Seeing Uday Shankar

In the glorious spring time of Indian renaissance the art of Uday Shankar comes like perfume on the breeze. Indian classical dance has for the first time found in him a rare, vivid, and authoritative exponent of its subtle graces and sweet suggestiveness. Wealth of imagery, rich harmony of colour, powerful portrayal of emotions–from the softly sensuous to the terrific swell and sweep of passion–, ‘mudras’ that visualise marble dreams and unlock fabled wonder lands, it is no wonder the world is caught in the delicate traceries of Shankar's art.

At The Excelsior he had opened a short season and Rangoon had almost gone mad over him and his troupe of talented artistes. And I decided to take advantage of his sojourn here for seeking an interview with him. That I had a special reason in doing so, would presently be evident. I had phoned up twice. The receiver at the other end in The Royal Hotel informed me that Mr. Shankar had been practically out all day busy fulfilling a round of engagements. The third time, I got him. To my request for a few minutes’ talk he detailed through the wires in hurried sentences a catalogue of pressing unfulfilled engagements. But I was insistent and he agreed ‘just a few minutest if you run down right now.’ That was enough. In five minutes I was in front of The Royal Hotel. The taxi summoned for his use had drawn at the entrance. Ready to go out, he was in the drawing room in the midst of a small company, evidently waiting for me. Seeing me, he disengaged himself from the group and greeted me with a clasp of those fine hands. Tall, slim, and graceful, he seemed a wave of floating melody as he approached. A soft beaming smile lit up his countenance and lay mirrored in those lively, melting eyes. Ashe took my hands and gave me a warm shake I was really re-assured that there was nothing of the swell-headedness of success in him. The least stagey and theatrical in his manners, his inmate goodness and unfailing courtesy are so eloquent that the visitor feels completely at home in his presence. ‘What can I do for you, friend ?’ he accosted me.

‘Just a few minutes’ talk, an interview if I may put it so, I replied. ‘No please, I am awfully busy. See, the car is waiting. Right now I go to see U Po Sein (the celebrated Burmese dancer) to witness a private performance arranged for me. After that I have to do a bit of shopping; then to the theatre tomorrow early morning I am leaving this for Calcutta. You have come too late, sorry please.’

Frankly, I was unprepared for this eleventh hour blocking. For a minute I was nonplussed and it seemed the ‘interview’ had come to an end at that.

But I am from Malabar; I would be pleased...’ I almost faltered. ‘What, from Malabar!’ he repeated in a tone of inquisitive pleasure. It was I had surmised. The shot had gone home. That disarmed him of all opposition and hesitation.

‘Oh, then certainly I must find time.’ The feeling of an unexpected pleasure was discernible in his features. There-upon he excused himself from his company and with a cordial grasp on my arm led me1 to a luxurious sofa near by. I noticed that the word ‘Malabar’ had acted like a charm on him. There was no necessity for me to begin the conversation, to throw a feeler or to put leading questions as clever pressmen do to draw out their victims. Not only was the ice broken, but as I soon realised, the sluice gates had been opened.

‘I am glad you have come. What a pity you didn’t call earlier. You know I am greatly interested in Malabar.’

‘I know that,’ I intervened. I had noticed the unmistakable influence of the classical dance of Malabar in his performance and have ever since wondered at the marvelous receptive genius of this artiste who hadso admirably adapted it to the requirements of the modern stage.

And I said, ‘I saw a bit of Malabar on the stage in your performance,’ and expressed. congratulations for the wonderful grasp he had of the art of Kathakali.

The conversation then turned on this theme and he let himself go in rapturous tones, displaying the exuberant enthusiasm and ardour of the artist who has after much seeking found the ideal of his heart and imagination. ‘Believe me, I am a keen student of Art. I have traveled widely, I witnessed the best dances, European, American, Hawaiian, Javanese, Balinese–almost every type, and I say with all the emphasis I can command that I have seen nothing to equal Kathakali. It is Art perfected, the most marvelous manifestation of the artistic impulse of man. There is nothing like it to interpret human sentiments, thoughtsand emotions. The language of the limbs, hands, muscles, and eyes is more powerful than spoken words. Graceful and telling, the effect is most realistic. It is a vast mine of the plentiful resources of which remain yet to be tapped. No serious student of Art can afford to disregard it.’ He then stressed the necessity of artistes familiarising themselves with its technique and was sanguine that the experience would bring about a great revolution in the art of dancing. Kathakali in the orthodox way it is performed, will, he said, never prove a success out-side Malabar. It has got to be adapted to the needs of the stage. The elimination of certain features and the sublimation of others are inevitable in such a process. Then it is bound to exercise a refreshing, tonic-effect adding a new meaning and beauty to the art of dancing. I agreed with this shrewd observation and told him how it fell flat on a Madras audience sometime ago, when for the first time it was performed outside Malabar. And Shankar, it is better to remember here, has adapted to the stage with perfect harmony this classic art in a manner that leaves no loophole or sharp edges. His knowledge of Kathakali has contributed not a little to make his art so realistic, meaningful, and impressive.

I asked how he was led to this extreme corner of India, how he stumbled on such an ‘archaic’ thing as Kathakali, an art that is steadily losing its popularity in its native home, edged out by the dangerously, seductive influences of the cinema and the drama. ‘Urged by an earnest desire to study and understand I came to the South. The more I saw of the South, the more I came to realise that it was the nursery of pure classic Hindu culture. In my wanderings in 1930 I crossed over to Malabar. I was for five days in Guruvayoor. It was there that I witnessed Kathakali and Krishnanattam. It has been my regret all these years that I have seen so little of these.’ I drew his attention to ‘Thuilal,’ a form of dance-recital and other folk-dances. He had no opportunity of seeing them. It was his intention, he told me, that after the fulfillment of his present engagements in the West, to come to South India, on a long holiday, to study the classical dances there. Then, he hopes to spend a fairly long period in Kerala to study the art of Kathakali.

‘Someday or other,’ he added in a wistful mood, ‘I hope to found an institution, preferably in the South, for the promotion of Hindu culture. That is my life’s ambition. Funds

I can have in plenty. Lovers of Indian culture in the West have promised their moral and financial support. Such an institution is absolutely essential to renovate and popularise the classic Arts of Hindu India. The object of the Institution I hope to found, is not so much to teach as to give the right lead and to provide the incentive and encouragement so necessary for the full and free expression of nascent talents and arts.’ He incidentally enquired about Vallathol, the great poet of Malabar. I acquainted him with the heroic attempts the poet was making through the Kerala Kala Mandalam (the Art Academy of Kerala) for the renovation of this decaying art. He was glad to hear of these efforts and charged me to acquaint Vallathol and other friends in Kerala of his deep interest in their labours and of his wish to support any genuine movement in this direction.

On being questioned about his reception in the West he said that his art came to the West as a new experience. ‘It was for the first time that people in the West saw anything like authentic Indian classic dance. They have read in my interpretation a new meaning and purpose, and had seen a vision of life hitherto hidden from their gaze. To them the rhythm and beauty, the charm and melody of the Hindu dance and music, and the deep significance that underlies these have been a revelation.’

I drew his attention to Western exponents of Indian dances. He was critical of most of them and for a good reason. Hindu dances, he said, are subtle, profound, symbolic, and certainly a serious affair. It was difficult for the Westerners to enter into the spirit of these and render them with understanding and sympathy. Most of the learned a few poses and were out to gain cheap fame and had a commercial outlook.

Half an hour had slipped away and certainly it was too great an incursion on his hard pressedtime. A great optimist with regard to the future of Hindu Art, he assured me on parting that its future will be still more glorious than its great past. He illustrated tellingly by instancing his own case. ‘See what little I know of it. And yet the world has gone into raptures over it. What we want is proper lead, incentive, and courageous adventure.’