord Krishna, the favorite god in the North of India, and his flirtations with the milkmaids, or the dance with flaming trays where the

morning sun is greeted with sacred fire. Within the thirty years during which these performances have been seen in India, Manipuri

style has managed to establish itself and now it can, despite abuses

and the liberties taken with it, be called a genuine school of Indian

dance. Its future obviously will grow more and more remote from

Manipur, but as each genuine artist adds to it, a profound if

eclectic art will eventually develop outside its home area.

The chief attribute of Manipuri dancing, both in Manipur itself

and outside the country, is its graceful turning and swaying. The

dancer's body continually seems to dissolve and re-arise in flowing,

sinuous curves as the gentle hand and arm gestures melt one into the

other. Excessively limpid softness was a tremendously new and fresh

inspiration for India, whose dance styles had been up to then pri-

marily energetic, electric and explosive. Manipur has given Indian

dance as a whole today a sweetness entirely absent from the angular

precision of Bharata Natyam, or the vigorousness of Kathakali, or the

mathematics of Kathak.

In Manipur itself you find a nation of dancers. In the isolation of

the valley, settled originally by religious refugees fleeing from the

Mohammedan persecutions of the sixteenth century, you find a

form of Hindu worship through dance and music in a remarkably

unchanged and unadulterated state. Every village must dance for a

month out of every year, for example, otherwise the felicity of the

country and its immediate contact with the protective gods is ad-

versely affected. In these dances everyone takes part from tiny chil-

dren who can scarcely keep in step, to the oldest men, who swagger

and improvise new steps to keep the younger ones alert and to pre-

vent themselves from being bored by the years of repetition of the

same dances. On special full-moon nights, the young men of the

towns roam the streets following the sound of music, and wherever

they find it, they join in the dancing even with strangers During

these all-night-long dances they can hold the hands of any unmarried

girl allowed on these occasions to stay out until dawn.

The most significant contribution of Manipur to the world of art

are its Ras Lilas which have not been performed outside the country

and which no non-Manipuri can simulate. These are dance-operas in

which specially trained professional artists sing and dance and act

to the accompaniment of a large orchestra of conch shells, various

stringed instruments, dozens of large, ringing hand cymbals, and

drums. The Ras Lila, while being very famous as a legend and as a

theme (it is the heavenly dance of the god Krishna amusing himself

in the garden of Brindavan with his milkmaids) is a jealously

guarded, almost secret art-form. Since travelers to Manipur are ex-

tremely rare, it has almost never been seen by non-Manipuris. It is

a complex matter for the tourist to find a performance. For centuries

there was no contact between Manipur and the outside world, and

whenever there was it was unpleasant—neighbouring warlike Burmese

penetrating the protective cordon of savage Nagas periodically raided

the valley (one of Manipur's sub-valleys still belongs to Burma),

mercenary traders from Bengal infiltrated and absorbed the economy

of the country by their little shops and cornerings of the market.

Finally in 1889, when the British were consolidating their colony of

India (Manipur was the last to accede), they sent to investigate the

country a Political Officer whom the Manipuris promptly assassi-

nated These events have fostered a reserve and reluctance on the

part of the Manipuris to deal with outsiders Added to this are the

exclusive rules and regulations of Manipur's strict Hinduism. They

cannot eat with anyone who is a non-Hindu and therefore casteless,

all temples are closed to impure foreigners of other faiths, and the

Ras Lila, which is their most sacred representation of their most

cherished god, is surrounded by a miasma of mystery. If you are

lucky enough to be told of a performance, you must stand outside

the pavilion erected afresh especially for each performance just be-

yond where the shadow of the eaves falls.

Ras Lilas are only held during the full moons of March, October

and December. To see one, you should arrive in Manipur early, and

begin by asking everyone you meet where and when a performance

will take place. Once the people see that you are in earnest, someone

will probably help you. Your patience will most certainly be re-

warded, however, because the Ras Lila of Manipur is one of the most

remarkable achievements in Asian art. I know of nothing more musi-

cally competent, as spiritually moving, or even vaguely resembling it

anywhere in the world The singers with their lightly powdered

faces and flashing, ornamented costumes move through the eight-

hour performance with an unequalled vocal ease and brilliance.

Their singing, completely different from that found in India, is full

of vibratos, trills, catches in the throat, and an ecstatic warmth that

the rigid, methodical performances of India lack as far as the unac-

customed Western ear is concerned. The perfect proportion be-

tween dancing and arias, choruses and orchestral interludes, produces

as finely constructed a composition as any aesthetic law teaches The

overall mood is strange. It focusses on the ecstatic relationship be-

tween the worshiper and god It is supernal, but emotional in a hu-

man and physical sense at the same time. The audience weeps volu-

bly from ravishment rather than sorrow, and whether through some

52

I N D I A / Dance Today

sort of mysticism or simply because of art, the effect nevertheless penetrates the foreign auditor and is an overwhelming experience.

The field of folk dancing, aside from whatever decline it may have suffered in the past, still remains a substantial area for research.

You need only ask for local dancing wherever you are in India, in the towns and villages and away from the cities, and a performance can be easily arranged.

It may be extremely simple and even unexciting, but it will sometimes be beautiful and complex.

Dance in India, where a group of men or women holding two short sticks dance in a circle while they rhythmically strike the sticks the other dancers are holding, or in places you may find only a motionless, unanimated, slow shuffle, but the dances will always be interesting

The variety and contrasts between neighboring sections of the country is a never-ending surprise

Basically, folk dancing is more amusing to do than to see and participate in it as with our square dancing, for instance, is its chief appeal.

But in India these dances number literally in the thousands, and the sum total of this array of movement, foot and hand patterns, costume, and musical accompaniment, is an inexhaustible field of study not only for the anthropologist but especially for the dancer in search of new movements and new areas of exploration for the furtherance of his own art.

The revival of Indian dance at first was a matter for intellectuals and dancers.

Soon their success percolated through to official circles and the general public.

Where once it was chic for the wealthy society of Bombay or Calcutta to subject their guests after dinner to a program of Western music by a local string quartet, now it has become fashionable to present a dancer

A number of the social leaders in the bigger cities introduce their favorite dance protégés fairly frequently at private parties, and even subsidize their more occasional public performances

All over the country little societies have sprung up to which people contribute a small amount of money monthly, and out of this fund they are able to pay for various dancers from all over the country to appear before them at an evening's

53

performance. It has been extraordinary to watch these groups, such

as Noopur in Bombay, and see how in a matter of a few years they

have grown from a handful of friends banding together with an

amateur interest in dance into big running organizations which pay

sizable sums to whatever artists they invite. Another excellent hope-

ful change in attitude is that whereas formerly these groups consid-

ered themselves lucky to present a first-rate artist, now a dancer speaks

of performing before them as an honor.

In 1955, for the first time in many, many centuries, dancers in In-

dia received national, official recognition of the sort they were once

accorded by kings and courts. For the previous three years, the Gov-

ernment of India had instituted what were called the Presidential

Awards for which "artists of the year" were summoned to Delhi,

feted, and, during an impressive ceremony attended by dignitaries of

every kind, were presented with a scroll, gold bracelets and neck-

laces, shawls and gold-embroidered pieces of cloth This practice orig-

inated with the Government-sponsored Sangeet Nataka Akademi

(Academy of music, dance, drama and films—the last three words in

English are covered by the Sanskrit word, Nataka) whose aim is to

protect the arts and encourage performers in each of these fields. But

until 1955 the only recipients were musicians, their art being the

most respected and respectable one in India. Branches of the central

organization have been formed in each province and each city of any

importance with the idea of furthering India's indigenous art-forms

after their years of neglect. The Presidential awards are made after

consulting confidentially a cross-section of scholars and critics of the

country, and the selection of the artist requires virtually unanimous

agreement.

The dancers honored in 1955 were Balasaraswathi, the magnificent

Bharata Natyam dancer of Madras, and Shamboo Maharaj, the

youngest of the three Mahraj brothers whose dancing substantially

helped raise Kathak to its present level of brilliance. This occasion,

with all its pomp and ceremony, with the highest officers of the

government garlanding the artists and making speeches of praise,

was to many people far more than the honoring of two deserving

artists; it was the crowning achievement in the revival of dance art

in India today, and the fullest recognition, at last, of the now es-

tablished place that dance once again occupies.

54

I N D I A / Dance Today

Today, it is impossible to consider dance in India without paying more than passing attention to the motion pictures. India's film industry is the third largest in the world, lagging not far behind Hollywood and Japan in bulk of production. In modern Indian life the place of dance is nowhere more clearly indicated. All films must, by a tacit law understood by all the producers, abound in long, elaborate dance sequences. There is one I recall in which fifty glamorous maidens danced on fifty huge tympani drums for the longest time I have ever seen in a movie, and such dances together with their songs are the chief drawing-power of the motion picture industry. If you open any newspaper in India, the advertisements will generally show the leading actress in a dance pose. The number of dances to be seen in a particular movie will be heralded the way one would announce in America the number of star actors. One film led off its première with the phrase, "The Most Stupendous Gevacolour Dance Sequence in Indian Motion Picture History" The movies also buy up much of the best talent of the country and convert it to suit the general level of taste that all motion picture industries everywhere seem inclined to cater to. Several of the best dancers have entered the movies in order to make their livelihood, as performers, advisors or choreographers.

The movies too, unfortunately in India as everywhere else, are something of an enemy to the survival of live-talent entertainment and endanger the art. The average man actually has no need to patronize dance apart from the films. Often he cannot even if he would. The films draw out from the pockets of the vast majority of people, by providing long and full programs cheaply, the little money the family sets aside for amusements The financial proportion is roughly four to one, that is, one can see four first-grade movies for the price of the cheapest seat at a dance recital by a reputable artist This is an important factor in a country such as India where wages are low and the standard of living pared down to barest essentials

The tremendous emphasis dance is given in the movies, while it is an expression of national taste, also carries with it some serious aesthetic problems Chief of these—there are notable exceptions like Kumari Kamala (Bharata Natyam) or Sitara (Kathak) who are skilled technicians and somewhat uncompromising purists—is the

55

new style of dancing that has evolved The new style has now be-

come stiff competition especially since much of the Indian instinct

for dance is generously satisfied there. "Movie dancing" or "Oriental

dancing," with the pejorative connotations of those phrases in Eng-

lish, describe the kind of performance. It draws heavily from the

Four Schools but still lies outside any one of them. To explain this

we must go into the aesthetics of Indian dance briefly.

Dance, by its nature, is primarily traditional in India, as it is in all

Asia. Intrinsically it is not invented or dreamt up by an individual as

his own unique personal expression, although the dancer improvises

in a thoroughgoing way that has been forgotten in the West, it is

improvisation according to classical rules of a controlled character.

There is, according to the theory of dance, nothing openly creative

about it An analogy may be made with the function of a pianist

performing Beethoven or Chopin, he is not expected to create. Here,

as in Indian dance, the artist is concerned with re-creation or inter-

preting other media than his own (one is a performer, the other a

composer) and ones that are removed from him personally by be-

longing to other times and even other countries. The spectator's

pleasure derives from the genius of the interpreter-performer shin-

ing through the façade of the already familiar, well-known form.

Dance as it has been reconstructed in India has to a Westerner and

Westernized way of thinking a certain number of limitations about

it. Many situations or emotions cannot be treated within the ortho-

dox forms. Non-religious subjects or modern, everyday life below the

level of the eternal velties, for instance, are expressed with difficulty,

notwithstanding a few Padas on Gandhi, his spinning wheel, the

Salt March and his martyr's death The ordinary entertainment

seeker, too, finds himself vaguely dissatisfied with rigid adherence to

dances of the past as a tradition alone. In Asia this feeling is also a

Western contamination spread by Hollywood. He now demands

quicker contrasts and more restlessly changing and divergent move-

ments This, naturally enough, is the outcome of the increase in pace

and tempo which seems to characterize our modern world

There are also technical factors working against classic dances.

The more tradition regulates form and formula, the greater the dif-

ficulty of perfecting their execution. It is, generally speaking in a

practical sense, harder to reproduce perfectly what is accepted as the

56

rule of the past than it is to branch out into one's own new set of

regulations. A dancer in India ends up being forced to devote his

or her entire life to the mastery of a single form Dance in this light

presents almost insurmountable difficulties. Although there are Four

Schools, a dancer normally belongs to only one school This point

needs clarification for the Westerner From the beginning of the re-

vival, certain dancers and certainly all those who have appeared

abroad in Europe or America or before Westernized audiences in the

large cities of India have attempted a variety show of all the differ-

ent schools. This was necessary in order to include sufficient contrasts

within their program to appeal to audiences who were neither spe-

cialists nor born to a knowledge of indigenous dance.

Some of these attempts were successful. Shanta Rao, for instance,

is almost as familiar with Kathakali as she is with Bharata Natyam.

Ram Gopal moves almost equally easily between Kathak and Bharata

Natyam Uday Shankar, the most successful of all Indian dancers

abroad, offers excerpts from all the schools but his special contribu-

tion was that he added an entirely new element to Indian dance,

that of Western showmanship Shankar approximates the Western-

er's concept of dance most closely in that he treats it as a creative

art, and in fact bases it only opaquely and cloudily on Indian classi-

cal movements His extraordinary genius lies in his magical ability

to create atmosphere. The dreamlike air about his dancing which so

enchants the spectator is oddly enough totally absent from dance in

an Indian sense. His weakness as an Indian dancer is the fact that

although he personally places Kathakali as his foremost vehicle, he

has never attempted it in public except suggestively and by indirec-

tion He insists that unschooled audiences cannot follow the mudras,

would be deafened by the drums, and find the costumes and make-

ups absurd Perhaps this idea belongs to the past, to another era, not

to today, which seems to be at least so far a decade of reciprocal in-

ternational art understanding and indulgence of the genuinely ex-

otic.

But aside from this group of artists, many of the other dancers

have been failures in their attempts to inject variety and range into

their dancing. They neither had the technical ease to cope with the

Four Schools, nor the necessary creativity to add to the art. One of

these dancers in a certain ballet she performs holds a contest with

57

herself before the gods dancing all the Four Schools in rapid suc-

cession (each more badly danced than the last, in my opinion, and

the gods, according to the ballet, in a dilemma, I surmise, award

each a prize). Another group performs to the accompaniment of

loud-speakers declaiming English Regardless of how one may con-

done or deplore the various artists of this kind, the fact is that they

are attempting solutions to the very real problems of classical dance

and how to adjust it to the new conditions in which it finds itself

The same problems besetting serious artists of the classical dance

also involved the movies. They needed to find a dance which was not

exactly ignorant, because the ticket-buying spectator in India is on

the whole moderately aware of at least one of the Four Schools (the

one belonging to his part of the country) and yet which would sat-

isfy the new demands of modern taste Undoubtedly they were ap-

prised of the international success abroad of Indian dance and the

compromises its artists made there and even in India Large numbers

of people enjoying a program generally represent a somewhat lower

standard of appreciation than that required by smaller, more select

audiences. So the problem was easier to solve by the movies than it

was for the artists who sought a blend of styles without losing the

initial quality of each The movie dancing which resulted now com-

bines aspects of technique and virtuosity of the traditionally trained

dancer, along with the sweet softening of the Manipur influence,

plus a mélange of movements from every part of the country.

In the beginning of the movie industry this caused horror. To the

traditionalist it seemed a jumble of inexpert violations of all aes-

thetic principles. Some of the monstrosities that flickered on the

screen made one apprehensive that before the revival of serious dance

could be consummated, the movies would already have corrupted

public taste for it. Fortunately such fears were ungrounded The two

approaches are still being made independently, each evolving accord-

ing to its own requirements, each attaining the recognition it de-

serves Almost fortuitously, and most happily, movie dancing has im-

proved. While to my taste it still is flaccid and emasculated, lacking

in the clear intensity which must mark great art, it is nevertheless

beginning to produce its own special flavor and most of all it has

created an entirely new dance area It would not be surprising if this

medley of movement and gesture ultimately turns out to be the

58

dance of new India. A wildly demonstrative public certainly savors

it avidly, and possibly this is the clearest proof that it expresses the

mood and feelings of people in contemporary India. Strangely, after

the years of cultural silence from India and almost as if in repeti-

tion of the expansionist days of the past, today wherever Indian films

penetrate—in Malaya, Indonesia, Thailand—traces of its influence

are beginning to glimmer faintly in local dance recitals of the cities.

The jeopardy to pure classic dance which this new dance of the

movies and which even the international dancers induce is well rec-

ognized today. Radical action is being taken in an effort to protect

and preserve this ancient heritage, finally and ultimately, against any

further encroachment the present or future might bring. The most

significant innovation in the world of Indian dance for many cen-

tunes occurred in 1955. Balasaraswathi after years of aloofness—

partly because of the prestige lent her by her mother, one of the

greatest singers India has produced, and her grandmother, an equally

great player of the intricate stringed instrument, the vina, and partly

because her position as a devadasi with her own personal entourage

of devoted patrons has kept her outside the tensions and storms that

affected the public at large—finally capitulated to the growing pres-

sures on the serious artists of India. She presented herself, barefoot

and carelessly dressed in a black sari the border of which was gaudily

studded with sequins, at the distinguished Music Academy of

Madras. In memorable and humble words she said, “New vogues are

sweeping everywhere. I will start teaching for you the true and real

dance as far as I know it.” And now outside the Academy, an un-

precedented sign and one deeply significant in the dance history of

India announces:

BALASARASWATHI'S

SCHOOL OF BHARATA NATYA

This marks the first time a great practising woman artist of India's

most correct and aged traditions has placed her services as a teacher

before the general public.

Drama Today

The history of drama anywhere in the world shows, broadly speaking,

a thematic progression from gods to kings to ordinary men The

material in the beginning usually starts with the exploits and deeds

of heavenly beings as its sole concern As theatre develops and grows

more independent of its sacerdotal origins, it treats of events in high

places and important happenings in the ruling circles of the coun-

try. Finally, to complete the devolution, the common man begins to

represent himself on the stage The masses then derive theatrical en-

joyment from seeing themselves and people like themselves depicted

in situations which, while they probably never will occur, still might

happen to them in real life In the various countries, this progression

usually evinces the changing tastes of the public and the efforts of

its theatre people to keep abreast of the times Normally, as one

type of subject-matter supersedes another, the past is forgotten and

its plays abandoned Japan probably is the only country in the world

where all these levels of subject-matter are still performed popularly

and on an entirely profit-making basis. In the West, however, the

last of the three stages of theatrical development, modern theatre,

has taken primacy over the rest, and Greek dramas, Miracles and

Moralities of Europe, and even classical and historical plays of Eng-

land assume something of a museum atmosphere or are performed al-

most as oddities or a cultural obligation rather than as expressions of

general appeal.

The shift in India away from their theatre of the gods was a long

and slow process. There are of course examples of kingly events

and even of social satire in the Sanskrit dramas, but the bulk of the

dramas and their motivations always dealt with godly events. As soon

as drama took a step away from religion, it immediately returned, as

we have seen. And while ordinary mortals may have been depicted

amid gods, or later, kings, they were always in the guise of comedians,

or presented in interludes and sub-plots coincidental to the more im-

portant enactments of their splendid superiors who enlighten and edify

mortals. Of course, in India where the gods are made in the images

of many men (instead of man being made in God’s image—the more

familiar theological point to us in the West), you feel less limitation

in subject-matter. The gods have all the human failings and weak-

60

nesses as well as their virtues But undoubtedly the thick coating of

religious sentiment over drama deferred the ultimate growth of a

modern theatre by centuries.

The new Indian theatre began around a hundred and fifty years

ago, and it is now axiomatic to recognize that it stems directly from

the West, and this was true as well of the rest of Asia. Modern

theatre as a talking, non-religious, danceless, realistic, action-packed,

abbreviated entertainment was for the most part the special preserve

of Europe, and it initially received its highest development there.

This is certainly one of the best legacies the West left its colonies in

the East Of course, it can be argued that Easterners would have dis-

covered modern theatre by themselves without the tribulations of

being colonized There were innumerable evidences of a non-classical

theatre even within the classics, and several theatre forms were “mod-

ern” at the time they first appeared. And certainly the adaptations of

Western theatre were made according to Asian rules and predicated

on Asian aesthetic values For instance, rarely was the three-act

formula of the well-made play used. Themes and techniques of sing-

ing and dancing so generously interspersed were of course typical of

the individual countries. Perhaps the most striking contrast with the

progenitor of the new theatre was that until very recently it re-

mained the province of men. Men played all roles, including those

of women, as they had done since the conception of drama. And to

this day, despite a number of subsequent innovations, drama as the

domain exclusively of men characterizes one facet of Asian theatre.

By the time modern theatre was introduced to India by the British,

the hold of Sanskrit over all literature was broken The local vernac-

ulars had taken a long time to build a literature of poetry and re-

ligious documents which, despite their Sanskrtized vocabulary, were

nevertheless independent and even beautiful in their own right The

growth of modern drama was of necessity a provincial concern. There

are around sixty languages, not counting obscure dialects, current in

India today, and the most important of these all produced their own

dramas without regard for what was being done in the other areas.

Today the most important of these linguistic or, as some people call

them, regional theatres are in Mahrashtra, Bengal, Madras, Gujerat,

and Andhra In addition, there is the theatre of the Parsis in the

Bombay area, who speak Gujerati, also in Bombay a professional,

61

English language group operates, and there is another separate thea-

tre in Hindi or Hindustani, the most widely understood language

of India as a whole. There are still others Every province of India

has some form of theatre, but these eight deserve special recognition

and have from the beginning produced the most worthwhile dramas

in modern India. While the word regional theatre to the Westerner

may sound inconsequential and lacking the broad national impulse

so necessary to theatre if it is to survive, it is well to remember that

the least of these languages, Gujarati, is spoken by sixteen and a half

millions, and the largest, Hindi, is spoken by one hundred and fifty

millions. The new theatre used these languages of the people ex-

clusively and was immediately understandable to large areas of the

population.

Ironically, the modern theatre and its languages lent itself most

happily to politics, propaganda and anti-colonial ideas. With the ar-

rival of the British, a cohesive nationalism began to form in India,

and the Indian's subsequent history—the struggle against the British,

the iniquity of collaborating with the conquerors, the heroics of

those who resisted—took on an immediate, almost compulsive in-

terest for audiences. The modern theatre form and the contemporary

subject-matter for it were both provided by the one accident—the

advent of foreign rulers—and the potent weapon of theatre was used

sometimes subtly, sometimes openly, against the people who had

introduced it.

One rather oblique example which illustrates this point is found in

the famous Mahrashtrian historical drama, Bhau Bandki. The

Mahrashtrians, who number twenty-seven millions and who live along

the Western coast of India centering in Bombay province, were

among the most hostile of the Indian peoples to their conquerors

and the most nationalist-minded, and their attitude is reflected in

the play. The central character, Anandibai, is a venomous Lady Mac-

beth-like character whose connivances in actual fact contributed sub-

stantially to the successful operations of the British against the

Mahrashtrians in the early days of colonial rule.

The story deals with palace intrigue at the court of the Peshwa,

the title for Mahrashtrian rulers. The cruel, powerful and ambitious

Anandibai is married to Raghoba, Regent to the youthful Peshwa.

Since she has received assurances of support from the British if her

62

I N D I A / Drama Today

husband seizes the throne, she arranges the murder of the rightful

ruler. Raghoba is proclaimed Peshwa, but Ramshastri, a venerable

judge attached to the court, is suspicious, and suggests that Raghoba

undergo a religious ceremony of penance Anandibai fiercely opposes

this as she fears that the action might lead the public to suspect the

murder. Ramshastri withdraws from the court and protests the suc-

cession to the throne. The people grow restive, and Raghoba, to

distract them and in the hope of achieving some valorous deed to

justify his position as head of the nation, leads an expedition against

the Muslim ruler of the neighboring Hyderabad State. The campaign

fails. Raghoba, overcome with remorse and failure, places himself at

the mercy of the elders of the Peshwa Court. The infant son of the

murdered Peshwa is proclaimed the rightful heir, and Anandibai in

a final impassioned and bitter speech addressed to the unborn child

within her womb vows vengeance against the Peshwas in perpetuity.

Bhau Bandki was written less than a hundred years ago in the

rich and florid rhythms of the Mahrashtrian language, and has re-

mained a standard item in the repertoire of all Mahrashtrian troupes,

even during the years when it was intermittently censored by the

British. It has gained special popularity in recent times, despite its

having outlived its once pertinent message, largely because of the

brilliant histrionics of Durga Khote, one of India's senior actresses

Less than twenty years ago, Durga Khote was the first woman to

appear in women's roles on the Mahrashtrian stage More signifi-

cant even was her personal social standing and respectability She

belongs to the Brahmin—the highest—caste and aside from her enor-

mous talent, her presence in such a milieu was revolutionary It

paved the way later for women of all classes to join the theatre with-

out fear of ostracism. Although Durga Khote, now in her fifties,

devotes most of her time to appearing in movies, the annual two-

week-long Mahrashtrian theatre festival would not be complete with-

out a performance by her, and according to her fans, preferably in

Bhau Bandki. In 1955 the play won the first prize in the government-

sponsored, week-long Drama Festival held in Delhi to which troupes

from all parts of India were invited.

Another signal distinction was accorded the Mahrashtrian stage

when Bal Gandharva, a seventy-year-old actor and leading light of

the Mahrashtrian stage, received the Presidential Award in 1955 as

63

one of the “artists of the year.” He was cited especially for his

“emotional and expressive acting in feminine roles” This was the

first time an actor has ever been honored officially in India Although

Bal Gandharva rarely appears now, he is still spoken of with almost

legendary awe for the sweetness of his voice in the songs he always

sang in each play, and for the fashions he set with the saris of

unusual pattern which he wore on stage.

Bengal boasts the oldest modern theatre in all India. More than

any other area, it is indebted to the British for its present excellent

theatrical attainment On the Northeast coast of India, Bengal was

the headquarters of the original East India Company, and from this

foothold it turned into the first colony of the English. A large con-

centration of foreigners has always been stationed in Calcutta, the

capital, and they exposed the people to foreign ways and habits

more thoroughly than anywhere else in India. Amateur theatricals

by the British thrive from the earliest days, and little acting troupes

came all the way out from Europe to entertain the homesick colony

of Englishmen there In 1776 the British opened a permanent play-

house of their own and its first performances were The Disguise and

Love is the Doctor It is not hard to imagine what these plays must

have been like, but the Bengalis were quick to recognize the possi-

bilities of a new kind of entertainment. They immediately adapted

it to their needs, and finally the first theatre for Bengalis in the

Bengali language was opened in 1795, oddly enough by a Russian.

Theatre houses continued to appear—one of them, the Star Thea-

tre, is still standing and dates back to 1880 The Bengalis translated

plays, borrowed plots, and invented a repertoire of their own. Over

the years the corps of regular actors grew, and by the beginning of

the twentieth century, a first-rate artist, Girish Chandra, a combina-

tion actor, stage manager, playwright, and jack-of-all theatre trades,

emerged. His name is revered, and his photograph garlanded in

theatres and homes, along with those of Tagore, Sri Aurobindo,

Ramakrishna, and Swami Vivekanada, the mystics, all Bengalis. Cal-

cutta University, one of the few places where drama is recognized

academically, officially designates its professor of theatre as the

“Girish Chandra lecturer.”

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I N D I A / Drama Today

Early in this century, another actor, Bhaduri, began to bring distinction to the Bengali stage, and he is now the doyen of Bengal's

many actors. He still performs despite his age in a small theatre every

Sunday afternoon in Calcutta. Bhaduri is known abroad and thirty

years ago he toured Europe and America with a program of episodes

from the Ramayana. Unfortunately his troupe met with little success

The reason for the failure probably was that theatre in a Western

sense was so recent in the minds of Indians that the right proportion-

ate blend between the West and East had not been found While

Indians found Bhaduri exotically Western, the West found him dis-

appointingly un-Oriental and a pale imitation.

At the present time, Ahim Choudry is the most popular figure

among Bengal's senior actors. He usually appears at the old and

distinguished Adelphi Theatre and attracts a large and devoted fol-

lowing The splendid bravura of his acting projects to the distant

spectator sitting in the gallery and elicits alternate tears and smiles

with masterful ease. His chief vehicle, and a perennial favorite with

Bengalis, is Misar Kumar or Daughter of Egypt Written in 1918, the

play was a thinly veiled protest against British discrimination against

Indians on the basis of color. Choudry plays the part of an Uncle

Tom sort of character, with thick, black makeup and wearing a

gray, salt-and-pepper wig. He has fled the Egyptian capital with his

adopted daughter because of the savage persecutions of the Negroes

or Kaffirs by the King, Ramases. Known only to the foster-father is

the secret that the girl is in reality the daughter of the King by his

now abandoned Negro mistress. The two are finally tracked down

and wounded in an attack on them by the King and his troops The

climax of the play is a long speech on the injustices of color preju-

dice, and little by little it becomes apparent that the true identity

of the girl is going to be revealed to the King. (At this point the

enraptured audiences usually call out "slowly, slowly" to prolong the

suspense before the disclosure ) When the King finally realizes with

horror that he has harmed a daughter of his own flesh and blood, he

relents in his persecution.

Calcutta is the only city of India which has and still consistently

maintains professional troupes of actors and theatres for them to ap-

pear in. And for this reason the Bengalis have a right to claim the

most advanced theatre of India. It is possible almost any weekend

65

to buy a ticket, walk into a theatre, and see a play. One success,

Shyamalee, has already had at the time of writing more than 300 of

these weekend performances and its star, Suchitra Chatterjee, may

easily develop into one of Bengal's best actresses. Her role is silent

and curiously moving. She plays the part of a slightly half-witted girl

who cannot speak. Her father marries her off to a man who discovers

her affliction only after the Vedic marriage rites are performed. She

wins his love, however, and finally, through her husband's gentleness,

she learns to speak.

The growth of the modern theatre, even in Bengal, has by no

means effaced the religious content so essential and traditional to the

Indian temperament and mentality. More than half the plays which

reach the stages of Calcutta today are intrinsically concerned with

religion, and a play will be advertised as "a damn devotional" much

as we would publicize a comedy as "delightful" One example of

this is the sensational success, The Life of Saint Ram Prasad. It has

been played around 400 times (1955) and its appeal is not yet ex-

hausted. It is of course full of spectacular miracles, and abounds in

moral maxims quoted from Ram Prasad who actually was a saint in

real life. "The Service of the people is to God alone," "Only through

piety can nations be awakened" are samples of the general tone of

the play Other types of plays you can see in Calcutta are called

"social" if they deal with ordinary life in modern dress (like

Shyamalec) or "historical" if they are in costume and concern Kings

and Queens (Daughter of Egypt, for example). As a general rule

the three classifications of "devotional," "social," and "historical" are

used throughout Asia Terms such as comedy, tragedy, musical, opera

and the like, except in translations of plays from the West, are rarely

used because of their imprecision in describing Asian theatre which

mixes emotions and techniques usually kept separate in Europe and

America.

Madras, which is both a city and a province, is a very special part

of India. The city is the pleasantest in India for the intellectual.

Matching the charm of its long curving beach, its clean streets, and

its excellent restaurants, where you can get delicious dossas and idlis

(stuffed pancakes and puff balls of cooked rice flour) are its extraor-

66

I N D I A / Drama Today

dinarily intelligent and approachable people, the Tamils. The Uni-

versity of Madras, which has the highest academic standard in the

country, scatters its scholars over the city and this studious atmos-

phere somehow pervades the air. The ubiquitous Brahmins, the tradi-

tional repositories of scholarship and knowledge, with their repeti-

tious caste-names of Iyer and Ayengar, their shaven pates and long

hair tied in a knot at the back of the head, are sprinkled throughout

the city. In a suburb, Adyar, is the Theosophical Center, which is

in India regarded simply as another center of learning. There they

teach admirably and ably Sanskrit, dance, and the almost forgotten

ancient handicrafts now desperately in need of protection and re-

suscitation. The stimulus Madras offers reaches every level of the

city's inhabitants. A room boy at a hotel can likely as not sing

for you a prayer-song in an obscure raga (melody or mode) and tap

out for you on the tabla a complicated tala or rhythmic pattern.

Madras audiences are acknowledged to be the most critical and dis-

cerning in India. It is said that even celebrated dancers are so terri-

fied during their débuts that they sometimes stumble or fall.

Theatre is largely controlled by the enterprising T.K.S. brothers,

who are probably the wealthiest, most successful theatrical producers

in India. They stage plays with periodic frequency ranging in sub-

jects from problems of marriage and domestic life to musical ex-

travaganzas. Madras abounds with playwrights as well· some of them

borrow wholesale from the West and write like Shaw or Ibsen; others

restate and extoll those values in their traditional life which were

temporarily placed in abeyance by the period of colonial rule; a few

merely write about their milieu as theatrical people in a realistic way

—a character will seduce a dancer who is seeking employment, or a

wife will resent her artist-husband for spending so much time in the

theatre instead of with the family at home But, as with Bengal,

despite this ferment of varied activity, the invariable box-office suc-

cess is the play on religion Here, too, it is manifest that even with

the trappings of modern stagecraft, and after the field of contem-

porary drama has been fully opened, the tastes of the people remain

rooted in the past, in that original, ancient connection between wor-

ship and theatre.

Recently, the Walltax Theatre, a large, semi-open-air theatre house

near the central railway station, produced another in a long line of

67

successful plays, Kumara Vijayam (The Son of Siva) In order to

accommodate the crowds who pay anywhere from twelve annas

(about fifteen cents) to four rupees (eighty cents) for their tickets,

it was held over, revived and repeated over a period of months, and

it now belongs in the permanent repertoire The play, like most

dramas in India today, is episodic rather than sequential, depicting

somewhat desultorily the life of the god Kumara Vijayam who was

born on this earth of stars which fell unto a lotus flower, who set

himself higher than all terrestial kings, who fought and conquered

the spirit of evil in the world, and before whom even Brahma, the

beginning of the World, had to bow in heaven. The details of the

story and its characters are familiar to the Indian brought up close

to temples and amid the annual pageantry associated with festivals

and religious celebrations.

At the beginning, six gleaming stars slowly descend at the back of

the stage and suddenly burst into six celestial maidens. The hero,

Kumara Vijayam, appears as an infant with six faces and twelve

arms The women vie for the child and struggle over him. Six pink

giant lotuses open their petals and as they spin around magically

six little kewpie dolls emerge In rapid succession an enormous

cast appears. They wear huge headdresses of silver and gold en-

crusted with glowing jewels the size of hen eggs and stand under

unfurled umbrellas of brocades and tassels. Some of the gods have

blue faces, others elephant heads Brahma has three identical faces

and an extra pair of arms stemming from his shoulders. Leopard-

skinned holy men smeared with white ash and with matted long hair

appear uttering prophetic words of doom Enormous thrones caked

with gold leaf are shunted on and off the stage at appropriate mo-

ments. At intervals temple incense is fanned from the stage to float

out over the audience. During battles the hero fights a demon who

assumes a series of forms each more terrifying than the last The stage

is blacked out between each new manifestation of the demon and at

intervals he is shown laughing which keeps the connection and tells

the audience clearly that all these nightmarish figures are all one and

the same person. Spears float through the air mysteriously suspended

in space, pause, and explode in a burst of gunfire. Of course, in the

end, our hero wins and peace reigns among the gods as on earth.

Kumara Vijayam gives the newly arrived visitor a staggering concen-

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I N D I A / Drama Today

tration of spectacle and glitter—as well as an insight into how, in

part, the Indian mind sees its gods.

At the center of all the Walltax Theatre activity is the leading actor

of South India, a Tamil from Madras named Rajamanickam, but

known affectionately among the fifty million Tamils of South India

as Nawab (the Anglicized form of this title is “nabob”) derived from

one of his most popular roles Rajamanickam started his troupe, the

first modern theatre of the Madras area, twenty-three years ago

He took a midnight vow before a wayside Kali Shrine in Tanjore

that he would kill himself if he did not become a great actor. For-

tunately for Madras theatre his prayer was answered, and his heroic,

almost blustering style of acting in the grand manner has won him

fantastic popularity He has built a theatre of his own, with a library,

and he even tours as far afield as Bombay and Calcutta to perform

before the large Tamil communities there. His troupe, the largest in

India, has a hundred and fifty members—all men. According to Raja-

manickam, men can play women’s roles as well as women can, and

besides the theatre offers too many temptations and dangers for the

weaker sex. His approach to theatre is deeply religious Actors must

pray before appearing and they must remove their sandals before

setting foot on the stage—and all his plays are “devotionals” ranging

in theme from an old favorite like Kumara Vijayam to the latest

success, a sympathetic life of Christ.

The Gujerati theatre, like the Mahrashtrian, centers—in part at

least—in Bombay While its tradition is shorter than either Bengal’s

or the Mahrashtrian, it still is remarkably active Gujerati theatre,

until less than half a century ago, consisted only of little folk dances

and half mimed story narrations of an elementary sort.

Gujerati theatre in a modern sense of the word began largely

through the efforts of K. M. Munshi, a Sanskrit scholar and a grand

old man of Indian politics who has served his country in a variety

of ways ranging from cabinet minister in the post-independent

government to his present post as governor of the important province

of Uttar Pradesh. Munshi began his sideline of writing plays with

a two-fold aim—to restore Gujerati history and culture distorted by

the weight of colonialism to the dignity it deserved, and to use the

69

theatre as an instrument of political and social reform. In doing

this, he also introduced the element of love in Indian drama in a way

that it had not been used before.

Many of his plays deal with the affections and the place of

women in the social structure of modern India. One, Brahmacharya-

shrama, lampons continence Another, The Afflicted Professor, tells

of the relationship between a professor and a pretty, young student,

and only strong moral character saves the situation Still another,

and perhaps Munshi’s best play, Kakani Shashi, is a plea for the

emancipation of women from the restrictions old-fashioned Gujerati

society placed on them. Many of his plays also used political themes

and under the British were banned from the stage Because of his

activity in other fields, Munshi was imprisoned, which gave him

time to write still more plays To summarize Munshi’s plays, it must

be said that they are always humorous, full of revolt against accepted

social conventions or political injustice, and invariably they accord

women a free and noble position. As this book is being written,

is writing what will probably be his last play, to be called Well Done

Myself, in which he himself appears and is teased and tormented

by all the characters he has created in his plays and novels and which

have become symbols of progressive thought in Gujerati house-

holds.

In 1952 an extremely important group, Nat Mandal, was formed

in Ahmedabad, a Gujerati stronghold and the second largest city in

Bombay Province. This group secured the services of Gujerat’s great-

est actor, Sundari (the “beautiful one”), who in his youth was fa-

mous for his roles as women. Now he is too old to act very much,

and in any event the taste for female impersonation has declined.

His knowledge of the theatre, particularly its folk forms, stands him

in good stead, and as a director he is of immense value to the modern

Gujerati stage. His most recent success was the controversial Meena

Gurjari which played over a hundred performances in Ahmedabad,

Baroda, and Bombay, and which for the first time combined the folk

elements of Gujerati dance and story-telling with modern theatre.

At the heart of the theatre movement in Ahmedabad is the wealthy

Sarabhai family, one of whose members, Bharati, has written a

number of plays in both English and Gujerati dealing largely with

the problem of the British-influenced Indian shedding the foreign

70

values he has acquired through colonialism and rediscovering his

own. The Sarabhaıs started a school of the theatre a few years back,

and they now have their own small and intımate theatre house where

almost any play written by almost anyone of their friends can be

tried out. Their participation in the Nat Mandal organization assures

it of a security and stability which will certainly carry it through this

initial experimental period of Gujerati theatre history.

One Indian critic describes the Gujerati theatre as a "story of ar-

rested growth, of a loss of dramatic points even before they were

made." Another refers to it as consisting of "jerry-built plays," "awk-

ward adaptations" and even sums it up as "a mass of ham." Adib

of the Times of India and the most brilliant theatre critic in India

has written of Gujerati theatre that it was "an oversize egg. No one

knows when it will be hatched . . . maybe the egg is addled." Un-

doubtedly, these criticisms are harsh, but looking at the problem from

another point of vantage, it seems to me that this unsparing concern

with the Gujerati stage is possibly a most healthy and hopeful sign.

Certainly an enormous amount of worry and artistic fretting in high

quarters is taking place and out of it will come the new theatre the

Gujeratis want. Any critical judgment at this juncture would be pre-

mature. The movement is still exploratory and groping. It is obviously

in the hands of experienced and bright intellectuals. Where ex-

actly it will lead during the next few years is problematical, but

meanwhile it is growing in popularity and has already begun to

reconcile the theatre needs of a large, entertainment-hungry popula-

tion.

Centering partly in Madras, northwest of it and including part of

Hyderabad, is found the state of Andhra, consisting of thirty-three

millions whose chief language is Telegu. Their province is one of

the poorest in India The theatre movement here was spearheaded

a decade ago by the Andhra Indian People's Theatre Association.

There can be little doubt that this was from the beginning a purely

Communist movement. Its goals were characteristic of propaganda-

inspired artistic efforts. They wanted to utilize folk forms already

familiar and aesthetically acceptable to the majority of people—par-

ticularly the outdoor dance-dramas (vidhi natakam) performed by

strolling players who travel from village to village. They attempted

to purge them of their religious import, and to imbue them with

"messages" such as anti-landlordism, glorification of the peasant,

political martyrdom, and the like The new and revolutionary ideas

were expected to take root in the minds of the people while ostensi-

bly they were being entertained by their accustomed amusements.

However, with the decline of the Communist impetus in India,

and particularly in Andhra where the Communists have met their

most disastrous defeats, this type of theatre has suffered The people

are now dependent once again on their old dance-dramas and have

returned to them just as they were before.

The Parsis are a small community of scarcely a hundred thousand

people centered chiefly in Bombay city. But their prominence in the

financial and industrial life of the country is out of all proportion to

their actual numbers So, too, is their immense contribution to the

growth of modern theatre in India Parsis originally were religious

refugees from Persia (hence the word parsi). They are by religion

Zoroastrians or, more colorfully put, fire-worshipers who over a thou-

sand years ago sought asylum in India from the Mohammedan

persecutions at home. They adopted Indian dress and manners and

even Gujarati, the language for commercial transactions in the area

at the time

From the outset they retained a sense of their Western origins,

however, and when the British came they were the first Indians to

become "Westernized" in a genuine sense Naturally they quickly re-

sponded to the new kind of theatre the British introduced Today

the visitor to Bombay is more likely to happen upon a performance

by the Parsis than by either the Gujaratis or the Mahrashtrians, the

largest of the groups composing that cosmopolitan city. Parsi theatre

is divided into two kinds plays in Gujarati, and European or Ameri-

can plays performed in English. (Included as part of their Western-

ization was an almost bilingual command of the English language )

Of the two, those in Gujarati are the more popular and the less im-

pressive These are invariably comedy of different sorts one, for in-

stance, deals with honeymoon couples getting into the wrong rooms

in a hotel, often marital difficulties are presented in which the wife

subdues the husband (always a laughable situation in Asia as it is in

the West); and frequently the humor borders on slapstick and vaude-

ville.

Chief among the groups who perform in English in Bombay is

Theatre Unit While it is inaccurate to imply that they are part of

the Parsi theatre movement, a number of their actors are Parsis, as are

a large portion of their audience and ardent supporters, and certainly

their Western connections in a theatrical sense link them more with

the Parsis than with any other single community

Without question, Theatre Unit is the most competent troupe of

actors in India, and their productions on occasions rank in quality and

polish with the modern theatres of Japan, Europe or America At the

head of Theatre Unit is the gifted young Alkazi, trained at the Royal

Academy of Dramatic Art in London and Dartington Hall, and

now India's most brilliant actor and director in a rounded, interna-

tional sense Theatre Unit has to its credit over the years, almost

a decade by 1955, a number of distinguished performances. Their

range is wide and they have presented plays as disparate as Sophocles'

Oedipus Rex, Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, and The Heiress.

Recently, they have started performing plays in Hindi written by

their actor-students Oedipus Rex was rewarded with an Honorable

Mention in the National Drama Festival at Delhi (plays in English

were not permitted to compete in the main contest).

Some of these productions have been simple Theatre-in-the-

Round, and the happy combination of genuine acting talent, a sense

of stagecraft, the negligible cost of performing on the second floor

in an ordinary office building after hours with the help of volun-

teers who freely donate their time and energies, have enabled Theatre

Unit to build up a financially sound organization despite the re-

stricted appeal of foreign plays in English

They have recently been able to open a school of theatre, rather

like Actor's Studio, in which Europeans and Indians both teach and

study From time to time they organize balls and parties to in-

crease their funds, and a trust has been established which guarantees

temporarily at least a measure of regular performances The steady

stream of the best dramas of Europe that they introduce has been

a wholesome influence on India's drama as a whole. They import the

most suitable plays, stage devices, and techniques. Several members

of the staff make relatively frequent visits to Europe or America, and

the fresh currents of acting styles that they experience there are

healthy stimuli for them. But Theatre Unit is essentially an Indian

theatre performed by Indians before Indians. This shows most

clearly in the rich acting texture of their performances and their

feeling for the near-melodramatic or almost overplayed gesture and

extended climax. While this may not be exactly in vogue in the

West at present, it has however dynamics which make theatre more

theatrical and its effects more affecting The warmth of Theatre

Unit’s style would easily be as welcome in the West as our theatre is

to them.

Of all the purely indigenous theatre movements in India today,

the most expert and the most consistently professional in the fullest

sense of the word is Prithvī Theatre named after the star actor

Prithvīrāj; it plays in Hindī or Hindustānī. Unfortunately, this group

performs only rarely, perhaps three or four times a year, but it is in-

variably an event of the first order and a success always artistically

and sometimes financially Prithvīrāj began his career as a movie

actor, and as such was one of the pioneers in elevating the general

level of the Indian motion picture As a young man, he was a pop-

ular matinee idol, and in his sixties he still commands an intensely

admiring following He appears usually as a father, as a sober and

wise judge, or as a kindly and gentle elder, with a special feeling

for tragedy.

The secondary star of Prithvī Theatre is Prithvīrāj’s own son, Raj

Kapoor. He in turn is the idol of millions of movie-struck, cinema-

going Indians, both for his good looks and his playing of love scenes.

While he shares his father’s acting gifts, his special field is comedy

Raj Kapoor’s sparkling sense of the ridiculous makes him one of the

most endearing, lighthearted actors performing anywhere today. For

their infrequent stage performances, which they first began in 1945,

father and son combine talents, and sometimes one acts while the

other directs

Because of the linguistic advantage of being in Hindī, the national

language of India, and now a compulsory subject in all schools re-

gardless of the particular vernacular of the province, they touch the

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I N D I A / Drama Today

masses of India in a way that few plays either in India's past or pres-

ent ever have. Their plays, always specially written for them, are

literate and comprehensible, and they handle problems of nation-

wide concern Prithviraj's greatest success, Pathan, which has been

revived several times since its first appearance a decade ago, is a case

in point. It tells the story of the lifelong devotion between a Mus-

lim and a Hindu in a small village in the far North. Their friendship

is interrupted by the partitioning of India at the time of Independ-

ence when the predominantly Mohammedan North was established

as the theocratic state, Pakistan In the final climax, the Muslim sac-

rifices his own son to appease the bloodthirsty rioters and to protect

his friend Somehow through those two characters--simple, old men

who know only the ancient codes of their ancestors--Prithviraj man-

ages to epitomize the whole tragedy that was shaking India at the

time When the play first appeared tension between Hindus and

Muslims had broken out into violence, and the colossal transfer of

population--Hindus to India, Muslims to Pakistan, eight million in

all--was marred by rioting and atrocities Pathan served as a quieting

note of sanity in that time of disturbance when confusion and rumor

dominated, when fears and uprootings, reprisals and suspicions were

the torment of the day. The social need for Pathan has now disap-

peared, the problems between India and Pakistan have lessened into

a sort of postwar weariness, but its quality as a play persists.

Prithviraj has gone on to other plays, each tackling some pressing

concern of the people at the moment. The latest at the time of writ-

ing was called Money, and Prithviraj's dual role of poor man--rich

man was one of the strongest diatribes against greed and corruption

to appear in modern theatre. Each theme of Prithvi Theatres is

deeply Indian, handled in a characteristically Indian way Perhaps

the genius of the group lies in its subtle balance between national

theatre and international art. And this has not appeared in In-

dia since the Sanskrit dramas.

The effectiveness of Prithviraj's theatre is due not a little to its

staging, the main characteristic of which is its successful adaptation

of movie techniques. Modern Indian theatre has virtually grown up

simultaneously with the movie industry, and Prithviraj of course de-

veloped primarily as a movie actor. His competence as a legitimate

actor, like that of his son and Durga Khote among others, is almost

a chance circumstance. Prithviraj inescapably must treat the stage almost like a film. There are numerous set changes, dance sequences,

incidental music, changes of atmosphere, and the restrictions of the three-act one-set play are submerged as far as is commensurate with

the limitations the stage imposes. The extravaganzas of color and movement, and particularly the mood projections through processes

and literal, graphic, onstage depiction of events (there is little "I hear fighting in the streets" while the heroine looks out a win-

dow and informs the audience of what is happening) gives the movie-nurtured audience everything they want from the camera, plus

the gratuity of seeing their favorite actors in person.

Prithviraj faces this relationship between theatre and the movies realistically If the unrestricted freedom and variety of motion pic-

tures are a threat to the legitimate stage, then the best of that technique must be transferred to the stage As for the cheapness of the

movie over the heavy expenses incurred by a regular stage performance, Prithviraj makes every feasible economy he can. He gives his

performances only in the mornings (when theatre rentals are lowest), in the largest theatres possible, such as the Opera House in

Bombay, so that a greater number of cheap seats can be sold Since his productions are intrinsically a family affair between father and

son who can if necessary contribute their labor without remuneration, the price of admission is kept at a bare minimum.

One other problem which challenges India's modern theatre is how to establish a taste for live acting before the lights and shadows

of the movies have vitiated its appeal Prithviraj has gone far towards solving the question, simply by continuing to present plays,

one a year is his average At one time the Prithvi Theatres, despite their success, were in such dire straits that during intermission

Prithviraj and his son dressed in plain clothes and carrying a beggar's bowl canvassed the lobby and aisles for contributions. If in a

few years Bombay, as it very likely will, becomes something of a Broadway where people from the provinces come into the town just

to see the theatre, the credit will be to a great extent Prithviraj's. The threat the movies pose will then be over and the stage freed

once and for all.

One of the more active groups in India, but one which stands apart from regional theatre in something of the same way as Prithvi The-

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I N D I A / Drama Today

atre or Alkazi’s Theatre Unit is the Indian National Theatre. Originally encouraged by the distinguished Socialist leader Kamaladevi

Chattopadhyaya, a group of young and enthusiastic amateurs assembled their talents several years ago to present shows all over India

in theatres, in mill areas, and among the farmers, on any subject and of any type that struck their fancy They appeared first in the cities,

and with the profits, whenever there were any, hired a truck which also served as a stage to transport their performances into the provinces, where the people at large could see them.

Because of language difficulties, lack of playwrights, and the dearth of trained actors, they started by performing dramatic ballets, not as

classical or erudite as the traditional dances of the Four Schools, and yet not as alien and removed as the drama-style imported from the

West. In a way, their performances were pantomimes in which a story is graphically enacted with a minimum of words. The themes

they chose were usually on a national level and their message, without being either Communist or pro-government propaganda, dealt

with the questions of the day in a cooperative and helpful way.

One of their chief successes did however assist the Government in its “Grow More Food” campaign. The ballet described the work on

the soil, the wickedness of the rice profiteers in the cities, the tragedy of famine and the helpless agony of the people affected by it, and

finally the renewed efforts to “grow more food.” Another successful ballet of theirs was Discovery of India, it showed in panorama the

march of India and its people through their early history down to Gandhi and Independence. Other performances by the Indian National Theatre have been dance-drama playlets on popular themes of

the past—the gifted singer Mirabai who enchants even the Moghul court with her Hindu devotional songs and who finally becomes a

saint, or the Ras Lila re-enactment of happenings in the heavens and the celestial dances of the Gods.

Indian National Theatre now has branches in every major city all over the country They draw upon all the talent they can find,

tour when they can, and always present themes which are of real interest to the people In encouraging national unity, as well as furthering theatre in India by excellent, well-thought-out programs, they

have been eminently successful.

77

There are in India also a few isolated pockets of theatre, developing independently of regular theatre movements and achieving in lonely splendor precisely what the groups elsewhere are striving after.

Manipur is perhaps the best example of this. There, the intensely sensitive and drama-conscious people have evolved a practicing, active theatre all their own. It derived at first from British and American movies, which were occasionally shown in the capital, Imphal, and the rumors of Calcutta's thriving theatre travelers brought with them.

But because of the special theatrical genius of the Manipur's population numbers only about half a million, but the country manages to support and maintain more than seven modern theatre troupes, not including the thirty or so old-fashioned troupes of the strolling mummery type called lilas, and the several opera troupes described earlier in the section on Indian dance.

It would not be surprising if this were the highest proportion of live-talent theatre per capita in the world.

Of acting troupes, all of whom reside permanently in Imphal, Rupmahal Theatre, Inc, is the best and most prosperous.

A large, square, brick building, bigger even than the maharaja's palace, and constructed at the considerable cost for Manipur of a lakh and a half of rupees (about $35,000) stands in the center of town where the State Highway and the Market Road cross and proclaims the importance of theatre.

This building translates the meaning of the troupe's name, Rupmahal, literally "beautiful palace," into actuality according to the Manipur's.

But for the outsider it is rather less grand. It seats about 350 people on rusty iron chairs The first five rows, the most expensive seats, are covered with drab Army blankets.

In addition to having a number of permanent sets and a relatively complete wardrobe (the costumes are resplendent with the gold, silver and hand-spun or woven materials), the troupe sustains a regular staff of fifty people, each working full-time on a fixed, if modest, salary.

The wage scale when computed in dollars seems infinitesimal, but the Manipur, born in a paradise where a pair of sandals from Calcutta is considered an extravagance, finds it ample.

Leading stars, for instance, like the first class actresses Tondon and Tambal, or the jeune premier Nabakumar, receive the equivalent of around fifty dollars a month.

Electricians (there is one power plant in the whole

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I N D I A / Drama Today

country and Rupmahal Theatre is its only customer as far as I could ascertain) and lower grade stage hands average around ten dollars a

month. Ushers, ticket-takers, tea carners, curtain-time bell ringers,

and the like get even less, but everyone manages to live comfortably, and most of the staff supports wives, children, mothers, or aged

fathers.

Rupmahal Theatre is guided almost exclusively by its director and

secretary, Nilmoni Singh. Nilmoni Singh has carefully selected for

his Rupmahal Theatre a collection of all-round actors and actresses.

In Manipur, imitative talent (Indians sometimes refer to them as

the "Japanese of India") is at no premium According to them, al-

most anyone can act in a sense. But in true Indian fashion the artists

must also sing and dance. Altogether Rupmahal is a curious con-

glomeration of gifted and charming people. Each too is something of

a story in himself. Given the perspective of time and distance, their

stories should one day make interesting and original plays.

The most glamorous of the Manipuri actresses, Tondon, is an in-

stance of this. Her charms once jeopardized the troupe and the future

of theatre in Manipur. Tondon's life in part sounds like an old-

fashioned fairy tale and in part it tells an important chapter in the

growth of theatre in this region of India. Modern theatre in Manipur

rose at a time of political unrest and general economic disloca-

tion. The war brought foreigners into the country, the Japanese

pushed as far as Imphal in their war in Asia, India gained independ-

ence from Britain, the country was divided, and the princely states

including Manipur merged into the Indian Union. News of all this

reached Manipur and fostered an awareness onto a people who had

formerly lived in virtual isolation. A sense of social conscience de-

veloped and found expression in the theatre. In Manipur, the stage

soon became a sounding board and spoke out with courage and

emphasis against the feudal Maharaja and the ineffectuality of his

government. The criticisms expressed in their various plays were some-

times direct, sometimes through historical parallels, but their barbs

were clear and began to reach the ears of the Maharaja himself. His

advisors persuaded him that perhaps a royal command performance

would flatter the troupe into silence. But Rupmahal Theatre, despite

its exalted patronage, continued as before—never flagrantly enough

for lèse-majesté, never pointedly enough for a libel suit, and never

revolutionary enough to be Communist and punishable for that rea-

son. The Maharaja, as the story goes, at his first experience with

modern theatre had been particularly interested in the beautiful star,

Tondon. And, as gossip has it, he determined to please himself and

finish Rupmahal by depriving the troupe of its chief attraction.

His method was to kidnap her. The State Police surrounded the

theatre and when Tondon left by the stage door, she was whisked

away into one of the court cars and sped down the road into the

Maharaja's private confines His avowed intention was to marry her,

making her his seventh wife. The Manipuris claimed to be outraged

by this combination of strategem and immorality. Their chief com-

plaint, however, was that they were deprived of their stage idol. Pow-

erless to revolt openly, they registered their point through mockery.

As the Maharaja moved through his official functions, giggles, leers,

and taunts greeted him, quietly but persistently. As he drove through

the streets, catcalls of "So Your Highness is marrying an actress!" and

other more abusive shouts were hurled by anonymous, unidentifi-

able bystanders. Finally, at the end of two months, to prevent the

matter from becoming a further issue, Tondon was returned She

resumed her career with an enormously increased following, and still

today she is good-humoredly called "The Two-Month Maharani."

Modern theatre in Manipur, as elsewhere in India and Asia, im-

plies the two types of plays, social and historical The plot situations

of both are similar Poor men marry rich and beautiful girls, rich

men are cruel to the poor, and the heroes abound in pride while

women exhibit undying devotion Most of Rupmahal's plays turned

out by its staff of six writers are like this Any play has a guarantee to

run three or four nights at a minimum A hit means a play that has

ten or more performances Revivals are included in this figure be-

cause the run of a play is not necessarily on consecutive nights One

of the most recent popular successes, and one which already has been

revived a sufficient number of times to rate as a perennial, is Lownam

(The Disbelieved) The story in outline is simple A poor but honor-

able boy called Nobo finally marries a poor and beautiful girl called

Mani Before this match is consummated, many obstacles arise She

is led away to marry the local tax collector, she is forbidden to see

Nobo ever again, she is held captive in a far-off house, and other

general tribulations beset her. Nobo out of loneliness and despair be-

gins to doubt her love. He takes up hashish smoking to ease his sorrow and to forget Mani finally finds him, but he is still uncertain of her. Later, during the marriage celebrations she accidentally stabs the tax collector. A trial scene uncovers the truth of the situation and her innocence. Mani is exonerated and Nobo, now certain of her love, joyfully marries her

Each playwright in Manipur has his own special approach. One is an ardent member of the Indian Congress and writes plays based on his own life to propound the history and theories of the party Another feels that since drama is a waste of human time, actors while acting should be employed in useful pursuits such as basket weaving, sewing, pounding rice, making sandals, etc. Gitchandra Singh, to cite still another, has the unique distinction in Manipur of having read Ibsen and Shaw, and sees the theatre in terms of problems and protest. He limits himself, however, to a single theme, the place of women in society, and to a single approach, the comic.

On the whole, historical plays are the most popular in Manipur. The all-time favorite of Manipur is the historical romance Khamba and Thoibi, based on an actual event that took place more than 500 years ago In it, two lovers, a poor fisherman and a beautiful princess, finally marry after even greater trials than those which beset Mani and Nobo. When it is performed on the stage, it takes four nights, as each section of the exciting and pathetic lives of the lovers requires a full evening.

The Manipuri Theatre, the Indian National Theatre, Prithvi Theatre, and especially Theatre Unit demonstrate perhaps more clearly than the other theatre groups of India a curious phenomenon which is very rapidly taking place in India. The amateur is turning into a professional. Nothing, say fifteen years ago, could have been more amateur than the enthusiastic founders of the new modern theatre movements. The personnel had no experience, they had no expert or experienced models to follow, and unlike America where for generations we have had a body of professional, regularly employed artists, craftsmen and businessmen to absorb the yearly crop of new talents entering the theatre, they had no cadre of trained people. Even the old-fashioned artists like Bal Gandharva of the Mahrashtrian stage and Sundari of Gujerat were surrounded by a milieu so ignorant as to impair their standing and reputation. Every-

thing anyone did was improvised, experimental, temporary and ex-

ploratory.

Somehow the new groups have weathered these turbulent begin-

nings and already the pioneers are teaching the new adherents.

From the days when K. M. Munshi had to train his classmates to act

in his own plays, it is a long step to Alkazi’s school, or the Bharatiya

Natya Sangh (Theatre Centre, India), an affiliate of UNESCO,

with a dozen branches all over the country and 200 member theatre

troupes, and its own academy of drama study in Bombay. The fer-

ment of dramatic activity while still amateur in many respects is ex-

traordinary When the Sangeet Nataka Akademi announced its

drama festival, 741 scripts were submitted and twenty-one were ac-

tually staged in Delhi with full sets, costumes and lighting and orig-

inal casts By now there are directors who know what they want and

how to create it, there are designers who can produce precisely what

they want without a surprise or disappointment when they see it

mounted on the actual stage, and there are actors now who have

made so many errors, have happened upon so many delightful acci-

dents, discovered so many elements of pleasurable theatre, that a

firm competence has spread over the group. Flair for the theatre has

been converted into a genuine knowledge. When one looks at a per-

formance today, it is hard to remember the early beginnings when

one felt embarrassed for the actors and made excuses for the produc-

tion. And this happy phenomenon of improvement and advance-

ment is spreading all over India.

The history of drama in India has been a troubled one From

great heights it sank low. The present is trying to repay its debt to

its own traditions With the tremendous revival of Sanskrit studies

all over India today and the return to ancient values which modern

India has begun to feel so keenly since Independence from the Brit-

ish, that great past period of Hindu drama is belatedly coming into

its own. Sakuntala in Sanskrit opened the Drama Festival and others

of the masterpieces have been adapted for the movies, and there is a

wide movement today to elevate Kalidasa to the posthumous status

of a national hero, with a monument erected in his honor, his birth-

day a national holiday. Already the newspapers not infrequently edi-

torialize on the pros and cons of this intellectual flurry over the

I N D I A / Drama Today

golden age of Indian drama and the establishment of a National Theatre in his name But this is not all.

The colonial era too had its importance, and the seeds of new drama it sowed have also taken root in India's fertile aesthetic soil.

The movies emerged in the West long after the necessity for live theatre was already known and recognized. But in India the two were like uneasy, distantly related, stepchildren growing up together under the same roof. Finally the turning point has been reached.

Theatre is established. The amateur is becoming professional. The next stage is already upon us: the professional is producing new professionals. Within the next ten years or so, barring a complete collapse of the foundations so far established or a reversal of every trend of the present, we shall know the final form Indian drama is to take this century.

It will, of course, be something along the lines of Western drama in stage effects, in intellectual content, in formal outline. But it will also be inevitably Indian in mood and effect, in gestures and thought processes, and it will continue the long link with the past with a magnificent sense of dance and music and color. And it will be good theatre Of this no one has a doubt.

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2

C E Y L O N

Dance

Ceylon, a small island around 25,000 square miles in area and with a population that numbers about the same as New York City's, hangs like a pendant just off the southernmost tip of India. Because of its jewel-like shape, Ceylon is affectionately referred to as the “Pearl of the Indian Ocean,” and this sobriquet does indeed suggest some of the qualities which make the island one of the most appealing tourist spots in the world today. It has a pleasant range of climate. The cool central mountains complement the warm luxuriant seashore The thousands of beaches along the coast are thick with palms and fruit trees, a typical tropical landscape.

Its history has not been quite so idyllic. Ceylon has the somewhat dubious distinction in her relations with the West of having been three times a colony—first under the Portuguese, then the Dutch, lastly the British.

The West was not alone in exerting pressure on Ceylon The massive civilization of India to the North was also a determining, but not destroying, factor. The Indianization of Ceylon, indelibly recorded in the Ramayana, began first when Rama with his armies pursued Ravana to Ceylon or Lanka as it is called by the Sinhalese. (The Sinhalese are the indigenous and original inhabitants of Ceylon who comprise a majority of the population A large number of Indians, Muslims and Burghers of Dutch descent are Ceylonese without being Sinhalese, the true native of Ceylon ) It was continued by the converting Buddhists who arrived in successive waves from a few centuries before Christ until a few centuries after In fact, the great Buddhist King of India, Asoka, sent his own son, Mahinda, to Ceylon as the first apostle of this new religion Still later, warlike Tamil kings from South India arrived, desecrating the Buddhist centers in a

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vain effort to establish Hindu rule and religion over the country.

Culturally, Ceylon is an extension of India, and its civilization is derivative in most essentials. The people look Indian, their costume is similar, their food and manners approximate, and their music (despite efforts of the xenophobes to reconstruct their now forgotten Sinhalese tunes) is deeply indebted to India Today, sections of the population are so heavily and purely Indian that it constitutes a genuine problem for the government who wishes to keep Ceylon for the Sinhalese. Most of the Indians in Ceylon today are Tamils from the Madras area. They were first imported by the British for indentured labor on the tea estates because the local Sinhalese were too easy-going They of course retain their customs and because of their numbers exert a not inconsiderable influence on local thought, manners and politics. But with all these pressures from the outside, Ceylon still has managed to remain unmistakably individual—in the special gentle charm of the people, and in their manifold arts of dance and drama It has, in fact, retained a surprising degree of cultural consistency and steadfastness.

Devil-dancing and its attendant exorcistic ritual, more than any other expression, show the hardiness of the original Ceylon Its concept and execution are indigenous and in their particular local forms are unknown in India or anywhere else for that matter. In this way as a still surviving, actively practised art, it represents one of the oldest and strongest traditions of Ceylon's earliest inhabitants.

Ceylon today, as it has been for two millennia now, is Buddhist. Its special Buddhism is of the hinayana or Lesser Vehicle sort which is more rigid and austere than the brighter manifestations of the mahayana or Greater Vehicle as practised in China and Japan. Buddhism in theory discourages devils, especially in the orthodoxy of the Lesser Vehicle. One of the principal tenets of the Lord Buddha was that man is superior to gods and demons since he, because of Buddhism, is in control of his destiny and can, by accruing merit from good deeds, determine his ascension up the spiritual ladder But by the time Buddhism reached Ceylon, there was already living there a people with their own convictions who believed in a regular hierarchy of personified forces of evil. This was their explanation for illness and the visitation of sorrows which beset the world. According to the original Sinhalese, these had to be placated and

dealt with in special ritualistic ways. They would not exchange their

devils for the cool reasoning of the superior religion, so the two have

lived together, side by side, in an easy, unimpinging symbiosis.

Almost every pure Sinhalese is a Buddhist and a devout one, but in

the back of his mind ineradicably exist his pre-Buddhist, atavistic

fears and superstitions Their clearest expression is devil-dancing, still

as popular now, apparently, as it has always been throughout history.

Devil-dancing is performed whenever a person is sick or insane, when

a woman is pregnant, whenever misfortune seems to have hounded a

family or household, or when good luck generally is needed. Women

seem more subject to the need of exorcism than men for some rea-

son, and the older they grow the more often they seem to want a

devil-dance. In some instances, one is told, some of these women

find themselves feeling ill simply so they may have a chance to dance

with some of the young and handsome professional devil-dancers.

The dancers themselves belong to a special class, one of the lower

castes, and earn their living exclusively by these performances. The

locale for a devil-dance is usually outside the house of the afflicted

person along the road or in the garden, if the person is rich enough

to have grounds, and under moonlight and coconut trees and against

a background of flaming torches for added illumination. The action

takes place before specially erected shrines and in front of a tempo-

rary dais on which the sick person lies.

The greatest of the devil-dancers in Ceylon today is Henegamaya,

an old man around seventy-five years of age. He lives in a village two

miles from Galle, along the southern tip of Ceylon, and there his

sons and grandsons assist in his performances. His youngest grand-

son of twelve is rapidly becoming a sought-after star with his sense of

showmanship, his vertiginous leaps and whirls which defy gravity

and the generally accepted sense of balance which limits the human

body. For a hundred rupees (around twenty-five dollars) the family

will perform the flashiest parts of devil-dancing, without the long

ceremonies and without an actual patient on hand. But even such a

tourist performance as this is sacred and must be done before the

proper shrine. The fullest impact of the devil-dance is felt in the

genuine setting and only there, with the ailing person before your

eyes and the villagers crowding around in wide-eyed wonderment,

does one savor its greatest excitement. All devil-dances properly pre-

CEYLON / Dance

sented must start in the evening and continue all night until dawn when the final purification is made and the patient supposedly cured This is something of a strain on the foreigner accustomed to seeing his theatre after an early dinner and then going home before mid-

night. But it is worth keeping awake for the experience of spending the night at a devil-dance. And since the Sinhalese are almost in-ordinately polite, you will be given the most comfortable chair in a place of honor, and you will certainly be offered a bed to sleep on if you want to nap.

An enormous amount of ritual accompanies a full-scale produc-tion, and a number of books in German and English on demonology and witchcraft in Ceylon have gone into elaborate detail recording and explaining the significance and the ethnological meanings be-hind these curious and, to us, weird practices Perhaps the most use-ful book for the student or visitor to Ceylon who wishes to go deeply into this subject as well as into the whole of Ceylon’s theatre arts is Dr E. R. Sarathchandra’s brilliant and authoritative The Sinhalese Folk Play, published two years ago by the University of Ceylon at Peredeniya.

Roughly described, a performance obeys the following outline. The details of each devil-dance vary from troupe to troupe, but the general idea and underlying principles are always similar. It begins with a prodigious number of preparations. Quantities of pale yellow, new palm-leaves must be collected and skillfully woven into varying patterns. The main shrine, off to one end of the dance area, has walls of braided and plaited stalks and stems. Around it stand chest-high ledges of smaller shrines woven and cut into designs of leaves and flowers. From the improvised ceiling of matted palm fronds hang slivers of soft plant leaves which tremble in the breeze and quiver wildly as the dancers plunge into the shrine and crash against its sides. Everywhere sprays of areca palm flowers, which look like etio-lated sheafs of unripened grain, dangle from the sides of the walls and ceiling. The number of small, miscellaneous properties essential to a program is considerable—baskets of palms with exact replicas of flowers woven into them (one of these must be held over the afflicted person’s head whenever she becomes possessed and rising from her sick bed insists on dancing), long switches of shredded strings of palm bunched together to hang like hair down the backs of the

87

dancers and over their shoulders, and a large number of items made

from the soft inner core of a banana stalk and carved to look like

hand mirrors, combs, necklaces, bracelets, spinning wheels and card-

ing implements There is also a long slender arrow which plays an

important part like a magic wand in controlling the demons and ex-

horting them to confess themselves despite their invisibility. Its tip

is twisted and tied in a filagree of curlicues. In a pile off to one corner

lies a stack of what looks like giant cigars These are torches of rolled

dried leaves to be lit and stuck between the lattices of the shrine As

they burn away, they are replaced from the stockpile From time to

time, the dancers seize them, perform a fire dance, and throw them

away. From within the house at intervals a tray of burning charcoal

is brought This relights torches extinguished by the wind generated

from the whirling dancers, or it ignites the pieces of sweet, fragrant

temple incense thrown on it, or, most frequently, during recesses

after each exhausting bit of dancing, dancers and audience use it to

light their cigarettes.

The palm-leaf shrines are dedicated to a devil or demon by name,

and the chief exorcist-dancer impersonates Vesamuni, the king of all

demons, and the only one who can control them if during the per-

formance they become obstreperous. The number of demons who

cause illness is legion, and they range from simply being wicked

forces inhabiting certain trees or stones or rivers to those who cause

particular ailments like bilious attacks, discharges of blood, blind-

ness, dumbness, lameness and colds (the last come from the demon

in the wind).

Then there is a whole category of mysterious phenomena which

pertain to the evil eye, the evil mouth, or evil thoughts The symp-

toms are swoons, insanity, fits of hysteria, or generally odd behavior,

and listed among the causes are “complaining after good luck” and

“expressions of envy.” Since a devil-dance refers to a specific person

suffering a clear and evident malady, not all the devils need be rep-

resented at one time. Four or five shrines usually suffice to cover

most emergencies. The idea is that through propitiation, the demon

is attracted to the area, made to enter the afflicted person’s body, and

then threatened, cajoled, teased, tortured or begged and bribed with

offerings until he promises to leave.

The dance is the main lure, and the dancers, all of whom are men,

88

are dressed suggestively like women to augment their appeal.

They cover their heads tightly with a red cloth from which switches of

palm leaves hang down like a woman's long hair.

Over their chests they wear an abbreviated cloth to indicate a breast covering,

and a long skirt covers their legs and hides the enormous anklebells which

fit at the calf of the leg and jangle raucously as the dancers move.

This strange note of femininity may indicate, according to some au-

thorities, that the dance was originally a fertility rite, or again it may

stem merely from the fact that the majority of patients are women

and as such the dance in this form is more applicable to their sex

and ailments.

After the demons reveal themselves, the dancers reappear

as men without their breast covers and artificial palm-leaf hair.

Throughout the performance bare-chested male drummers with their

long hair tied in a simple knot at the back of the old-fashioned

Sinhalese style sit or stand at one end of the arena near a chorus of

singers

The actual dancing comes sporadically in spurts and during passages

of other theatrical or ritualistic action which will be described in the

section on drama in Ceylon

The most impressive dancing comes when fire is introduced into the exorcism.

It begins with a long white strip of cloth being thrown over the roof of the shrine.

Then the leading dancer seizes a handful of gunpowder with his right hand

and tosses it over a tray of charcoal which he holds in his left hand.

It ignites in the air and streams over the cloth as the area is plunged

into a blinding flash of trailing flame followed by dense black smoke.

Then, holding burning torches in each hand, the dancers begin to

whirl in a series of brilliantly executed turns and spins until the

flames form a continuous circle around their blurred figures.

Pieces of the flaming torch sprinkle the spectators who press around the

dance arena, and a special attendant rushes everywhere after them,

stamping out the sparks and ashes that fly from the dancers' centrif-

ugal propulsion

Then they nervously prance around the arena, jerkily

marching in rhythm to the deafening roar of the drums and pausing

momentarily to make a quick, hiccuping gesture of the torso

They stop to wash their faces and necks in a sort of fire bath with the

flames from the torches.

They hold the torches in front of them and increase the tempo of their

pacing around and around the area until the breeze pushes the flames

against their bodies.

Then they

89

put the torches under their chest-cloths and they flicker balefully,

licking the flesh and shining transparently through the white cotton.

Miraculously neither skin nor the cloth burns.

The dance steps themselves are simple—arms outstretched, waving

softly to the music, the feet clanking out the rhythms proposed by

the lead drummer The pyrotechnics begin with the whirls and spins

as the dancer circles the area, sometimes keeping his face directed at

the shrine, sometimes leaping in the air as he turns and throws his

body in small circles so rapidly that the torso keeps parallel to the

ground as if by levitation. Occasionally the dancer stops stock-still,

plants his feet firmly on the ground to swing his torso dizzyingly

until his streamers of coconut hair swirl around him in a wide arc.

At about four o'clock in the morning, the devil-dancers put on

masks and represent the demons in all their most terrible aspects. Ac-

cording to the demons impersonated, the masks vary, some are

snake heads, others have a wooden corpse hanging from between

their fangs of carved wood, and still others have faces of solid black,

green or red Their costumes vary from uniforms of crisp, rasping

straw to skirts and collars of huge green leaves sewn together with

bark. They rush around the circle in a parade, singing out their iden-

tities The demon concerned explains his reason for having afflicted

the sick person. Finally, exorcism is completed and the demons

leave. The sleepy patient, now restored (although the main devil-

dancer usually succeeds only in striking a bargain—the demon prom-

ises to disappear for a specific period of time and may return), goes

to bed as the sun rises

Devil-dancing is not confined to the Sinhalese alone It is also

practiced among the few remaining aboriginals, the Veddahs, who

are primitive, unassimilated, almost prehistoric inhabitants of Cey-

lon. Their devil-dancing is elaborate as a ceremony, although less so

as a dance, with many offerings of shoe-flowers, margosa leaves,

plantains, young coconuts and burning slivers of camphor. The

dancers and spectators often become overpowered by the smoke and

incense and falling into a trance themselves dance until they col-

lapse quivering into the arms of their friends. The devil-dance of the

Veddahs is primarily directed towards driving epidemics of disease

into the sea. They believe that most of their sicknesses were brought

by the white man in his sailing ships many years ago. And to this day

C E Y L O N / Dance

their word for both smallpox and plague, for instance, is kapal-pay

or "ship demon."

While devil-dancing, because of its exoticism and lurid, mystical

overtones, attracts the tourist seeking a special thrill on a tropical

island paradise, the dances of Kandy, or Kandyan dances as they are

commonly referred to, are more important artistically. Even more

exacting and considerably more refined or polished than all the is-

land's other dances, they alone can be regarded as a complete art-

form of a recognizably international, aesthetic standing. Unlike

devil-dancing (as explained later in the section on Ceylon drama)

there is no ritual connected with them, nor are they ancillary to a

play or story. They are straight dances in a true sense of the word,

and because of this intellectual accessibility and their remarkable

qualities, they have well merited their recognition beyond the bor-

ders of Ceylon. Within the country, the government is making every

effort to encourage and protect Kandyan dance. Part of this is na-

tional pride in line with the measures to Sinhalize Ceylon, and part

is simply reaction against colonialism so widespread in Asia today.

Kandyan dance is now a compulsory subject in all the larger schools,

and where dance teachers formerly were lucky if they could assemble

a single class, some of them now can count their pupils in the thou-

sands.

The government's active and energetic Tourist Bureau is so eager

for outsiders to experience the joys of Kandyan dance that they ar-

range for special troupes to board the ships that stop briefly at

Colombo en route to other parts of Asia, Australia or Europe. There,

on the deck, sandwiched in between snake charmers and special

licensed merchants selling sapphires, opals, zircons and tourmalines,

the dancers and drummers exhibit a sample of their art for passengers

who cannot disembark and see the dances in their proper setting.

But Kandyan dancing rightfully belongs in Kandy, the cool, pleasant

hill-station a couple of hours out of Colombo, and where the tooth

of the Lord Buddha, the most sacred relic in the Buddhist world,

lies enshrined in the celebrated Temple of the Tooth.

Kandyan dance in contrast with devil-dancing is not indigenous,

although in its present form it is now a Sinhalese accomplishment.

91

Originally, nearly 2000 years ago it came from South India and was

introduced by Indian scholars and missionaries and later encouraged

by the conquerors who followed in their wake Basically, the dance

was what we know today in India as Kathakali. As such it was nat-

urally a part of Hindu religious life. Many of the songs which the

Kandyan dancers still sing even now (the drummers are the dance's

only accompaniment and all singing is the responsibility of the

dancer as it once was in India) describe Rama and his joy on reind-

ing Sita in Ceylon, or the miraculous powers of Ganesa, the dancing,

elephant-headed son of Siva, and many other aspects of Hindu my-

thology. But Ceylon differed from its parent country in that it was

Buddhist and scarcely inclined to propagate a new, foreign faith so

soon after its conversion to Buddhism. Over the years adjustments

and permutations occurred making Kathakali more suitable to

Sinhalese taste and to the mentality that geographical and religious

differences foster In this way the dance style became an extension,

and a most valuable one, of Indian dance.

Fortunately, at a time when the art might have perished or degen-

erated into a forgotten form, as often happens when dance outlives

its immediacy or historical justification, a new era began in Ceylon

and dance was swept along with it. Beginning in the sixteenth cen-

tury, the rule of the Kandyan kings established itself, and while other

parts of the island were buffeted by vying powers from the outside

world, Kandy remained stable and the Kandyan kings the most power-

ful series of monarchs the island had ever known. They lived in al-

most uninterrupted isolation until the nineteenth century when the

British absorbed their last vestiges of control and assumed the func-

tions they had hitherto guarded for themselves. During this long

period Kandyan dance was under royal patronage and turned into a

kingly amusement for the entertainment of the court and for the

public on special occasions of temporal celebrations Dancers were

given grants of land, and their descendants perpetuated the art much

in the same way that fiefs transmit their loyalties and labors over the

generations within a feudality.

Divested of the necessity for the religious and mythological themes

of India, many new dances were composed. These included scenes

of court life, paeans extolling the king, and even more secular as-

pects of daily life and comic events all of which lightened the original

C E Y L O N / Dance

Hindu flavor. Some of the dances were about elephants, some imi-

tated swooping hawks, and one dance, the "Stick dance," is per-

formed with the dancers erect and rigid as if they were sticks.

While the new themes introduced were rarely Buddhist—the

Lesser Vehicle never forbade dance but still provided little opportu-

nity for it—Kandyan dance nevertheless found its way at this time

into the country's most important Buddhist ceremony, the showing of

Buddha's tooth annually in August during the great perahera or pro-

cession, which remains even today Ceylon's most gala festival For

this, along with trains of elephants and howdahs, rows of saffron-

robed bhikkhus or monks, palanquins of objects from the temple, and

the umbrellas and paraphernalia characteristics of Oriental pomp, all

moving in slow progress before the monstrance of the tooth, scores

of drummers and dancers also participate in the parade They pause

at intervals along the route and perform fragments of their dances

before the throngs who line the streets of the city. Kandyan dance

has become so integrated with this all-important festival that it is

now hard to think of the annual showing of the tooth without asso-

ciating it with dance. Since the word perahera (parade or proces-

sion) is a Portuguese word, it is also a tempting thought to date this

and its inclusion of the dance at the end of the sixteenth century

when the Portuguese arrived in Ceylon.

The connection with Buddhism was curious for several reasons.

Firstly, because the dance derived from an alien religion, and, sec-

ondly, because it was latterly concerned with kings instead of with

gods. But once the sympathy between the two was established, it

later served an unforeseen purpose. By the time of the decline of

the Kandyan kings, when they were no longer able to support the

dancers or maintain their palaces, the temples took over willingly and

naturally. Since the nineteenth century, the temples of Ceylon have

assisted the art, providing it with their courtyards as a place to per-

form in, their holy days and celebrations as the occasion for it, and

even contributing money and perquisites to the artists for their sub-

sistence. Recent times show that somehow despite the long years and

the changing turbulence of history the connection between dance

and religion was never really broken, and at a time of peril the two

have worked well together for the mutual benefit of each. The in-

clusion of dance as part of temple services created an aura of attrac-

93

tiveness around the religion that the people needed to counterbal-

ance the austerity otherwise of Lesser Vehicle Buddhism.

The costume for the Kandyan dance traditionally followed since

the era of the Kandyan kings (with only slight variants) is one of the

most spectacular to be found anywhere in Asia. It consists almost en-

tirely of beaten silver The hat-like headdress of silver starts from a

high cone sticking straight up in the air, and levels out into a wide

brim which shadows the face just above the eyebrows From this tiny

silver paillettes like the heart-shaped leaves of the peepul tree (the

sacred tree under which the Lord Buddha first attained spiritual en-

lightenment) dangle, and when the dancer moves they glisten like

raindrops in the sunlight. Huge mango-shaped cups of silver studded

with large square-cut blue sapphires hang from the hat like earrings

to frame the ears Plaques of silver fit over each shoulder as epaulettes

and extend down to the biceps On each wrist the dancer wears

matching bracelets of silver moulded like bowknots and studded

again with blue sapphires. A triangle of silver, ornamented with three

bulbous half-circles, points downward from the meshed chain of

mail that serves as a belt at the waist The dancers are normally bare-

chested except for a cobweb of milk-white strips of beads dotted with

circles of faded brown and yellow elephant tusk-tips which look like

slices of agates. Each dancer wears on his feet a narrow silver tube

filled with grains of silver to rattle like bells and bent to circle around

the instep under the ankle. This is tied with string around the great

toe. The only cloth used in the costume is the long white skirt around

the loins, the razor-sharp pleated flounces at the hips, and a long strip

of red, blue and white braided cotton ending with a tassel which

hangs from the peak of the headdress and reaches well below the

hips. The drummers who stand close to the dancers as they accom-

pany them are naked except for a long, close-fitting skirt of white

cotton and a matching half-turban showing the top of their wavy,

black hair. The drums are unornamented, strung around the neck,

and played with both hands which beat each side either separately or

together. One end of the drum is made from monkey skin, the other

from deer hide. The wood may either be coconut, jak, or other local

woods for which I know no name in English.

Kandyan dance, like Kathakali, is virile, energetic, almost violent,

and performed exclusively by men. You immediately recognize its

94

C E Y L O N / Dance

origins in India from the postures and gesticulations. The dancer's

knees are always splayed, spread to form a diamond shape from the

crotch to the joining heels on the ground with the buttocks drawn

slightly back. The torso weaves back and forth while the arms are

held out at shoulder level and bent at the elbow. The hands and fin-

gers design further patterns in the air. The dance is performed bare-

foot.

There are some significant differences, however, between Kandyan

dance and its Indian counterpart. Today, the mudras or hand ges-

tures are almost completely lost in Ceylon—partly because the lan-

guage they signified originally was a foreign one with a different syn-

tax and connotations, and partly because dance there leaned more

toward the ornamental than toward the specific and literal as in India.

What mudras remain in Kandyan dance are only vaguely suggestive.

They represent, for instance, the walk of an elephant, or can indicate

fright or laughter, but the dance code of conveying meaning through

conventional hand positions and formations has dissipated itself. The

basic hand characteristics of Kandyan dance, such as the fingers

curled backward with the thumb tucked in at the palm, or again, the

forefinger bent and fastened with the thumb which lies over it, are

now without any particular significance. When a Kandyan dancer

tells you that in his dance he can communicate anything, he is refer-

ring to an emotion or idea which he believes is conveyable as a mood

or an atmosphere. He cannot however recite a sentence exactly and

precisely as a Bharata Natya or Kathakali dancer can.

Certain elements, however, of the dance described in the ancient

treatises of India are preserved in Kandyan dance while they have

disappeared from India proper. Most notable of these are the whirls

known in Sanskrit as brahmari. The Kandyan dancer makes a special-

ity of spinning around, pivoting on one foot or throwing himself in

the air in a complete circle, tour jeté and the like. Another form of

this is the turning of the torso around and around until the tasseled

string attached to the headdress swirls around the dancer. Still other

movements now characteristic of Kandyan dance may never have

been specifically Indian. One is the shoulder shudder, where the

body of the dancer is immobile but his two shoulders flutter up and

down in a series of involuntary reflexes Another is the strange

movement the dancer makes when he rolls his eyes upwards until

95

only the whites are showing and shakes his head from side to side on

the stem of the neck until it looks as if he has a dozen faces At other

times, the dancer will look behind him first to the left, then to the

right, and as increases the speed of this movement, the effect is

that the dancer's head is revolving on his shoulders In addition to

these somewhat sensational aspects of Kandyan dance and its high

degree of acrobatic virtuoso skill, there are the quieter, more sober

chains of movement in which the dance progresses simply through

the three speeds, slow, moderate and fast, as it does in India, and

where the performer acts out passages of homage to the gods or kings,

or where there are interludes of abstract or pure dance, and ponder-

ous passages where he sings and enacts a short descriptive story.

The training of a Kandyan dancer is rigorous and lasts for six years.

The pupil starts first by stamping the simpler rhythms with his feet

When a certain number of the metrical patterns is mastered in per-

fect time, he adds a few simple arm and hand gestures Then he be-

gins learning a repertoire. These are traditional pieces which follow

special songs and their prescribed movements. After this, the dancer

has learned all the basic elements there are to know. If he is talented,

he can then add his own embellishments to the gestures and add syn-

copations to the already established rhythms. If he has genius, he is

permitted a number of liberties but he must keep within certain regu-

lations and the aesthetic framework. He must retain the proper pos-

ture, execute all the more famous of the traditional movements in

their exact place and understand perfectly the subtle meanings of the

songs he sings before he can elaborate on them. The onus on the

creative Kandyan dancer is heavy. He is re-enacting age-old traditions

for new audiences. On him falls the burden of clarification and inter-

pretation before people not born when the Kandyan kings were at

their height, and who now require more exhilaration in their dance

than the culture which Ceylon fostered and developed originally

provided. This creative latitude given the Kandyan dancer is fraught

with the possibility of solecisms. Not all of the ones today are entirely

successful.

The greatest of living Kandyan dancers is Gunaya, pronounced

Gunia. There is little doubt that he is Ceylon's flashiest showpiece.

He is, for instance, the only dancer I know of whose picture has been

used on a postage stamp. His photograph also appears on no less than

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C E Y L O N / Dance

a dozen pamphlets issued by various tourist bureaux dedicated to

convincing foreigners that they should come to Ceylon. Calendars,

posters and advertisements bearing his likeness in color or in black

and white can be seen anywhere from humble shops along village

roads to swank airline offices in the capital, Colombo. The govern-

ment is fully cognizant of his importance, not only as a cultural at-

traction and a tourist asset but as a significant part of Ceylon’s renas-

cent nationalism and Sinhalization. He is the foremost instructor at

the recently organized National Academy of Dance supported by the

government. When a very important ship comes into Colombo’s har-

bor briefly, Gunaya himself is dispatched, along with a few other

dancers and drummers, to give one of the famous shipboard perform-

ances. And he is, I believe, the only Kandyan dancer of importance

ever to have appeared abroad. He has toured India with enormous

success, thirty years ago he visited Germany as part of the Carl

Hagenbeck Circus where he was billed along with “The Wild Man of

Borneo” as “The Devil-Dancer from Ceylon.”

Gunaya’s preeminent position in Ceylon’s world of dance may

suggest to the foreigner that he is a professional artist with all the

trappings of temperament and authority we associate with our more

complicated performers of the West. No picture could be more mis-

leading Gunaya, now in his fifties, remains exactly as he started, a

simple villager, smiling, amiable, modest and unaware of the preroga-

tives to which similar attainment entitles other artists in other

countries. He lives in a small and modest hut a few miles out of the

town of Kandy, and to reach him you must drive along bumpy, rocky

roads, following narrow tracks out into the side of a ravine running

along the twisting curves made by the river below. At a point, you

stop the car and begin a downward trek of several hundred yards be-

fore you reach his house. But if you send advance word through a

servant or errand boy, Gunaya will be patiently waiting at the top of

the hill to spare you the climb down and back.

Gunaya generally speaks only when spoken to and only answers

questions rather than initiate a subject of conversation. He is extraor-

dinarily articulate about technical aspects of the dance, and can ex-

plain what he does and how he does it with an acumen that belongs

more properly to the academician. If you pose him less specialized

questions you are apt to receive rather less satisfactory answers than

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you might hope for, and the grave simplicity of his approach to art shows itself here more than in his forthright exposition of dance de-

tail. I once asked him what made him become a dancer, to which he replied with a note of surprise, “My father was a dancer; it is in my

blood ” And again when I asked him why he continued to dance, he answered, “When I dance I feel happy,” and then fumbling a bit, he

rephrased his answer, “I dance to feel happy ” Somehow in these two simple answers the aesthetic of Gunaya emerges Dance is a con-

scious skill, but his approach to it is as instinctive and inexplicable as the fine motions of an animal, and his motivation in the art is as in-

nocent as the human’s most basic impulse, that of pleasure.

Without question, the two outstanding dancers of Ceylon today are Gunaya for Kandyan dancing and Henagamaya for the lesser art

of devil-dancing Both men are distinguished artists. Both are old—

Gunaya says he has ten more years to dance, then he will just teach —and each has a mellow command of his special medium so great as

to discourage the younger, more boisterous and athletic dancers who emulate them. When you see either of these two artists, you are not

only seeing the best in this exuberant island, but you are witnessing as well an insight through dance into the workings of the gentle and

delightful people of Ceylon.

The dances of Ceylon are not confined, however, to these two highly evolved forms alone. There are numerous miscellaneous, al-

most fragmentary, forms which occasionally appear on holidays or festivals. As you drive along the roads, your car may be stopped to let

a procession pass There will always be a set of white-turbaned, bare-

chested drummers prancing in double file, who at intervals dance a series of backward and forward steps, and pivoting side movements

Or outside your window at a hotel or house you will hear from time to time the faint beats of a tiny, miniature hand drum There, for a

few annas, two boys dressed in blue silk and with white-painted, lip-

sticked faces will perform a little dance of embrace. In rhythmic posi-

turing they will throw their arms around each other, at the waist, over the shoulders, then one hand at the waist while the other arm flies over

the shoulder, the movements alternating in rapid succession as the speed increases When they are tired, they stop and walk along to an-

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other likely house where they will repeat the same dance until they

have collected enough money to warrant their day's effort. The mean-

ing and origins of these bits and pieces of what once were more ex-

tended, fuller expressions are now lost in the long, forgetful heritage

of the Sinhalese nation.

Although nearly all dancing is the private sphere of men in Cey-

lon, two dances are performed by women. One is a simple dance of

welcome, which consists of the girls dressed in colourful blouses and

skirts, with rows of beads around their necks and their hair tied in a

high knot on the top of their heads, bowing and bending in a series

of stylized obeisances This dance is performed for distinguished visi-

tors arriving in the country, or in honor of local dignitaries who take

up their abode in a new area. Another dance for women is the 'Pot

Dance,' where a group of ladies, swaying gracefully, toss lightly into

the air earthenware pots of a kind used daily to fetch water from the

community well, and catch them as they turn slowly around, first one

way, then the other. Among the Muslims in the South, and there is a

sizable minority of them, there are fierce sword and stick dances

of mock combat. It is claimed that during these performances, if the

fighters are not carefully watched, they may injure each other seri-

ously But all the ones that I have seen were safe, exciting, and more

artful than angry.

The Ceylonese are rightfully proud of their dances, not only for

their intrinsic qualities or their variety and degree of excellence, but

for their prevalence The people of Ceylon love their dances and ad-

mire their artists, and many of them see their country as one whose

primary charm is its dance. One patriotic acquaintance of mine, in

trying to make very clear to me that Ceylon is a country of dance,

pointed out that every day at five o'clock at the Zoological Gardens

just outside Colombo even the elephants dance. And this too is true.

Drama

Ceylon, despite its abundance of dance, is not without drama forms.

In fact, devil-dancing as it is presented in a full performance contains

a number of sections which are entirely theatrical in intent and character. In between bouts of dancing and periods of actual ritual procedure, little skits of comedy are always enacted. It is here that The Killing of Rama referred to in the section on India's epic poems appears. Many of them pertain to marriage, its trials and tribulations, and some, because of their connection with rituals of the past now lost in obscurity, seem almost meaningless and incoherent.

Each devil-dance troupe has its own repertory of playlets which can be inserted at will in a performance. These not only vary from troupe to troupe but from year to year, and the creativity and originality needed to keep the people's interest expresses itself here Although a few playlets are traditional and handed down from generation to generation, many are invented as soon as the old ones become boring or stale. Sometimes the dancers interrupt the show and improvise a series of jokes on any theme they choose. Unfortunately because of the language barrier, some of these interludes are of less immediate appeal to the foreign spectator than the passages of dance which are more exciting visually and need no interpreting But for the student of drama, they are fascinating, and if you have a guide who is not squeamish about translating their licentiousness you will also find them extremely amusing.

Some of them are nothing more than passages of pure mime and afford the spectator no difficulty in understanding them. One episode in the most interesting of the devil-dances occurs when the lead dancer, dressed as a woman, begins a long solo performance. A tray with all the implements of a woman's toilet, each made of banana stalks and palm leaves, is brought into the center of the arena. The actor imitates all the actions of a woman's life, her walk, her mannerisms and her vanity. She bathes with water literally, then washes her hair of shredded palm leaves, combs it, rubs it with oil, and ties it up in a knot on the top of her head and pierces it with a large hair-pin. She preens before the hollow mirror Then she spins and weaves, and finally, taking a little puppet from the basket, she washes it, suckles it, changes its clothes and carries it around the arena, making it click its wooden hands together in a begging gesture to collect extra cents from the spectators. Then she sings a lullaby and rocks the doll to sleep. The mime in these instances is always of an astonishingly high quality. Without benefit of make-up or lighting and with only the

patent artificialities of the false accoutrements of hair and toilet arti-

cles, the actor perfectly impersonates a woman. The audience cheers

with appreciation and never tires of seeing these graphic enactments

of the life of woman by a member of the opposite sex

Originally, this interlude was connected with the legend of the

Barren Queens, part of the vast folklore of Ceylon It told the story

of seven marvellous queens who through the efficacy of the devil-

dance and its faithful mirroring of woman's life through sympathetic

magic were ultimately able to conceive Whatever the ethnological

significance may be, the interlude stands like the others as a brilliant

bit of acting and a respite from the taxing acrobatics of the dance and

the opiate ritual and the religious mysteries of the evening

For the foreigner the passages of mime afford a particularly inter-

esting glimpse into not only Ceylon's dance and drama, but into that

of all Asia as he will later discover. We in the West associate mime

primarily with the clown, and it is nearly always used to make us

laugh at some sort of hilarious behavior. Whenever it is treated in a

serious way, it is pathos rather than tragedy which emerges. In Asia,

however, mime has neither ludicrous nor pathetic connotations al-

though it is occasionally handled in either way. It is accepted prima-

rily as a legitimate theatrical device While one may laugh or weep,

the laughter does not come from the slapstick nor the tears from the

helpless, sentimental enactments of the Chaplin or Marceau conven-

tion. The mimes of Asia have humanity and individual personality,

and the Asian can see himself in their actions as richly and clearly

delineated as we see ourselves in, say, the characters of a modern play.

The mime's trick of making us see what is not there, of feeling what

is happening without witnessing the actual causations is somehow

more real in Asia, and the special, circus, off-beat taste it evokes in

the West is entirely absent.

Ceylon also has a number of theatrical forms on the order of folk

plays which are as much dramas as they are dances. Several of these

have survived among the people and without becoming classical are

still available away from the larger cities in the villages of the island.

These are Kolam, Sokari, Nadagam, and the Pasu. And the merits of

these are not to be minimized despite their present state of decline

and now attenuated, vague contact with only restricted sections of

the people. Of these the most important is Kolam, a masked dance-

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drama, which is to be found exclusively in the village of Ambalangoda about sixty miles from Colombo along the Galle road. There, two troupes, one belonging to Gunadasa, the other to Ariyapala, still perform occasionally, and for around a hundred and fifty rupees will present a special, abbreviated performance for the interested tourist.

Both troupes are equally good as artists, although Gunadasa’s leading actor-dancer, Tilaka, a young fisherman in his teens (the performers earn their living between the rare performances by fishing) is a spectacular attraction for his gymnastic ability, his fluid grace in combining the sport of tumbling with the art of dancing, and his range of roles as diverse as fierce and heroic demons or cringing, unsavory jackals.

Of the four drama forms or folk plays Ceylon has, Kolam is of the greatest antiquity, although in its present form it is obvious that a number of modern innovations have been made and some of its traditional aspects have disappeared. The word Kolam derives from Tamil and means “costume,” “guise,” or “representation.” According to the introductory story which is usually sung at the beginning of each performance, Kolam was used to amuse a pregnant queen whose particular craving took the form of being pleased by this particular masked performance unknown in her own country. There is little doubt that the form originated in India.

However, while the art with its enormous masks of carved and painted wood throve in Ceylon, similar masked dances have entirely disappeared from the Tamil areas, and most of India. Kolam masks are of extreme delicacy, and they are, I think, probably the finest examples of wood carving still being executed for the theatre in the modern world. Since the life of a mask used in actual performances is normally around fifty years, and the masters of the troupes hold their position by virtue of their carving skill as well as acting ability, the art has been perpetuated They range from small surface masks for simple commoners, which cover only the immediate area of the face, to huge hollowed-out tree trunks which fit over the whole head for the King and Queen These latter combine the smooth painted face of the character with a headdress pierced with holes and filigrees of flowers and birds, crowned with petalled domes and knobs.

The masks for royal characters are so heavy and tall that the actor has to steady them with a wooden sword held tight within one of

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the perforations at the crown. Even then, the actor totters into the

area guided by an attendant who sees that the way is clear for him

since he himself cannot bend down to see where he is going without

running the risk, were the mask to topple, of breaking his neck. After

a few minutes of standing stationary and delivering a few brief lines,

the King and Queen are led back to the dressing area, exhausted and

sweating. Because Kolam masks are unsuited for talking through, and

it is extremely difficult to hear the actors when they speak, the drama

originally must have been entirely in pantomime.

The structure of Kolam is easy to grasp To the accompaniment of

drummers and musicians who sing out the story in short melodious

phrases, the masked characters make their appearance in steady suc-

cession one after the other. Each, except the King and Queen who

scarcely move, perform an introductory dance. Then they leave and

reappear only when the course of the play requires their presence

again. All characters are stock stereotypes, and additions to the cast

are made only when the master of the troupe decides to create a new

mask to suit a new play.

In the two remaining troupes of Ambalangoda, the characters of

each are identical and their introductory dances follow the same gen-

eral outlines. First appears an aged peasant woman looking for her

drunken husband. This is followed by a set of two policemen. Then

comes a quartet of soldiers fresh back from war. Their masks are puffy

distortions of the human face with gashes of red painted scars to

show the agony of their wounds. These are followed by a Dutch cou-

ple, greatly caricatured in a souvenir of the days of Dutch rule, a

laundryman and his wife, a pompous village chieftain, and finally the

King and Queen together with their mustached Prime Minister. A

second series of introductory appearances and dances of mythologi-

cal personages then occurs. These are demons and gods of various

sorts, with large brilliantly painted, flamboyant and sometimes ter-

rifying masks: the Naga or snake demon with dozens of hooded co-

bras stemming from his head like hair and huge white teeth and a

scarlet tongue sticking out; the Garuda bird with feathers and an

enormous beak; and a series of further demons climaxed by Maru

Raksasa, the most malevolent and awe-inspiring of all, from whose

bloody fangs hangs the carved, limp body of a child A miscellany fol-

lows them lions and jackals and various gods and goddesses. Some of

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these look like Egyptian figures with sphinx-like claws and shrouded

faces, or kinnaras, half-man half-bird creatures with simple, plain faces

of pink or yellow, and body frames of wings and bulging chests. The

play proper finally begins. Its theme varies, but often the play is an epi-

sode from the life of Buddha or his disciples.

One of the most famous plays in Kolam repertoire is the story of

two kinnaras who are living happily in the forest dancing, singing,

and playing musical instruments. The King of Benaras (India) who

is hunting sees them and is struck by the beauty of the female. He

kills her mate and begins to woo her, but she is obdurate and only

grieves. He promises her wealth and position but these fail to move

her from her bereavement. The King becomes angry and just as he

starts to kill her, Buddha appears, saves her, and as a boon restores her mate to life as well. The play ends with Buddha’s homily on conjugal

fidelity.

Another extremely popular play is the story of a prince who goes to

Taxila (formerly India, now Pakistan) to study and so excels as a

scholar that his master gives him his daughter in marriage. On their

way home they encounter a hunter who falls in love with the young

wife. The prince and the hunter fight, and at one point when the

prince’s sword falls out of his hands, the wife picks it up and becom-

ing enamoured of her husband’s opponent, hands it to the hunter

who thereupon kills the prince. The hunter then asks the wife to

hand over her jewelry which she does, and then he abandons her,

saying that if she could be so foolish with one husband, she would

surely be the same with him. Buddha appears in the form of a jackal

and there ensues the enactment of a pertinent fable which comments

on the play proper. A greedy jackal, performed by the masked actor

bouncing stiffly and at full-length along the ground in a series of

pushups, is carrying a chunk of meat in his mouth. He swims across

the river, and seeing a fish, opens his mouth to catch it. A hawk

sweeps down at this moment and seizes the meat, leaving the jackal

without either his meat or the fish.

Sokari is, roughly described, the same as Kolam, although on a

much more fragmentary scale. It is found in the hills of Ceylon, espe-

cially those of the Kandy and Badulla areas These stories nearly all

concern a beautiful wife called Sokari and her infidelities. Some-

times she thinks her husband is dead and accepts the physical ad-

C E Y L O N / Drama

vances of her servant. Sometimes she sends for a doctor to attend her

ailing husband He falsely pronounces her husband dead and suc-

ceeds in seducing her. In nearly all these plays, the concluding scene

or finale is a curious one of mat weaving, in which the revived or rec-

onciled husband and wife work together to make the mat on which

they are to sleep that night. According to Dr. E R. Sarathchandra,

the symbolism of the mat weaving is one of "amity, reconciliation

or union" the ultimate reconciliation of husband and wife.

Nadagam (again a Tamil word and a derivative from the Sanskrit

for dance-drama) is an entirely recent theatre form, having been in-

troduced around the beginning of the nineteenth century. It consists

in the main of a series of songs with only the thinnest thread of a

story to link them. Sometimes they are based on Christianity, some-

times on Western fairy tales, and occasionally on themes of Buddha's

life in India Nadagam is only rarely performed now and remains in

the life of the people largely in its songs which are still somewhat

popular, and in the tunes and airs that still accompany the infre-

quent puppet plays of the villages of Ceylon.

Pasu is the Sinhalization of what we know in the West as the Pas-

sion Play It is performed at Easter time in Negombo, a town on the

coast north of Colombo where the densest Catholic population of

the island is found The characters of Christ, Mary, Joseph and the

rest are represented by statues carried around the stage area and

placed in appropriate positions during the action The events them-

selves are described sometimes by a narrator and sometimes by a

chorus singing four-part harmony in hymn style. The Pasu, despite its

innocuous subject matter, has met with a surprising number of upsets

during its life in Ceylon Some years back it was the custom on the

day before the performance for the village boys to blacken their faces

and assume the form of certain devils who ran through the streets

heralding the arrival of Lucifer. Lucifer then appeared and ques-

tioned them. The boys would respond by revealing all the scandals of

the village and the various family secrets which were not widely

known to the public Because of this, the Pasu was eventually banned.

Again, not long ago, it was decided to dispense with the statues

and to have human beings portray the characters, with the parts of

Veronica and Mary and the like performed by actual women. This

met with immediate Church disapproval, and the Archbishop of

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Colombo proscribed these live performances on the grounds that the

appearance of women in theatricals was “contrary to the traditions of

the country,” and therefore, it was assumed, of questionable morality.

Theatre as theatre is not a part of the best of Ceylon’s traditions.

Dance, however, is very much one of the country’s most impressive at-

tractions. As in every Asian country, there is an inseparability be-

tween dance and drama, and it is difficult to think of, say, devil-

dancing without its acted or mimed interludes. In the same way, it is

difficult to disassociate Kolam plays from their brilliant introductory

and explanatory dances Ceylon theatrically is a wonderfully re-

warding country. There is a superabundance of dance activity. There

is a remarkable standard of dazzling, pyrotechnical body movements.

There is as well a genuine core of serious and meritorious artistic

achievement which courses through every production no matter how

simple its setting Fortunately for us these arts of Ceylon are available

to the outsider without difficulty and require only minimal arrange-

ments which any Tourist Bureau can undertake for an enterprising

visitor

For some reason, perhaps because of the very preponderance of

separate and distinct dances, Ceylon lacks a modern theatre or a

purely dramatic art. In the past, beginning with the end of the nine-

teenth century and continuing through the early part of the twenti-

eth, various attempts at creating a modern theatre were made. One

of the more successful but brief ventures was begun by a Parsi whose

troupe in Colombo popularized modern, Westernized Indian music.

Another group had a success with an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet.

But these attempts melted into oblivion. Until a few years ago there

was also a group of actors in Colombo who performed a few social

plays, mostly translations from the West, and some historical plays

dealing with the exploits of ancient Sinhalese kings, those of Anura-

dhapura, the capital for centuries before the birth of Christ, of Polon-

naruwa, the short-lived but architecturally productive period of the

thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and, of course, of the more re-

cent Kandyan period But even this troupe was forced to close, and

the historical plays that are now performed—as part of the Sinhaliza-

tion of Ceylon—appear only occasionally at high-school or college

graduation ceremonies, or as an excuse to solicit funds for the build-

ing of further extensions to schools already in existence.

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C E Y L O N / Drama

Theatre as a modern or independent form in Ceylon is too incoate at present to merit more than cursory attention, and what little there is, even with its generous admixtures of music and dance, is either in bad taste or a poor imitation of theatre elsewhere It is quite possible that Ceylon may never have a genuine, flourishing modern drama outside occasional amateur productions in its schools and universities. For the present and probably for many centuries to come, dance and the more dramatic folk plays seem to suffice and afford all the aesthetic outlet the nation requires. Certainly this is enough to elicit no complaints from the visitor.

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3

BURMA

Burma is a startlingly charming, friendly and devoutly Buddhist country in the heart of Southeast Asia. It is bordered by India on one side, Siam on another, and with China on a third, the Burmese frontier is two thousand miles long

It is the only colonized area of Asia whose theatrical arts have from the beginning been unstintingly admired by the conquering Westerner Even the John Murray Handbook for Travellers in India, Burma and Ceylon, that biased, ultra-British guide first published in 1859 and successively revised through something like sixteen editions down to the present, makes its only mention of dance or drama in connection with Burma "The traveller should make a point before leaving Burma of seeing something of the Pwe, the national amusement of the people," it says, and adds in consonance with its general patronizing tone "the majority of the audience stay the whole night, but an hour or two of the performance will satisfy. . . ."

Burma also has the distinction of being the only ex-colony to have produced a book about its own theatre, written in English in 1937 by a Burman, and published abroad. This excellent little manual by Dr. Maung Htin Aung is called Burmese Drama and the Oxford University Press wisely reprinted it in 1947.

Moreover, Burma, with the possible exception of Japan, is the only country of Asia where the foreign colony of diplomats and traders, usually so aloof from local arts, have nearly all witnessed a local theatrical performance and responded to its pleasures without the descension and indulgence which until recently have characterized many of their attitudes.

The reason for so much kindliness towards Burma lies, I think, in the overwhelming pleasantness of its people. They are enthusiastic

108

and outgoing, even to strangers, and it is hard for the durest of for-

eigners to resist Burmese appeal. The happy acceptance of Burma

and Burmese life which the country elicits from the visitors applies

not merely to its amusements, but to its politics as well. Somehow

even when the Burmese are being most controversial in an inter-

national sphere, their national character, through the mysterious

alchemy of charm, transforms their actions into something sweetly

reasonable and acceptable. A possibly significant sidelight is that

some years back Burma's Prime Minister U Nu himself translated

Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People. The book

became a best-seller in Rangoon.

The outgoing warmth that the Burmese people bring to bear on

every aspect of their life, regardless of whether it is religion, politics,

or the simple, social graces, spills over into their theatre. A delicious

sense of humor affects even their most sober moments. In Burmese

masked plays, Ravana, the villain of the Ramayana, for example, is

treated as a comic, and however wicked he may be according to the

plot, the actor must turn him into a delightful, laughable, even harm-

less character. In the spirit dances, where the nats or thirty-seven an-

cient and animistic spirits of Burma have endured despite the influx

of Buddhism (something along the lines of devil-dancing in Ceylon),

much of the performance is comic. When the women are possessed

by the spirits, their actions are often humorous—one nat is a drunk-

ard and offers the spectators whiskey, another is a child who plays

pranks on the other members of the cast, another is a vain and silly

woman.

Even in war Burmese good nature asserts itself. Burma in the mid-

dle of the eighteenth century after her victorious war of conquest

against Siam and the sacking of the Siamese capital brought back as

captives whole troupes of actors and dancers Their punishment was

to dance at the courts of the Burmese kings. Burma also, except for

the hill tribes and fierce peoples of Upper Burma, is the only country

of Asia lacking fighting dances and the elaborate, stylized sword

dances of mock combat which appear elsewhere in Asia almost with

supererogation.

Part of the contagion the outsider feels about Burmese theatricals

also comes from the popularity showered on them by every class of

person within the country. There is a pwé of some kind or other each

full moon night everywhere in city and village. Every festival, and

Burma is a country of festivals in a very literal sense, means a theatrical performance at some place near by. To accommodate the crowds

who flock to see the newest play, or their old favorite dancers, even

the downtown section of the modern city of Rangoon mushrooms overnight with a number of thatched roof huts fenced off by woven

palm-leaf fences in every park and clearing. Some of the larger ones

hold a thousand spectators who sit crosslegged on the ground on

tattered reed mats or off to one side in low-slung canvas beach chairs

and watch the actors on their temporary stages of bamboo. At all

these performances, a special reserved area is roped off for the shaven-

headed, bare-shouldered, yellow-robed Buddhist priests who cluster

together watching the spectacle with as much secular enjoyment as

the most profane of the audience And among the audience you will

find government officials, scholars from the universities, and foreign

guests brought by their Westernized Burmese friends During the lulls

between full moons, you may easily be entertained after dinner

at a friend's house with a private showing of a dance performance or

one of the rarer, informal puppet shows by a master just arrived in the

capital from Mandalay up North. When a new play is successful, the

avid Burmese public wants not only to see it but to read it, and one

play I know of sold something better than twenty thousand copies

within a few weeks of its first edition. This, even in a country where

literacy is a problem and where money is not abundant, betters the

reading public of most Broadway or West End plays.

Aside from the ancient folk plays which tell, and have told for cen-

tunes now, the life of Buddha or the dance-drama forms borrowed

from neighboring India and Indianized Siam, the first real drama

dates from the end of the eighteenth century. Although Burma's thea-

trical history in this respect is fairly recent, there has always been a

special regard and notable respect for theatre throughout the coun-

try. In the ninth century, when a portion of Upper Burma was ruled

by China, the Burmese ambassadors presenting themselves at the

Peking Court sang songs and danced alphabet dances in which they

formed in gesture and posture the felicitous ideographs for greeting

and homage. Again, in the eleventh century, when one of the mighti-

est of all Burmese kings went on a marauding expedition as far west

as India itself, he set up at intervals carved stone figures of Burmese

110

musicians and dancers as symbols of his successful conquest. When

his grandson repeated the exploit and raided India once again, these

stone statues are reputed to have come to life and rendered the sol-

diers homesick with their melodies and movements.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century Burma became the

first country in the world to create a Ministry of Theatre. Its aims

were various to exercise some sort of control over the widespread

and sometime unruly theatricals; to ensure that performances re-

spected both the sanctity of the Buddhist religion and depicted the

courts of Burmese kings with propriety and decorum; and possibly,

too, to stimulate the theatre, particularly the puppet theatre, along

lines agreeable to the State and to keep it in political accord with the

policies of the King. (In actual practice this worked in another way.

The puppeteers conscious of their new patronage used their art to air

grievances and spoke out through their puppets with a boldness that

actors never dared )

By the beginning of the twentieth century, Burma had developed

the "star" system in her theatre, and three actors attained such fame

that they were worshiped the length and breadth of the country.

These were Aungbala, whose funeral was an occasion for riotous be-

havior and mass expression of emotion; Sein Kadon, who dazzled au-

diences with his special costume of hundreds of tiny electric light

bulbs that flickered on and off at dramatic moments in his plays; and

the greatest of them all, U Po Sein, who continued to dance and act

until his death in 1950. U Po Sein's eccentricity, if it can be called

that, expressed itself in that he never appeared on stage without two

real-life, British ex-soldiers, each carrying a rifle, standing prominently

near him. But he also was concerned with lifting the position of the

actor to one of fullest respect and consequently devoted himself to

good works and to a display of exemplary moral character—qualities

rather lacking in the actors of the past. His gifts to charity were un-

bounded and his fund-raising performances for the Red Cross during

the First World War finally resulted in his being awarded special rec-

ognition and a title from the government. Through him the taste of

the people was elevated and the highest quarters acknowledged his

art—a feat even the Ministry of Theatre had been unable to achieve.

At present his son, Kenneth, is carrying on the tradition in his own

way. To the delight of Burmese audiences, and to the annoyance of

his foreign admirers, he inserts bits of Ray Bolger-type tap routines

and "booms-a-daisy" in the middle of a pwé.

A loose connection between theatre and the government has con-

tinued to the present time, and many officials and members of influ-

ential families have tried their hand at playwrighting, and sometimes

have even acted on the stage themselves Prime Minister U Nu, very

much the hero of his people and one of the most reasoning and sea-

soned politicians the country has ever produced, has expressed him-

self on the stage as a playwright on a number of occasions In his

youth he wrote well-conceived, charming little plays about subjects as

diverse as marriage problems and their equitable solution (one is

about incompatibility from a Freudian point of view) and religion.

His latest play, a success as much for its distinguished authorship as

for its content, is called The People Win Through and describes the

failure of Communism as a means of government in Burma. During

U Nu's recent tour of America, the Pasadena Playhouse entertained

him with a performance in English of a translation of the play.

The relationship of politics and the stage is a traditional one in

Burma The masterpiece Wizaya by U Pon Nya, Burma's most dis-

tinguished dramatist who was born at the beginning of the nine-

teenth century, is a case in point. It appeared at a time when there

was a jockeying for power in the country and an erring froward

prince, after assuring his followers that he had had a change of

heart, wanted to usurp the throne. To disguise the contemporaneous

content of his theme, U Pon Nya set the play in Ceylon, and draw-

ing on various themes from Buddhist stories already dear to the hearts

of the people, he described how the glory of Ceylon resulted from

just such a reformed leader. The play was immensely popular as a

play, which fact contributed substantially to the opinion at the time

that the prince might succeed in taking over the country But his rev-

olution failed, and both the prince and the playwright were killed for

their participation in the attempted coup.

The word pwé, which covers all varieties of theatrical entertain-

ment in Burma, means something that is "shown" and is exactly the

equivalent of our word "show." At present there are around six dif-

ferent types of current pwés. These exist all over Burma, but are now

most concentrated in the port city of Rangoon, where you find the

largest population and the most money to be spent on luxury and

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B U R M A / Dance and Drama

amusement. The most important is the Zat Pwé. Zat comes from the

ancient Indian word Jataka, which refers to the enormous body of

stories and legends concerning the life of the Buddha.

Because Buddhism figures so vitally in Burmese life, it is necessary

to digress a little. Jataka stories are normally confined to Buddha's

youth. After his enlightenment, he is considered so holy that any rep-

resentation, either in temple carvings or on the stage, is offensively

sacrilegious. At the great stupas of Sanchi in Central India, for exam-

ple, where some of the finest Buddhist carving in the world is to be

found, the oddly shaped gateways and lattice fences of stone, while

showing his disciples with remarkable verisimilitude, represent Bud-

dha simply by blank spaces in the air or vacant chairs and empty

daises. Similarly, in Burma no actor ever performs the role of Bud-

dha, and the form of Buddhism is so strict there that even a lesser

Buddha or monk is handled with circumspection However in the

Burmese transcriptions of the Ramayana, although Rama is treated as

a "future" Buddha, the details of his life are freely and secularly rep-

resented

To return to Zat Pwé, the word now means colloquially any per-

formance of the "classical" theatre by a troupe of actors who, as the

story progresses and the narrative permits, indulge in long passages of

dance sequences. By "classical" theatre is meant a theatre of ancient

origin, subject to formal rules of structure, confined to an almost pro-

cedural dramatic sequence, and suitable only for historical themes

and their stylized portrayals. However, within this "classical" frame-

work, sufficient latitude is allowed to keep the artist creative and even

to permit certain innovations, but not enough to make him "mod-

ern" or contemporaneous in feeling or style to the point of transgress-

ing this aesthetic barrier.

Usually a Zat Pwé starts around nine in the evening and con-

tinues until four in the morning. The plays, which are often newly

composed for each run of a performance, are always set in one of the

classical periods of Burmese history. They deal with kings and queens,

deceitful courtiers and scheming, plotting prime ministers. There are

questions of succession to the throne, flights by night into woodland

hideouts, concealed identities and finally happy marriages and resto-

rations to the throne. The structure of the plays generally calls for al-

ternating scenes of comedy and scenes of pathos, the over-all theme

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being the progress of the happiness of the leading characters into separation and hardship. The ending, however, is always a reunion and gladness prevails At intervals, each character sings a song to emphasize the mood of the action which has just taken place. The costuming is gorgeous and exotic, with the kings and nobles robed in orange or peach satins studded with brilliants, crowned in cone-shaped head-dresses of gold, and carrying flashing, gleaming swords of silver.

Well after midnight, around two or three in the morning, the main dance scene begins This part is called Hnit-Pa-Thwa, a sort of pas-de-deux, in which the two foremost stars of the troupe dance their most brilliant routines. It is here that the audience sits up and takes notice, and while many innovations have been made in the Zat Pwés since their inception, this section has stood inviolate The excuse in the plot for the pas-de-deux may be a festival at the court, a marriage feast, or an irrelevant interlude with no bearing on the plot. After it, the play resumes and leads towards its denouement. Throughout the evening, a full orchestra of Burmese instruments plays constantly—to announce the scene as one of gladness or sorrow, to lay its setting in the court or in a forest, to indicate the tone of prowess or dalliance, and to subtend the over-all mood. It accompanies each dance in a pulsating, vibrant, explosive symphony of sounds

The full Zat Pwé orchestra called saing consists of about a dozen different instruments, and is the largest assembly of musicians used in Burma. It has ornately carved teakwood xylophones whose keys, made from a specially resonant bamboo which grows only near river banks, are struck with chamois-skin mallets that look like tack hammers. It may have several large drums shaped like enormous stemmed goblets which stand erect on the ground or which are suspended by a thong around the player’s shoulder and played sidewise at the hip There are ivory horns from which dangle silver funnels loosely fitted over the bell to augment the sound There are various other percussion instruments—small, foot-long tubes of bamboo split like the straws of a broom which crack and snap as the player jerkily shakes them, and one man plays a set of square-shaped castanets in his left hand while he clanks two tiny thimble-size cymbals in his right.

The two chief instruments of the saing orchestra are extremely ornate and as pleasing to look at as to hear One is a circle of twenty-one small graded drums ranging in sound from low to shrilly high. Each is

B U R M A / Dance and Drama

tuned by placing a glob of moist rice paste in the center of the hide-

covering to keep it taut The tuning takes an hour, lasts only for over-

night and must be repeated each time the drums are used. The pitch

corresponds fairly closely to our own. The scale is septatonic, but fa

and ti are much sharper and flatter, respectively, than in our well-

tempered scale The tuning varies according to whether the music is

modern or classic, but each has sufficient similarities to our music so

as not to sound altogether alien or unpleasant even on first hearing.

The drums are encased in a sort of circular picket fence of gold-

painted slats studded with bits of sparkling, reflecting mirrors. The

performer sits at the center of the circle on a small stool and swirls

around while he plays the rippling arpeggi of ascending and descend-

ing melodies on these drums. Above him stands a large, red, frosted

glass light, something like an old-fashioned street lamp, attached to a

wooden stand carved in the shape of a bird, and this illuminates the

whole orchestra The other of the special instruments is the pole from

which hang two large gongs of heavy metal The frame is shaped like

a mythological beast, actually five animals in one—the horns of the

stag issuing from the head, the hooves of the horse curled up over

the gongs which hang from the center, the wings of the eagle along

the body, the long thin body of the snake, and the tail of a fish. Al-

together the instrument looks like a slender dragon From its mouth

at one end dangles a Christmas-tree decoration bulb of glossy red; in

its curling tail is stuck a large chunk of ruby-colored glass The deep,

reverberating resonance of the gongs punctuates the main pulses of

the music and determines the basic tuning of the orchestra.

The sound that this conglomeration of strange and beautiful in-

struments makes is without question one of the most satisfying in the

Orient For immediacy of appeal, at least to foreign ears, Burmese

music ranks second in Asia only to Indonesian music With this lat-

ter, it too shares the orchestral concept of music, which has become

so indispensable a part of our musical thinking The simultaneous

playing of several different instruments gives music a texture and sen-

suous complexity which is now almost an essential prerequisite to

our enjoyment, and the ensuing concord and consonances of several

notes being struck or sounded at the same time, harmony in other

words, is manifestly one of Burmese music's most satisfying charms.

To the Asian in general, orchestral music may sometimes be akin to a

115

jumble or confusion and an impediment to the transparent lucidity

he likes to give his unadulterated melodies and rhythms, but for most

Burmese only the thick fabric of orchestra sound can match the rich-

ness of his theatre arts Sometimes the music accompanying a Zat

Pwé sounds like bubbling water, sometimes remotely like a jam ses-

sion of Amencan jazz, with the several drums pounding out deafen-

ing meters and syncopes, one clashing with the other, often the music

will begin with a synchronized burst like a packet of firecrackers sud-

denly going off, and then it will subside into languid tenderness only

to break again into still more joyous, uncontrollably happy throbs of

contrasting and conflicting timbres and resonances.

Nearly all dancing in Burma is based on or derived from the classi-

cal Zat Pwé, and it is invariably energetic and designed to excite, agi-

tate and stimulate. Men and women always dance together, although

there are some women who like to dance as men, and vice versa. The

costume for each is lavish, generously sprinkled with spangles and

diamantes sewn in patterns of dragons or birds. The colors are bright

or pastel according to the dancer's whim, with the men wearing the

gayer, louder hues. Women often wear a shade of peach color, which

I find somehow characteristic of and peculiar to the country. Both

men and women wear the longyi, a skirt-like sarong, which hangs

from the waist to the floor, fastened with a belt of silver or studded

rhinestones. Women attach an extra hem of white silk to their skirts,

which trails on the ground, hides the feet and makes walking move-

ments difficult and invisible. Each wears a blouse--the man's being

loose fitting like a Chinese pyjama top, and the woman's being usu-

ally of a transparent material and tightly moulded to the figure.

Around the smooth cylinder of hair pinned high on the crown of the

head, the woman wears flowers. The man also wears flowers in the

thin silk cloth of pink or yellow tightly fitted over his head and tied

in a wide spray, rakishly flaring off to one side. In his earlobes he

wears diamonds. Each carries a folding fan, and its opening and clos-

ing are integral, decorative motions of the dance.

The principle of Burmese dancing works in the following way. The

dancer sings a short phrase. Its words determine the rhythm, as Bur-

mese is a carefully regulated tonal language which abounds in precise

116

long and short sounds To extend the length of one of the words, for

the sake of a melody, for example, would automatically alter the

meaning. The drums repeat the rhythm. Then, as the full orchestra

repeats the same passage of melody and rhythm, the dancer springs

into dance At the end of several of these phrases which altogether

form a poem, and in which the whole procedure of song, drums,

dance, full orchestra is repeated each time, a particular dance is com-

pleted A sample dance fragment is: “From the palace rooms / The

lady is waiting for the King / Now, up to dawn / He has not come.”

The concluding flourish is. “She loves him to the end of the world.”

Songs sometimes praise the sights of the countryside, the mysteries of

the jungle, or the sanctity of a holy city. The themes, only as long as

they are romantic or poetic, are unrestricted in their content.

The dancing itself is among the most virtuosic to be found in Asia.

The dancers leap into the air with arms twisting and curling. Then

down again in a series of deep knee bends, and sometimes from this

squatting position they perform a series of Russian pliés. They whirl

around on one foot with the leg extended Sometimes the woman

kicks her train back with a violent gesture and throws her hands back-

wards and forwards as if fighting the air The performers smile

throughout the dance and occasionally they break out laughing at

their own good-natured exuberance Both in the dance and in the

drama parts of a Zat Pwé the actors laugh almost as much as the au-

dience, and instead of being distracting for the Burmese, they find

theatre more enjoyable if it is clear that the performers are having a

good time too. Sometimes as a finishing movement of a dance, the

woman will spring with lightning speed and land supine into her

partner's outstretched arms. Because of the explosive nature of Bur-

mese movement in dance, it is performed sporadically in short, sud-

den outbursts of energy Although a dance program (out of its con-

text within a Zat Pwé) normally lasts for about two hours, only about

two-thirds of this time is actual dance The pauses between phrases,

the interval afforded by the singing of the phrase, and the drums'

repetition of the rhythm give the dancers ample time to rest and re-

cuperate from their exertions.

The basic starting posture for Burmese dancing is close to a crouch.

The knees are spread as far apart as the longyi allows, buttocks thrust

back and the pelvis retracted until the dancer hovers just above the

117

floor. The heels of the feet are held together with the feet splayed

outwards in a wide “V.” The elbows, with the hands at the hips and

fingers pointing towards the audience, are thrust backwards and held

close to the body so that they look like featherless, folded wings. The

uplifted face looks high towards the ceiling While actually moving,

the thumb and forefinger of the hand which does not hold the fan,

forms an “X” with the other fingers extended stiffly. At the end of a

passage, the arms drop limply against the sides of the body, but the

face remains upturned.

The dance which normally begins all performances is one of greet-

ing and obeisance. During it the dancer bows with his fingertips

placed together in front of his face, the fan balancing between the

“V” of the two thumbs The fingers flick in time with the music while

the triangle formed by the thumbs remains. The hands separate and

each twists and weaves in alternate wavering circles The dancer un-

dulates in a series of curving motions from his crouching position un-

til he stands upright. There are many gestures. One is like a casual

face-washing in which the hands pass before the face effortlessly and

gracefully. Another is the concluding movement where, after a sud-

den leap, the dancer runs towards his spectators, pauses, claps his

hands three times and crosses his wrists, with the relaxed hands

pointing downwards.

It takes about six months for an average eight-year-old child (the

usual starting age for a boy or girl) to learn this dance of greeting

and to master the ten basic steps it contains. The study begins with

the feet. He practices the rhythms by lifting his feet as if marking

time This is followed by the walk, and finally he adds the hand ges-

tures and the more advanced turns As dancers practice, they sing a

mnemonic song which follows the tune of the music. The words are

simple. “This is the first step, this is the second step, etc. . This is

the changing of the hands, this is the turning of the head, this is the

turning of the shoulder, etc” It is a curious sight to see a classroom

full of slightly built young children, quiet almost to the point of list-

lessness, suddenly come to life with eyes flashing and little voices

shrilly chanting as they jump and gyrate to the restless, demanding

dance steps of Burma.

The emotional range of Burmese dancing is limited. Sorrow can

only be represented inadequately. The Burmese say that you cannot

dance if you are really sad personally, and grief, simulated or real,

affords no chance for dancing. There are, however, song passages

where princesses are supposed to weep, or where the words go some-

thing like this: "My dear wife, our love is short-lived." Here the

dance is more measured, the music is slower than ordinarily, the

drums boom leisurely, and the dancer moves with a touch of restraint

which is otherwise uncharacteristic of Burmese dance. But these are

like interludes of quiet which only set off more dramatically the next

passages of dance. As for love or the expression of lovemaking, the

closest approximation is the final leap into the lover's arms at the end

of a particularly lively flash of movement.

To a certain extent the stylized artificiality of the dance and its

conventions is due to the influence of the puppets. Many passages are

borrowed imitations of the stiff, jerky walk of the puppets, and cer-

tainly the almost excessively frequent soaring springs into the air be-

long more logically to a stringed marionette that can be held in the

air indefinitely than to a human body.

To summarize, dance in Burma is dynamics of poses. Our dance

for the most part is meaningful motion or the expressive interpreta-

tion of music's sounds. Burmese dancing, however, is a series of ges-

ticulations, specified and determined by the aesthetic pleasure the

sight of them gives. They are emotional only in that they capture the

single mood of exaltation. The graphic or pictorial elements associ-

ated with interpretive dance are absent Happily, no burden of un-

derstanding is placed on the spectator. The only thing required of

him is an appreciation of virtuosity and technical brilliance.

Anyein Pwé is an abbreviated form of the Zat Pwé Its cast con-

sists of four people—two dancers and two clowns. The comic ele-

ment, fully in keeping with the national character of Burma, has,

naturally enough, wide scope in all Burmese theatricals. Throughout

a Zat Pwé, regardless of its story, courses the thread of comedians who

appear at intervals, dressed indigenously and in a ludicrous make-up

of white eyebrows and cheeks, blots of rouge and black lines around

the eyes. They crack jokes aimlessly, often unrelated to the plot, and

amuse the audience with slapstick antics Anyein Pwé simply extracts

this favorite element, combines it with the dance interludes, and con-

denses them into a short evening's entertainment.

Yein Pwé is a combined dance and drama form based on religious

themes, usually of allegorical significance It is lengthy, involved, and

embraces a vast cast whose actors often are amateurs So elaborate in

fact are the preparations for it that it is only performed on the most

holy of festival days and before the highest ranking officials and dig-

nitaires. In effect it is scarcely more than a pageant

Yousshim Bwé or Yokthe Pwé, both terms are common, refers to

the puppet or marionette shows for which Burma is famous It is rec-

ognized that Zat Pwé and their derivatives of today owe a consid-

erable debt to the puppets for many of their specific movements,

actions and stylizations During the late eighteenth and early nine-

teenth centuries, puppets had a tremendous vogue, and for this rea-

son they received special attention from the Ministry of Theatre. But

proving no more amenable to State jurisdiction and interference than

live actors, they fell into decline Inevitably, live actors displaced

them. At present, there is only one living descendant of the once

many lines of puppeteers He lives quietly in Mandalay giving occa-

sional performances and infrequently comes to Rangoon, the capital,

where his services may be hired for an evening's exhibition He in-

fuses an astonishingly lifelike magic into his two- and three-foot high

dolls, and the single singer and small-size orchestra which accompany

his dolls cast a salon air of intimacy over a performance rather like a

chamber music concert Being divorced from popular support for so

many years now, the puppets have had one advantage. The aged mas-

ter has been able to concentrate on the perfection of his own idea of

the art without the hindrance of appealing to a public whose tastes

may not always be of the highest order.

Another type of pwé Burma offers is the Nat Pwé or spirit dance.

These can be arranged for around thirty dollars, and they last for a

few hours from late evening until after midnight. They can be per-

formed only on astrologically auspicious days (there are a number of

these every month), but most frequently spirit dances are held during

the Burmese New Year celebrations during the time of the April full

moon (the equivalent of our Easter) Although entirely different in

style, they still bear several striking resemblances to the devil-dancing

of Ceylon. They concern themselves with spirits most of which were

recognized by the earliest inhabitants of the country before the ad-

vent of Buddhism, and they are in essence exorcistic rituals and may

or may not, depending on the occasion and the mood of the medium, turn into trance-dances of possession.

Unlike Ceylon, however, the spirit dance of Burma is also used as a

means of divination. At a certain moment in the performance, a candle is lit and the medium bites into the tallow, then you ask any

question you like and the answer the tallow reveals is supposed to be

correct. Most of the questions the Burmese ask concern love (“Which

girl shall I marry?”) The answer is often equivocal—“The one who

writes a letter to you within the week”), but gambling, almost a na-

tional habit with the Burmese, also occupies the attention of a spirit

dance audience (“Which horse shall I bet on tomorrow?”) One answer

I once heard was, “Not the one you have in mind, but the other

one”).

A spirit dance, like its counterpart in Ceylon, requires a number of

appurtenances and a number of performers. A large altar of bamboo

and palm leaves is constructed at one end of the area where the

dance is held and is stacked high with headdresses (there is one for

each of the thirty-seven spirits infesting Burma), young coconuts,

bananas, offerings of flowers and betel nut, pieces of cloth, eggs, ap-

ples and bottles of liquor (the last despite Buddhism’s prohibition of

alcohol) The orchestra assembles at the opposite end of the area,

while the mediums, usually several aged women and a couple of

equally old men, arrange the altar, fuss about the area or sit smoking

cigars and chatting with the spectators who begin to gather around as

soon as they hear the tuning up of the drums.

The actual performance begins when the leader of the orchestra,

the man who plays the circle of rippling drums, calls out “nat pwé!”

Then follows a musical preamble. The dancers remove

their plain white uniforms, the mark of the professional medium, and

dress in the gayer and gaudier colors of the spirits. Throughout the

performance there are several costume changes in rapid succession

since all thirty-seven spirits must be appeased in the course of an eve-

ning’s performance by the mediums’ impersonation of them Some

changes are scarcely more than the putting on of a different head-

dress or sticking sprigs of scented grass behind the ears, others con-

sist of draping a piece of striped cloth around the waist, while still

others require a complete change of outer and inner garments. Each

preliminary to the dance must be accompanied by ritual and deferential homage to the spirits supposed to be inhabiting the altar.

The mediums clasp their hands high above their heads and pray amid lighted incense.

Holy water is doused on them by their attendants.

When the dance starts the performers begin to hop about, shuffle, and wave their hands in the air.

Sometimes, if they are seized by one of the spirits they stand riveted to a single spot and quiver

Each spirit is personified in a specified order.

One is a child

The medium who assumes this role begins to run about the arena, and stopping in front of one of the spectators asks in a high squeaking voice, "Isn't my scarf pretty?

Do you like it?"

or says, "I am the daughter of a king

That is why I dance so delicately"

She takes some eggs from the altar and balances them so that they stand up in the flat palm of her hand

If they start to topple, she blows on them and they stand erect again

She then passes them out to various members of the audience as a gift from the spirit.

Then she sings a song to herself, "This child is fond of hard-boiled eggs.

She likes bananas too.

And plain, boiled rice

That's because the spirits are all vegetarian."

Another of the spirits is the embodiment of generosity

She grabs pieces of cloth from the altar and ripping them in half tosses them to members of the audience or, more frequently, among the players in the orchestra.

(At the end of the performance these gifts to the orchestra are divided among all the participants in the spirit dance.)

Sometimes a male medium dons a woman's dress as a special form of flattery to one of the female spirits.

From time to time, as the various dancers turn and spin, with one hand extended out in front and the other hand flung backward, they work themselves into a trance

If the possession begins to get out of control, or the dancers begin to stagger or stumble, an attendant quickly sprinkles them with holy water, and makes them breathe the smoke of incense to bring them back to normal.

These spirit dances, according to the Burmese, were also an element of democracy in the old days during the sometimes tyrannical rule of the kings.

If a medium in a trance fell upon some member of the audience and attributed godlike qualities to him, even the king was forced to respect him and listen to his advice

One section of the spirit dance which is particularly moving and which contains elements of sequential drama as well as dance is

called Ton Byon and re-enacts the martyrdom of two young boys.

The story goes that a thousand or so years ago one of the Burmese

kings was preparing to attack China, and in order to ensure the suc-

cess of his venture, he decreed that an enormous pagoda be con-

structed Every male member of the country was required to contrib-

ute one brick towards this gigantic edifice. There was at the time a

certain well-known family whose members consisted of a Burmese

mother, an Indian father, and two beautiful sons. In accordance with

the King's command, the two sons were despatched with their bricks

to make their contribution. But en route they became engrossed in

playing games and forgot their mission. They were crucified for this

negligence. The Burmese were so moved by this event that they de-

ified the boys and made them nats or spirits.

The dance shows first the affectionate devotion between the

mother and her sons, then the children at play, and finally their fare-

well as they are led off to their crucifixion. Wearing a gold-spangled,

fuchsia-colored cloth over her head, the mother blesses her sons and

gives them each a peacock feather. Then she feeds them their last

meal Finally, the boys take some sprigs of ferns in their hands and

while paying homage to their mother walk tremblingly and fearfully

to their doom. This section of the spirit dance is extremely moving

for the Burmese, and they regard it as sacrosanct. Recently, a film

company made a dramatization of the story, but while the cameras

recorded it inside the studio, a full-scale spirit dance was performed

outside in the open—to make sure no offense was taken by the secular

telling of the story.

After all the thirty-seven spirits have appeared and been repre-

sented in dance and mime, the grand finale consists of a ritual for col-

lecting additional money. The mediums bring on an earthenware

pot shaped like a cock covered with gold leaf They pass it around

while various members of the audience place coins and bills in it.

Then the medium waves it in the air as the orchestra plays energeti-

cally, and pretends to throw it away. The cock is then shown again

to the audience but the money has disappeared. (It has a false

bottom, I surmise ) Thus process is repeated until sufficient money to

satisfy the spirits is collected. The spirit dance ends, until the next

New Year season or another need for questioning or propitiating

Burma's oldest, most deep-rooted religious forces arises.

123

The most recent form of pwé to develop in Burma is the Pya Zat or modern play. Usually these are comedies (there are no real tragedies even in the classical theatre) and if you go to the Win Win Theatre in Rangoon, the only regular legitimate playhouse in the country playing every night of the year, you will very likely happen on a Pya Zat. Modern plays received a special stimulus during the occupation of Burma by the Japanese Movies, except Japanese ones, were forbidden and there were no imports from Europe or America.

The irrepressible Burmese began writing their own equivalents and performing them in as contemporary and realistic a style as their natures allowed. Since the War, their popularity has not yet diminished, although it is obvious from the attendance that they cannot supplant the warm and affectionate place the historical plays and classical theatre hold in the hearts of the public. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the modern plays for the foreigner is the acting talent and ability they reveal. Despite the classical traditions and the song-dance-drama-puppet mélange Burmese theatre involves, a special instinct for theatre—a native sense of acting in a Western sense—clearly exists in Burma, and more obviously so, in my opinion, than in the West.

This seems curious to us, the outsiders, to whom modern theatre is an actual heritage and almost a birthright. The answer probably lies in the fact that no Burmese can escape his theatre, and sheer exposure to pwés from childhood, with all the rigid complexity of their classical tenets, equips an actor in Burma and grounds him in the technique of movement in a way the actor lacks it in the West.

Burma divides itself geographically and ethnologically into the Lower and Upper areas. The pwés belong to Lower Burma or the fertile plains of the South. Upper Burma is composed of hilly, even mountainous country, and is inhabited by a variety of loosely related races known variously as Shans, Chins, Kachins and Nagas. Of these perhaps the most important are the Shans who live in the Shan States, where some of the most beautiful scenery in the world as well as some of its most engaging peoples can be found.

The Shans are more Chinese or Mongolian in appearance than the typical Burman of the plains, and their dances and customs differ

B U R M A / Dance and Drama

accordingly from their more Indianized kinsmen. No drama exists in

the area at all, and while dance is not as evolved as it is in Mandalay

or Rangoon, and its instruments are exceedingly simple—consisting

only of drums, gongs, and cymbals—there is nevertheless a special

excitement about a performance in this area.

Shan dancing is, of course, best seen during a festival or at harvest

time when whole villages participate in the one vast celebration. But

it is also possible to see in Taunggyi, the capital of the Shan States,

an excellent introductory and representative view of the area’s several

dance arts. These will be performed by students or teachers or local

residents who simply make a hobby of their dances. The Shan Liter-

ary Society, under the enterprising direction of Dr. Banyan, is

interested in preserving and encouraging all the folk arts of the Shans

and can be prevailed upon to arrange a special performance for the

visitor. Of the several dance enthusiasts living in Taunggyi, Thein

Maung, a handsome young man in his early thirties, easily qualifies

as the most able and competent All dancers in Upper Burma are

amateurs, since there are no professional arts in the sense that we

know, but Thein Maung’s talent sets him well apart from the others

and indicates the potentialities of the dance there, were it to be

taken from its natural setting and encouraged along creative and pro-

fessional lines.

Roughly classified, the dances of Upper Burma fall into three

groups the processional, those imitative of animals, and the fighting

displays Processional dances are simple, elementary troupings and

traipsings of boys and girls of the villages. They walk about single

file, forming circles and arcs, and sing as they gesticulate with their

hands and arms. Usually the thumb and forefinger curls to form a

circle (like the advertisement for Ballantine’s beer), and as the dul-

cet drums and gongs softly resound in the chill night air, the dancers

spin out their unenergetic and graceful patterns

Animal dances are more complex. These are usually presented in

full costume imitative of the animal to be reproduced in dance—a

flying horse, bird, yak, or the half-bird, half-human kinnara. The

dancer mimics the animal with precise and exact verisimilitude. If it

is supposed to be a bird he hops on one foot, pecks at invisible food,

cocks his head, juts his neck out, preens, pivots amorously in a circle,

and utters imitative cries and squawks In the hands of Thein

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Maung, for example, such a dance becomes more than an amusing

human approximation of a zoological phenomenon. It has composi-

tion and a logical flow of emotion. He chains the movements to-

gether in graceful connected succession, and you can even follow

his embryonic story. The animal is hungry, he looks for food, finds it.

Then he seeks out a mate, flirts and shows off. But the season is

wrong He exits in a flurry of frustration and ruffled anger. To enact

the story if he chooses to give it one, he moves in a circle filling the

dance arena with his remarkable imitative motions. The dance is a

representation but by skill and artistry he is able to make it an im-

proved and sensible depiction. The scope for humor and even vulgar-

ity is clear. The dancer can mock the animal, exploit its stupidities,

make its antics grotesque, ungainly or awkward To the Burmese

there is something humorous anyway in a human bedecking himself

like an animal and going through the motions of a lesser creature Or

he can exhibit its serenity and fill you with envy at its placid calm

and majesty.

Animal dances occupy a place of special interest for students and

a digression at this point is necessary. They are invariably found in

mountainous areas away from the cities and particularly among iso-

lated aboriginals, pockets of whom are found in almost every coun-

try of Asia. Some scholars assert as a theory that the animal is the

source of all dance, that primitive man in watching the animals

around him first began to dance by imitating their dance-like move-

ments There is, of course, an intimate connection between animal

life and mankind in jungle areas. And from watching animals to

worshiping them is apparently an easy sociological step. The intro-

duction of religion gives these dances of animal imitation a further

propulsion In areas where a particular beast occupies a good deal of

attention—either because it is a menace (like the tiger) or the

source of good (like the vulture who disposes of refuse) or even

when man's livelihood depends on it in some special way (like the

cow or buffalo)—the animal dance takes on still greater motivation.

So you find lion dances in Africa, or tiger dances in India, or bear

dances among the Ainus in Northern Japan (they drink the blood

and live off the meat), or even pony dances in Sumba in Indonesia

(an island where the sole export is the special breed of tiny horses).

Such dances serve two contrasting purposes. either to placate the evil

B U R M A / Dance and Drama

spint within it that drives it to harass the human being or to thank

the gods for the benevolence the animal brings into the commu-

nity's life. But even in the most highly developed dance forms of Asia,

in their most sophisticated theatre houses, the animal remains.

Whatever the deeper explanation may be, they appear sometimes

because the plot or story refers to them and require their special

attributes, like the monkeys in the Ramayana. But sometimes, and I

think this is the most pertinent aspect of animal dances, they merely

add a note of special aesthetic delight to the theatre. The stage is

not complete enough with only the human to fill it. While the con-

cept of animals in the theatre may appear childlike to many Western-

ers, they do awaken a particular response in us, and it is a pleasurable

one. Whether this is atavistic or primitive or is in our natures seems to

be beside the point. If the swan part of Swan Lake, for instance, is

silly, or the bear in Petrushka ludicrous, we, the spectators, are none-

theless richer for them. And some different and legitimate response

inside us is awakened. The cult of realism and naturalism or actual-

ity seems one-sided to the Asian if it disregards the aesthetic funda-

mental that the impersonation of an animal induces.

The Lai Ka (literally fight-dance, but sometimes translated as

Defense-Offense) of the Shan States is its most systematized dance.

Basically, it is a kind of training or rehearsal for actual combat. Its

principle, like a palindrome of logic, is. if you can dance, you can

fight; if you can fight, automatically you can dance Fighting dances

or Lai Ka are performed exclusively by men, almost nude except for

an exiguous pair of shorts This nudity is not only for freedom of

movement or to show off the dancer's muscles, but to display as far

as modesty permits his dark blue tattoos of floral designs which ex-

tend solidly around the body from waist to just above the knees. In

fact, at one performance of Shan dancing in Taunggyi, one of the

young dancers came forward to apologize to the audience for his

lack of tattoos He had not yet acquired enough money to have the

proper tattooing done, he said. Although this custom is gradually

dying out, the majority of Shan men still vaunt their tattoos as a

symbol of virility and fortitude Certainly the process of covering the

man's entire pelvic region with tattoos is painful and even opium,

which is socially acceptable in that part of the world, is only partially

anaesthetic.

127

The basic beginning fighting dance is called the Free Hand It

begins with the fists held thumbs-up at the chest. Then the empty-

handed performer flails the air, restlessly pacing back and forth, pivot-

ing and reversing suddenly, punching and striking blows at imaginary,

invisible enemies The dancer twists around and sinks crosslegged

to the ground only to spring up, as if unwinding his legs, and recom-

mences his watchful, alert probing of the air At all times the dance

matches the rhythm and speed of the music which change from time

to time according to indications from either the drummer or the

dancer himself.

The second of the fighting dances is the Sword Dance Here the

dancer swirls two sharp and gleaming swords about his body, at whirl-

wind speed over the head, near the neck and around the knees.

There is real danger in this dance. If the performer miscalculates or

his timing falters he would slice off an ear or gash his knee. The

unsure beginner practices with his swords well away from the body.

As he grows more expert, he brings the swords closer and closer in

towards him. A master dancer will in the heat of the dance keep the

swords continuously grazing his body until they seem to be slithering

and sliding over him.

The third fighting dance is the Fire Dance, where the ends of a

long wand are wrapped in thick cotton wads, then dipped in kero-

sene, and set aflame. The dancer twirls it in his hands like a drum

major, passing it through his legs, over his head and bringing it

closer and closer to the body until the sparks sprinkle over him.

Finally, he tosses it in the air and catches it, still spinning like a

Catherine Wheel, in one hand The dance is made even more com-

plicated when a pair of dancers, each with two flaming wands in

their hands, perform a mock fight, ducking and avoiding the feints

and sallies of their partner, and skipping to each side to escape the

burning thrusts of their lively opponents.

Burma’s unrestrained responsiveness to dance arts in the North and

its abandoned pleasure in the theatrical pwés of the South, are im-

pressive to anyone coming from the reserved-seat, hushed auditorium

atmosphere of much of Western theatre. Few countries have as much

gaiety in their theatre and few offer as many genuine dance and

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drama delights within so small a geographical area. There have, of

course, always been periods of rise and decline in Burma's theatrical

world, but we are fortunate today to find Burma at one of its heights

with scores of good actors, dancers and musicians. The new govern-

ment, as in other parts of Asia, riding on this wave of enthusiasm, is

encouraging a further waxing of the country's arts. In 1953 the Un-

ion of Burma Cultural Department (with almost as much power as a Ministry) created a Department of Fine Arts and Music at Manda-

lay, the old cultural capital of the country and seat of some of the

most famous kingdoms. They select students from all over Burma

for study there and pay them around ten dollars a month simply to

learn dance and music. For their regular studies, the pupils attend a

free night school. Crowded together in a single two-story building,

they learn everything from playing the silken strings of a Burmese

harp shaped like a swan and so faint you can scarcely hear it, to the

most complicated and advanced dance steps Burma has yet invented

At present the Department has around a hundred students and the

number is increasing. What effect such a large annual outflow of

qualified and competently trained performers will have is hard to

assess. One thing is certain: Burma's popular arts of the theatre will

continue and grow and spread, and it will take more than wars or

bombs or a troubled uncertain future to destroy the happy arts of

this happy people.

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4

THAILAND

Whatever else may be said about Thailand, or Siam as it used to be called, it must be stated at the outset that it is aesthetically mature as a country. Aside from splendid dance and acting ability among its people and its professional rather than folk or amateur level of production, the pleasantness, availability, and the intensely protective sense which surrounds the dance and drama arts there make it one of the most satisfying areas of Asia theatrically speaking. This does not mean that you cannot find points for objection and criticism if you look hard enough. Nothing is very old in Thailand and nothing is overwhelmingly great—Japan has better theatre, Indonesia finer dancing, and India is more original—but Thailand nevertheless spreads before the visitor and student an impressive array of theatrical attainment, particularly in Bangkok, the capital city. Added to this is a peculiarly Siamese enchantment prevalent everywhere which affects even the most cursory of tourists and makes foreign residents fall gently and inextricably in love with the country.

The first things you are told about Thailand, and certainly these impress you almost immediately on arrival, are that the country is small, that it is rich, and that it never was a colony. This fortuitous conjuncture of circumstances produces an openhearted, happy, uncomplicated people, and no matter what faults you may later find or think you find with them, such as the Thais being superficial, derivative, even opportunist, if you like, there always remains a radiance about every contact with them and every display of themselves they choose to make.

The convenience and smooth mechanics of theatre-going in Bangkok, while this doubtless is a mundane consideration, is perhaps its most endearing quality. Programs are announced everywhere from

T H A I L A N D / Dance and Drama

English language papers to hotel lobbies. Tickets can be bought at

box offices or on street corners or at hotel desks. Synopses of per-

formances are printed in English. A small body of intelligent, ex-

planatory literature on dance and drama has recently grown up and

can be bought at any bookstore. Most guide books devote more than

a third of their pages to dance alone. And the Thais are so proud of

their dance and drama that if an article on the subject appears

abroad, it is sure to be pirated and reprinted in the local newspapers

as a testimony of Thai greatness. Most of all, the friendly Siamese

will take pains to accompany you to the theatre, to interpret for you,

and to encourage you to think that their arts are wonderful. This

eases the way for the outsider, and its effect not only on your disposi-

tion but on your appreciation goes far in helping you along the

sometimes tortuous and devious path of understanding Asia.

Bangkok is a sprawling city, a compound of many elements. The

people with their brown complexion, stocky stature and Mongolian

look are unmistakably Asian, but it is a mixed race of several types.

They are not as Malay as most Southeast Asians nor as Chinese-

looking as the purer Chinese Visually, the city also shows even more

importation, adaptation, and amalgamation Bangkok abounds in

Chinese statues amid its gaudy Indian-style wats or temples Its

stupas are covered with bits of foreign-made crockery and glass. And

even the costumes of the classical dances are indebted to far-off

Portugal for their velvets and shiny metallic discs Nearly everyone

on the street wears Western clothes of some style or other, and the

foreigner draped in Thaibok scarves and foulards is apt to be on the

surface more Siamese than the native. Expensive, new, American

cars glide up and down the show street, Rajdamnern Avenue, in

front of its row of fine modern buildings, almost colliding with the

rusty, worn-out pedicabs and rickshas that the majority of Bangkok's

population can afford.

Thailand is a country of change. One of Bangkok's great avenues

was built expressly for an international exposition. For the SEATO

conference, fountains were flown by air from Germany, and over-

night the city blossomed with spraying water tinted by colored lights.

Political changes are easily made, too, as the complete about-face

from a Japanese alliance and declaration of war on America to the

present American-backed government has shown. Artistically, Thai-

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land also changes. In 1949, when I first visited Bangkok, there was an

active modern theatre movement in de luxe auditoriums of gold and

crimson with sculptured prosceniums of elephant-headed gods To-

day these theatres show only movies and the modern theatre move-

ment is finished. All this flexibility in race, culture, politics and art is

not, strangely, a sign of weakness or vacillation It is rather, to my

way of thinking at least, an example of Siamese genius. The feeling

for change and willingness for it within the people makes them, and

I am speaking primarily now of their arts, lively, vigorous, and even

virile. It is perhaps this enterprise and lack of rigidity which makes

Thailand a most thoroughly comprehensible country to the Ameri-

can or European—and much more so than any other country of Asia

The power inherent within the nation has not only made itself

felt in the past through both political and cultural domination of

neighboring states but even today Thailand is culturally one of the

soundest countries. Theatre fashions start in Bangkok, and within a

year they are felt in Cambodia, in Laos, in Vietnam, in Malaya, in

Indonesia, and even Burma. A startling example of this is Rambong,

a Thai invention and contribution to modern dance, still popular

in neighboring countries as it is in Thailand itself, an almost in-

escapable activity of any dance-hall in Southeast Asia. Rambong,

roughly described, is a somewhat sexless version of ballroom dancing

performed in open-air pavilions at night by dance-hall girls and men

who buy tickets to dance with them. In Rambong the couple weaves

around the dance floor, waving arms and hands in circular patterns

and shuffling feet, but their bodies never touch. The woman leads,

setting the direction and course of the movement, and the man fol-

lows, although it is he who selects the partner. Meanwhile a Western-

style band plays the jazzy, stepped-up rhythm of the Rambong, which

never varies regardless of the tune. In most Southeast Asian dance

halls now, there comes a Rambong time, and the floor fills with

swaying and aloofly separated pairs gracefully forming Siamese dance

gestures. The fad will probably soon reach the Philippines too. Some

Filipinos recently visiting Vietnam were entranced by the dance and

have launched it, first among Manila society, and there is every likeli-

hood it will spread

If in the past Thailand borrowed her dance arts from India and

nearer neighbors, she has in recent years repaid to some extent that

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T H A I L A N D / Dance-Dramas

international debt through Rambong, and there are reasons for its

immense popularity. Rambong meets a social need. It is easy and

anyone can do it. It replaces the antiquated folk dances which, be-

cause of their simplicity, have begun to pall on modern Asians. It is

an excuse for men and women to be together openly. It fills the

vacuum in entertainment created by the general decline of classical

dancing. Perhaps most of all, it answers the requirement of Western-

ization which inevitably rises from the pressures and effects of Eu-

rope and America. Yet it does not offend the innate sense of modesty

and sexual segregation which forms so definite a characteristic of

respectable Asians and their social mores. While the songs of

Rambong may be moony and the dance rudimentary, it still is an

absorbing way to spend an evening, either watching or participating.

To draw a comparison, it may be said that Rambong is to Southeast

Asia pretty much what the jitterbug was to America, both being ex-

cellent and delightful dances not only as popular pastimes but for

their value within the total framework of the world's endless search

for new movements and body configurations The Thais deserve

credit for this new pleasure.

Dance-Dramas

When you say the word “dance” to a Thai, two things spring simul-

taneously to his mind, Khon and Lakon, and both of these belong to

what is more clearly expressed as “Classical Dance and Drama ”

Khon is sometimes described as “masked play” or “masked panto-

mime” and this conveys a general idea of it if you add to the Western

connotation of these words generous portions of dance and music

and song. Khon is the oldest theatrical form still seen in Thailand,

and it is filled with reminders of its ancient connections with India.

Although India’s Kathakali as it is presented today is not as old or

unchanged as Khon, the relation between the two is obvious. Khon

uses masks, while Kathakali, which once used them, now substitutes

mask-like make-ups. The actors are mute, and all dialogue is sung by

a set of side-singers who sit with the accompanying instruments of

133

the orchestra. Both contain gesture language (mudras) which interprets the action and substitutes for actual speech. Both are performed

exclusively by men. Both arts were until recently patronized by royalty and the princely courts.

The texts of Khon are highly Sanskritized but an outsider with the slightest knowledge of Siamese pronunciation and who knows

only a scanty amount of Sanskrit can follow the gist of the story. All Khon themes are translated from the Ramayana, called in Siamese

Rama Kian (or "The Fame of Rama"), despite the fact that Thailand for centuries now has been intensely Buddhist The reconciliation

between the Hindu religious epic and the Buddhist faith has been adroitly effected in Thailand. The Thai, in the first place, see

the Ramayana as a simple story, something like a fairy tale, and part of their non-religious traditions. In this connection it is worthy of

note that the religious aspects of the Ramayana are neglected in the theatre and the episodes most frequently performed are the abduc-

tions involving Ravana, called Thosakan (from the Sanskrit for "ten-necked"). In contrast with the deification of Rama which is

its Indian summation, the general moral the Thais derive from the Ramayana is, to quote an ancient poet-commentator, that "Even the

lower animals [Hanuman, his monkey army and a cortège of bears] help a person who is in the right, and even a brother [Hanuman and

his brother are on opposing sides in the battle against Ravana] abandons one who is in the wrong."

Khon essentially is a nobleman's art. It was confined exclusively to the palace, with only infrequent open-air performances for the

people until 1932 At that time the first of Thailand's several famous coups d'état took place, and the King was deprived of his power, the

country was turned into a constitutional monarchy, and a number of recessions in court extravagance were made which in turn affected

Khon. Thai kings up to then had always found special pleasure in the arts.

Rama I (1736-1809), the first of the present dynasty, drove out the Burmese who had occupied Thailand, and established his new

capital at Bangkok in 1782, but in the midst of all this he found time to compose the first modern version in Siamese of the

Ramayana. His son, Rama II (1767-1834), wrote a number of plays,

134

some of which are still occasionally revived, including a version of

Krai Thong, the popular story of a commoner who wins the hand of

a millionaire's daughter by killing the crocodile king who has ab-

ducted her and carried her away to his underwater lair. The long

reign of Rama VI, who lived from 1880 until 1925, is sometimes

referred to as a Golden Age for theatricals. During this period the

King wrote a large number of plays of various types, some even in

English and French which by then had become compulsory subjects

for Asian monarchs, and patronized Khon on a grand and lavish

scale. He was responsible for what came to be known as Khon

Bandasakti, or Noble Khon, and all male members of the Royal

Family learned it and even danced in public. Of course, these occa-

sions were special as a part of good works or public welfare, and were

always for charity. And while this Noble Khon shocked the conserva-

tive element of the people, it was a response to the gradual democ-

ratization that was infiltrating everywhere. It showed that the nobles

were human after all, and that they delighted in pleasures applicable

to the whole country. In addition to their own performances, many

members of the Royal entourage maintained private troupes (ostensi-

bly they practiced the art in order to judge it more astutely) at their

mansions for their own personal entertainment, and partly, too, for a

display of their greatness. Today, only one prince of the blood I know

of, the enthusiastic Prince Bhanu-Phan Yukala of Bangkok, can still

afford to maintain his own staff of dancers. The King has none.

This custom of public performance of Khon by nobles still con-

tinues today, although the Royal Khon troupes are formally dis-

banded. It may happen that when you are in Bangkok, a Khon per-

formance of this sort will be announced. One was arranged in 1954

for the purpose of collecting funds to build a new wing in one of the

local hospitals. It was, as the publicity read, 'under the gracious pa-

tronage of His Majesty the King.' The cast was composed of 'gentle-

men of His Majesty's household who had been trained in classical

dancing in the days of His Late Majesty Rama VI.' The venue was

the large open-air stage and grounds at Suan Ambara near the Mar-

ble Throne Hall. There, under the stars of a soft Bangkok night,

with the King sitting alone on a brocaded divan, with the Queen

sitting a respectful distance behind him and the rest of the audience

spread out like a fan still further behind her, the performance began.

135

The excerpt from the Ramayana chosen was one of the more ambitious passages, one requiring the largest cast of characters in all Khon, “Hanuman’s Violation of Maiyarab’s Defense.” The scene tells the story of Hanuman’s elevation by Rama’s brother to the rank of general of the army and his mission of rescuing Rama from the nether world where he lies under a magic spell cast at Ravana’s behest.

The stage which was especially constructed for this performance was unusually high so that people in the streets outside the gates and walls could see even from a distance. The platform stood between two tall trees, and huge flood lamps on either side beamed down over the area like bright moonlight On a lower platform to the right an assembly of twenty musicians and singers sat crosslegged.

Before them lay the rarely used, intricately carved musical instruments of the Royal Household, each varnished a deep mahogany color and inlaid with mother-of-pearl

The performance began with an orchestral introduction by the Piphat band of clattering xylophones, strident, stertorous horns of rosewood, drums which sounded like the nervous, restless flapping of wings, and clappers. The dozen or so dancers emerged in costumes glittering with paillettes and silver studs Their long-sleeved blouses of velvet and moiré, so tight-fitting that the dancer must be sewn into them at each performance, clashed flamboyantly with the colors of the shot-silk, knee-length trousers which were elegantly draped and tucked through the legs to fasten at the back into a silver belt.

On their shoulders glinted silver epaulettes which curved upwards like eaves of a pagoda roof The round face of Rama’s brother was powdered chalk white with only a thin line of red to delineate his lips On his head he wore a gold-spired crown from which tassels of red hibiscus and white frangipani dangled at his temples.

The other characters wore masks which fitted closely over their entire heads Each was painted a different color—orange, green, black, and various pastel shades. The dead white mask of Hanuman, the “white monkey,” matched his costume of silver lamé and set him apart from the others.

As the plot began to unfold, the singers in the orchestra in conventional Khon style sang out each character’s name, saying “Lakshmana [Rama’s brother] announces . . .” or “Hanuman speaks . . .” so that the audience could recognize each character as

136

T H A I L A N D / Dance-Dramas

he began to move. Then changing the tone of their voices, they

chanted the separate speeches of each personage on the stage in

short-breathed, sing-song but mellifluous fragments. The actor ap-

proximated the meaning of each phrase with gestures and move-

ments, first slowly, and then repeated in a quicker tempo. While one

actor performs his given set of actions, the others remain, as they do in

Kathakali, immobile. (This convention does not apply entirely in

battle or love scenes.)

The segments of orchestral music consisted, as is true in all Sia-

mese theatricals, of special interludes somewhat like incidental music.

These are interpretive and explanatory, not because they express the

feeling of the drama in an exact or imitative way, but because the

time and rhythm have been arbitrarily accepted by convention as

appropriate to the occasion These passages are rigidly fixed and any

theatre lover must be familiar with them. They stand for particular

situations and emotions such as exits and entrances, tears, battles,

and the like. Three of them are considered sacred even today: the

music indicating a scene of copulation (the actual action on the

stage shows only a caress or a stroke of the hand); that which ac-

companies a magical act or the recitation of a secret mantra; and

there is one other, a special composition played when leading dancers

assemble for a name-giving ceremony or to award an accomplished

performer with a higher stage name. On hearing these, savants

among the audience or those trained in the discipline of the dance

immediately salute by bringing their hands together and placing

them, thumbs at the nose, before their face in a gesture of homage

and respect to the sacrosanct art of music.

At this point, the music which is particularly delightful should be

briefly explained further. Siamese music uses the diatonic scale as we

do, but its tuning is different. The octave is divided into seven

equidistant whole tones The pitch is pure, not tempered like ours,

and at first sounds slightly out-of-tune and bland, since there are no

tensions or pulls between the evenly separated notes. The fourth and

seventh tones of the scale are generally avoided which gives the

sound a hollowness and quiescent emptiness. To accentuate this the

music is played almost without dynamics—it is always moderately

loud—and once a piece begins there are few accelerandi or ritards.

The pyrotechnics of the Khon play I am describing begin when

137

Hanuman is alone on the stage and, after many characteristic acts like rolling on the ground, scratching himself for lice, and monkey-like frolicking over the stage, sets out on his hazardous journey to the nether world In an attempt to block him en route, a magician creates several obstructions First, an enormous elephant of gray cloth, with two men to act as the fore and hind feet, walks out from underneath the stage and romps around the grass before the audience.

Hanuman grapples with him and kills him barehanded. Then there is an explosion of gunpowder and the rocky crag off to one side is filled with flames made by off-stage attendants rapidly fanning bright red strips of silk. Hanuman heroically lifts a huge papier maché boulder and throws it over the fire to smother it. Then follows a horde of enormous paper mosquitos, the size of crows, slowly pulled along wire suspended across the top of the stage between the two trees They attack Hanuman, but he fights some of them off and crushes the others with his hands Finally Hanuman reaches a lotus pond which miraculously appears on stage.

There he finds a young guardian at the gates of Hell who is half-fish, half-monkey. Hanuman recognizes him as his own son, the product of an early indiscretion with a mermaid, but in order to prove his identity to the boy, he performs the great “miracle of Hanuman,” that of emitting the moon and the stars by a single yawn. The sacred magic music sounds. Suddenly the moon and stars appear, bright and shining in the air. Finally, Hanuman divines that the quickest route to Rama in the nether world is down the stem of a lotus, and the Khon is concluded as he leaps head first off the stage into the petals of a giant lotus in front.

As the finale, a corps de ballet of high officials of the Royal House-hold, all of them aged men, appeared in full costume but without masks. The entire orchestra of musicians sang and played a farewell salutation. Following their words in the special language of the dance, the dancers, in flowing, stately motions, thanked the audience for their charity, praised the King for his benevolence, and wished His Majesty and us a long life and one of graciousness. The King rose and faced the audience who also stood up; everyone remained motionless while the Thai national anthem was played tremulously by the xylophones and drums. A black, open-top convertible drove up to the stage, the King climbed into the back seat and left.

A

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T H A I L A N D / Dance-Dramas

black, closed sedan followed for the Queen. The audience wandered

around for a while, inspecting the ornate instruments, bowing to

musicians and dancers who still lingered and looking at the mechani-

cal contrivances which had produced the stage effects; finally they

started home, only to find the gates still crowded with the citizens of

Bangkok who could not afford the exorbitant admission price but

wanted to hear the music, to peek at the performance, and possibly,

too, to stare at the more distinguished of the spectators.

Royal Khon is performed infrequently nowadays, and it grows in-

creasingly rare with each year. One or two troupes of ordinary danc-

ers without palace connections are in Bangkok and have for some

years now eked out a livelihood practicing the art on a professional

level and appearing before anyone, including tourists, who calls them.

The Thais used to put on a performance of Khon when there was a

marriage that they wished to make specially festive. But the sons of

the now aged performers, the inheritors of the tradition, have found

it alarmingly difficult to earn their living by art and are turning to

more lucrative, reliable occupations. One reason for the decline is, of

course, the absence of royal support And, besides, Khon has lost

the cachet and chic that high society once gave it Another cause is

that Lakon, the second of Thailand's classical dance-drama forms,

because it allows women to dance in it, has superseded Khon in

popularity among the general public.

Lakon means “theatre” generally, and the correct designation for

what one thinks of as Lakon should be Lakon Ram or “theatre

dances.” Within this generic classification, however, a number of

specific words describe the various types of Lakon in Thailand:

Lakon Nai for the pure dance performed until recently exclusively

within the Palace by the King’s special ‘harem, Lakon Nok for the

dance troupes outside the palace who emphasize the story part of

the dance plays, and Lakon Duk Damban for dance-plays which re-

quire scenery But these subsidiary classifications are now more tech-

nical than actual and the Lakon we see most frequently is a medley

of all of them, or extracts of their dance portions When the modern

theatre began some years ago, the only word the Thais could find

for this new form was also simply “Lakon ” But in the Siamese lan-

139

guage there is no confusion, because the context, the theatre or place

of performance, the names of the artists and so forth, tell you what

type of Lakon is meant automatically.

Roughly defined, Lakon today as the word is currently used is pre-

dominantly a dance-drama performed by women, who act male roles

as well, with or without scenery, either against a plot or story-

background with literal gesticulation or consisting of meaningless ab-

stract movements, and with music and certain conventions that stem

from the older, more austere prototype, Khon. This connection be-

comes even clearer from the older pronunciation of the word Lakon

as La-Khon. Unlike Khon, Lakon stories are not exclusively from

the Ramayana. They may be from Siamese legends (like Krai

Thong), or Hindu-inspired legends, or even from that source of plots

called the Panji cycle which came to Thailand from Indonesia. This

Lakon, with Bangkok as its main center, certainly is the nation's

most boastful bid as it appears today for artistic excellence on an

international level.

The history of Lakon has been troubled and complicated It be-

gan with the Siamese conquest of the neighboring and artistically

more developed Kingdom of Cambodia a couple of hundred years

ago. A troupe of Cambodian palace dancers were kidnapped bodily

and brought to the Thai capital along with the Emerald Buddha

and several other cultural treasures. Lakon immediately delighted

the King both for its art and for the additions to his seraglio it gave.

Gradually the dance underwent some changes which rendered it

more Siamese in character and imitators of the King's dancers sprang

up in other parts of the country. With the later democratization of

Thailand, Lakon troupes of the court were disbanded, and a few of

these performers became teachers During World War II, along with

pressures of various other kinds from the Japanese, Lakon was looked

upon as frivolous and unconsonant with the dignity of a Western-

ized, progressive Asia. The then prime minister, Phibun Songgram,

who, as I write, again holds the office, and whose theatrical tastes are,

according to rumor, limited to the music halls of France, remained

indifferent to its fate and Lakon was allowed to disappear from Sia-

mese life.

However, in the midst of these difficult days, some scholars and

members of the princely class, foreseeing a tragic fate for Thailand's

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T H A I L A N D / Dance-Dramas

Lakon, banded together to agitate for the creation of a Department

of Fine Arts as a full-fledged subsidiary of the Chulalongkorn Uni-

versity of Bangkok, the largest university in the country and sub-

sidized by the government Such an organization, they felt, could

salvage what remained of the dance, and at the same time protect

the art as royal patronage had once done They finally succeeded,

and the government agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to its establish-

ment on a modest scale. The subjects taught were dance in all its

phases, painting, sculpture and music. Western music too was intro-

duced into the curriculum, and the school orchestra—called the

State Orchestra—gave concerts of Weber and Von Suppé and Wag-

ner from time to time However, artistic training could not be elected

in place of the general academic education offered by the Univer-

sity's other departments Its pupils, and some of them are artists, are

therefore actually college students Even after the establishment of

the Department, for a long time controversy raged over it and there

was no basic agreement on its true function. Many feared that its

connection with the government would turn it into a pawn of the

politicians Others felt that any substitute for royal patronage could

only lead to a lack of elegance. Some felt the Department's scope

should be broadened to include drama in its fullest sense, and mod-

ern or Western-style acting should be introduced. Others wanted to

see it limited only to Siamese classic arts Some regarded it as a

money-making proposition that must depend on the public for sup-

port by giving performances. But however much attitudes toward the

Department of Fine Arts varied, a few of its organizers persevered

along their own lines and its aims and goals took shape. 'The fate of

Lakon, in particular, has remained entirely in its hands and the de-

cay of all Siamese classical dance and drama has been arrested, and a

return to their former popularity clearly resulted

Today, the Department of Fine Arts is contained in a large com-

pound of several whitewashed, moulding and lichenéd buildings not

far from the Royal Palace. The largest, a long, barn-like rectangle is

known as the Silpakorn Theatre where public performances of full-

length, three-hour-long stage shows of Lakon dancing, Khon dramas,

and usually a pleasing mixture of all their elements including scenery

and costume changes, music and dialogue, are given by the Depart-

ment's students. Outside the theatre stands an ancient stone carving

141

of Ganesa, the Hindu patron-God of theatre, and inside, amid ticket

windows, posters and more statuary of ancient gods, are huge car-

touches of perforated buffalo hide. These represent characters from

the Ramayana and Mahabharata used in the shadow-plays, once

popular but now rapidly dying out, being performed only in remote

villages. There is little trace of Buddhism here. The dancers worship

Vairavana, another of the Hindu gods of dance, and pray before the

Indian-derived masks of Khon.

The hall seats almost a thousand people, but it is packed to over-

flowing for both the matinee and evening performances held regu-

larly throughout the year on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. This

theatre now earns more than any other single entertainment house

in Thailand, including American movies The last dance-drama they

produced earned a net profit of a million and a half ticals (about

30,000 dollars) in seven months of its thrice-weekly run, and this was

achieved with tickets selling at the top price of a dollar and a half

The fantastic success of the Silpakorn Theatre is due almost exclu-

sively to the untiring efforts of a single person, a former première

ballerina of Lakon at the court, and now an old woman Around her

she has collected a staff of former palace dancers, court dancing

masters, and savants from various parts of Thailand. She rules her

organization with something that amounts to eccentricity, a quality

rare in Thailand. She frequently perches her spectacles on the end

of her nose fiercely, thumps her heavy black cane, and loses her tem-

per in fits of rage But in her milder moments, she organizes, directs,

and arranges each show with a skill that has made them so important

a part of Bangkok life and Thai culture. Despite her tyrannies, she

has another side to her character which is unstinting in its kindness

and appreciation of genuinely talented pupils. She supports a num-

ber of them privately out of her own slender resources, until they are

able to earn their living professionally by appearing at the Silpakorn

regularly, or teaching at the Department of Fine Arts itself, or es-

tablishing themselves as private teachers in other cities of Thailand.

The salaries at the Silpakorn Theatre may be low according to Amer-

ican standards—around 3500 ticals or $50 a month—but there are

increments which augment this considerably, including shared profits

from the more successful performances.

Aside from the popular success the Department has achieved and

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its resuscitation of the classical arts, one of its most valuable functions

has been to offer a haven to artists and teachers of Thailand. It

rescues folk and country dances which, as Thailand's villages change

more and more under Western influence, run the risk of disappear-

ance. This is done by bringing the greatest teachers or practitioners to

the school and incorporating their knowledge into the repertoire of

classic dances as far as a given story permits The Department even

provides livelihood for artists whom time and modernization have to

an extent by-passed. Most notable of these is Kunwad. He was in

1955 sixty-five years old and is the school's senior teacher. Orig-

inally he was attached to the Royal household as a teacher and per-

former of Khon, and specialized primarily in female roles. He initi-

ates all the Department's artist pupils into the greater profundities

of their art. He formally places and adjusts the headdresses of the

leading stars of the Silpakorn Theatre before they make their en-

trances; and he instructs both men and women in their craft. As in

most of Asia, the best teachers are male, and while it is all right in

Thailand to study in the beginning with a woman, the first dance

step in public must be taken with a male teacher amid candles,

flowers and appropriate offerings that reaffirm the sacredness of

dance and the supremacy of man in the arts. His back-stage position

contrasts strangely with his actual appearances before the public at

the Silpakorn Theatre. He participates in each production but all

the spectator sees of him usually is the person of a very old man

comically dressed as a woman, performing the daring or silly actions,

such as jumping into water and doing somersaults, required of a

ludicrous duenna or female attendant. Unfortunately, the artistry of

Kunwad in his serious roles has ceased to meet the fancy of Bangkok

audiences who attend this Lakon and who are on the whole edu-

cated and somewhat Westernized. The Thais are already beginning

to adopt in part a Western attitude towards female impersonators.

Although Kunwad remains the doyen of classical dance, his liveli-

hood now depends entirely on the Department—as a teacher and

comic.

Lakon is one of the most extraordinary visual experiences. The per-

formers move with slow undulations like an underwater ballet. Their

movements sinuously flow from one into the other until the dance

seems to be functioning in an altogether different dimension of time

143

and space as we conceive them in dance. There is a surrealism about

the motion—at times very slow, at times speeded up—which disas-

sociates it from usual stage action. There is an odd, unfamiliar use

of the body for the Westerner accustomed to ballet or even the con-

volutions of the Martha Graham style of making the body exteriorize

inner complexity The fingers flex until the hand arches back like

curling petals of a tiger lily. The arms break and bend at the elbow

double-jointedly. The torso tilts to one side giving the body an on-

the-bias look and forming an irregular line of angles from the head,

which is erect, to the hips which are thrust slightly back, through to

the splayed knees, and down to the toes which are turned up like

points on a Turkish slipper.

The movements, while clearly modelled on those of India, are

softer, somehow more cushioned, as if they belonged to gentler gods

and less impassioned heavenly beings The most characteristic, per-

haps, of these is technically called the hom chang wa (literally, mark

rhythm) It is a delicate, upward bounce of the chest, a sort of silent

catching of the breath or hiccough which punctuates the rhythm and

keeps the body active in a static moment. The effect is to lighten the

dancer and make her appear almost suspended off the ground. To

this are added long periods when one foot is held in the air, and the

continually outstretched arms heighten the feeling that the artist is

flying or floating just above the ground and a separating mist hovers

between her feet and the floor.

The gesture language is common to Khon and all the Lakon de-

rivatives In Khon it was necessary because of the masks which com-

pelled the dancers to show their moods and feelings through hand

movements In Lakon, the dancers’ faces are so thickly covered with

white powder that they are mask-like, and throughout the dance not

a single facial muscle moves It would be undignified in their godlike

roles to grimace, and besides it would muss their fine, fragile

make-up. Hand gestures in all Asian dance originally stemmed from

India, where, as mudras, their intricacy has taken on something of

the aspect of a code that only initiates can follow In Thailand,

these are attenuated and mollified to the point of being merest sug-

gestions rather than explicit systematic indications. Many factors

have determined the modifying course of these gestures. Partly it is

a matter of temperament. The Thai is not as explosive or intellectual

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T H A I L A N D / Dance-Dramas

or intense as the Indian in general is, and he asks greater placidity and relaxation from his arts. Of course, too, the long centuries that have intervened since the original Indian teachers first brought the gestures have added vagueness and transformed them into something more intrinsically Siamese. And probably the distance between these teachers and their homeland, where their masters remained, contributed from the beginning to a forgetfulness or disappearance of much that they themselves once knew.

Roughly classified, there are three categories of gestures and these are common to all Siamese dancing: those that express general emotions such as love, hate, anger, joy, sorrow; those that endow ordinary movements with grace or ennoble them like standing, walking, sitting, and making an obeisance; and those that indicate intentions such as refusal, calling, acceptance. Many of these are thoroughly comprehensible at first sight, even to the outsider—the wiping of tears (always with the left hand), the pointing of one finger and simultaneously stamping the foot to show anger, the crossed arms slowly patting the chest to depict bereavement or agitation, or the two forefingers drawn along the mouth to form the shape of a smile for laughter Others are not, but their range is fairly limited The pattern of the plots and their concomitant emotions are repetitious in all Thai dancing, and any average foreigner after being helped along by an interpreter for one or two programs can follow them adequately without further trouble. The intermittent spurts of music also assist the audience by informing it of the major climaxes of mood and situation, but since the ear is less alert than the eye, these conventions require rather more conditioning.

All productions at the Silpakorn Theatre are along the same basic lines. Perhaps a detailed description of their greatest success of recent times, Manohra, is the best means of explaining how the Lakon works in actual practice. Manohra is advertised as “a dance-drama in six scenes—specially rearranged,” and its summary informs us that it is a story of the half-bird, half-woman kinnaras who live in their celestial abode high in the Himalayas The curtain opens, revealing a bathing scene, set against a backdrop of blue sky and snow-covered mountain peaks, reminiscent rather of ice-cream parlor decorations. Furry white rabbits, the size of a child’s toy, dart across the stage, and against the sky tiny kinnaras made of paper and covered

with flossy, Christmas-tree snow flit across the proscenium. A corps de ballet of seven live kinnaras with their attendants appear in the usual Lakon costume of pale-green, pleated skirts and a red flap of velvet which hangs behind them from the shoulders like a half-train. To this are added paper wings to show they are kinnaras. After dancing briefly, they remove their wings and part of their clothes and reveal themselves in modest bathing suits. They step into an imaginary pond and begin to play in invisible water. A gauze veil of blue stretched across the stage and circled by a row of pink-paper lotuses represents cool mountain water. Kunwad, the female impersonator, plunges into a trough of actual water and splashes around the stage amid the shrieks and gleeful gestures of the ballet. A hunter appears and the chorus stops singing He speaks his lines himself, and informs us that he will capture the most beautiful of the kinnaras, Manohra, and present her to his king. He takes her wings so she cannot fly away and lassos her with a long snake for lack of a rope. Manohra pleads with him to free her (the orchestra plays od or "crying" music), but he forces her to follow him (the orchestra plays cherd or "exit" music in quick time).

The next scene shows Manohra sitting on a dais in the center of the stage She has been married to the crown prince of the kingdom, Prince Sudhon, and although she has come to love him truly, she still bemoans the misadventure at the bathing pool Sitting alone with her knees tucked under her, she matches the chorus' melancholy words with the gesticulation of her hands—she misses the cold air of the mountains, she thinks some deed in a past life must have brought this upon her, and she shows us that despite her love for her husband, it is difficult to live among human beings. She crosses her arms and as her hands pat her chest slowly she expresses sorrow. A corps de ballet of eight handmaidens, wearing narrow tiaras instead of the high, tapered, golden crowns of the chief Lakon dancers, enter and announce that they will dance to dispel her gloom They perform what is called Rabam or a dance of no meaning, and designed merely to show the suppleness of the dancer's body. They flex and flick their curling fingers, they shake their shoulders, and pose on one foot with their toes arched. They circle the stage in slow controlled steps, gliding and slithering, rising and sinking effortlessly.

Prince Sudhon, played by one of the taller Lakon girls, enters by

one of the side doors of the auditorium (what corresponds in our

theatres to a fire exit). He is dressed in a black blouse, sparkling

with diamants, and silver shoulder decorations His russet and gold

brocade trousers—derived from the Indian dhoti—have a gathering

of pleats in front, fit tightly around the knees and flare stiffly out

from around the thighs. He mounts the stage and joins Manohra on

the dais. He crosses one leg under him, letting the other extend down

and rest on the floor, the conventional sitting posture for men. The

copulatory or love music is played, and the learned among the audi-

ence do the wai gesture of placing their hands before their faces.

After this love-making, he explains in gesture that he must leave her

and go to war as the kingdom has been attacked He adds, “I am

certain of victory, so I shall be back soon.” She replies that she will

be lonely, “I was taken from my family and I thought I would die

then, but I met you, and now . . .” She rests her knee on his lap

and leans on his chest. The copulatory music is played again, the

lights go out, and instantly dawn comes. The Prince rebukes her for

weeping, saying that it is a bad omen to cry at the moment of separa-

tion She answers, “I will wait for your return for ever and ever.”

There follows an Army scene in the orchestra pit with the soldiers

entering and leaving by the fire exits and marching in procession

around this area and the space immediately in front of the curtain

on the stage proper The ancient Siamese battle cry, rather like a

bloodcurdling version of Tarzan’s jungle call, sounds three times.

Two flag-bearers enter, followed by four young boys each of whom

represents a regiment. They carry spears and shields, bows and ar-

rows The cavalry appears (four more boys) with leather, shadow-

play horses clipped to their hips. A ballet group of a dozen men per-

form a mock battle. Prince Sudhon enters in full regalia—umbrellas,

standards and guidons, sword bearers, and helmeted body guards His

Army salutes him. He mounts the howdah of a gaily caparisoned

elephant of papier maché (played by two men) and rides off through

the audience.

The next scene takes place in the palace grounds. Some servants

(comedians who speak in ordinary Siamese) are sweeping the court-

yard and gossiping. They explain how a wicked Brahmin priest, a

sort of Merlin attached to the Court, has taken advantage of the

Prince’s absence and persuaded the aged King to sacrifice a bird-

woman on the pretext that this will keep him from dying on a certain

ill-fated day. The priest is, of course, plotting to place his own favor-

ite on the throne. The servants have constructed a pyre on which

Manohra is to be burned alive The King, played by a young girl,

enters, followed by the Queen. The evil priest appears dressed in a

white, monk-like robe, and wearing a high-pointed turban. The King

regrets the sacrifice of Manohra. The Queen speaks up, in gesture,

on her behalf. A group of court attendants pass by, see the King, and

fall on their knees and slowly cross the stage bobbing up and down

like rippling waves. The Queen resumes her pleas, "The people love

Manohra She is the best possible daughter-in-law Think of your

son, her husband, fighting a war for us " She threatens the King, "If

you persist in this, I shall kill myself too." The priest says that there

is nothing to be sentimental about "After all Manohra is an animal,

not a human." Actors dressed like sacrificial animals—a water buffalo,

a cow, a goat—are led on stage. They bleat and cavort before the

throne An official of the court joins in interceding on Manohra's be-

half. The King mournfully replies, "Our priest knows the sacred

books. He must be obeyed " Word, spread by the gossiping sweepers,

has reached the people, and a crowd gathers at a respectful distance

from the throne. "Save Manohra," they cry humbly. The priest si-

lences them by saying that the alternative, according to astrological

laws, would be for all of them to substitute for her and die in her

stead. They are silenced. The King vacillates. The Queen badgers

him, according to the custom of all Lakon plays where women are

invariably stronger and more noble than their husbands She openly

shows her contempt of him for being an old man fearful of his own

death and, to add to the enormity of his cowardice, for sacrificing a

young, lovable maiden. Manohra appears to make a request, "May I

live until my husband returns?" This is refused. Then she asks if she

can dance one last dance before leaving the world This is granted,

and the King sends for her wings which until now have been care-

fully locked away She bids the King and Queen farewell. They sor-

rowfully embrace her. Manohra weeps (there is no tear music for

this as Manohra is only pretending). The Queen urges her to dance

"most beautifully, so that the very gods will praise you." Manohra

begins a sutee or "suicide by fire" dance (derived from India, obvi-

ously, in that it is a re-enactment of Sati, the wife of Siva, who im-

molated herself on his funeral pyre, but as a dance it reached Thai-

land from Indonesia in one of the Panji dramas). The sacrificial fire

is started by the wicked priest. Manohra leaps onto the flames-

pieces of cloth blown by a fan to which realistic smoke and sparks

are added She soars—hoisted by a rope—to the top of the prosce-

nium where she assumes the most famous of the apsaras or celestial

dancer poses with the legs drawn up so that the dancer seems to be

resting on her knees and with her arms stretched out in front of her

She is then drawn slowly across the top of the stage and disappears

to return at last to her home in the Himalayas

The next scene shows the hazardous pursuit by Prince Sudhon He

is resolved to find his wife He crosses a jungle, battles with a tiger

and later a python Finally, he encounters a holy man undergoing

austerities in the Himalayas who tells him how to get to the kinnara

palace.

The last scene shows the kinnara King and Queen and six of their

daughters, each identical with the other, sitting on a long dais placed

diagonally across the stage Manohra is outside the palace purifying

herself of the contamination of having lived among mortals. The

Prince enters and the King is greatly impressed that he could find

their abode The daughters are filled with wonderment at the

Prince’s handsomeness. The King, aware of Manohra’s attachment to

her husband, proposes a test. If Prince Sudhon recognizes Manohra

among her identical sisters, he may take her back with him Manohra

quietly enters and joins her sisters in a dance The Prince recognizes

her long before the dance is concluded, but he waits to the end to

speak to her. All rejoice at their happy reunion Moving gently to-

gether, bending their elbows, flexing their hands in the gesture of de-

light, and stepping with bent knees gracefully, the two lovers zigzag

across the stage and make their happy exit

Dance

As Manohra shows, Lakon at the Silpakorn Theatre is a mixed drama

form composed of many elements and drawn from a varying number

149

of sources. Chief of these is dancing, and Lakon in the narrow sense

of dance alone is the most classic meaning of the word. Most people

who study Lakon or Khon in Thailand today study only the dance

portions of it, and only the students and artists of the Department

of Fine Arts ever appear in the modified, even modernized, Lakon

programs of the Silpakorn Theatre. If you use the word Lakon in

its narrower sense you find that it has a specific repertoire of its own

numbering around fifty separate pieces which embrace remnants from

the most ancient dances of Thailand, the purely dance sections both

of Khon and of the several kinds of Lakon in the broad sense. This

repertoire is performed independently as dances and a recital is

composed of selections from them. Among the most interesting

group within this over-all classification are the dances of warfare or

strategy.

To explain them let us go back a little Classical theatre of Siam is

referred to in intellectual circles as Sangit, the Sanskrit word which

means “playing of musical instruments, singing and dancing.” Music

lies at the root of the latter two arts and is indispensable to the

performance. But the Siamese interpret the provenance of their

orchestra in an original way. According to them music came from the

hunter beating on sticks of wood in order to rouse game (these are

the drums and clappers of the orchestra), twanging his bow

string to release the arrow (this inspired all stringed instruments),

and blowing his horn to announce the quarry and killing, and to

call other hunters This emphasis on the hunt-killing, and warfare by

extension, and by still further extension, strategy—figures prominently

in Siamese dancing.

The Ramayana’s powerful influence on theatre arts is also responsi-

ble for numerous dances concerned with the military arts. Looked at

in one way, the Ramayana is little more than a battle epic deeply

concerned with struggle, defeat and victory. Another factor which

helps explain the connection between combat and dance was the

war-ridden nature of the periods which accompanied the origins and

growth of each dance form in Thailand While Thailand was busy

defending itself from the Burmese or attacking Cambodia, Laos and

her other neighbors, dance was always associated with the battles.

Before engaging in war, a propitiatory dance sufficed as a prayer

to the gods. Dances of mock engagements or rehearsals of an

150

actual battle scene were used as calisthenics are by modern soldiers.

One of the ancient classics enjoins persons who are trained well in

battle to display their skill so "that one may enjoy the sight."

The

result has been that a large number of dances today still involve

rapiers, krisses, lances, long and short swords, sticks and shields of

silver, of wood or buffalo hide, each weapon requiring a different

style of performance. As much as combat is retained in dance, the

converse has also remained true, at least in the field of sports. Sia-

mese boxing, for example, in which you fight with your feet as well

as your hands, requires by law that each boxer dance a few pre-

liminary steps as a prayer before a bout, and music accompanies the

whole match.

The occasions for combat in dance are various. The gods often

battle among themselves. Hanuman fights Ravana, Ravana is be-

headed and his ten heads are dissevered, generals are captured and

armies of monkeys cross rivers and scale mountains amid fighting.

Of a more complicated nature than two or more people engaged

in combat are the dances in which opponents practice their martial

art as a means of stratagem. In these the story content grows com-

plex and may or may not show actual fighting. In one example, the

"Dance of the Killing of Hiranya Kasipu by Norasing," the problem

posed is that Hiranya, a demon, cannot be killed by god, man, ani-

mal, or weapons, nor during the day or night, nor within the confines

of living quarters or out in the open. With this tremendous in-

vulnerability on his side, Hiranya has made a nuisance of himself

among the gods Pra Naray (Vishnu the Preserver) assumes the form

of Norasing (Narasimha), a creature with a lion's head and human

body whose fingernails are as "corrosive as acid" Norasing, as he is

neither god nor beast nor human, and as fingernails are not con-

sidered a weapon, attacks and kills Hiranya at the gate, which is

neither in nor out of the house, and at twilight which is neither day

nor night. In this way heaven is rid of the demon.

Another of the strategy dances also concerns Pra Naray. Nontuk, a

half-god, has always been teased by the other gods and goddesses, so

he gets his fingertip turned into a diamond whose deadly rays kill

anyone towards whom he points it. He kills many of the gods and

goddesses and heaven is in distress. Pra Naray the Preserver assumes

the form of a beautiful girl and asks Nontuk to dance the "Alpha-

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bet Dance" with him. He inserts the gesture of the "Snake Coiling

on its Tail," in which the dancer must touch his two fingertips to-

gether, and Nontuk taken unawares turns his deadly finger on him-

self and dies. One variant of this dance represents Nontuk as Thosak-

an (Ravana) who enters into a contest with Pra Naray. Instead of

actually fighting they agree that they will challenge each other in

dance. The better dancer will be the victor, and they dance the "Al-

phabet Dance" together.

Related to the strategy dances but more abstract in character and

more purely Lakon in its limited meaning than these dances are the

ones where disguise plays an important part. The stories of both

Khon and Lakon are full of people assuming other forms in order to

deceive their opponents. One of Hanuman's enemies, for instance,

takes the shape of an atom and hides in the foam of the sea to

escape from his relentless pursuit, and in other instances gods be-

come women, women become crocodiles, and monkcys become men.

Some of these are transformations in which the disguise is a beautiful

one and an evil character represents himself as noble and upright—

such as Ravana (Thosakan) who makes himself handsome before

visiting Sita with the intention of seducing her, or when a niece of

Ravana disguises herself as Sita and pretends to be dead in order to

discourage Rama from continuing his search. These occasions all call

for a special dance, still popular both in Khon and Lakon, which

is known as Chui-Chai. The dance is a kind of preening or show-

ing off to indicate vanity and satisfaction with newly acquired beauty.

The character admires himself, voluptuously calls attention to his

costume, and points out the various aspects of his physical charms.

According to the teachers if the role is that of a man, the performer

must "strut as an amorous bantam," and if it is that of a woman, she

must "coquette and mince like a love-eager maiden " This particular

dance is an extremely effective one to look at, but at the same time

so difficult to perform properly with the right suggestion of inner

ugliness and outer grace that only the best trained of the experts dare

attempt it in public.

The portions of pure Lakon, divorced of all drama elements,

derive from two basic root dances, called "Dancing to the Fast and

Slow" and the Maebot or "Alphabet Dance." "Dancing to the Fast

and Slow" dates from the time that Ayutaya was the capital of an-

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T H A I L A N D / Dance

cient Siam (1350-1767). Since then all students begin with this dance

and practice it for at least a year before they can be permitted to en-

large their repertoire. It is said in the old books that once this dance

is mastered, the student will look “elegant in all social intercourse,”

and this is one reason why dancing from the beginning was included

among the essential accomplishments of young ladies of social rank.

The “Alphabet Dance,” which is the second item all dancers must

study, is a connected collection of all the primary gestures and mo-

tions of Siamese dance. The steps succeed one another delicately

linked like the flowers of a garland. Neither of these items is merely

a practice piece for the student. Both must be performed publicly

from time to time as a sort of recurring examination to reaffirm a

dancer’s excellence and to remind the audience of her mastery of

the fundamentals. Both dances are prerequisites to the histrionic

Lakon of stories and themes. Originally the “Alphabet Dance” con-

sisted of sixty-four “letters” or movements; but Rama I abbreviated

the list to nineteen, and this is all that remains today of what must

once have been a much fuller, more highly developed and varied

vocabulary of dance The nineteen fragments of the dance are named

descriptively and the performers execute their corresponding motions

while the side-singers of the orchestra sing out the words in rapid

succession. They are:

Salute to the Gods (the obeisance movement of the hand

placed together in front of the face with which all dances

begin in Thailand)

Preliminary Movement

Prohm (Brahma) with the Four Faces

Tucking in the Garland’s Tassels

Stag Walking in the Forest

Swan in Flight

Kinnara Walking around the Cave

Putting the Lady to Sleep

Bee’s Caress

The Cockatoo

The Little Hill as High as the Shoulder

Mekala Playing with her Precious Jewel

The Peacock Dances

Wind Swaying the Plantain Leaf

Transformation

Wedded Love

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Changing the Posture

Fish Playing in the Ocean

Pra Naray (Viṣhnu) Hurling his Discus

These “letters” in dance have become so mutated and stylized over

the centuries that some of them as we now see them are unrecogniza-

ble as anything more than abstract motion The fanciful names at-

tached to them seem to be a teacher’s reference for identifying the

posturing rather than an actual description of specifically meaningful

sentiments. Animals, however, in every instance are indicated fairly

graphically by clear finger positions of the hands to show realistically

their wings, horns, or mannerisms. Even these movements, although

closely related to the Indian mudras, are at considerable variance

with the originals Specific meaning or literalness has virtually dis-

appeared from Siamese dancing Most of the dance remains in the

abstract, as decorative grace and charm and delight in sheer body

movement without the pictorial associations one would normally con-

nect with dance based on a drama form One well-known item, the

“Dance Before the Elephant,” where Hanuman’s monkey’s pretend

to be gods and dance like them, illustrates this clearly. The words of

the song are simply:

They float in pairs through the air, dancing in different ways:

stretching their arms gliding gracefully to the left and right,

falling into line, gazing into each other’s eyes, circling around,

grasping, marking time together, stampıng their feet cleverly,

turning around, passing through intervening spaces, circling

and barring each other (I have paraphrased here P. S. Sastri’s

translation from Dhanit Yupho’s excellent book on Siamese

dancing, Classical Siamese Theatre.)

A large number of the other dances involve dancing with objects

other than weapons and the instruments of warfare—fans, long pieces

of silk cloth, candles, flowers, flower pots, peacock feathers, long

fingernails of silver, and even lighted lanterns. In this group comes

the most ancient of all Siamese dances, known today only in a

vestigial form called Praleng. Praleng is a preliminary piece to intro-

duce formal performances of both Khon and dramatic Lakon, and is

danced by two persons wearing simple masks and holding peacock

feathers in their hands. No singing accompanies this dance, only

the orchestra plays a relentless chattering and clicking on its bamboo

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xylophones. It is said that the dance reveals how supernatual beings

comport themselves-the nearest approximation of the gods mortals

can make-and therefore it begins a performance in order to invoke

and please the gods and thereby to ward off evil. Rama IV (1804-

1868. at one point substituted gold and silver flowers for the pea-

cock feathers which he felt had become vulgar by their popularity

with the people and among professional dancers outside the palace.

He was aware of the danger of tampering with the sacredness of the

traditional dance and apologizes to the audience in one short verse

of the song which he added to the dance-"Spectators may object

to this innovation as it breaks with tradition, but is it not indeed an

auspicious sight?"

Other dances with objects or those in the purely dance parts of

Lakon have their origins abroad and although they are now integral

parts of the Thai repertoire, they still retain certain foreign aspects

The "Fan Dance," for instance, is Chinese dating from the time

of Rama II, who once commanded the Chinese and Mohammedan

communities of Bangkok to participate along with the Thais in an

enormous dance festival. The Chinese used fans (the popularity of

this was increased during the Japanese wartime period, and the

fans used in this dance today are all Japanese ones) while the con-

tribution of the Muslims was apparently "breast beating" and a

special tune, both of which still remain as characteristic features of the

"Dava Dung Dance" The artistic adaptability of the Thais is also

shown in the Farang Ram Tao or "European Dance" which origi-

nated with the early Portuguese traders who came to Thailand in the

seventeenth century. It differs from the purer Siamese dances in that

hand movements are not used, hands are held at the hip in the style

of certain Western folk dances, and the feet move as in a clog dance

or a jig This creates an interesting effect for the foreigner. Since Sia-

mese dancing is always performed barefoot and the pace is much

slower than in Western folk dancing, the feet pat the floor al-

most silently in a reposeful slow-motion.

Drama

The excellence of classical dance-drama and dance forms is only part

of Thailand’s theatrical maturity. There is also a thriving popular

theatre called Likay with drama completely predominating over dance,

which attests to a genuine response to realism and a fine interest in

the sustained unfolding of a story which may or may not have been

told before Likay is better known to the majority of Thais than even

their traditional Khon and Lakon, which seem a little formal or for-

bidding to the average man. The converse, however, is true with

regard to foreigners. I know of no traveler to Bangkok who has not

witnessed and enjoyed a program at the Silpakorn Theatre. Un-

fortunately for Likay, very few have explored this theatre.

Likay is in every sense of the word a people’s entertainment, with

no less than twenty theatre houses distributed all over the city of

Bangkok. Every night from eight to midnight persons from all classes,

ricksha coolies, white-collar workers, and even those among Bangkok

society who are genuinely keen on theatre, pack these Likay houses.

If no single troupe or theatre appears as financially impressive as the

Silpakorn Theatre, it is because competition is keen. There are hun-

dreds of Likay troupes who perform nightly the year round, and the

price of tickets is absurdly low—the best seat costs around thirty-five

ticals or ten cents Likay has never played to an empty house. A

failure is unheard of; a play is either more or less successful. If an all-

star cast is assembled for any special occasion, it is impossible to get

tickets. You must resign yourself to standing at the back or down

along the aisles. No temple fair or national holiday is complete with-

out a special Likay performance—often out in the open air—with the

actors performing on temporarily erected stages of rickety, shaking

boards, against flimsy painted backdrops. Likay occupies an almost

exaggerated position in the life of the average Thai; and its impor-

tance to him is disproportionate with regard to what in other coun-

tries are more serious concerns than theatre Perhaps this starts

in childhood, because children are admitted free and they can even

stand on the stage off to one side behind the orchestra or in the

wings, and as long as they stay out of the way, they can even peer

at the action from the stage entrance doorways.

Curiously enough, Likay, a thoroughly secular drama form, has a

156

special connection with ordinations when a Thai boy or man be-

comes a priest, and it is compulsory for every male to spend at least

a short period of his life as a monk. If the family can afford it, a

special Likay performance will be provided free for the neighbors

or any passers-by who happens to be in the vicinity. For marriages,

which are if less sacred at least more permanent spiritual obligations,

only Khon is appropriate among the theatre forms of Thailand.

Likay is recent by Asian standards. It began a little more than a

hundred years ago, and its origin is attributed to the Muslim com-

munity of Bangkok—the Malay traders and mullah priests who came

to proselytize The word “likay” derives from dikay ichai, the Sia-

mese equivalent of “praise to Allah,” and became current when the

Thais first noticed the strange musical chants which the followers of

Islam sang during their annual period of penance The Thais some-

how created a drama out of this, and invented their own stories,

but the connection of these plays today with their Mohammedan

origin remains only in the prayer song, vaguely along the lines of

the original tune, which is sung at the beginning of each perform-

ance.

Like most plays in Asia, Likay is episodic and consists of short, ac-

tive scenes which follow one another in rapid succession And like

nearly all Southeast Asian plays, they are comedies with many hu-

morous moments, always ending with the triumph of right In order

to foster the habit-forming aspect of Likay, the custom in recent

years has been to continue the same story night after night, chained

together rather like old-fashioned movie serials. This leads to a cer-

tain discursiveness and over-intricacy of plot, but the Likay writer

tries to spin a story out as long as possible This is the diametrical

opposite of the Western playwright who tries to condense all he has

to say into a compact two and a half hours of a single evening Some

Likay plays last for a week or even more if they are successful, and

many are revived again and again either in identical versions or as

sequels and continuations.

In actual performance Likay incorporates a number of elements

from Khon and Lakon and is a continuation of Siamese classics.

The Piphat Band sits at the side of the stage (without singers, how-

ever, because the actors do all the talking and singing necessary),

and accompanies all main moments of action. The actors do some

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dancing, especially the kings and queens who are standard role-types

of every Likay and who are dressed rather like Lakon dancers. They

perform prescribed movements and steps for all entrances and exits.

As they enter, they follow an imaginary line on the stage—like a

large question mark, if you actually drew it—then step over an im-

aginary threshold before they sit down and commence their dialogue

from the dais in the center of the stage There are other conventions.

All actors must kneel and bow to the audience when they first enter

the stage, the counterpart of this in Khon and Lakon is the dance of

obeisance where the ensemble performs a long preambular salute be-

fore beginning the story. All the movements of the dance portions

are what the foreigner thinks of as characteristically Siamese. One

essential difference is in the torso bounce or the “catching of the

breath” rhythmic punctuation. In Lakon this is upward as if the

dancer is lifting himself; in Likay the motion is downward to make it

heavier and more emphatic.

Like Khon, all the actors are men. However, nowadays a few

women do appear on the stage in female roles despite the fact that

more often, in order to meet the changing tastes of Bangkok’s gen-

eral public, a number of these male actors impersonating women

simply wear modern dresses to make them appear more realistic. The

role of jeune premier is always played by the handsomest young man

of the troupe. In ordinary conversation if you say a certain man is

a likay, you mean he is extremely good-looking. But the Likay actor

who plays these roles is always rather weak and effeminate, and his

make-up of solid white and thick lipstick, his silken costume and

diamond earrings accentuates this.

The predilection for feminine-looking men is on the whole com-

mon to all Asia and carries with it no sexual overtones of the sort

the Westerner might expect. In Japan, the iro-otoko of Kabuki, a

beautiful man of attraction, is often played by men who normally

take only women’s roles. His part on the stage is usually hapless and

pathetic and his only consolation in this life lies in his appeal to

women and his sexual prowess. In China, it is the young scholar who

is so happily attractive and so unhappily treated in life. And every-

where in Asia, even in the movies, the most beautiful man has to

the Western eye a slightly feminine flavor about him. This point

makes one of the sharpest contrasts in theatre taste between Asia

and the West. We go in for the virile-looking, muscular man of the

Lancaster or Brandon type. In Asia, however, where homosexuality is

more rare and fear of it virtually unknown, in consequence, the cult

of the masculine as an aesthetic end in itself becomes psychologi-

cally less important The rather gentle, effete male is physically greatly

desired by the opposite sex, both on stage and off The men who

play these roles are, it is necessary to say, almost invariably well-

adjusted sexually. They marry as a matter of course, although

their portrayals on stage which give them such advantages with

women in private life, often make them the despair of their wives.

The Asian explanations for this fact vary, but there seems to be

general agreement that the greatest beauty in the theatre is offered by

the woman, the greatest villainy is typified in a kind of crude mas-

culinity, and for creating a good, handsome man, you must depend

more on the feminine than the male. And in Asia where, for the

most part, sexual differentiations are less marked—in stature, in

amount of hair, and the like—and where theatre has so long a tradi-

tion of role interchangeability and fluidity, the good and the beau-

tiful, lying as they do between extreme beauty and villainy, naturally

tend to a less sexually defined art and a more androgynous, even

epicene, aesthetic delineation of character on the stage.

The chief difference between Likay and Khon or Lakon is that

Likay is literally and realistically acted and follows a precise if wander-

ing development of plot. There are no gods or superhuman char-

acters in Likay, and although kings and queens are central causative

agents, the main roles represent ordinary human beings, often in a

lowly social position. The actors speak their lines in modern every-day

Siamese There is also a preponderance of songs. At intervals, when-

ever the situation requires or permits, the actor will sing a song into a

microphone near at hand which either emphasizes his emotions, ex-

plains the action which has just taken place, or foretells what will be

presented in the succeeding scene Except for minor speeches both

Likay declamation and song follow strict rules. The phrases must be

poetic, according to elaborate laws of rhyme and meter, and they

must be improvised on the spur of the moment These verses are

ephemeral and evanescent. The plays are never performed quite the

same way twice, and since there are no manuscripts or tape re-

corders, it is quite impossible to build up a rigid, traditional, trans-

159

mittible repertoire of dramas. The actors and playwright agree upon

the theme, set themselves a cast of characters, a time-length, an out-

line of the succession of scenes and their high points, select the tunes

for the songs, and the rest depends on the inspiration of the mo-

ment.

The majority of Likay themes in the past dealt with stories of the

Burmese wars, that troubled period of history when Thailand con-

stantly lost to the Burmese and was forced to allow them not only to

sack Thai capitals, but to seize the dancers and musicians and export

them to Mandalay and Rangoon as part of the spoils of war. In 1955,

the Prime Minister of Burma, U Nu, in a journey of apology and

atonement for Burma’s past sins toward Thailand, planted a peepul

tree (Lord Buddha’s meditation tree) on the site of the ruins of

Thailand’s last capital, and as a result of this effort to create good

relations between the two countries, the Thailand government has

issued an ordinance to all Likay troupes abolishing all plays dealing

with the Burmese wars This, of course, is a blow to the theatre, as it

always is when governments interfere with artists, but to supplant

this loss of thematic material, Likay troupes are now being encour-

aged to put on anti-Communist plays.

Likay lends itself admirably to this, not only because its kings and

queens are always heroic, if subsidiary, nor merely that being a peo-

ple’s theatre on a somewhat unsophisticated level it is therefore

deeply Buddhist in mood and sympathy, but because banditry and

treachery to the throne (or government) generally provide the pivot

around which the action of the plots spins These intrigues, uprisings,

revolts, and martyrizations of the innocent have always had ample

scope within the energetic stories of Likay, and it is a simple matter

to adjust these to refer to Communists. According to the latest rules,

the villain must wear red, attempt to overthrow the ruling power, set

out to destroy religion, and owe his allegiance somewhere abroad.

This latter must, not, however, be Burma. But Likay has always been

a popular theatre and because of its intimacy with the people it has

expressed more the wishes of the common man than those of the

government. Because of the improvisatory character of the plays cen-

sorship is a difficult matter to enforce. At present the Likay troupes are

cooperating with the government, since Communism is an unpopu-

lar political theory with the Thais and unacceptable to the Thai

160

conscience, at least as of today. But how compliant Likay would be were it to cease pleasing its audiences is problematical.

This recent interference—more in the nature of a request to co-operate with the government in its foreign and internal attitudes—is in one way a sign of recognition of Likay. The last time the government stepped in was more unflattering. It happened when Thailand was under Japanese influence. The Foreign Minister at the time, feeling that Likay was a vulgar and suspect art, forbade the use of the word "Likay" and substituted the Sanskritized-Siamese word nata dundri meaning dance and music. At the same time, because bare feet were considered unseemly for a nation fighting against the West, they compelled the actors to wear long white lisle stockings. This is the only reform from those days which has remained. One may be sure that any new changes made in Likay will have to suit the public fancy if they are to continue longer than the tenure of the government that enforces them. Likay is certain to be around for a long time, and it will certainly change according to its audience's desires rather than the government's.

One of the biggest Likay successes has been The Red Silk Bandit, and it has run serially for several weeks. It is a long and involved collection of fragmentary scenes in which a variety of disconnected incidents are gradually brought into focus The King appears in a certain village (there are no stage settings in Likay except for a single backdrop, which has the name of the troupe embroidered on it, a dais and some chairs brought on by the actors as required), and we learn that his capital is being besieged. A villain in a red shirt and red short trousers and wearing earrings and a wrist watch informs us that he and the Prime Minister are traitors to the throne. The Queen, who has remained in the capital, learns that the King has married a girl in the village and that she is the sister of the wicked Prime Minister. A young man enters and sings about how he lives in a temple for lack of other shelter and at night has only a thin cloth to cover himself. He explains that he does not even know his own father. A comedian and the Prime Minister discuss the Red Silk Bandit and measures to form an army to combat him.

The Queen (number one) is now seen in a forest awaiting rescue. The Queen's daughter who is with her in the forest assumes the disguise of a man and forages for food in a Robin Hood manner for

161

her mother. A small boy dressed in green with a purple veil over him

representing a bird rushes on the stage and dies. He has been killed

by an arrow. The young man (the one who doesn’t know his father,

but by this time we already suspect he is a prince) and a clown

jump on the bird and with imaginary props pretend to cook it and

eat it. The Queen’s daughter, who has shot the bird, enters and is

furious since the bird was intended for her mother’s supper. She re-

bukes the two, and learns that they are joining an army to fight

against the King. She slaps the young prince, and he vows he will

make her his wife. The plot continues to thicken. It finally transpires

that the Red Silk Bandit is a woman, that the wicked Prime Minister

is killed and his sister, the Queen (number two), is disposed of. The

King returns to his capital, and the boy marries the girl despite the

complication of their being brother and sister.

Summarized like this, the play does not make much sense, but in

action, oddly enough, there is considerable suspense and interest. In

any case, the charm of Likay is far less in its stories than in its actors

and the skill with which they dance and improvise their poetry and

sing their periodic songs. It is unfair to look at it exclusively from the

story point of view, and a synopsis can only mislead one as to the

extent of its value. Some of the actors are accomplished, subtle, and

convey a real sense of theatre to the spectators. Likay, as can only be

expected from any theatre that caters to the poorest classes of the

country, has about it certain crudities, but these, weighed against the

cheerful exuberance and high standard of acting, seem minor. With

guidance or even kindly support from the government, and the in-

troduction of certain technical improvements in stagecraft that

would emerge were the actors exposed to other theatres of wider,

more international scope, Likay would soon appeal to many more

people than, as it does at present, to the Thais alone.

For a short period immediately after the War and lasting until a

year or so ago, a modern theatre called Lakon, for lack of a better

word, was popular. At this time, Thailand had no movie industry of

its own and was dependent entirely on importations—Western, In-

dian or Chinese films. Perhaps this lack of contemporary theatrical

expression—even Likay is old in the eyes of the progressive younger

162

groups—was the inspiration for the new Lakon. Its plays were all ex-

ceedingly fanciful and colorful and somewhat on the lines of what

we mean by musical comedy in a turn-of-the-century sense. Nearly

all the stories were unrealistic and romantic and dealt with kings

and queens, these were usually killed by wicked enemies, and their

deaths are avenged by loyal and devoted brothers. But Lakon was up-

to-date in its techniques, fast-moving and essentially modern in style

of costume and make-up. The music was purely Western, with song

after song crooned in vaudeville-like succession, while an orchestra of

saxophones (the present King of Thailand’s favorite instrument),

pianos and violins played sentimental parodies of American popular

hits. There was no dancing except for excerpts from the Rambong.

Out of the large number of Lakons written and acted during this

period, one serious playwright of genuine merit emerged, Kumut

Chandruang. Kumut originally came from a theatrical family, and

his father headed a classical Lakon troupe. But he had also gone to

school in America, where he is known for his book Boyhood in Siam

written some years ago. His experience and contact with modern

theatre there equipped him well and gave him an insight into theatri-

cal techniques unique in Thailand at the time. These advantages

automatically assured him a natural place in the theatre. His particu-

lar likes ran along the lines of Eugene O’Neill, who still remains his

favorite playwright, but he was unable to avoid the pressure of the

Siamese public.

His attempts at this new Lakon were like the others—grand, flam-

boyant, extravaganzas. But he did try to widen the scope in so far as

popular opinion allowed. His first real success six years ago was an

adaptation of Death Takes a Holiday, which he named “Death in

Disguise,” and for a wild, sensationally dazzling second act, he in-

serted a scene from Dante’s Inferno. He followed this with an adap-

tation in fairy-tale style of F. W. Bain’s Livery of Eve, which he

transposed to fit Siva and his consort, Uma, and in it he developed

mildly the theme that beauty was a danger to itself as much as to

others. His last attempt, and this signalled the end of this new Lakon

all over the country, was Macbeth the Traitor, taken from Shake-

speare of course, but laid in a completely Siamese setting. During

this moment of modern theatre, the first new note in Thailand’s

drama since Likay, playwrights made a good deal of money. Almost

any Lakon earned for the writer more than twice what an author of a

best-selling book could expect, and it seemed as if something of last-

ing interest had been started. At one point, a serious, genuinely mod-

ern play was put on, Thunderstorm, a tragedy of incest and murder

written by Ts'ao Yu, China's most distinguished modern playwright.

But this led to nothing

Today there is no modern theatre of any kind. Kumut Chandru-

ang is prospecting for diamonds in the Siamese jungles of the interior.

His actors and actresses have either gone into the movies or taken

jobs far from any connection with the theatre. One or two have re-

turned to teaching classical Lakon. But the absence of a modern

theatre strikes the foreigner more woefully than it does the Thai. If

you ask a Thai what happened to his modern theatre, he is apt to

ignore the question by countering with another: what happened to

Western classics? To most Asians, the failure of a modern theatre is

no more reprehensible than neglect of a traditional one.

There is no reason why another attempt at modern theatre in

Thailand should not be made. The Thais are patently a theatre-

loving people, and restlessly so. When a modern theatre appears for

good, the theatrical maturity of Thailand will be complete And with

it, the plots of even the older theatres will change and probably come

to be as skillful and as significant as the high standard of acting and

dancing is at present.

5

CAMBODIA

The tiny Kingdom of Cambodia, little larger than Connecticut and with a population about the same as Iowa's, used to be part of French Indo-China. It is now independent as a result of the Geneva Conference (1955), and today the only Frenchmen remaining there are the High Commissioner, a handful of rubber planters and pepper growers (Cambodia produces the finest pepper in the world and the most expensive), and a cadre of instructors at the Ecole Militaire in Pnom-Penh, the capital of the country.

Of all the colonies (with the possible exception of Louisiana) that France has ever lost or is in the process of losing, none has caused more pangs of sentimental heartache among educated Frenchmen. The French ruled it, or rather "protected" was the gentle word they preferred to use, for less than a century, but the position in the country held within the French Empire was something like that of Bali to Holland—one of affectionate, even indulgent, regard. In common with Bali, Cambodia has a number of charming exoticisms both in its countryside and its people.

Like most of Southeast Asia, Cambodia alternates wild, primeval jungle with rich squares of paddy cultivation. Cambodia is so fertile in fact that many areas yield four crops a year. The people live high off the ground in wooden frame houses built on stilts. For a period each year, the rivers flood and the Cambodians go about in little row-boats of hollowed-out tree trunks. When the waters recede, and they do this with clock-like regularity, the people are provided with the rest of their food—fish. But fishing is neither an effort nor a sport. During the dry season they merely dig a series of holes around their houses which trap the fish as the floods recede and keep them fresh and handy. When the supply is exhausted, the next year's rise in the waters brings in another catch.

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The people racially are called Khmers, the sturdy and well-built remnants of an ancient civilization, with a sultry, voluptuous look about them that one associates with the Malays whose blood also suffuses most Cambodians On the whole they are handsomer than their Siamese or Vietnamese neighbors. The men wear longish hair, while the women crop theirs in a cross between the boyish bob of the Twenties and a crew cut. Women "refresh" their faces with daubs of rice-paste which make them look as if they were going into battle with full war paint. Men tattoo their chests, the decorations range from pictures of temples pinpricked over the whole chest, to little phalli, with the Buddhist Wheel of Karma as a scrotum, over the solar plexus. Nearly everyone in the villages has a large, blurry circle of blue between their eyebrows, like an Indian caste mark. This is a lifelong discoloration caused by applying an eye-glass cup of burning cotton to the child's forehead to protect him from the evil eye.

France's intoxication with Cambodia stemmed from rather more important aspects of the country—primarily the magnificent collection of ruins known as Angkor, where something like six hundred buildings, elaborately sculptured and powerfully constructed, stand in the jungle clearings of Siemreap Secondly, the marvellous troupe of dancers belonging to His Majesty the King of Cambodia at the Royal Khmer Palace in Pnom-Penh provide a comparable living treasure In both of these France had a hand, and whatever her colonial follies may have been, her expert and sensitive artistic acumen redounds to her credit The French discovered the ruins, where they had for centuries lain overgrown by the thick jungle, protected them by establishing an archeological department, reconstructed many of the buildings out of scattered piles of crumbling stones, and it was French scholarship that revealed the story of this fantastic period in Khmer history. It was also through a tactful and subtle post, that of Conseiller Artistique (Cultural Adviser) to the Throne, that interest in Cambodian dance was first stimulated and the extraordinary purity of the performances has been preserved for us to the present day

From the French, the world has learned the history of the Khmers magnificently recorded in the details of the construction of the great buildings of the Angkor environs, and these in turn have provided a commentary on the extravagant place dance held at the time. The

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eminence of dance, at least within the palace and within the people's

hearts, still holds today. These palace dancers, despite being deeply

influenced by Thailands and, as it were, restored by the Thais to the

country of their origin, still provide the only clear link of modern

Cambodia with its antiquities and its once-forgotten magnificence.

Khmer civilization, of which today's Cambodians are direct lineal

descendants, reached its first importance in the eighth century, which

time also marks the first inscription referring to dancing so far discovered

in the area. Before this, there had been invasions from India

and Indianized Java, and the conquerors mingled with the conquered

until they were completely absorbed by them In exchange for

the joys of victory and tribute, the foreigners gave dance and religion.

Their incursions, actually more cultural than military, brought not

only priests but women dancers. Some were prostitutes, others of

noble birth, but both performed at sacred and secular ceremonies to

induce favorable attitudes from the gods. By the beginning of the

great Angkorean period, which lasted from about the ninth century

to the twelfth, these dancers had already become identified in the

Cambodian mind with the Hindu apsaras or celestial dancers, who

proitiate the gods with gifts, with their bodies, and with their

art. Representations of them figure on every column, bas relief, and

chiseled stone in all the ruins, either in attitudes of devotion and

offering or dancing Mortal apsaras were also attached to all the

major temples. Ta Prohm, one of the larger temples, had, according

to an inscription, no fewer than six hundred dancers belonging to it

permanently.

The Khmers in turn grew aggressive and at one time controlled

most of Indo-China, Thailand, and even received tribute from the

Malay Peninsula and Sumatra. Several bas reliefs of Angkor show

graphically the slave labor extracted from these conquered peoples

and used to build the great stone edifices of Cambodia During this

period they accomplished some of the most extraordinarily beautiful

architecture in world history. In an outburst of Brahmanical, and

later Buddhist, fervor, a series of Khmer kings deified themselves in

temples and tombs. Some of the buildings were constructed with

such speed that portions were left incomplete or in places even

marred by hasty workmanship. The massive central temple of Angkor

Vat is known to have been completed in thirty years, a third of the

time Europeans required on the average for their Gothic cathedrals.

Originally in Cambodia, under Hindu influence, god and king were

worshiped phallically, and each temple tower enshrined a diamond-

studded golden lingam.

Buddhism succeeded Hinduism and the marks where the lingams

have been removed and Buddhas substituted are still in evidence.

The god-king came to be worshiped as an incarnation of the Lord

Buddha. The atmospheric and strange temple of the twelfth century

known as Bayon is a case in point. It comprises fifty towers of four

identical faces each, half-smiling in the cryptically tranquil, Buddhist

way They represent not only Lokesavara, or the Compassionate

Buddha, but King Jayavarman VII himself. From Bayon, the center

of the kingdom, the two-hundred faces of this god-king look out over

all his provinces in the four directions of the world. By the thirteenth

century, the Khmer people were drained of their energy, wealth and

will by the prolonged centuries of frenzied construction. Slabs of

sandstone and laterite were carried by hand from great distances, the

circulation of gold and precious stones was choked to a standstill by

the vast accumulations in the shrines, and thousands of artisans, art-

ists, and slaves gave their lives in frantic carving and chiseling. The

last of the constructor-kings Jayavarman VII accelerated the collapse

of the empire He built so many of these sacred edifices that he is

presumed to have been Cambodia’s mysterious “leper king” vainly

hoping the gods would reward his dedicated works by giving him

relief from his ailment.

For a while afterwards, a few minor buildings were made, but the

greatness of Cambodia was at an end. In this weakened condition,

the Khmers could no longer resist the Siamese who in the fifteenth

century completely absorbed the country. They abducted Cambo-

dian dancers, ravaged the temples of their riches, and left the Khmers

crushed. Their enfeebled state prevailed until circa 1860 when

France through the influence of her ambitious missionaries wrested

Cambodia’s former territories from the Siamese, and set a king upon

the throne where he once again held court and resumed patronizing

the dances There then began the curious process of reviving a coun-

try which had barely escaped obliteration. There were a few danger-

ous moments subsequently. In 1941 the Japanese gave a large part

of Cambodia, including Angkor, back to Thailand in exchange for

cooperation in the war, but these provinces were returned again in

1946 through the Franco-Siamese agreement in Washington.

From the beginning of France's control over Cambodia, news of

the marvellous dancing there along with the news of numerous other

discovenes filtered back to Paris. In 1908 the palace dancers and

orchestra were sent to perform a short series of programs for the

Colonial Exposition and Paris intellectuals who flocked to the per-

formances waxed ecstatic. Auguste Rodin, the arbiter of aesthetic

matters for much of Europe at the time, sounded the tone of the

general reaction In his enthusiasm he wrote, "These Cambodians

have shown us all that antiquity can contain . . . Their classics are

as great as ours . . . It is impossible to see human nature brought to

a higher state of perfection . . . We have only them and the

Greeks . . . They have found postures which I had not dreamed of,

movements which were unknown to us even in ancient times . . ."

From then a succession of studies by foreigners commenced. Art-

ists spent months at the palace in Pnom-Penh sketching the dancers

in action and in repose. Others prevailed on the palace teachers to

train them in the actual dances, and they introduced Cambodian

dance styles in London and New York. Altogether the French pub-

lished nearly a dozen books on Cambodian dance, all now unfor-

tunately out of print. Much of the material concerns itself with mat-

ters which are not, strictly speaking, of direct bearing on the art

of the dance. One of the writers spends time describing "les

douloureuses cérémonies" at Angkor when the dancers on reaching

nubility broke their hymens on a phallus of gem-encrusted stone.

Another laboriously describes the life of confinement the dancers

lead within the palace walls and dwells on the king's prerogative of

choosing from among them for his pleasure. Still another deplores

the unhappy fact that, when, in the nineteen-twenties, someone

wanted to arrange an exposition tracing Khmer culture from the

Angkorean period to the present day, he was unable to find in all of

Cambodia girls who would dance "presque nues" or even pose with

bare breasts and transparent skirts in imitation of the celestial danc-

ers on the stones of the ruins. Because of this, almost out of pique,

he refused to accept the palace dancers as the bridge between Cam-

bodia's past and present, despite the evidence that technically the

extraordinary articulation of the fingers and hands, the hyperexten-

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sion of the elbow, and the stories of the dances today, can be recog-

nized in and checked against the miles of sculpturing on the walls of

Angkor.

In contradicting his conclusions, it would be foolish to imply that

dance in Cambodia has remained immutable for a thousand years.

The forces from the outside world, Thailand and France in particular,

found an easy prey in the exhausted Khmer race. Certainly the

greater national vitality which the Thais have displayed in more

recent history has had far-reaching effects on dance. In fact, Cam-

bodian dance today differs very little from Thailand's Lakon. The

principle of movement is basically identical (this is really Cambo-

dian) and the costumes are almost the same (these are purely Sia-

mese). Today it is a painstaking chore to weed out and separate the

conventions and mannerisms which are Siamese from the native

ones. Much of this must even be guesswork.

Contributing to Thailand's advantage over Cambodia has been

the fairly stable period of kingly rule which followed the seizure of

Cambodian dance. Meanwhile Cambodia's line of rulers was, to say

the least, tortuous To begin with, the tradition in Cambodia was to

elect a king in times of misrule or doubt as to correct succession (in

theory the greatest man of the land was always chosen), and often

he was disinclined to promote dance. After the sack of Cambodia

the Cambodian throne remained vacant, the kingship idle, and what-

ever dancers remained near any members of the royal family were

there by merest chance and without any substantial subsidy. Re-

gardless of this precarious existence, as the dance situation in Asia

now stands, out of all the troupes maintained at the many courts of

Asia today, I think unquestionably that the most brilliant, one rating

among the world's finest ensembles of dancers, is the one at the

Royal Khmer Palace.

At this point, the connection between kings and the dancers

should be explained, because in Asia it is of considerable importance.

In India, for instance, Kathakali in its present form was invented by

a raja, and the best Bharata Natyam until recently was seen at the

court of the Maharaja of Baroda far from its home in the South. The

relationship of Kandyan dance and Kandyan kings, and of Burmese

theatre and the Mandalay court, and the difficulties Thailand faced

when the two were separated, have already been cited The extraor-

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dinary preponderance of classic ballets in Asia today, as we shall see

even more positively later, is to a great extent due to their protection

by royalty. And this makes a sharp contrast between the East and the

West where royal patronage has declined into scarcely more than oc-

casional command performances Perhaps the one picture the average

Westerner has of Asiatic dancing—that of an Oriental potentate sit-

ting on cushions watching his palace troupe—is not too far from

actuality For as far back as written records can be found, emperors

and maharajas, kings and rajas, sultans and chieftains have all main-

tained private dancers, and the dances they performed, according to

all available descriptions, are remarkably similar to the ones we still

see today despite the vagaries of the past It has been a firm tradition

for centuries that court artists and their descendants must be fully

supported. Many of them have been granted court ranks and special

privileges, some even pensioned for life after they have ceased to be

contributing members of the court entourage. The marvellous con-

tinuity with the past, the steadily maintained degree of perfection,

and, of course, the tremendous bulk of dance which all this has

meant is a tribute to the Asian mechanism of art preservation. What

the museum is to the West for objects, in a way the court in Asia has

been to living, transient and ephemeral arts.

In Cambodia, the relationship between a king and his dancers has

been particularly happy—and the French have been helpful in this—

and I know of no other ballet group that performs with more magi-

cal appeal than the Royal Khmer Palace Dancers. Perhaps the sur-

roundings contribute to the spectators' enchantment. It is a con-

vention that the King's greatest courtesy towards State guests and

foreign dignitaries is to give a banquet after which a party, ac-

companied by retainers carrying lamps and umbrellas to emphasize

the King's exalted position, adjourns to another large pavilion

within the grounds to watch a private performance by the Palace

dancers. The Royal Family's personal interest is so great in the

troupe that although a small quota of additional after-dinner invita-

tions are issued to non-official visitors or to persons particularly in-

terested, even these require the King's or the Queen-Mother's direct

approval If you have the opportunity of attending one of these

regal evenings, you cannot help being impressed. You sit on antique

chairs covered with moiré and embroidered in silver threads. Butlers

bring you whiskeys and sodas. You whisper admiring remarks. His

Majesty graciously nods or points out some flaw. Meanwhile the

fluttering arpeggi of limpid-sounding, dulcet, bamboo xylophones

scatter up and down off-key (to Western ears) scales. A gentle,

tropical wind blows through the open pavillion, and the trailing

trains and scarves of the dancers wafted in the air match the undulat-

ing, effortless motions of the fragile and moon-faced dancers.

When the full troupe of Palace dancers in all their regalia and

within their splendid surroundings begin to dance, they seem to be

the quintessence of Oriental glamor. On each hand they wear dia-

monds, rubies and emeralds set in rings of gold; their bracelets,

bands, anklets, and colliers match Draped in cloth-of-gold, soft vel-

vets, and iridescent shot silks—the colors of dragonfly wings—and

wearing tiaras of beaten goldleaf, they communicate a magic of other

centuries, of other countries, and a panoply almost forgotten in the

drabness of much of one's usual life.

Formerly, the girls who composed this ballet came from the poorer

strata of the Cambodian people. If a family saw that their daughter

was turning into a beauty, they offered her to the Palace as an act of

religious devotion. In those days, the King was still the devaraja or

god-king; in Western terms this corresponds to an ultimate degree of

"divine right." If he approved of the girl, the family was given a

sum of money, the royal blessing, and the girl was taught dancing.

In time she became a concubine of the king. Today the practice has

been modified Many of the dancers are hereditary to the Court,

aptitude now takes precedence over beauty, and many of them marry

outside. (There are fifty of these dancers at present, although an

ordinary performance employs only twenty-five at a time ) But in

principle the life of a Palace dancer has changed little She spends

most of her time within the Palace compound.

The postures and movements, which impressed Rodin so deeply,

are achieved only after long, gruelling practice. Immediately on ar-

rival at the Palace, the young dancer begins her training under krus

(from the Indian word guru) or teachers who are older women and

no longer dance themselves. The lessons run every day except Sun-

days from eight to eleven, lunch is taken at eleven-thirty, and class

resumes at three and continues until five. The Asian body by and

large has greater flexibility of muscle and softer bone structure than

is usually found in the West Perhaps this is due to diet—meat and

milk are rarer commodities even among the rich—or it might be

psychological—the Asian is less tense, I think, on the whole than the

European or American—or perhaps it is only racial. But whatever the

explanation, the fact seems to be self-evident.

Starting with this asset, Cambodian dancers undergo further mold-

ing of the body before it can assume at will the shape of Angkor’s

ancient sculptures. The pupils start with exercises of the hand Grasp-

ing the fingers of one hand the dancer slowly presses them backwards

as far as they will go. After a few weeks, the fingers of each hand

can be bent back until they touch the outside surface of the wrist.

This same exercise is also repeated with each finger separately. If the

pupil is too diligent, she may break the tendons and the fingers grow

somewhat gnarled.

Another exercise is to place the two palms of the hand together

and raise the elbows until the hands form right angles at the wrists.

The end result of all this is that during a dance the fingers arch back-

wards gracefully and the hand hinges in a sharp, abrupt right angle

on the wrist In effect it is the antithesis of the limp, dangling hand

of ballet.

Next comes the elbow, which must be as articulated as the hand.

As a training exercise, the dancer sits on a stool and puts her arm on

her legs. The back of the elbow lies precisely on top of the knee cap.

Then she crosses her other leg over the arm near the wrist She

presses gently with the weight of the crossed leg until the elbow

flexes. She increases the pressure until eventually the elbow begins

to break outward as easily as it folds inward. Another exercise for

the elbow is first to lock the fingers together palm downwards, then

placing the elbow joints between the legs to squeeze the knees

against them until the insides of the elbows touch But during a dance

the serpentine hyperextension undulates smoothly as if the arm is

being thrown out of joint rhythmically.

The legs also have their special exercises One of these consists of

sitting crosslegged with each foot on the opposite knee, in yogic

fashion, and then rolling forward face down on the floor without

altering the position of the legs. The lower part of the body soon

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becomes stretched or malleable to the point that if you are standing with your arms hanging down at the side, the knees can be spread apart to touch the palm of the hand.

All of these preliminary exercises make the basic posture of Cambodian dance natural and easy—that is, hips held back firmly, knees spread widely apart, feet turned outward, toes up, the angle of the hand on the wrist asymmetrically balanced by the sharp break in the elbow. From this stance all positions and movements of the dance develop and flow, and to it they must return.

After these exercises, which altogether require around a year of practice, the trainee is ready to begin learning actual dances. To teach her, the kru pinches her shoulders tightly from behind and maneuvers her through the various routines, kicking her feet to indicate the footsteps and prodding her with the knee to impress the degree and depth of the bends. The movements become engraved upon the dancer's mind and body for life· A talented girl can master the mechanical portions of several dances in two years, but her age determines her position in public performances. No matter how clever she is, the young dancer must play minor roles of handmaidens and attendants until she is older. Eventually the size of the mature girl determines her role type· If she is large she plays men's parts, if she is small, she takes those of women. Two men attached to the palace troupe play all demon, comic, and animal roles.

Although life at court in Cambodia may seem unconventional to a Westerner, the palace dancers are surrounded by a number of moral restrictions. For instance, it is impossible for a man to interview a dancer without a kru being present. The girls are never allowed to travel unaccompanied. An unauthorized or unapproved affair would be a criminal offense. And morality and high-mindedness are inculcated, according to the krus, from the time the girls arrive at the palace· A dancer, if she is to be great, is judged on three things· her physical beauty, the exquisiteness of her gestures, and the rectitude of her private life. The sacred element of dance has never really been lost in Cambodia, and it is assumed that evil or grossness in the dancer's heart would reflect in the art. The code of behavior may be quite different from ours in the West, but according to its own rules, this conviction is probably quite true.

By thirty at the latest the dancer's career is over. She then either be-

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comes a teacher herself, a singer or time-beater in the orchestra, or a

servant in the palace household. In rare instances, an exceptionally

great artist such as Nom Soy Sanhvaum, the leading kru of the Pal-

ace today and the most spectacular dancer of recent times, may occa-

sionally appear in an interlude during a regular performance. But

this is always announced specially—the audience is told almost apolo-

getically that she is already fifty-four years old—and she wears an

ordinary court costume with a royal sash over her shoulder, crossing

her torso, she dances passages of abstract, improvised movements

without a specific theme.

Nearly all Cambodian dance tells a story which is graphically de-

picted both by the action and hand movements. As in Thailand, ges-

tures can be either specific or general. The commonest and most

basic of the hand gestures is made by stretching out the thumb and

index fingers while the other three fingers curl backwards. In general,

this is a gesture of offering. Specifically, it is used to pick flowers, to

indicate oneself, to indicate a smile if drawn across the mouth, and if

drawn across the eyes, to indicate tears. It also serves as a graceful

transition gesture, that is, any other gesture may be begun or com-

pleted or even interrupted by this basic one without affecting the

meaning. Joy or contentment is expressed by crossing the hands,

fingers together, and patting the chest gently. Anger is shown by rub-

bing the back of the ear; desire or greed by rubbing the palms of the

hands together in a circular motion. When both hands are raised

palm upward, the gesture refers to the crown; the reverse, both palms

downward, signifies the clothing. Many other gestures, such as look-

ing off into the distance, or pointing out an enemy, although al-

ways stylized, are easily recognized by their similarity to our own con-

cept of expressiveness.

The most frequent dance movement is the sampieh or salute of

respect (the Indian namaskar). It occurs at the beginning and end as

well as at intervals during any dance. It is executed by touching the

knees, lifting the hands until they are at breast level, then placing the

palms together with the fingers curved back, thumbs out, and raising

them to forehead The religious nature of the dance decrees a for-

mal sampieh as a sign of respect to the protecting god of the dance.

In addition, the sheltering of dance by the court has created an elab-

orate protocol of sampiehs. These appear often without relation to

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the story but as marks of respect to the sovereign and his guests for whom the girls are dancing. In the dance stories themselves there are always elaborate relationships of prince to king, daughter to father, pupil to teacher, and man to god, and the sampieh figures prominently to comply with the rules of deference.

The walk is highly formalized, executed with knees bent and toes out while the hands, holding the basic position of extended thumb and forefinger, sway forward and back. The length of the footstep is determined by the length of the foot, the heel of one foot is placed at the toe of the other, alternately until the required distance is covered.

Most charming of all the corps de ballet scenes are the “promenades” or walks of the princess with her ladies-in-waiting. The group symbolically strolls in the palace garden admiring the flowers or walks through a forest or bathes in a court pool

From the promenades developed the pure ballet movements where dancers dance in an unending series of graceful gestures executed in unison. In these, for the effect of flying through the air, which occurs frequently due to the supernatural beings and gods who invariably figure in the stories, the dancer stands on one foot and raises the other leg backwards, bending it at the knee, until both thigh and leg form parallel lines to the ground. In this posture the back of the heel touches the buttocks, the toes are curled out and the foot points downward. Much is made of standing on one foot over long periods of time while executing elaborate hand gestures and often turning around slowly without quivering or losing balance.

Many passages of the dance are performed while kneeling or sitting The rhythm is marked by a sharp lift of the torso (the bounce or the catching of the breath in Siamese dancing). The torso rises on the beat, and during the succeeding beats it sinks imperceptibly to a level from which it once again can be lifted. There is no downward movement in Cambodian dancing, and the dancers rarely move in a straight line The direction is always oblique or up and away from the earth towards God.

The plots of the dances are exceedingly simple, and after witnessing a few performances, the clichés and conventions become self-evident. The majority are based on scenes from the Ramayana or on Hindu-influenced traditional literature or Buddhist classics. In Cambodia, the favorite scenes seem to be Ravana's stealing of the

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beautiful Sita from Rama, the fights that ensue and the assistance of

the monkeys, and the Mekhala series which explain mythologically

the origin of thunder and lightning.

Indispensable to most plots is the role of the sage, also called kru.

Enormous respect for the sage is maintained at all times, and this tra-

dition of respect is still apparent from the regard Cambodians offer

their modern-day Buddhist priests who are also believed to have su-

pernatural qualities. In the stories, the sage usually entrusts some

sacred object—a sword, an arrow, or talisman—to a favorite pupil,

and after a tearful parting the youth accomplishes some miracle or

feat of extraordinary daring.

The Cambodian orchestra is essentially the same as in Thailand,

although there is greater refinement in the instrumental performing.

The music sounds like drops of water falling in elusive rhythmic

irregularity, while the winding melodic line of the hom, through

which the player breathes both in and out so that the sound never

stops until the end of the music, floats and hovers hesitantly over the

music’s substance. I have often thought that if summery clouds had

sound, it would be like Cambodian music.

A chorus of aged women, krus in the sense of dance teachers, sit

on the ground near the orchestra. They lean on one arm usually and

watch the performance with hawk-like intensity. The lead singer, dur-

ing pauses in the orchestral music, sings out a line which gives a frag-

ment of the story in poetry. The others take it up repeating the tune

and words in perfect unison while the dancers enact the meaning.

The sound of their voices is thin and melancholy, and seems to re-

flect the sadness of their lives—they who once were favored dancers,

now old and ugly, empty in heart, watching the young girls rising to

the brief glory they once knew and inevitably destined for the loneli-

ness that now haunts them. Among the chorus is also the time-

beater who marks the rhythm by clicking two small sticks together.

Her rhythm is separate from the drums of the orchestra, and serves to

carry the beat in silent passages where the dancers sometimes dance

without accompaniment.

The influence of Thailand is most clearly felt in the costumes and

crown. For all practical purposes the Cambodians have copied the

Thais in these. However, jewelry is an exception. While Siamese

dancers use imitation stones and tawdry tinsel, every item worn by

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the Cambodian palace dancers is genuine. They wear gold and silver

anklets and bracelets. Their rings and necklaces are studded with

precious stones of every kind The wardrobe room is actually a mu-

seum contained within the palace grounds holding the stage para-

phernalia when the dancers are not performing. Some of the many

jewels which the French governments have presented to the various

kings of Cambodia over the years have found their way to the danc-

ers One dancer's crown shows an enormous Napoleonic "N" of glit-

tering diamonds. The crowns for male roles are of beaten rose gold,

ornately decorated with precious stones, and rise to a height of four-

teen inches culminating in a thin point. They weigh about five

pounds each Their weight precludes any violent movement of the

head. The activity of the hands with their concommitant meanings re-

tor is content with the mask-like, expressionless immobility of the

head and face

Despite the efforts of the Artistic Adviser to the Throne during the

time of the French, a number of innovations crept in and now that

Cambodia is independent, these experiments will undoubtedly in-

crease. For a while the dancers performed on thick Persian carpets,

garishly woven with rosebud patterns, and for a year or so in the past

the dancers wore white stockings On one occasion they danced with

little American flags of paper as a special courtesy to a distinguished

American visitor. At the last program I saw at the Palace, we were

regaled with a new item, "Les Papillons," with a daughter of the

King as lead dancer. About a dozen members of the Palace troupe

fluttered on the stage with their legs and thighs bare. They wore im-

ported ballet shoes and silken, spangled pieces of cloth to represent

wings extended from their wrists to their shoulders. Their heads were

covered with velvet bathing caps from which projected long anten-

nae. They queued up like a formation of chorus girls and performed

a promenade sequence The absurd incongruity of their classical ges-

tures in this new routine filched from European vaudeville was a

discouraging sight But the episodes from the Ramayana which fol-

lowed in the program reassured the audience of the continuation of

the pure, almost flawless tradition of Cambodian palace dancing.

Fortunately, on national days or state occasions, when, for instance,

the King goes to Angkor to deposit the ashes of some deceased mem-

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ber of the royal family, the program always adheres strictly to a more

sober, less exploratory repertoire.

A few minor dance forms outside the Palace are still to be found

in Cambodia today. In any village which can afford a Western style

band there is Lamthong, the Rambong of Thailand. In fact, the

best dancers of this in Bangkok and in Saigon, the capital of Viet-

nam, are Cambodian girls who have come seeking a better livelihood

than they can find in their home country. And among the soldiers of

the Army, whenever there is a celebration, Lamthong is the order of

the day. Sergeants dance with corporals, officers with the older

wives (only a small percentage are allowed to keep their dependents

on the post), and amid French cognacs and canapés, the battalion

band blares out Cambodian tunes. Folk dances are rarer nowadays

than the Lamthong. On religious holidays you may see a pair of

youngsters and a drummer wandering over the town miming some

hunting dance. One of them carries a bow and arrow, the other may

be dressed as a stag or other animal. They dance outside your house

until you toss them some money, then they move on.

At marriage times, when music is very important to the celebra-

tions, there are sometimes spontaneous improvised dances. One of

the members of the orchestra when he is sufficiently worked up will

emit a “trrrt” sound, put his instrument aside or hand it to someone

in the audience, and then rise to dance a little. Without stepping

off the tiny grass mat provided for the orchestra, he jerks and sways,

flexes his fingers back and forth, raises and lowers his shoulders He

calls some woman from among the crowd of listeners and the two of

them dance together and sing improvised love poetry to each other.

If the woman is shy or reluctant to dance, she can get out of the in-

vitation by singing and dancing rejective words. One of these I

once heard went simply, “I am a woman, it’s true. But I don’t want

to dance. For I am fearful of my husband.” She then stepped off the

mat. The man can pursue, even when he has been rejected, some-

times with poems no more substantial than “I love you. There is the

bull and there is the cow too.”

A tentative embryonic drama form is emerging in Cambodia. In

the small town of Siemreap, the Theatre Moderne gives nightly per-

formances. The theatre is a small barn with a platform at one end

and the audience sits on the floor or benches, or, if you are a for-

eigner and pay the few extra cents for the best seats, little folding

chairs. The children crowd round the edge of the platform and stare

just over the level of the lights. The scenes are short. A whistle blows

and the painted canvas backdrops roll down, and we are transported

to yet another part of the forest, to still another palace.

The theatre's most recent play was about two warring Cambodian

kings. The good one wins of course and kills his opponent, but

meanwhile the spirit of the bad king takes possession of one of the

sons of a village family and tries in this way to take his revenge on

his former enemy. Throughout there is a good deal of low comedy.

There is a scene of the domineering wife (played by a man wearing

very elegant "falsies" which he kept shifting into position, much to

the hilarity of the audience) who bullies her husband about not

earning enough money. The ghost appears in the form of the son

and falls in love with the daughter of the house, his sister. There is

an elaborate chase through the forest with the brother continually mak-

ing advances to his own sister until the parents reach their wits' end,

unable to control their son or to calm their daughter's fears. Finally

the parents decide that the only thing to do is to go to the king (a

traditional Cambodian custom) and ask his advice which they ac-

cordingly do. The king falls in love with the daughter and fights the

brother over her. So eventually the ghost gets his chance at revenge

on the good king, but loses and once again is defeated The king

marries the village maiden.

Something along these same lines is the private theatre of Dap

Chuong, probably the most powerful military commander in Cam-

bodia During the fight for independence, he kept his troops in the

jungle and started his theatre then as a morale factor during the lulls

in the fighting Now he is the military commander of the Siemreap

area, his old fighting ground, and his troops have grown to more than

three thousand in number. He selects the best actors from among

them, and together with the six-piece military band and two women

singers (the best in all Cambodia), they perform every Sunday to the

delight of the entire countryside. Dap Chuong as a political figure is

in considerable opposition to the new government, and a vague note

of this discontent runs through his plays. Sometimes the plays mock

CAMBODIA / Dance and Drama

various officials who have arrived on the scene to implement unpopu-

lar policies, sometimes political ideas are hinted at, but in the main

the plays are like the Theatre Moderne, slapstick, heroic, and divert-

ing for the rather unsophisticated audiences for whom they cater.

Before the French left, one of the last Artistic Advisers in Cam-

bodia was Guy Porée, who created in Pnom-Penh the Theatre

Nouveau. It encouraged a type of drama different from the Theatre

Moderne, which at the best of times is crude and vulgar, and yet

which completely broke away from the heady traditions of the classi-

cal dance. He assembled a group of youths from among his serv-

ants, their friends, and friends of friends, and taught them briefly the

rudiments of amateur acting. Then he would tell them stories from

the West—Shakespeare, Racine, Corneille, and modern plays—and

let the group do whatever they wished with them. Their perform-

ances were usually on a small temporary stage erected in the garden

of the Porée house, and for costumes they used bits and pieces of

Mme. Porée's Paris gowns and modelled them vaguely on pictures

they found in European theatre albums Their fame increased and

they began to go on tour to neighboring villages, using the back of

an army truck for a stage.

Most of their pieces were short farcical skits interspersed with danc-

ing, but sometimes they attempted things on a grander scale. Their

half-hour version of The Merchant of Venice was an especial favor-

ite, because the problem of money lending is familiar to Cambodians

who saw Shylock as a Chinese usurer. Occasionally the King himself

commanded performances. Since independence, the Theatre Nou-

veau has apparently disbanded for lack of money, but there is every

likelihood that were further interest shown in this new type of ama-

teur drama, the once enthusiastic group could be reassembled without

difficulty.

On the whole, the artistic life of Cambodia is entirely dominated

by the classical dancers of the Palace. To all intents and purposes,

there is no other theatrical outlet for the people of any genuine sig-

nificance or standard At best the people can see these dances only

infrequently on public holidays and state occasions, and if they live

away from the bigger towns, the probability is that they will never

have even this opportunity.

For a brief period under the French there were two or three small

181

classical dance troupes composed of former dancers from the palace

who had returned to their homes, and there were one or two drama

troupes of the Theatre Moderne type, but the long war dating from

the fall of France, continuing through the Japanese Occupation, and

including almost nine years of sporadic civil war, froze the possibil-

ity of any widespread theatrical activity. The people's minds were else-

where.

Now that peace has been reestablished, it is possible that Cambo-

dians will turn to these pleasures again, unless, that is, those long

intervening years have made them forget But if the Palace troupe

seems insufficient to carry the entire national load of theatrical en-

tertainment, there is consolation in the fact that after all Cambodia

is a small country, and the supreme excellence of that one troupe is

more than many, many larger countries can claim.

6

L A O S

The Kingdom of Laos has many qualities in common with Cambodia. It is small, underpopulated, rich, and it won independence from the association of states formerly called French Indo-China at the same time and in the same way. It lies landlocked except for a chain of rivers, surrounded by Cambodia, Thailand, Burma, China and Vietnam. Despite this proximity to foreigners, it remains one of the most isolated, remote, and untouched countries of Southeast Asia.

To arrive in the king's capital at Luang Prabang by airplane from any of the surrounding countries is like being wafted suddenly and unaccountably from reality into fantasy. Everywhere you see ornate pagodas—many-roofed, many-pillared, and plastered with gold leaf which glitters in the warm sun—and pointed stupas in strange, unorthodox tiers and spires quite different from those in other parts of Buddhist Asia. Everywhere you see huddles of saffron-robed Buddhist priests, files of work-elephants wearing clanking anklets of silver around their feet, and lackadaisical, charming, friendly people sitting in the shade, gossiping, drinking sweet syrups or selling scarves and squares of the famous gold-threaded Laotian silks.

As in Cambodia, the King has a private troupe of dancers. But they are modelled on the Thai style, being a somewhat recent acquisition at the Laotian court. A couple of decades back, no one quite remembers when, the King imported a few teachers from Thailand who selected and trained the prettiest of the maidens connected with the Palace, and their pupils now perform in fine Bangkok style the old legends from the Ramayana and the better known excerpts from the Buddhist storybooks. The influence of Thailand over the entertainment world of Laos was cordially welcomed from the beginning.

133

ginning

The

indifferent,

passive

nature

of

the

Laotians

leads

them

to

avoid

exertion

(

"Why

make

the

effort?"

is

a

phrase

I

heard

there

more

frequently

than

I

have

in

any

other

country

I

know)

and

it

has

proved

simpler

for

them

to

sit

quietly

and

watch

the

Thais

from

across

the

river

exert

themselves

than

it

has

been

for

them

to

make

their

own

amusements.

There

are,

for

instance,

excellent

potential

boxers

in

Laos,

but

if

you

ever

go

to

a

match

it

will

always

be

the

Thais

pitted

against

other

Thais.

There

is

a

tradition

of

shadow-plays

with

giant,

translucent,

leather

puppets.

But

if

you

happen

upon

one

of

these

rare

perform-

ances

in

a

village,

it

will

be

a

Thai

troupe,

often

not

even

bothering

to

speak

the

lines

in

Laotian.

The

languages

are

close

enough

that

a

Laotian

spectator

can

follow

the

general

idea

without

translation

and

the

same

stories

have

been

reiterated

for

generations

Of

course,

the

most

popular

dance

in

Laos

is

the

Rambong,

called

there

Lam

Vong.

For

this

the

Laotians

summon

their

energies

and

make

the

effort

of

performing

it

themselves.

Dance,

music

and

festivals

are

popular

and

by

far

the

greatest

activity

of

the

country

lies

in

these

directions

Every

young

girl

of

good

family

is

expected

to

dance

as

a

sign

of

her

accomplishment,

and

dance,

together

with

homemaking

and

its

requirements,

constitute

the

average

Laotian

woman's

total

education.

These

dances

are

extremely

beautiful

and

may

be

done

individually

or

as

ballets

by

as

many

girls

as

are

available

The

freshness

of

the

performers,

with

their

hair

piled

high

in

a

chignon

and

wrapped

in

fragrant

flowers,

their

bare

shoulders

and

short,

knee-length

skirts

of

fine

brocade

moving

in

unison,

radiates

a

special

enchantment.

All

the

dances

they

perform

must

contain

at

some

point

the

four

fundamental

steps

or

movements:

the

salutation,

making

up,

flower

taking,

and

walking.

The

salutation

gesture

varies

only

slightly

from

its

Cambodian

or

Thai

counterpart.

The

making-up

sequence

is

pure

mime.

The

dancer

rubs

the

flat

of

her

palms

in

an

imaginary

powder

box,

rubs

them

together

and

with

alternating

palms

up,

palms

down,

brings

her

hands

to

her

face

and

passes

them

over

her

cheeks.

The

flower-taking

is

also

mime

It

shows

the

girl

collecting

blossoms

from

a

bush

and

then

sewing

them

together,

as

if

with

an

actual

needle

and

thread

in

a

slender

delicate

chain.

For

the

walk,

the

hands

are

184

L A O S / Dance and Drama

held at hip level and sway forward and back, palms up and then

down alternately as the dancer moves. From the beauty of the execu-

tion, the spectator must imagine a princess and her entourage stroll-

ing through a garden.

These four basic movements are perhaps best seen in the Lao

Phène (literally, Laotian suppleness). Here, while the toes mark the

steady beat and the dancer's chin bobs gently up and down, the

dancer links together the four motions in a progression of charming,

decorous movements. The words of the song which accompanies this

dance are simple. Roughly paraphrased and divested of the poetic

turns of phrase, they run: “We welcome you. Please look at us and

admire us We are well-coiffed and especially made up so as to appear

beautiful before your eyes. Here we are, inviting you to look at us.”

Another standard item of the Laotian woman's repertoire is the

“Twilight Dance” In it a young girl displays the degree of her sensi-

tivity to beauty by enacting her response to a sunset, and while the

words simply state the fact—“The sun is setting, the world is beauti-

ful, and I love him”—the dancer pivots on one foot, kneels with one

leg raised in the air (to represent profound admiration before an im-

agined sunset) and sketches in the air with limpid motions of hands

and fingers. One of the gestures in which the open-faced hands sweep

from shoulder to the knees means, when translated from a single

Laotian word, “Look at my body.”

The repertoire includes several animal dances, but these draw par-

allels between animals and lovesick human beings rather than in-

dulge in imitative mime. For the Dove Dance, the song runs, “The

male dove has forgotten his lover perched here on a lonely

branch . . .” and the gestures express the movements of a young girl

rather than those of a bird

Laotian dancing clings only distantly to its Indian origins The

angularities are softened, the energetic rhythmic pulsations become

whispered, and the hand gestures so evanescent and dreamlike that

their symbolism transforms into a fleeting, momentary mood. The

stories and mythology which originally belonged to India have un-

dergone subtle alterations during the long journey from the home-

land to the remote heart of Laos. Everything has a happy ending,

and everyone has a good time even in adversity. Life's discords are

185

delightfully harmonized. The result is a pleasing, indelibly Laotian atmosphere. The attenuation of the dances, the fantastic look of the

country's pagodas and stupas, the gentle, gentle nature of the Laotians are all of a happy world apart. And away from it, your

memories of the country grow faint, your impressions fade into vagueness, and become in fact quite like the unreal qualities which so

eminently characterize the dances themselves.

7

MALAYA

The long peninsula which stretches southward from continental Asia almost to the equator is known as the Straits Settlements or Malaya, but if you say Singapore, the picture of this British colony with its mixed population of Malays, Chinese, Indians and Englishmen, springs to mind perhaps more clearly.

The most troubling aspect of this area is the fact that the indigenous population, the Malays, from whom the name Malaya comes, are in a minority, and the majority are the Chinese who are as alien there as the British.

Malaya is the product of its peoples, and this carries with it a complex web of contradictory threads and factors.

As a general rule, it can be said that wherever the British have colonized in Asia, theatre has appreciably declined.

Equally it is true that the Chinese, whenever they are in numbers, carry their theatre with them and it remains as exclusive and apart from the general life of the country as their other customs and manners.

The theatre, which must depend on language before it can be understood, naturally presents obstacles to a foreign spectator; and the Chinese, even in their own country, have no true folk, or even social, dancing to contribute.

Added to these outside influences, or lack of them, is the artistically constricting hold of Mohammedanism over the Malays.

They have almost no dances, let alone a representational theatre, left at all.

A general theatrical aridity spreads deeply over the country, and what little can be found there is foreign.

The Happy World Amusement Park in Singapore illustrates this compactly.

Chinese-owned and managed, and consisting of numerous restaurants, night clubs, dance halls, concessions, and games of chance, it also supplies the chief place of entertainment for the island's population of a million or so people.

Two of its attractions

187

are a movie house, which shows English and American films, and a permanent regular theatre where South Chinese operas in all their

tinsel and spangles, with their ancient history of emperors and generals, perform nightly. The cultural invasion of Thailand is also

evident. In the center of the Happy World, an elevated rink, somewhat like a bandstand, provides a place for "Joget Modern," the

Malay and Indonesian version of Rambong. To get up on to the dance floor you pass a large sign announcing that no one without an

identity card can enter. This is a measure to ensure that no one under eighteen years of age becomes corrupted by the alluring Joget Mod-

ern girls too early in life. You then enter a wicket fence and buy tickets for as many dances as you think you would like. As the

Western-style band plays its variations and adaptations of the original Siamese tunes, you walk up to any of the unoccupied girls sit-

ting in chairs around the rink, hand her one of your tickets, and start following her hand waves and foot shufflings in the Rambong

There are amateur plays put on by the English from time to time; and night clubs have dancers imported from Australia, Hong Kong,

and even England. Not long ago, Rose Chan, a Singapore strip tease r, took her dance on a tour of Malaya proper, but her perform-

ances, though well attended, were greeted with rotten eggs and sometimes even snakes were thrown at her. When the tires of her car were

punctured, she finally abandoned her tour.

If you go up country, you may find a few folk dances belonging to the Malays. One of these, native to Malacca, an area not far from

Singapore and the first to be colonized—by Hindus, Arabs, Portuguese and the British in continuing succession—is the Donang

Sayan, an old Portuguese-style dance performed by two couples hopping and stepping in lively measure to the cheerful half-Arab, half-

English music of the band. In the same area there is also the Donak Donay, a fighting dance showing mock hand-to-hand combat be-

tween young men.

Further in the interior there is a sporadic guerilla war going on at present (against the Communists, some say, while others claim it is

against bandits left over from the chaos of the last war) and this perhaps curtails the people's wish to dance even more In the jungles

and hills there, you do find the aboriginal ethnic groups who have a few dances once associated with tribal ritual and ceremonies. Al-

188

though they are rapidly losing the sociological circumstances and environment which produced these dances originally, they still will perform with feathers and flower headdresses for visitors to the jungle forts or safe areas within the battle zones. For celebrations, such as the Queen's Birthday, they come to Singapore and appear there.

Despite the scarcity of dance or drama in Malaya, however, if the chances are exceptionally favorable it is possible to happen upon something of interest When I was last in Malaya, I heard quite inadvertently that a special dance would take place. A friend merely mentioned to another friend that it might take place. The way it came about was thus.

It seems that on the Batchok Coast in Kelantan province along the Malaya Peninsula, the fishing catches had been bad for the past several years. The leading men of the villages particularly affected by the terrible times and greatly disturbed by them decided that the reason must be because of the sea jinus. These spints must be angry, it seemed, because the villagers had not bothered to have a proper puja or ceremonies of offerings to propitiate them for ten years. So they were, as a result, preventing the fish from getting into the nets. To make up for this oversight, it was decided that four days and nights would be set aside for the proper devotions.

A huge water buffalo was chosen as the chief sacrificial item. For three days it was paraded up and down the beach (it was estimated that it walked more than twenty-five miles in all), and the priest or pawang finally cut its throat and drained away the blood. The meat was parcelled out to the appropriate villagers. On the fourth day, at dawn, the carcass was stuffed with straw and placed in a specially decorated fishing boat and floated out to sea.

During all this religious procedure, there were entertainments—stylized, musical sword fights, a shadow-play with puppets made out of finely scissored pieces of leather depicting myths from India which still pervade Malaya, and several kinds of dancing. These lasted each night from dusk to dawn. Foremost were the menora dancers specially imported from Southern Siam for the occasion who were men dressed and made up like women They wore gold crowns of many tiers, ending in a spire, and tight-fitting costumes. The extraordinary thing about these dancers was they were deep in trance and unconscious of what they were doing. They danced in this state all night

long, their torsos sharply slanted to one side, their fingers curling and uncurling in weird patterns, their heads pivoting unnaturally on their necks. At the same time were the puteri dancers-actual Malayan women this time, who can dance, it seems, but only do so on rare occasions-moving in a ballet of casual, happy disorder. From time to time during the celebrations, the trance spread and spectators or bystanders having no part in the function would fall mysteriously under some magic spell. Some rushed into the dance circle and joined in with the trained artists Some plunged wildly into the sea unconscious of the danger of drowning; they had to be fished out by their friends. Nobody minded much. The festivities continued non-stop

When it was all over, de-trancing took place and everyone returned to normal. I am sure the sea jinns were fully pleased—and exhausted. But I suppose it will easily be another ten years, if not more, before Malaya will have another outburst of such dancing.

If you are in search of dance and drama, Malaya is an unrewarding country. For the present, it is of greater interest to students of international politics.

INDONESIA

Dance

No other country in the world, to my mind, is quite as disturbing to travel in, or quite as rewarding, as complex, as romantic as Indonesia.

Even calling it a country, which implies a single geographical unit, seems inaccurate.

Indonesia is a spray of thousands and thousands of islands (one alone is larger than France), of minor archipelagos within major ones (including the “Thousand Islands” themselves), all straddling the equator almost equidistantly to the North and South and connecting in a desultory way continental Asia with Australia.

In the past, it has been variously referred to as Malaysia, the East Indies, the Indian Archipelago, Insulinde, and for three hundred and fifty years—an all-time record for stubborn colonial persistence —Dutch or Netherlands East Indies.

Now it is Indonesia or “the islands of the Indies,” and as a patriotic local term (somewhat like Columbia to the United States), the Indonesians say Nusantara which means simply and tersely “archipelago.”

On these islands live more then eighty million people, speaking about two hundred languages and dialects.

Altogether, Indonesia is the largest aggregate of islands united into a single country in the world, the sixth largest nation of any kind, and the largest Muslim country anywhere despite its heavily Hindu atmosphere;

if you were to superimpose it on the United States, it would extend from Maine to California.

Each area conjures up excitement and adventure in the Western imagination—the Spice Islands, the Wild Man of Borneo, Bali, the prehistoric giant lizards or “dragons” of Komodo, the novels of Joseph Conrad about Celebes or Somerset Maugham about Timor, the orangutans, or forest men, in the jungles of Sumatra, the miniature chickens from Bantam, the island Krakatao that disappeared in the greatest volcanic explosion of modern times.

Even the

national exports sound highly exotic to our ears: gutta-percha, copra,

benzoin, chuncona, camphor, dammar, as do the local edibles, sago,

cassava bread and jack-fruit, mango, durian, mangosteen and lichees.

The Indonesian, however, sees himself surrounded by less roman-

tic associations While colonialism at least for all practical purposes is

finished in the rest of Asia, the Dutch still hold half of New Guinea

which used to be part of the Dutch East Indies, the British still have

part of Borneo, and the Portuguese half of Timor.

But however distressing their political problems may seem, from

the point of view of dance or music no country could be more thrill-

ing, if the meaning of that word has not been spoiled by indis-

criminate use. A scholar, research student, or even an enthusiastic

tourist could easily spend a lifetime wandering over the island observ-

ing the incredible number of dances and varieties of music, and still

there would remain countless movements and sounds left unex-

plored. The politically sensitive visitor to Indonesia today may be

shocked by the after-effects of the parsimonious isolation in which

the Dutch obviously kept their Indies. The searcher after dance, how-

ever, finds himself delighted, and a little ashamed at the same time,

that because of this forcible obscurity Indonesia's dances have re-

mained relatively untouched Even now, in a time of tape recorders,

movies, cameras, documentaries, and the new self-conscious aware-

ness of dance most Asian nations are feeling, the superlative pano-

rama of Indonesian dance is unexploited and, with the exception of

Bali, is a virtually unknown field of study. You can discover, if you

look long and carefully, every possible kind of dance from the most

rarefied and involuted performances in palaces, to wild, primitive rit-

uals one step removed from headhunting and human sacrifices. But

variety and quantity by themselves are not all.

Even by an international standard, which of necessity must be crit-

ical and evaluative, Indonesia's dances overwhelm you by their in-

ventiveness and technical proficiency. Rabindranath Tagore, one of

the first modern Indians to visit Indonesia, said, in a moment of

what must have been bitter acknowledgement for such a patriot, that

Lord Siva gave his dance to Indonesia and left India with his ashes.

This meant that while India still worships Siva devoutly, the Indo-

nesians have continued since their original period of Hinduization to

dance like the god himself, and this has held true in the face of the

192

intervening centuries when Islam conquered and wiped out Siva as a

cult from the country. The universality of Indonesian dance is felt

even in the West. A few seasons ago a troupe of Balinese dancers suc-

ceeded brilliantly before American and European audiences without

making a single major concession or adaptation. Miscellaneous Java-

nese soloists and even small troupes formed from among students

and the diplomatic corps abroad have danced in Paris and London to

surprising acclaim. I do not know of a single international folk-dance

competition held from time to time in Asia and Europe where Indo-

nesia has not taken the honors.

But as with every other phase of life in this complicated country,

there are difficulties. The dance is either hard to find or a nuisance to

arrange. It is determined by season, occasion and mood. Added to

this, there is a disinclination on the part of Indonesians to help stran-

gers. Invitations to the palaces, while they may be granted, are sur-

rounded by more protocol than any other Asian country finds es-

sential. Folk dancers either ask too much money for their dances or

refuse to dance because they are not professionals and cannot accept

money. Inquiry into dance in this postwar, post-revolutionary, ex-

colony is frequently mistaken for intrusion. Indonesians sometimes

refer to their dances as “their national soul,” and perhaps they guard

it too protectively. Even though there is a Jawatan Kebudayaan (Cul-

tural Office) in every city large or small and it can help a little if

you are armed with official documents, to seek the dance out is, ex-

cept for Bali, the exception to all things in Indonesia, often

fraught with irritation and frustration. The problems attendant on

the outsider should not discourage one. In the end it will turn out

to have been worth all the trouble.

The easiest dances to locate are the modern social ones of the cit-

ies. While this may seem a curious place to begin a serious approach

to dance, travel routes force it on you. The visitor inescapably lands

in Jakarta, the capital, the largest and least agreeable city in Indo-

nesia, and it is there that these dances are most in vogue and most

tolerated. However, even in Jakarta you can gain some idea that there

are other dances elsewhere in the country. When a troupe now and

then is on its way back from a tour of some foreign country and

passes through Jakarta, they may give a recital—often by invitation

only—in the local concert hall (the only one in the city of three and

a half million people). There is a school belonging to Mrs. Subarjo, a

patron of the arts, which teaches the Javanese court dances of Jog-

jakarta to a few Jakartans as well as to some daughters of foreign

diplomats stationed there. From time to time semi-public recitals of

students are announced President Sukarno holds occasional parties

at his palace where distinguished foreigners are entertained with a

short program of dances performed by his very young children, or, if

the dignitary is important, a group of regional dancers, usually the

daughters of the local officials, is flown in especially for the evening.

Aside from these, there is little in Jakarta besides modern social

dances, and unlike most regions in Indonesia, it has no indigenous

dance of its own

As you walk along Jakarta's flat and level streets, many of which

are sliced down the center by wide canals of sluggish brown water,

you may be deceived by several remaining signs saying DANSIN-

INSTITUT or Dance School. “Dans” in Indonesia means Western-

style dancing, and it was, of course, introduced by the Dutch, who

built several dance halls for themselves. For a period, it was fashion-

able for Indo-Europeans, as Eurasians are called by the Dutch, and

Westernized Indonesians to go in for ballroom dancing In a way,

coming to Jakarta, or getting an official job in the plodding bureauc-

racy of the capital, or traveling abroad, were all steps up the ladder of

Westernization, and this kind of dancing in which you hold a mem-

ber of the opposite sex in your arms and glide along together in pub-

lic places, was an ultimate expression of accepting the colonial way

and of turning one’s back on native attitudes.

Along with independence came two ancillary factors. One was a

corrosive anger against the Dutch, and no ex-colonial power that I

know of has ever been so detested by its former subjects, and the

other was a prudish morality, which is a combination of inherent Mus-

lim rigidity regarding women and the self-righteousness that often

follows in the wake of revolution. Western dancing was an immediate target, and although not many Indonesians ever danced in this

way, the government nevertheless inveighed against it. To the people

in power it connoted blatant sexuality. Now the dance halls are

empty; Dansinstituts have almost no pupils—except to learn the

Rambong style of dancing from Thailand via Singapore; and an em-

ployee of the government can be fired for dancing in public as

194

I N D O N E S I A / Dance

quickly as he could be for gross inefficiency. Morality of this sort occupies an almost obsessive place in official thinking in Indonesia today. There is censorship and there are elaborate controls.

To combat the pernicious, undermining influence that Western dancing is supposed to exert, the government not long ago took steps to introduce a substitute for it among students, the Muda-Mudi (young men-young women). Muda-Mudi had its first performance at the University, and President Sukarno sanctioned the occasion by accepting the invitation to attend. The evening started well. Someone spoke on krisis achlak, the moral crisis, about which politicians had been worrying for some time. Then, to the accompaniment of phonograph records, a few sample couples began dancing Muda-Mudi as a demonstration of what modern social dancing should be in new independent Indonesia. In it the boy and girl keep a wide distance between them, slowly moving in a misty suggestion of a two-step and cautiously gyrating around the floor while, with their hands steady, they make simplified gestures adapted from the court dancing of the palace at Solo, one of the ancient cultural capitals of Java. The students, undaunted by the presence of the President, were appalled at the spiritless performance and showed their reaction by stomping on the floor and hooting. The party soon ended; and while Muda-Mudi is danced in a few homes as a semi-patriotic gesture and in quiet Solo where it originated, the experiment was a failure.

Distress over Western ballroom dancing in Indonesia seems senseless to the outsider, particularly since the people already have their own modern social dances which serve the same purpose more than adequately. Jakarta has three types of these, Doger, Ronggeng and Joget, named in ascending order of their respectability within the lower and middle classes of Jakarta social groups. The upper classes eschew all three.

Doger is the most vulgar according to the accepted standards, although there is nothing offensive in the dance and its origins are certainly innocuous. It derives from a standard folk dance popular in the neighboring villages where a girl seeks out her sweetheart and dances with him, while the elders look on and approve or disapprove of the couple's skill. The movements are so simple and elementary that they scarcely need to be described. They are roughly along the lines, though less polished and controlled, of Thailand's Rambong.

195

A clever if incidental use of Doger has been made in a recent film,

After Curfew, written by Asrul Sani, one of Indonesia’s most capable

intellectuals, and directed by Usmar Ismail, formerly a playwright

and now a film producer. The film actually deals with the problem of

adjusting to society after revolution and the settling of old scores incurred during wartime, but there is a long scene in which a Western-

style dance party in a rich Jakarta house is contrasted with a Doger

being danced around a bonfire in one of the poorer compounds not

far away.

Ronggeng, which stands a little higher in the scale of propriety, is,

as the derivation of word indicates, the Indonesian version of the

Rambong. Its difference from Doger is largely an economic one. It is

practiced by a class of people a little better off financially. Where

Doger requires no formalities of accompaniment (a ring of singing,

handclapping friends suffices) or costume (you come as you are), or

particular aptitude (anyone can join in), Ronggeng needs a small au-

dience, one’s Sunday-best, clean clothes, and a lesson or two at the

Dansininstitut.

Joget, however, is another matter altogether, and of considerable

dance interest. The word comes from the Javanese for “dance,” but

the dance in its present form owes a considerable debt to Thailand’s

Rambong and a somewhat lesser one to the rhumba as it is danced in

the Philippines. Among the Malay population in Singapore, Joget

means Rambong, and in general there is an air of internationalism

and reciprocity between countries about the whole dance. Rambong

would probably never have been invented in Bangkok had it not

been for European influence there, and its success is doubtful in re-

gions where the West had not penetrated to some degree. But since it

is in essentials a native dance, the government leaves it pretty much

alone.

While it is the most popular and important form of dance in the

city, it belongs so intrinsically and almost privately to the ordinary

person—the school teacher, the pedicab driver, the office peon—that

the foreigner, by the accident of nationality, often is denied any sort

of social access to that layer of Jakarta life.

I first came upon Jakarta’s Joget in an unexpected way and quite

by chance. A friend of mine who was making a broad over-all study of

Indonesia once introduced me to a friend of his, and we in turn be-

196

I N D O N E S I A / Dance

came friendly. The quarters where my new friend lived with his wife

and baby and a relative who visited them for several months each

year were typical of Jakarta’s crowded slums—jerry-built, one-and-a-

half room structures of wood and palm matting walls identical with

the hundreds of others in the compound where more than three

thousand people jam together to form a single housing unit. Despite

the simplicity of their lives, I received endless hospitality from them

during my stay in Jakarta, and sat hours in their house drinking the

inevitable orange soda, talking, asking questions, and often just

watching the compound life.

Not long before I was to leave Indonesia, I felt I had to repay

their kindness in some way, and it occurred to me that if I paid for

a dance (I would leave the choice to him) to be held outside my

friend’s house, he would be pleased, his neighbors could share in the

enjoyment, and doubtless, since pleasures are expensive in Jakarta,

his prestige within the compound would rise. The idea met with fa-

vor. “We will have the best dancer in Jakarta,” my friend assured me.

“We will have a Joget,” his wife added. A few days later my friend

said that the whole evening would cost the equivalent of ten dollars

—“a courtesy gift to the dancer,” he explained—and was that all

right? He looked doubtful since that amount represented his earn-

ings for a month. He cheered up when I explained that for the best

I was willing to pay even more. A few days later my friend called on

me “We’ll make it the circumcision of my daughter,” he announced

without preliminaries and went on to explain that to begin with you

have to have a plausible reason in Jakarta for a big “ten dollar”

dance, and, secondly, that his daughter was about six which was the

proper age to circumcise, according to the custom of the locality, and

that this would facilitate matters from officialdom’s point of view.

People would also not ask bothersome questions about why a for-

eigner should be holding a dance. A day or two later I received a

printed card saying that on such and such a date “Miss Betty” of

Jakarta with a special orchestra would be performing at the com-

pound in front of my friend’s house on the felicitous occasion of the

circumcision of a daughter When I saw my friend by chance later

that day, he told me that he had just secured permission from the

headman of the compound as well as from the local police. He had

also notified some department of law and order and was now on his

197

way to get the fire department's chop or stamp of approval which

would be the last of the red tape.

The night of the dance came, and an orchestra of guitars, tambou-

rines, accordions (called “harmoniums” in Indonesia), violins, dou-

ble basses, rattling gourds, Javanese drums, and wooden sticks ar-

rived A microphone was set up outside the house, gas lamps were

suspended overhead from a temporary board frame erected especially

for the occasion in case of rain, and chairs were put out for us.

Others of the compound crowded around absorbed in the prepara-

tions. The music began. It was Western jazz of the sort I associate

with Berlin of the 1920's Its sounds were sentimental, spoonny and

unpercussive, and with the not unpleasant crudeness of being im-

properly rehearsed A man sang, reading the words from a little

printed booklet of popular songs Then a woman sang, but she was

so shy she stood sideways, not looking at the audience. The orches-

tra played Lagu melayu (songs from Singapore) and then it changed

to gambus (melodies from Arabia), and each number was announced

by name deafeningly over the microphone By now we had gathered

a great crowd, and the heat of the bodies pressing one against the

other made the already heavy night air yet more oppressive.

“Miss Betty” (that is the Indonesian word, I am not translating)

finally appeared, dramatically late. He turned out to be a young man

with long hair, made up and dressed like a woman. He earns his liv-

ing, it seems, dancing on such programs and is so famous for his Joget

and charming appearance throughout the compounds of Jakarta that

gruff and normal men even boast of having danced with him. If be-

ing able to dance the Joget at all is a social superiority over the Doger

and Ronggeng class of person, dancing with “Miss Betty” for an In-

donesian is the equivalent of, say, a cotillion at a debutante's ball.

As “Miss Betty” began to flutter his feet and hands keeping his

eyes stolidly on the ground in a diffident way, one of the compound

men stepped into the ring, picked up a scarf that had been slung over

one of the chairs near the orchestra, tied it around his waist—to indi-

cate the festive nature of the dance—and began to follow “Miss

Betty's” restless steps. As they shuffled back and forth each waved his

hands in arabesques of grace in the air. The dancers never touched

each other, never looked at each other, and never smiled. After five

or six minutes, this dance was over.

198

I

N

D

O

N

E

S

I

A

/

Dance

Then

man

after

man

stepped

in

and

danced—the

tough

bully

of

the

compound

who

beats

the

others

up

if

they

do

not

obey

him,

the

son

of

the

compound’s

pawn-shop

owner,

another

young

man

training

to

be

an

ulama

or

Muslim

priest

of

the

highest

mystical

power,

and

others

I

had

not

met.

I

was

urged

to

dance

but

declined.

My

friend

sat

back,

chest

out,

and

watched

his

neighbors

enjoy

themselves

at

his

party.

The

dances

got

more

complicated.

One

step,

feet

together,

another

step,

feet

together

again,

around

the

tiny

clearing

in

front

of

the

orchestra.

Sometimes

the

elbows

were

kept

at

the

hip

and

the

arms

twirled

around

in

concentric

circles.

Occasionally

the

steps

grew

more

bouncy.

At

times

“Miss

Betty”

would

stretch

his

knees

out

and

in

like

an

accordion.

Some

dancers

tossed

the

scarf

over

their

shoulders

and

let

it

lie

there

precariously.

Others

clamped

it

in

their

hands

like

a

ball,

and

wiped

their

hands,

sweating

from

nervousness,

with

it.

The

audience

commented

critically

whenever

“Miss

Betty”

did

a

difficult

foot

kick

that

his

partner

could

not

follow.

When

a

scarf

fell

off

or

when

an

eager

dancer

would

get

too

close,

“Miss

Betty”

would

spring

back

in

a

flash

of

indignation

without

missing

a

beat.

The

dance

went

on

steadily

until

midnight—curfew

time

for

the

city

of

Jakarta.

No

one

smiled

much

that

evening,

but

somehow

it

was

clear

that

everyone

was

extremely

happy.

My

friend’s

wife,

as

the

orchestra

and

“Miss

Betty”

were

packing

up

to

leave,

leaned

over

to

say,

“If

I

were

a

man,

I

would

love

to

dance

with

‘Miss

Betty.’

He

is

so

good

looking

”

And

for

an

instant

I

wondered

if

she

were

joking.

She

was

not.

The

person

looking

for

profundity

in

dance

must

leave

Jakarta

at

the

earliest

possible

opportunity.

For

your

first

taste

of

what

is

genuine

Indonesian

dance,

you

need

go

only

as

far

as

Bogor

or

Bandung,

or

preferably

to

Sukabumi,

the

three

main

cities

of

the

region

known

as

Sunda.

For

centuries

in

the

past

until

the

Dutch

arrived,

Sunda

was

an

independent

kingdom

which

bowed

to

no

other,

including

the

powerful

Javanese

courts

at

Jogjakarta

and

Solo.

To

this

day,

a

residual

pride

glows

in

every

Sundanese

heart,

and

they

regard

their

culture

as

the

best

in

Indonesia.

Sunda

is

particularly

famous

for

two

things:

the

beauty

of

its

199

women, which is obvious to any visitor, and the exquisite melancholy

of its music, which has almost as much immediate appeal for the visi-

tor. For a few dollars, you can have a private concert of music on the

verandah of your hotel room Although Sundanese gamelans can be

as large as the great orchestras of Jogjakarta and Solo, the more char-

acteristically Sundanese music consists merely of three people: one

who plays the kecapi, a predecessor of the zither but the strings are

plucked with the fingers, the suling player, a muted, soft-toned flute

whose sound fades in and out like etheric waves against the tremu-

lous notes of the kecapi, and a singer who pours out love songs in a

high, thin, clear voice.

While dance is not a special Sundanese glory, it is still noteworthy.

Most of the dances show women in subdued roles and men in defiant

moods. Those that have stories come from Hindu mythology or from

the Panji cycle—an epic recorded in several versions during the long

series of powerful Hindu-Javanese rulers extending from the sev-

enth to fourteenth centuries Those that have no stories and survive

as independent dances are excerpts from these longer dance-dramas,

showing princesses of the court at their toilette, promenading, speak-

ing of love, or watching their husbands and lovers go into battle. The

movements of these dances are modelled on the great dancing style

of the courts in central Java which will be more fully explained in a

later section.

The most characteristic of the Sundanese dances is the Tar

Topeng or mask dance, the chief item in the Sundanese repertoire at

present, and derived from the Panji cycle It tells the story of a de-

voted wife who, disguised as a wandering prince (ksatrya kelana),

goes in search of her husband She penetrates into hostile country,

and disguising herself further with a wildly painted, mustached mask

taken from the topeng masked dramas (a once popular form of thea-

tre in Java ) encounters a demon king and fights with him. The dance

is usually performed by three people, because the dance is long and

tiring and the styles are so contrasting—two women (one to play the

dutiful wife in search of her husband, another to do the masked

combat) and a man (who acts the demon role). The full formal

Sundanese orchestra for this dance immediately establishes a nerv-

ously fast pace. The drummer beats three large drums, stacked one

200