Performing Arts in the Ashram

Annual Day of the Ashram School

1944

We started celebrating the annual day of our Ashram School in 1944. I was asked to recite lines from the poem “Who”, which we had learnt by heart in our English class. A few stanzas were chosen after listening to which we were told that Sri Aurobindo had said a few more lines had to be added, otherwise the meaning of the text was not clear.

Actually speaking, as I was only eleven years old, Sisir-da thought I might be too nervous to do many lines. So, I recited these lines and a few others of the same in French and in the languages taught here at that time. In a hall where all the teachers and students (about thirty at that time) were present along with a few Ashramites who were specially invited for the purpose—it was a great occasion. For us, it was a very important beginning.

1945

Perseus the Deliverer—our item was the Prologue of this play. I was chosen to recite the lines written for Athene, while other classmates were doing Poseidon and the Voices of the Sea. We had recited in the present Darshan room where, that day, the Mother was standing at the entrance door all through the recitation, and Sri Aurobindo himself was seated in his room, following his words spoken by us, the young students of the School here.

On our way out, all those who were present received a toffee from the Mother, who was standing at her doorstep facing the staircase. After giving me the toffee, she held me back and said:

“Toi, tu pourras faire, tu as le sentiment”
(You, you will be able to do, you have the feeling.)

I thought over her words and understood that I had expressed my own impression all through my last lines:

Thou wingest, Perseus,
From northern snows to this fair sunny land,
Not knowing in the night what way thou wendest...
(CWSA 3–4: 336)

I had let my imagination go! As I knew the following part of the story—we had studied the play in our class as part of our English syllabus.

1946

In the role of Andromeda for Act III, Scene One—a unique scene combining human soulfulness with heaven’s influence and protection on earth. The companionship of the two young girls is sweet and selfless, as Diomede wants to dissuade Andromeda from attempting such a dangerous act against the laws of their country.

A very unusual thing happened—Suprabha Nahar was to recite the lines of Athene. One morning, when I entered the couloir where the Mother used to stand and give her blessings to each one separately, the Mother stopped me while I saw Suprabha standing near the other door. The Mother asked me to read my part while she herself read Athene’s lines. Then she asked Suprabha to read her lines and, taking the book from me, she read out my lines. Her whole bearing changed from the Goddess to the adorer! It was a real experience.

Athene
I am she
Who helps and has compassion on struggling mortals...

Andromeda
Thou art! There are not only void
Azure and cold inexorable laws.

Athene
Stand up, O daughter of Cassiope.
Wilt thou then help these men of Babylonia,
My mortals whom I love?

Andromeda
I help myself,
When I help these.

Athene
To thee alone I gave
This knowledge. O virgin, O Andromeda,
It reached thee through that large and noble heart
Of woman beating in a little child...
(Perseus the Deliverer)

I have always considered this incident to have been my best education for dramatics, which became one of my specialization subjects. The Mother herself had asked me in 1967 if I was ready to take the responsibility of holding dramatics classes in our School.

1947

Ahana—selected lines were to be recited. I was to recite the lines of Ahana, the lines of the human adorer were to be done by Arati (Das Gupta), and the descriptive lines were to be read off-stage by Norman-da (Dowsett), our director.

The Mother called us into her private chamber on the first floor and, seated on her couch, read to us the lines we were to recite while we were sitting at her feet on the carpet—it was again a great blessing! On our way out she gave to Arati and to me a few flowers—mine were quiet strength in the vital, divine purity, and divine presence.

1948

Le Voyage de Monsieur Perrichon (The Journey of Mr. Perrichon), a French comedy, was chosen by the Mother among other items as part of the annual day programme. I was to do the role of the daughter who was sought after by two admirers—one of them wanted the money of the rich father, and the other was honest about his intention regarding the young girl.

One evening in the playground, where she used to sit watching the activities, the Mother called me and asked me to read my role. After a few special indications, she said that my reading was all right; only the exclamatory sentences were still too English!

1949

It was an important year for me. Amrita-da was someone who was very lucky to hear from Sri Aurobindo readings of his poems. When we had recited different lines, he made a selection of lines from Savitri entitled “Debate between Love and Death.” Sri Aurobindo approved of the selection and, one day, when I entered the Mother’s blessings area, she said to me:
“Il t’a lui-même decerné pour ce rôle.”
(He himself has decided this role [the role of Savitri] for you.)

1950

It was a very crucial year—we were to recite Vision and the Boon, Book III, Canto IV. We were rehearsing very seriously. One day, I told the Mother that I was finding it difficult to pronounce the word alter in my part—

One shall descend who shall break the iron Law,
And alter Nature’s doom by the Spirit’s power.

Changes made by Sri Aurobindo:

One shall descend and break the iron Law,
Change Nature’s doom by the lone Spirit’s power.

The Mother referred it to Sri Aurobindo and the following day I was told to say the word change in its place.

1951

We had done selected lines from Book Eleven—The Supreme Consummation:

O besetter of man’s soul with life and death
And the world’s pleasure and pain and Day and Night,
Tempting his heart with the far lure of heaven...
(CWSA 34: 685)

1952

We had done The Word of Fate (Book Six—Canto One). The Mother had told me about the other characters—Aswapati, the Queen, and Narad:

“Ils sont tous grands dans leur majesté extérieure, toi tu dois être grande dans ta majesté intérieure.”
(They are all great in their outer majesty; you must be great in your inner majesty.)

There was a cyclone and the programme was postponed to the 3rd of December.

1953

The Triple Soul-Forces—Book Seven, Canto One.
It was a difficult year—but this canto is one of the most dramatic in all of Savitri, describing the worlds that she leaves behind. It gives us the picture of different planes of consciousness that make up the subtle worlds.

They are the vibrant experiences of a traveller of the worlds who has marked without exaggeration what he had gone through. Book Seven, Canto Two marks the parable “In Search of the Soul,” while Canto Three marks the “Entry into the Inner Worlds” where doubting seekers have found a resting place:

Is there one left who seeks for a Beyond?
Can still the path be found, opened the gate?
(CWSA 34: 500)

But Savitri continues treading the difficult path—so she fared on across her silent self.

To a road she came thronged with an ardent crowd
Who sped brilliant, fire-footed, sunlight-eyed...
(Ibid)

Savitri yearned to be like them and hasten to save God’s world. But she reined back the high passion in her heart. She knew that first she must discover her soul—only who save themselves can others save.

Outstretching her hands to stay the throng she cried:
O happy company of luminous gods,
Reveal, who know, the road that I must tread,
For surely that bright quarter is your home,
To find the birthplace of the occult Fire
And the deep mansion of my secret soul.
(Ibid: 501)

And a voice spoke who revealed the real position of their work in the world:

We are the messengers, the occult gods
Who help man’s drab and heavy ignorant lives
To wake to beauty and wonder of things,
Touching them with glory and divinity;
In evil we light the deathless flame of good
And hold the torch of knowledge on ignorant roads.
(Ibid: 501)

They show how, unknowingly, Savitri has led a life in accordance with that deeper Self and urge her on to continue her path towards higher heights.

In 1953, we were a whole troupe, rarely so many for the lines from Savitri. Savitri meets different beings of other worlds who uphold the earthly play of Forces, who are all part of Savitri’s secret, unknown self—referred to here as The Mother of Sorrows, the Mother of Might, and the Mother of Light.

Their counterparts acting in the material world of men are referred to as The Man of Sorrows, the Man of Might, and the Man of Light.

The different roles were enacted by Priti Das Gupta, Light Ganguli, Arati Das Gupta for the mother-aspects, and the others were done by Manoj Das Gupta, Mona Sarkar, Richard Pearson, while Amita had done the role of Savitri.

The Mother had appreciated everyone’s recitation for the final dress rehearsal day, but was not happy with mine!

1954

Lines from Perseus the Deliverer in the role of “Andromeda”

The Mother liked our rehearsal and gave special instructions to the costumes-in-charge (Millie-di), who had also received a large book on costume designing. She gave it to me to study how the stole was to be used—the Grecian way!

I went through the text and used it rather well—but the two photographs taken outside the stage (where I held the stole in the classical way) are missing from my album.

1955

The Mother followed closely a composite programme — The Spiritual Destiny of India — where she sought help from older sadhaks who knew our position in the world, and the spiritual and material approach to life in the Ashram.

I didn’t have anything to do, and the Mother was very surprised when I told her so. She allowed me to go for singing in a chorus that was part of the music. Of course, I had to appear as Savitri in a scene where the father Aswapati sends for her, so I had to enter and sit at Aswapati’s feet all through the recitation.

1956

The Theatre Hall was opened this year with the Mother’s play in seven stages — Ascension vers la Vérité (Ascension to the Truth).

The Mother’s own painting Ascent to Truth was shown in the first scene on an easel in the introductory sequence where it was said they would all meet at the foot of the Mountain of Truth the following day. Every stage was carefully followed by the Mother, and believe it or not, we had full canvases as backdrops where our artists had painted the part of the mountain the actors had reached. These canvas sheets were rolled up on the roof of the stage area and lowered correctly at each point of the ascent.

It was a unique event — to enlarge correctly the original painting and present it.

There were two important questions that the Mother had to answer:

1. Why were the lovers made to go beyond the ascetic?
   That is because, “they lived for each other’s good and not for themselves.”
   Personally, I thought it was like avoiding the issue!
2. Where did the Ashram stand in that mountain of Truth?
   “It stood a few levels lower than the topmost reach.”
   I thought that was a very clear way of saying that the Ashram was a composite whole, made up of seekers who were only starting their journey and others who were connected with the Ashram ideal but not following its norms.

We must remember that Sri Aurobindo’s works cover a wide range of subjects—not only Letters on Yoga and The Synthesis of Yoga, but The Human Cycle, The Ideal of Human Unity, The Renaissance in India, and The Life Divine.

The Mother translated for publication in the Bulletin of Physical Education a wide range of selections which she thought were important for readers, both foreign and Indian. She had said that she was distributing his books quite freely, so that people may know in which direction to move.

That year, in 1956, the item selected from Sri Aurobindo’s writings was Conversations of the Dead, where two people from each country of the world speak about what they had tried to do when they were living on earth.

Littleton, Perceval (England); Turiu Uriu (Middle East, ancient times); Dinshah Perizade (Persia); Shivaji and Aurangzeb (India).

Norman Dowsett, the director, told me, “Both are perhaps male characters, but I gave the role of the worshipper of the Goddess of Beauty (Leda) to you, and the worshipper of the Goddess of Power (Tanyth) to Mona Sarkar.” These goddesses were seen behind a net curtain.

It so happened that I broke my forearm that year—the Mother was quite upset. She said to me, “What will happen to the recitation?”

I said without hesitation, “I shall do it, Mother, with my arm in the sling—how can there be a first December programme without Sri Aurobindo?”

And I did it! Norman-da asked Mona to be alert so that I would not trip when I had to step over a dais for the recitation.

1957

The Mother suddenly asked me one morning, “How would you like to do a difficult role this time? It is the story of a blind girl getting back her sight. It is a very nice story—c’est une très jolie histoire!” (It’s a very nice story!)

Evidently, I was ready—I said, “Whatever you ask me to do, Mother.”

She showed me how to look—with eyes open, straight in front, so it would seem that I was blind. I thought things over and said, “How to show the audience that I was blind?”

Then I found a way—the scene was set in a garden. There was a thorny bush somewhere in the centre, a little to the actor’s left. I put the end of my gown on a stem so that when I had gone ahead and there was a pull on my dress stuck to the plant, I knew it had to be detached. I did it without looking at the dress because I was supposed to be doing things only by the sense of touch or hearing.

The Mother was very happy. She told me,
“À cause du film, c’est ça que deviendra le théâtre… les mots viendront ajouter le côté littéraire.”
(Because of the film, this is what the theatre will become—the words will add the literary side.)

After the first dress rehearsal, which she attended, she gave me a good scolding the next morning. She said, “Why didn’t you tell me they were not directing? I would have done it myself!”

It was only then that I realized that, for my scenes, I used to be told by them, “Just as you like…” I thought it was because they knew I had a good background of stage acting, that they were asking me to do as I felt like.

Someone they had chosen for the role of the wise man who would explain the response of flowers to the sunlight had refused to do the role, so they asked me if I had any objection if they put R. in his place and called another classmate of ours for the role of the friend who would go in search of the flower.

The blind girl had dreamt of a flower which she said would cure her of her blindness.

I told the Mother one morning, “Mother, if it is all like a fairy tale to me, how am I going to convince the audience that it was happening?”

Her reaction was quite unexpected—she said that with the descent of the new Light she had spoken of the previous year, this would bring about this sort of change on the earth.

She showed me how to act out the last part, when the flower touches the eyes. I was very happy and was on my way back to the house. Suddenly, a little girl who used to be in the corridor with us when the Mother came, called me from behind. I turned—she said, “The Mother is calling you.”

I was surprised; I said, “But I have just seen her!”
“No, she is calling you!”

I went up as fast as I could. The Mother was waiting for me in the Lab Room. She said, “I was not quite sure if you had caught the details; give me the words.”

I told her my lines. She said, “That is not French!” and changed some of the wordings and showed me how to bring the flower close to the eyes after receiving it with special care.

Then she expressed, in the exclamation, “Ah!”, both surprise and happiness. I can’t quite define it! It was certainly a delightful experience. I walked back home as if floating through the air.

That evening, she seemed quite happy. The next morning, as I entered the corridor, Dyuman-bhai said to me, “She was very happy with your work last night.”

She kept on saying, “C’est une vraie artiste, c’est une vraie artiste!” (She’s a real artist, she’s a real artist!)

When she came to see me, it was evident that she was pleased. She simply said, “C’était exactement comme je t’avais montré!” (It was exactly as I had shown you!)

I did not need any other compliment—voilà!

1958

Vasavadutta — I knew that the theme was dealt with by earlier dramatists, so, as a student of literature, I went out of my way studying the historical background. I read the text of Bhartrihari at one go and said, “Sri Aurobindo’s is much less sensuous.”

I also read the poem by Tagore where this name occurs, but found that it was only the name of a court dancer, with no reference to the story which connected the southern state of Avunthi to the northern Ujjaini.

The costume designers gave me an idea of the ancient Indian ways of wearing a scarf on top and a wrap round the waist, which were woven fabric. The Ajanta murals show that the design was often horizontal bands of floral designs on a dark background—the basic colour was very often green.

As the shoulders were bare, I was given a light pink scarf with my white costume.

We did not have enough men actors in the making, so our director, Norman Dowsett, decided to give those roles to women—Vutsa Udayan, the lead role, was given to Jhumur, and his brother was Chhanda Ghosh. The King Chanda Mahasegan was done by Richard, while Kumud did the prominent role of his son Gopalaca.

The Mother herself attended the final performance and was very particular that we should follow correctly the gestures and moves given to us by Srimayi (Varvara Pittoeff) and Norman-da.

The Mother liked the performance and told me the next morning, “C’était épatant!” (It was extraordinary!)

The monologues of the princess were the key to the evolution of her character through the play, so I was given a special coaching by Srimayi at her residence in Castellini Guest House.

An American resident of our place found my work absolutely perfect. I had studied the play as a whole well enough to bring out the movement of the action, which had to depend much on Vasavadutta’s character as portrayed by Sri Aurobindo in this play.

-

Dance: An Expression of a Genuine Feeling

The Mother wanted us to express through gesture and movement what we really felt in a particular situation. She approved of our learning the first introductory movements of all the four classical dances of our country—Bharatanatyam, Manipuri, Kathak, and Kathakali.

Indian dance, the world over, is well known for the mudra, often described as the alphabet of Indian dance forms. But here, in the Ashram, the Mother made it quite clear to us that a dance movement had to say something by itself. She gave us a theme to be expressed—with the help of the three or four steps we had learnt—in order to finalise the selection of students who would attend the dance classes.

Here is the theme she had suggested for that selection:

“You are happy to see so many flowers in your garden; it is looking very beautiful. You pluck a few of them and make a garland, then you put it round the neck of the deity set on your altar.”

It was an easy theme—familiar enough to be understood through simple gestures.

The first three—Bharatanatyam, Manipuri, and Kathak—we learnt with our dance teacher here, Anu Purani, daughter of Ambalal Purani, a great connoisseur of Indian culture. She had studied dance at the Uday Shankar Institute at Almora and had taught us two folk dances she had learnt there. These were two folk dances of Punjab revived by Uday Shankar himself—one around the Krishna theme and the other about farmhands bringing baskets of watermelons from the field.

Among all the performing arts, the real quality of a dance performance is perhaps the most difficult to judge—because you have to assess the dance gestures in terms of the theme, the music, the rhythm, and the expression. This brings into play too many elements that change according to the personal approach of the judge. Only a very open-minded approach can help us regain our prestige and standard of work in this line.

The Ashram students of the early days had the great opportunity to get the Mother’s own guidance. She made it quite clear that she wanted us to express a genuine feeling through the gestures of a dance. The first theme suggested by her, soon after we had started learning, was simple—you find that your garden is full of beautiful flowers; you pluck a few of them; you make a garland and put it around the Deity on your altar. It was an easy theme—familiar enough to be expressed through simple gestures.

She did not object to our learning the mudra, so important in Indian dance, but did not think that they had to override the natural gesture which expresses a feeling when a dance movement has to say something by itself. There is also the difficulty created by formalising facial expressions. Indian dance is so specialised nowadays that it is difficult to extricate the original attitude of the Natyashastra which says, “Where the hand goes, there the eyes, and there the mind.”

This injunction amounts to saying—Be so absorbed in what you have to say through your dance movement that nothing else draws your attention, not even the audience! You are not trying to tell the audience anything; you are taking yourself through a set of gestures which show what you are doing, what you are feeling, and what is the meaning of your gesture.

The Mother gave a great deal of importance to the subject we were to depict. So, our dance teacher, Anu Purani, used to always consult the Mother on the subject to be taken up by her for any programme.

Dance-drama sequences for young students included:

1. Doll’s Dance — younger students.
2. Cinderella — older students.
3. Siva-Parvati — where Parvati does penance and meditates to win Lord Siva’s grace. Anu had done Siva and Amita had done Parvati.

The Indian concert music was done by Sunil and Ardhendu-da, accomplished musicians of Indian classical ragas. Ardhendu-da played on the sarod while Sunil played the sitar.

Anu had once taken up the story of Bhasmasura, an asura who could not be destroyed except by making him put his own thumb on his head. Who could ever kill him? No one! He started creating havoc in the world. So, the gods appealed to Lord Vishnu to find a way. Lord Vishnu made himself visible, looking like a beautiful woman—Mohini, one who is charming. The asura is caught by her beauty and says he can do anything in the world for her. Mohini asks if he could dance—“Yes, of course, I could!” he replies. So they dance different steps, one more difficult than the other. The asura, quite charmed with his success, eventually during one sequence of steps, makes himself put his thumb on his head—and is reduced to ashes!

All our activities were seen through the eyes of an artist, and the Mother was always ready to help us. Once, for a dance where each part of the human being was awakening to the influence of a higher Power—each personified by a dancer—she was following the description of the idea when she stopped me abruptly because I had shown the touch from behind the sleeping figure of the dancer. She said, “Good forces never come from behind… yes, continue…” She also said, “Why not with my music!”

In the early days, when the dancing classes had started, a Bengali dancer, Manibardhan, stayed here for some days. All the student dancers requested the Mother to permit them to join his dance class. Amita had a good aptitude for dancing. When she approached the Mother for permission, the Mother did not allow her. She said she did not want Amita to get bound by the Indian mudras. She wanted her to learn to express with her body her feelings in a free way.

If one starts expressing through mudras, then one gets fixed forms of dancing. One group of young girls taught by Amita danced in front of the Mother at the Playground on the theme of the Soul waking up the dormant parts of the being. The Mother had first chosen the sonata in A minor by César Franck but later said it was too long. When watching the girls practising, she said, “Why not with my music?” So they danced with the Mother’s music in front of her.

In a general way, we avoid communicating the impression created by a performance of dance or music because it is difficult to tell others what we have really felt. For our own assessment too, we often leave things as a whole without defining what our mental understanding would explain only if questioned on the subject. Over and above that, few people would think of dance as an art like painting or poetry.

That is why our pleasure and enjoyment on seeing a dance performance is simply what is retained by each viewer.

But critics have to do their job—their comments are mostly read and forgotten, for it is too strenuous a mental effort to coordinate all that is said by them with our own understanding of the subject of dance. In any case, if the effort is made, it is bound to be useful and enrich our own way of looking at the subject. It is an art only when the dancer connects himself or herself to the source of all harmony during the performance instead of trying to draw the attention of the audience.

That is the reason our scriptures say—“Where the hand goes, there the eye; there the mind.” But there is more to it than that—the intention has to be a dedication to the true spirit of the All-Beautiful.

Our present generation has to understand the whole sequence and not get caught in the details. The precision of the mudrahas been given undue importance, and the understanding of human life described by them is lost in the detail. It is like knowing the alphabets and not the words—far from knowing a sentence!

The devotion in those early days of our dance styles as recorded in Bharata Muni’s Natya Shastra, when no one thought that in our country we would lose the meaning of the whole or forget paying homage to a higher principle, was pure and complete.

While I had once been trained for a short while by a well-known dance guru of Bharatanatyam, he had told me,

“The capacity to express a feeling is God’s gift to a performing artist. The guru can only help us to improve the dance part where we follow the great Bharata Muni’s Natya Shastra — Where the hand goes, there the eye, there the mind.”

Not too many people can exchange views on these topics so as to open our eyes to the true Indian approach towards our traditional legendary past.

The poet has, for example, described the well-known legend of the Churning of the Ocean, where gods and asuras meet, in incredibly beautiful poetic English. 

Here are a few words after the opening lines:

“The object for which they had met could not have been fulfilled by the efforts of one side alone; good must mingle with evil, the ideal take sides with the real, the soul work in harmony with the senses, virtue and sin, heaven and earth, and hell labour towards a common end before it can be accomplished…”
(CWSA 1:210)

The artists present here came together to have a discussion among themselves. This type of get-together, with a purpose of increasing our own solidarity, is becoming more and more rare. And yet, we must admit that the attempts through the internet and other programmes are there—how far they are effective is another question.

But the quality of the theme has to be communicated, and everyone present ought to impress us through our senses, or tell us in a written text through words what is the essential idea the writer wants to communicate in literature or art.

The people of each region of our country can have a clear view of what their culture could mean to other people simply through a cultural programme.

Dance for Our Own Classes Here in the Ashram School

For our own dance compositions, the Mother wanted us to express freely with normal gestures whatever the theme.

One decision taken by the Mother might surprise people even now—when the dance classes were to begin, there were too many people who wanted to join. So, the Mother decided to select the students who would attend these classes.

The Mother gave us a theme which had to be expressed in dance! We had learnt only three dance steps.

Here is what we had to say:

“You are very happy to see your garden so full of flowers… you pluck a few of them and make a garland… you take that garland and put it round the neck of your deity in your room…”

We had to show our composition to the Mother, who watched us seated in the present body-building gymnasium near the place where the horizontal bar is set. I can’t remember what I had done, but after seeing all of us, she pointed to me first as one who could join the class.

These classes were held twice a week, but it so happened that one of the days we had a French class with the Mother. So, I could attend only one lesson in the week.

The meaning of hand positions (known as mudra in Indian dance) was taught on the day when I had the Mother’s class. Without clearly knowing what was being done, I studied the mudra sequence from a French book in our library, made sketches of these in my small notebook, and learnt on my own the meanings of Indian dance which had to be performed for the deity and not for an audience.

In fact, in earlier days, girls known as devadasis performed only in the temple. The Natyashala of later years was meant only for the guru and the king of the region who was present when the dance was performed.

I had the extraordinary opportunity of witnessing the real meaning of the Indian dance gestures. They had a truth in the higher planes of consciousness. Someone had asked the Mother to show a few positions of the hands. The significance of those was attempted by artists of our place. Then the Mother herself gave us the real meaning for each position—themes which are effective in the world.

It is quite an experience to see this booklet and think things over!

In one of Sri Aurobindo’s letters on literature, we read a comment made by a poet-disciple on one of Baudelaire’s poems where a woman who is dancing is described. Sri Aurobindo says:

“Baudelaire is too much of an artist to be vulgar.”

But, on our part, we have to regain our decency and our cultural values. Because we, in the Ashram, have been specially privileged to distinguish between the quality of the theme and the quality of a performance.

As Indian aesthetics tells us, there are several moods that are expressed through music, painting, and poetry known to us as the Nine Rasas. The word rasa implies a mood or atmosphere communicated through a work of art; you may also say it shows the taste of the creator as we understand from that particular work of art.