Natak nostalgia

At this year’s New Year play, we saw the editor of a publication holding a largish novel and exiting the auditorium after the interval. He was reading the novel, sitting on a chair in the foyer of the theater. Most of the audience must have envied him. The so-called musical revue, a la Adi Marzban, was even below our modest expectation. And some may say that we are being uncharacteristically polite. Most of the skits and gags were dated or poorly executed. One handsome lawyer belted a few Elvis numbers and the audience politely clapped. Music had miles to go. Not a single authentic Bawa joke. The only thing which elicited laughter was a rather stout lady in the front row cackling away at every sentence including the announcement of the interval.

Our expectation this year for this revue was based on some new talent on display. A well-known counsel, a seasoned actor in Marzban’s English plays including a memorable performance in Ah, Norman!, was the compere. He did a highly efficient job without faltering for a second but was a pale imitation of the maestro, who would be the perfect fall guy for the inimitable Jimmy Pocha or the natural comedian, Dinshah Daji. Adi would never smile, be barely audible, appear thoroughly exasperated and harassed by the frequent intrusions on stage by the other two, and yet enthral the audience. Maybe, a difficult act to follow but we thought that he would have a go at it. He preferred perhaps to do it his own way.
The other great talent we were looking forward to, was another, senior solicitor and partner in a large vintage law firm who did a brilliant cameo act. We thought more would follow but that was all. If only he would have rendered his Pathan selling shilajit (for the uninitiated, an aphrodisiac) at Victoria Terminus act, the audience would have rolled in the aisle, even if it had to be slightly censored so as not to offend the sensibilities of the few politically correct non-haadas in the theater. There are other highly gifted Ripon Club high table diners who can start a laugh riot with their rendition of bawdy Parsi songs of yesteryears. Perhaps, they may be encouraged to perform next year in the larger interest of our community.
Barring one nonagenarian, there was no old talent on display. A few months ago, when the vintage Marzban cast, all senior citizens, did a retrospective, the community was utterly thrilled. In recent years, Parsi histrionic talent is rather inadequate, to say the least. One can only nostalgically recall the great talent Marzban could muster — thespian Piloo Wadia as the old battle axe; Pocha as the unhappy queen Taramati in Parsi Harishchandra; Daji’s cackle itself being so funny; laughter on entry star, Pheroze Antia as Behram in Behram ni Saasu (Behram’s mother-in-law) and its many sequels; the greatly talented pair of Dolly and Bomi Dotiwala; Burjor and Ruby Patel, heartthrobs of the audience — the list is endless. Marzban died rather young, by far the greatest showman of the Parsis, and with him, Parsi theater. Post the maestro, Homi Tavadia, Hilla and Nader Nariman, playwright, Dorab Mehta valiantly persisted but the Marzban magic could not be replicated.
The audience is still very much there for Parsi comedies, not only Parsis but Gujaratis and Bohris too. They love Dinyar Contractor, perhaps the only man after Marzban to have a mass following, and a natural comedian. For some reason, Contractor prefers these days to stage Gujarati comedies with only a little Parsi color, but despite his great stage presence, Parsis prefer to see authentic Parsi and not shudh (pure) Gujarati melodrama.
Those outstanding amateurs, Dr Jehangir Wadia-led Parsi doctors, no longer perform their hilarious plays — politically incorrect, loaded with double entendre, narrowly skirting the acceptable limits of bawdiness — but simply brilliant. Dr Jimmy Sidhva, the noted radiologist, singing in operatic style about his mèlo léngho (dirty pyjama) was unforgettable. Shakespearean tragedies morphed into Parsi comedies like Hormusji Hamlet turning into riotous plays where actors were encouraged to ad lib while carefully planted assistants in the audience would complete profane limericks, which the actors themselves would be censored from uttering.
We urge the senior solicitor referred to earlier, to take the lead and form an amateur group to perform some of these old plays whose tapes and scripts are available. Otherwise, the editor of that publication will have to buy another novel next Navroz.