Films/ Theatre: Mahesh Dattani's 'Mango Souffle'

(Note: This review of Dattani's first film, 'Mango Souffle,' was published in 2003)


THERE'S ONE quality that makes Mahesh Dattani special. He's the Gujarati boy-next-door whose individuality rings true. Whether as the playwright whose "Dance like a Man" — which has seen over 150 performances from Bangalore to Mumbai, from London to New York since 1989 — vividly enacts the traumas of a man in the diva-oriented world of dance. Or as the young theatre director who, disappointed with English translations of Vijay Tendulkar, Girish Karnad and Badal Sircar, wrote his first play, "Where there's a Will," in 1984. Or as the debutant director of "Mango Soufflé," a film released in Bangalore, New Delhi, Mumbai and Pune on February 28, 2003.

"I write for my milieu, for my time and place — middle-class and urban Indian," confesses Dattani, now 44. "My dramatic tensions arise from people who aspire to freedom from society."

Words that prove valid within the context of "Mango Soufflé," shot in Bangalore over 23 days, a low-budget venture that whips the wraps off middle-class India, a "metero-sexual love story" that hoists a major skeleton out of our collective closets — freedom of sexual choice. Upfront, unambiguous, the film journeys into the world of gays through a love triangle that turns into a quadrangle with startling results.

The film is adapted from Dattani's 1998 play, "On a Muggy Night in Mumbai," the least-produced of his oeuvre so far. "So far, only Lillette Dubey of Mumbai's Prime Time has done it. It's a play that directors fight shy of. Maybe because we're still squeamish about sexuality, especially when it's out in the open, not making any bones about alternate sexuality or gay relationships," explains Dattani.

Shot at a picturesque farmhouse outside Bangalore, the film is distinguished by unusual values. Perfect casting, for one. Such as National School of Drama or NSD-trained, Solapur-born Atul Kulkarni in the pivotal role of Edwin, the prized love object, whose intense, speaking eyes that veer between vulnerability and cockiness almost sear the edge off Dattani's humour-laced dialogue. Then, there's the delicate Rinkie Khanna as his fiancé Kiran, her pretty pastel froth masking a spine of steel. And Ankur Vikal, another talent-packed NSD graduate, as the pony-tailed fashion designer Kamlesh, Kiran's brother, whose farmhouse brunch brings about a day of reckoning. Each cameo character, each supporting role, is wrought with care.

But that's not all to Dattani's maiden directorial foray. The camerawork by National Award winner Sunny Joseph — best known for "Piravi" and "Train to Pakistan" — journeys lyrically into the fast-paced plot. As conventional society and the gay world collide head-on, no holds barred, details of costume and locale, the ripple of sunlight and shadow on the swimming pool, the whirling on-now off-now chase through the mango grove for incriminating evidence, are both restrained yet subversive. Each tableaux is painterly, the directorial pacing well judged.

Most seasoned theatregoers would expect no less of Dattani, known for his gender-sensitive voice, his receptivity to issues shrouded by urban doublespeak. Advertising and theatre guru, Alyque Padamsee, once credited this Sahitya Akademi laureate with "giving 60 million Indians an identity". Through plays like "30 Days in September," which dealt with incest with insight in 2001. Or "Final Solutions," an exploration of communal disharmony, commissioned by Padamsee prior to December 1992. Or his script for director K.P. Sasi's "Ek Alag Mausam", a love story about an HIV-positive woman and a man she meets at a hospice, a film that has yet to reach the public arena.

"I'm not looking for something sensational, which audiences have never seen before," asserts Dattani. "Some subjects, which are under-explored, deserve their space. It's no use brushing them under the carpet. We have to understand the marginalised, including the gays. Each of us have a sense of isolation within given contexts. That's what makes us individual."

Returning to "Mango Soufflé", Dattani says, "Whether its directly sexuality or gender, I feel these are expressions of one's true self. I wasn't bothered about whether I wanted to be part of a genre like art or parallel cinema. I've always admired the films of Satyajit Ray and Ritwik Ghatak. "

Was the transition from stage to screen difficult? "It's a totally different language, which was challenging," he admits, recalling the theatre and cinema-related courses he has taught at Portland State University as visiting faculty since 1996. "While retaining the dramatic intensity, I was very conscious of treating it cinematically."

How would audiences respond to the far-from-everyday theme? Recalling the Mumbai staging of "On a Muggy Night in Mumbai", he says, "During the interval on opening night, I overheard the husband of an elderly couple behind me, say: `You know, in Europe, they actually allow gay people to marry; men marry men, women marry women... ' She said, `I read about it. Now things are changing. All this is in the open.' There was no judgment in their conversation, only wonder. I felt so moved by it."

What encounters during the shoot does he cherish? Referring to a key underwater seduction scene, Dattani says, "We could only afford to fly in underwater filming equipment from Mumbai for one day. I had no clue what was being captured because, on my monitor, all I could see was blue. I had to trust the actors to do what I wanted, while making sure they were in the frame. When I saw it while editing, I said: God bless their hearts!"

Screened at film festivals at Bangkok, Austin, and the Sydney Mardi Gras since August 2002, "Mango Soufflé" is the official Indian selection of the London gay and lesbian film festival. It is slated to be shown at Turin, Toronto, San Francisco and Tokyo. Non-mainstream, star-less, how will "Mango Soufflé" fare? Its Dattani-style humour provides a comfortable distance from which to grapple with its unusual subject. Classily couched, its deconstruction of artificial gender constructs is a theme whose time has come.

Art: Viswanadhan ~ Traversing the terrain of ideas

Viswanadhan: at home in Paris and elsewhere

A homecoming of sorts, after two decades. In the guise of a four-venue exhibition of caseins on canvas at Madras, Delhi, Calcutta and Bombay from September 1991 to January 1992. Influenced byTantric rituals stemming from boyhood, J Swaminathan’s Sixties experiments, K C S Panicker’s neo-Tantric art. Rites of transition through the black paintings, yellow, then red paintings. Later, in 1968, won the Lalit Kala Akademi’s National Award. His chosen mode today: Pure abstracts.

Just mere clues. To a mere Paris-based painter named Viswanadhan.

Why have I come back to exhibit here? I’ve always wanted to, but the occasion wasn’t right. Last January, when I met (arts writer) Rupika Chawla in Delhi ~ she had talked to me in Paris while writing a book on artists’ techniques ~ she suggested galleries which might show my work. I got in touch with one, which agreed on a show. However, later when I wrote to them, they did not even bother to reply. They could have at least told me what the problem was. Later, I got in touch with Gallery Espace in Delhi, which coordinated this show.

You know, in the early 1970s, at a show in Delhi, I had a very bitter experience. Most of my paintings sold out on the first day. But when I got back from Kerala a week later, the people at the gallery remarked: ‘You have very good friends.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Some of the buyers have declined to take the works because their artist friends put in a word,’ they replied. I was discouraged by an art world that was so political and dirty.

Now, how did I get to Paris? Well, in 1968, when I was just out of the Madras College of Arts and Crafts, a friend of S G Vasudev’s was organising a contemporary Indian art show in Europe. He said that a participating artist could travel with the show, if he could raise the air fare. I sold some of my paintings and my friends helped me with the air fare.

I travelled for six months and visited Paris just before my return home. I was there just for two weeks, during which period an important gallery saw my work and asked me if I was interested in working with them. I had no money. They bought my work, so that I could paint. After a year, I had a show there. When I went to the gallery, I had no visiting card, no recommendation, and nobody knew me. They saw me and accepted me. That’s it.

Yes, an artist’s life is tough, very tough. But in Paris, there is always a chance to find a place. There are about  350 commercial galleries (and about 80,000 artists), so the field is wide open. You can move from gallery to gallery. In fact, I’m the only Indian working with a professional gallery in Paris (apart from Shakti Burman).

Look, in the Indian art schools, we’ve still got a western way of teaching, not like the sthapatis or miniature painters. Our reference books were always about Europe, especially Paris. We knew Whistler and Turner existed, but our point of identification was Paris. What Cezanne and Gauguin did. Or Van Gogh, for that matter.

When I was accepted by a gallery in Paris, it did not seem strange. It seemed natural. I was happy. Yes, Paris has shaped my life in many ways. The concept of freedom as an artist exists there. Nobody says: ‘You are a painter, so go and paint’.

When I wanted to experiment with film, the French Culture Ministry gave me a green signal and asked me to go ahead. Exchanges between the media exist so easily there. People first accept you as an artist, then say, ‘So, what are you going to do?’

Earth hues on canvas. A geometry beyond nature. Rhythms from everyday life. The breakaway poetry of abstraction. In combinations of red, yellow and green. Casein to paint with. Fixing bright pigments. A translucent ebb and flow across reclaimed visual space. Irreverent colour chemistry, traversing the territory of ideas. Expanding beyond the square frames. Oils. Acrylic. Sand. Canvas. Casein.

Each, a challenging medium. On the canvases of Viswanadhan.

I like adventure. I’m still experimenting with my art. I used to paint in oils and acrylic, but I kept looking for a technique that suited my temperament. I came to casein on canvas. It is an old technique, used by Albrecht Durer. Such paintings are conserved well for hundreds of years, unlike oils. Acrylic, they say, is lasting.

Nobody else is using this technique. So, I discovered a book that showed how it is done. First, I made my own paneer, dried it and mixed it with choonam (lime water). This becomes a very strong glue. As you grind the pigment with the casein, you are both physically and mentally involved. It takes time. Like a ritualistic prayer. Then, you reach this abstract moment when you lay the colour on, look at it and feel happy. It is like preparing to fall in love. It is with the same care, attention and dedication that you realise your love.

Very often, geometric or abstract painting is considered inhuman. That’s because we don’t understand there is geometry in our own pulses, in nature, in the movements we repeat throughout our lives. Geometry is so essential, so pure. Perhaps we’re afraid of this purity.

When I look back at my semi-figurative red paintings, I am satisfied. Because I also realise I’ve travelled from there. Because all our lives, we’re looking for meaning. So, how can I be content with one form or one way of doing things? For me, all that you learn is more important than what you see on the canvas. These concepts are art.

You have also to learn to stand up for your art, prove its worth, plead for it. You can’t say, ‘I do good art, but nobody wants me,’ and sit back and cry. That’s why art schools in Europe today teach artists to deal with society, place their art in a social context, and make a living out of what they’re doing.

Within my limits, I’ve still so much to explore. That’s why I also make films. It is a passion.

The flame licks at the edge of the frame, blurring time. Lighting up half-focussed thoughts. Illuminating the schism between looking and seeing. Frame after frame. As a Parsi priest worships in a fire temple. As a Teyyam dancer in northern Kerala whirls amidst a flurry of torches. As a blacksmith hammers at red-hot metal. As a muscled hand starts a fire with two flints.

Images from ‘Fire… Feu… Agni,’ a film by Viswanadhan.

I use film as a medium for observing, looking into nature and the nature of things. Contemplation. I don’t give it a direction or a commentary, meaning or symbolism. You’re seeing what I’m seeing. It’s a very abstract process. I have a theme, an idea, but I have no script. My films are works of memory.

It all began in 1976, a turning point in my life. I was travelling through Germany by car to see clients. I remember being hit from behind. Later, somebody was stitching my forehead and I cried out from the pain of the needle. The doctor asked, ‘Who are you? What’s your name? Where are you from?’ I realised, with shock, that he was looking at a body with a name and an identity card number.

I wondered what it means to say you’re an Indian. What is this India, this Indianness? I imagined a map of India, surrounded by water. I wanted to follow that line and trace something Indian in me. Because each of us carries an India within him or her.

When I returned to Paris and told my friends I wanted to make a film, they asked, ‘What do you need?’ I collected money and material to make a film. I talked to Adoor (Gopalakrishnan) about this. He and other friends joined the trip. For me, moving is an important part of making a movie. Travelling from place to place for two months, coming to images which move for you.

I first made Sand (1982) along the coast. We travelled to Puri, Dwarka, Mahabalipuram, all ancient ports. Today, what do you find? The shore temple at Mahabalipuram is carved by the wind, crumbling to sand. What a story the sand could tell! I collected some sand and some living images to make an abstract/concrete relationship.

Watching the dynamism of the waves beating against the rocks along the coast led me to images of water. I learnt that which flows fast is Ganga ~ a synonym for water throughout Indian civilization. Like the sequence of an old woman in the water who lifts a small pot, pours out water, over and over again for three minutes. That gave us a whole definition of life. (Water/Ganga, 1985, has won awards in France, Italy and Spain).

In Fire (1989), the dancers, the blacksmith,  the poojari are doing what they normally do. I haven’t asked them to. I’ve only watched them. Who am I to give directions when the camera already determines, once you pick your frame and lens? I respect the sahaja in the spectator, the natural way of receiving, perceiving feeling, doing, even saying. Unlike water, we hesitate before the idea of fire. You don’t dare to touch a fiery image, however fascinating. It may burn. You don’t play with it.

Honestly, I have a feeling that I’m still a student. I can still discover with surprise and delight what already exists. Even if I’m only an artist with a limited canvas.

A tall, spare frame, an aureole of frizzy hair, a trifle grizzled. Years, 51 of them, sit lightly on his mind. His voice laced with fluted laughter. Probes each thought, teasing it to life. Each moment is questioned, each concept stood on its head. An intrinsic explorer. Still brimming with wonder. An individual named Viswanadhan.

Breeze-hewn, thatch-roofed, wood-beamed. The cottage nestles among casuarinas, on the sands of the Cholamandal artists’ village, on the outskirts of Madras. Through the large, barred windows, the sunken-in space within beckons. With half-complete abstract canvases across trestle tables. Open shelves, home to a jostling array of radiant pigments and a jar of powdered casein. A naked light bulb pinpoints earlier work, ensconced under a raised wooden dais. A lived-in mezzanine overlooks an adjacent cottage.

Framed against his sit-out, turning in, painter/film-maker Viswanadhan shares thoughts… theories… memories, as each grain of sand awakens to reflect a star: ‘If you can listen to the birds and understand what they are saying, maybe you will understand your own language better. Remember what Dostoyevsky said: Life itself is much richer than any novel you can write…’

His words trail away in the evening air, adrift in his reclaimed, back-from-Paris, room with a view.

(Originally published in Gallery, Economic Times, September 29, 1991)