The Vision of the Kannada Dramatist

(The Willingdon College, Sangli)

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Being a composite form of art, Drama combines the movement of music with the statuesqueness of sculpture, the colourfulness of painting with the living voice of poetry and histrionics. It has, consequently, attracted the artists of all ages as promoting Illusion, which is taken by some thinkers to be the very essence of all art. Again, as holding forth unrivalled opportunities for propaganda, the theatre has enlisted the services of the satirists and self-appointed censors of all ages. It follows, therefore, that the mind of a people can at least be as well understood from a study of their drama as from that of any other product of their manifold activity.

I do not wish to dwell here on the beginnings of the Kannada drama. They go to the solitary verse surviving from ‘Bhuvanaika Ramabhyudaya,’ the lost epic of Ponna who flourished in the tenth century. In his description of moon-rise he speaks of the moon as the showman or the producer of the great cosmic plays on the boards of the firmament, the few stars of dusk being the flower-offerings strewn on the stage by the Producer, announcing His presence; a fancy comparable to that of Marston, the Elizabethan dramatist:

"Night, like a masque, has entered heaven’s great hall
With thousand torches ushering the way."

I will not also speak of Ranna, a contemporary of Ponna, who gave us the ‘Gadayuddha,’ a great tragedy of character based on an episode drawn from the ‘Mahabharata’; of Singaraya’s ‘Mitravindagovinda,’ a seventeenth century Kannada version of Harsha’s ‘Ratnavali’; and of the ‘Yakshaganas’ which have been responsible for the continuity of dramatic tradition in Kannada. I will content myself with interpreting the drama as it mirrors the mind of the Kannada people today, or rather of a certain class of the Kannada people,–the rising middle class.

I have also restricted myself in another way. Instead of a study of the Greek, Shakespearean, Molierean, sentimental, Ibsenic and Shavian forms of modern Kannada drama, I concentrate on the one-act plays in Kannada. The vision of the Kannada dramatist can be disengaged and set forth far more easily and clearly by studying the one-act plays rather than by wandering through the maze of mirrors reflecting complex art-forms and by feeling our way against "complicated webs of melancholy mirth." Not that this other task is easy. Here also is plenty. The one-act playwrights have been influenced by the masterpieces of men of genius as far removed from each other as Bhasa and Chekhov. Many of their representative pieces have been translated into Kannada, along with other remarkable one-act plays in several modern Indian languages. The medium chosen varies from blank verse and lyric dialogue to archaic, literary and colloquial prose, even dialectal varieties being used with great effect. Naturally enough, the full-length dramatist is not always different from the one-act playwright, though a few like Mr. T. P. Kailasam and Mr. Bendre have made the one-act play their chosen vehicle of thought. And we need not have any misgivings as regards the capacity of the smaller art-form for reflecting the mind of the people; for, though the one-act play is, in a sense, a gay myrtle leaf, a glow-worm lamp and a moment’s monument, it begins and ends in a moment as long as eternity.

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The mythical and historical plays of the day like Mr. Puttapa’s ‘Maharatri’ (The Great Night) and ‘The Defeat of Yama,’ Mr. Shastri’s ‘Ahwana,’ Prof. Mugali’s ‘Vijaya Samrajya,’ Mr. A. N. Krishnarao’s ‘Anugraha,’ and Mr. Vaman Bhat’s ‘Death of Tandava’ do not concern us here. Plays like these are an attempt to re-interpret or to re-create the past. A revival of ancient history and myth is a vital part of the present movement, but not its soul. We also leave fantasies like Prof. Jagirdar’s ‘The Defeat of Yama’ and folk tales like ‘My Gopala,’ out of account.

One of the sphinx-like problems of the day is the reconstruction of present-day society which is torn asunder by opposite forces. The Kannada dramatist has been presenting the riddle and clamouring for solution. Marriage, for instance. Ancient society had encouraged weddings in the cradle or in ‘prams,’ the nursery or the school-room; and all was well, as the people of those times viewed it. The glory of life consisted in letting the will of the parents prevail. But modern society has given every son and daughter a will of his or her own. And the result is the chaos that precedes a cosmos. In a play called ‘The Cup of Poison,’ Mr. Tengshe introduces us to a heroine who has been allowed to grow up unmarried because her parents could not match her suitably. A young gentleman, one of her acquaintances, declares himself her lover and wins her consent by promising marriage. And he forsakes the girl when she is an expectant mother, pleading his inability to resist the will of his parents who do not want him to marry the girl. What next? That is the problem In ‘Excommunication,’ a powerful one-act play by Mr. Kailasam, the tragedy is that of a family excommunicated because Narasu, the daughter of Ranganna, remains unmarried even after she has reached the age of puberty. The ruthless order of priests sets the machinery of torture in motion against a sensitive soul. On Narasu’s ear falls like a thunder-bolt the curse of her dying grandmother pronounced because the priests would not be present at her husband’s obituary. And Narasu dies a fierce and triumphant death by poisoning herself in order to free the other members of the family from the blighting effects of excommunication. The dark arrow, as Shelley says in ‘Ginevra,’ fled in the noon. In a play called the ‘Murraine of Mockery’ by Mr. Bendre, there is an assembly of widows, those enigmatic products of Hindu society, who pass their time in killing reputations. The widows treat the unmarried girl past her puberty as untouchable and her mother as a ‘pariah.’ The priest, delivering a sermon which is a compound of legend, scandal and nonsense, inserts in it insinuations against the star-crossed girl, in spite of the fact that his own unmarried daughter is of the same age. Bhagirathi, unwilling to be a burden any longer on her parents, seeks refuge in the flames of death. And this is the dramatist’s verdict on the happening, uttered by one of the pall-bearers:

"If it is true that the married alone are saved, it matters little if her soul does not ascend to heaven. She will be happy if her soul will be held captive in hell for ever. There will be no peace for her or for her parents, if she is born again."

Prof. R. V. Jagirdar views the same problem from a half-bitter, half-cynical angle in ‘The Horse-Sacrifice.’ The ancient Indian emperors performed the Horse Sacrifice, demonstrating their supremacy by letting a horse graze unchallenged through the world. We, their inheritors, have been compelled to do it in another way. Venkappa, the father of a girl called Kamala, inscribes the following verse on her forehead and leaves her to wander through the world:

"Here, on this earth is Kamal, the daughter of Venkappa. The occasion of this overture is the mess of her marriage. May the youth who will be her perpetual host stop her on her way and marry her at once!"

So long as our women are economically dependent and our young men unemployed, have we to repeat the performance of this play.

So passionately do the dramatists feel for the helplessness of women that one of them, Mr. A. N. Krishnarao, indicts Rama himself, the hero of the ‘Ramayana’ in ‘The Golden Image.’ Rama abandons Sita, his pregnant wife, in the forest because he has heard the tongue of scandal questioning her chastity during the period of her detention in Lanka. As an ideal king, he wants to satisfy all the scruples of his subjects. Sita dies of a broken heart in the forest. And, Lakshman, who leaves Rama in disgust, impeaches his brother in bitter words: "Ramachandra, you cannot be a brother, a husband or father; you are always the king–the king and nothing else."

The position of the young wife is often rendered unhappy by the feuds of the Montagues and the Capulets. In ‘Manjula,’ ‘Srinivasa’¹ shows how the mother of Puttu is bent on finding for him a second wife long before Puttu and his wife have met and spoken to each other, simply because Puttu’s mother does not find her son’s mother-in-law submissive and pliable enough. The crisis is averted by a noble-minded lady called Sitamma who arranges to bring Puttu and his wife together in her own house. Puttu discovers that he would have thrown a jewel away and sets himself up against the dominant but blind will of his mother.

The mother-in-law is the peculiar product of that worn-out institution in Hindu society,–the joint family. It was essentially a tribal and a feudal system. With the growth of modern economic conditions, the joint family is tumbling to decay. But woman is still the parasite, though not the pariah, of Hindu society. And how can a widowed mother live except as a member of her son’s household? Once this situation is granted, the orthodoxy of the aged mother and the progressivist tendencies of the young wife meet in continuous conflict. The husband is the only neutralising force in the house. He becomes, instead, the conductor of the house on whose head the two forces meet and flash electricity. The shifts and evasions of Ramanna, the lawyer and municipal councilor of Rampur, form the theme of Mr. Kailasam’s ‘Home Rule.’ His mother is always out to drown herself because of his wife’s overbearing nature, and the wife always keeps her things neatly packed in order to leave for her father’s at a moment’s notice. Ramanna tries his best to play off the one against the other. He tells his wife that his mother is, after all, old and consumptive, and that she suffers from rheumatism, melancholia, sciatica, lumbago and other diseases. She will certainly not survive the pilgrimage to Benares on which he means to pack her off immediately. And he assures his mother that his wife will be sent to her father’s for good if she continues to be intractable. When his mother complains again, he takes, as a desperate measure, to metaphysical discourse:

"Mother dear, all things in this world are subject to decay. Should we, who know better, still identify ourselves with the perishable interests of the body and fall out like little children on matters like property, ornaments and authority?"

Hardly has Ramanna opened his lips when the mother opens her mouth wide and is dumb-struck for a while. She suddenly drops the brass ‘chemboo’ from her hand and bursts out:

"Did that Duessa reduce you now to metaphysics?…This is the fate of all mothers who have borne sons,–everything is dead to me in this house henceforward."

The lesson is thus driven home to her that there is only one master in the house, and that one is the mistress.

Metaphysics get reduced to the practice of ‘Padmasana’ and absent-mindedness when the hero has not the brains of a lawyer, as in ‘The Haunted House’ by Mr. Bendre. Satyavanta, the hero, is sitting, with his eyes and ears closed, in a corner of his house all the time, trying to forget the unceasing dissensions in the kitchen between his wife and mother. The wife who pretends to be possessed by an evil spirit, goes off into hysterics every minute and keeps up a continual clamour in the house, asking the question:

"Tell me in one word: Will you, henceforward, behave as the husband of the woman called daughter-in-law or the son of the woman called mother-in-law?"

Satyavanta consults an astrologer, a ‘Dasaya’ or village necromancer, a doctor, a physician, a village quack and a ‘Hakim,’ and wonders whether they can exorcise the spirit. But what can they do when the wife of Satyavanta is bent on being possessed? Moreover, the persons consulted are themselves so many pretenders. A friend of Satyavanta finally sees the matter in its right perspective and tells him:

"You, my friend, and our mother-country are in the same plight. The chosen land of God has become the house of Satan by applying quack remedies to a disease that needs a different treatment."

The friend also lays his finger on the right solution:

"We see sick hurry and divided aims everywhere about us. The modern world is torturing body, mind and soul alike. Is hell any different? Domestic organisations must be formed to establish the kingdom of happiness in every house. …The mother-in-law is pestered by the daughter-in-law, the son by the mother and the wife by the husband....If the man and wife fail to remember the mother, obsessed with their own love for a moment, cannot the mother too forget them for a time and be happy in her devotion to God? She can also, after a while, expect a grandchild to play with. We must strive to control and plan life and make it flow in the channels of peace."

The problems of old age married to youth, of remarriage, and of infidelity on the part of the wife are set forth in ‘Ahalya’ by Prof. Jagirdar, in ‘As It May Be’ by Mr. Mansubdar, and in ‘Narada Garvabhanga’ by Mr. Karant. How blind orthodoxy stands in the way of social reform is made clear by these as well as by Prof. Jagirdar’s ‘Trishula’ which is a denunciation of old-fashioned parents and wives. In ‘The Meeting of the Eyes,’ Mr. Karant sets forth the clash between orthodox and educated womanhood and shows how the former may be gradually won over by the humane, though unorthodox, outlook of the latter.

Though there are several joint families living in perfect harmony today, like the one pictured in ‘What Happened?’, the general tendency is the disintegration of the system for the reasons indicated in Prof. Mugali’s ‘The Instigation to Division.’ There are two brothers, both of them married, living as a joint family, along with their widowed mother. The mother tries her best to hold the balance even between the two sons. But the sharp individualism of the brothers as well as their wives will brook no restraint. Each individual pulls his or her own way, the tastes, habits and ways of each individual being different from those of the other. The mother is unable to suppress the repercussions that arise daily in the house. The brothers then divide and begin to rule, each in his own house. But the tin partition which splits up the house cuts the mother’s heart into two!

Because of the ignorance prevailing in society and the parasitical life to which women, especially widows, have been accustomed for a long time, there is a school for scandal almost in every street. The incalculable harm that such parliaments of widows inflict on individuals is vividly described in ‘The Murraine of Mockery.’ The priests in towns and villages are also the bane of society. They live on their flock and pass their time, not in meditation, but in holding afternoon assemblies on ‘kattas’or parapets and house-fronts adjoining the roads. Every passer-by is held up for derision. ‘At every breath a reputation dies.’ Mr. Karant exposes these inquisitions in ‘Parapet Discourses’ and the cunning practices of priests and the helplessness of the parish in ‘Pre-destined Misery.’

The more ghastly aspects of social life are set forth in several powerful playlets. ‘Dharma Sankata’ deals with the ways of a panderess, who is the instrument, not the instigator, of the evil forces in society. ‘The Fourth Devil’ concentrates on the progeny tainted with venereal disease at its very birth. Prostitution is the dominant theme in ‘The Woman-Tigress, ‘Tulasi’ and ‘Old Rakes.’ The first two portray the satanic in woman, and ‘Old Rakes’ is a fascinating picture of educated and high-salaried officials whose morals are despicable.

In the days of feudalism and landlordism, almost every well-to-do family used to cater to a few guests every day. The joint family system necessarily provided for spacious kitchens, and, in a house where fifty sat down to eat together, five more stomachs could easily be fed. But with the increasing dominance of individualism in private life and the changed economic conditions, uninvited guests are not only unloved but even actively hated. In Prof. Mugali’s ‘The Guest-God,’ we have a picture of this reversal of values. The old convention of treating guests as God Himself is almost worn out in modern society; and the guests are as much responsible for the change as the hosts themselves. A village teacher, hailing from the priestly order of Brahmins, goes to a gentleman working as a clerk in a certain town. The clerk’s son, an unemployed graduate, is living with his father. The clerk dismisses the village teacher, warning him that his house is not a boarding house. But the villager manages to have bed and breakfast in the house without the knowledge of the master. And, the next day, he has even the audacity to snatch away the clerk’s morning newspaper!

Society is thus at the parting of the ways. The old order is changing fast and the new one is, as yet, powerless to be born. The Kannada dramatist has stated all the issues, hinting at a solution wherever possible. Is it too much to expect that society will take the hint?

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As with society, so with education. Because of the draws of primary and secondary education in the country, the matriculates pouring into our universities are so much grist for our mills to grind. In a play called ‘11-30. A.M.,’ Prof Jagirdar shows how empty-headed and indifferent the school-boys are, and suggests that they may be easily mistaken by a cow-herd for dumb, driven cattle. In ‘The Circus of Saraswati,’ the same writer displays the strange animals ‘called undergraduates and graduates performing amusing feats,–feats of memory. The manager takes one after another out of the box,–the youngsters mugging up the "Apollonius theorem," the Sanskrit texts and the references to the context, and, finally, one drafting an interminable number of applications to solve the problem of his unemployment: "I am a promising young man with a wife and many children and I pray you on my bended knees," etc, etc. These are the products of our universities, committing to memory what they will forget the moment after the examination is over and then committing suicide because they see no hopes of employment, Those of our youths who turn out to be lawyers spend their time and forget their worries in the bar room in smoke, play and scandal. When a stranger happens to come their way, they are up on their feet pulling him this way and that, trying to book him as their client. But in many cases, as in Mr. N. K. Kulkarni’s play called ‘Bar Room,’ the client turns out to be a mendicant who had stepped in for charity!

Mr. Kailasam institutes an interesting comparison between two brothers, Puttu and Madhu. Puttu gets a first class at the Matric., swears at his mother, saying that she is a "damned nuisance" when she is ill and groaning, and is allowed at home a special quantity of ghee for his meals and a specially soft bed by his father who is overjoyed at his academic distinctions. Both the brothers are married, but the father has matched Puttu with an educated girl from a high-class family. Madhu fails at the Matric., is cursed by his father for his incompetence, and is given scanty meals and a rough mattress for a bed. But he cares little for all this and devotes all his time to nursing the ailing mother. When accidentally the house is on fire at night and all are asleep, Puttu is the first to wake up, and he collects his books and runs away from the house. The noise wakes up Madhu who rescues both his parents and then plunges into the house, reckless of his life, because his father is clamouring for Puttu who, however, is sitting safe and sound in the courtyard. Madhu is brought in a faint on the stage. The neighbours then expatiate on the hollow character of Puttu and the sterling worth of Madhu.

This play is a perfect piece of art. Even so eminent a critic as Dr. Cousins wrote about it: "Seeing this play and the keen enjoyment of the audience, one felt hopeful for the future of Indian drama." It is Madhu who speaks out the basic principle of the play: "The rent that we have to pay to God for living on this little planet is our capacity for being useful to our fellowmen." Have our universities succeeded, partially at least, in promoting the right sense of values? The answer is better summed up in the words of Browning: "The petty done, the undone vast."

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Our politics are in a more perplexed state than our ethics. There are the incessant demands of an insurgent middle class in our country, perhaps for the first time in our history. Breaking in upon this scene of a new life are the forces of reaction still powerful in many Indian States,–those relics of feudalism. Many of our dramatists have given amusing as well as terrible pictures of a dying feudalism. In a play called ‘The Fair,’ Mr. Bendre introduces us to the chief of an imaginary State where a fair is held every year during a particular season. The fair brings a huge annual income to the State. During a certain suspended because of the outbreak of plague. In the name of religion, the chief wants the fair to be held at any cost. The dewan shows him a telegram received from the specialist concerned, that the rats sent for medical examination had been infected. The chief commands that the telegram be torn to pieces:

"What can a specialist in Delhi know of the rats that belong here?"

The medical attendant of the chief is conscientious at first, but he soon changes his mind and learns that his only salvation lies in echoing his master’s sentiments. When the ruler says that the people are not dying of plague but of their own infectious fear of it, the doctor quietly asserts the same. When the ruler asks him: "Why is it, doctor, that you are afraid so much of plague?" the doctor returns the interesting answer: "I am not afraid of plague but I am afraid of you, Your Highness." Finally, the ruler orders the suspension when he is down with plague himself.

In a play called ‘The Drama of Death,’ the same writer gives a complete and revealing picture of the last gasp of feudalism caught in its own coils.

If feudalism is dying, democracy is not yet well on its way. Indiscipline and injustice follow in the wake of the rule of an ignorant majority. Local self-government dislocates all hopes of improvement till we educate our rulers. Ramanna, the pleader and municipal councilor in ‘Home Rule,’ has framed certain new rules for his fellow-workers:

"(²) If and when elected, no two councilors should reside in the same street locally. This is to guarantee to the tax-payer at least as many clean-kept streets in our city as there are councilors in our Corporation. (³) Each councilor must be presented with a Gold Medal for every occasion that a great personage arrives in the city, if he is notpresent on the occasion…..(⁴) free quarters must be provided for the President; and irrespective of his owning a private palace or mansion, it must be insisted that he resides in those quarters selected in the dirtiest parts of the City."

Along with this arraignment of an unenlightened democracy, there are pictures of poor life which put forward a silent but passionate plea for socialism. An amusing picture of the beggars and vagabonds in present-day society is given in a play called ‘The Epidemic of Beggars’ A rich student, Mr. Naik, has moved away from the plague-infected town to his suburban villa, and he expects to study early in the morning according to the exhaustive time-table which he has laid down for himself:

7 A.M: Awake, arise and brush your teeth.
7-15 A.M: Tea and wash.
7-30 A.M: A clean shave.
7-45 A.M: Hair-dressing.
8 A.M: Gramophone.
8-30 A.M: Novel reading.
9 A.M: Drama.
9-30 A.M: Instrumental and vocal music.
10 A.M: Dress and get ready.
10-30 A.M: Breakfast.

But his routine is upset by the troop of beggars who haunt his house one after another: a fortune-teller in picturesque attire, a priest, a Brahmin widow asking for a handful of rice, a religious mendicant blowing a conch, the priestess of a village deity, covered with ‘cowrie’ shells and with saffron, a strolling singer with a tambourine, a ‘jangam’ or Lingayat monk with tinkling anklets, a nationalist on a bicycle out to collect funds for work, a Maratha devotee of Ellamma, a village goddess, a young student begging his food every day, and a woman belonging to one of the parasitical, primitive tribes. Mr. Naik is terribly annoyed and feels that, as the Pied Piper of Hamelin did with the rats, someone should drown all the beggars in a river! The author closes the play with the remark:

"What should we do,–laugh at the rich or weep for the troop of beggars?"

In a fantasy called ‘Justice in Hell’, Mr. Rajaratnam asserts that the arrogance and hauteur of the rich are absent in hell; for Yama, the lord of hell, is eminently reasonable, compared with the bosses in government offices and firms!

Then there is a tragedy called ‘Kalki,’–luminous, poignant, penetrating. Ramakant, the author, depicts the struggles of a villager who came to town with his wife in order to make a fortune, in spite of the counsel given by prudence. Malleshi works in a mill and his wife does the same. The mill-owner has his eye on the beautiful wife of Malleshi. She is seduced by the mill-owner, when Malleshi is away at night leading a procession of strikers. The next morning Malleshi, thrown out of employment and not knowing the whereabouts of his well-beloved, has taken to his old enemy, drink. He and his friend protest violently when the police come on the scene to arrest them, and are shot dead. Chinnamma, who has been brought home in a faint by the friend in the meanwhile, dies of the violence done to her and her body, asking in vain for a drop of water to quench her thirst.

The doctrine of the story is brought home to the audience in the words of the dying hero:

"The earth must groan oppressed with the weight of suffering. The skeletons of the poor must pave the households of the rich. Their heads must be sent flying to the skies, while their trunks roll on the ground. The children of the workers must die prematurely and like vermin, and their wives sink into their graves, dragging on their life from widowhood to death....With the garland of our severed heads dangling from His neck, and with the skulls of a whole nation for dinner-plates, Kalki will descend to the earth. That is the long awaited incarnation of Kalki,–He will come to do away with the distinction between the rich and the poor. Kalki is our only hope,–He will bring us peace, destroying our misery. Kalki alone can bring the India of the Vedic Age. Let Kalki appear, my friend. We will be willing to part with our lives for His coming."

The picture is powerful, but the comments of the author are of dubious value. One wonders whether a reversion to the ideal of primitive times is either possible or desirable. And how can the four ‘Varnas’ or orders of society do away with the distinction between rich and poor? The idea of the ‘Varnas’ isof enduring value as distinguishing between the four types of human beings who make up society in any age and in any country. The Vedic society was primitive, though the idea of the ‘Varnas’ operated perfectly with them, whereas it has all been chaotic with us. We have to revive only the true idea of the ‘Varnas’–some will be inclined to question even that–and adopt socialism as the only cure of the economic evils in the country.

The problem of untouchability is presented in three plays from different standpoints. ‘Tirupani,’ a lyrical play by Srinivasa, deals incidentally with this theme, for the magnificence of its achievement lies in depicting with marvelous vividness the superstitious members of an unenlightened class, the blind orthodoxy of Brahmin priests, Lokasaranga, the head-priest in direct communion with God, Alvara, the pious devotee who is granted a divine revelation. And, finally, Tirupani, the untouchable, who waits at the door of the temple at Sirangapatam, is conducted by Lokasaranga at the express command of God to the innermost shrine and there disappears into the Light issuing from the image. Tirupani is, later, canonised as a saint of the Ramanuja Temple. Even today, the temple is thrown open to the Harijans annually for three days. The play is a subtle study in the different degrees of mysticism or the art of spiritual life, and contains songs of haunting loveliness.

In ‘The Sweeper,’ a blank verse play by Mr. Puttapa, the sweeper is represented as neglected by all the higher classes in society. But he continues his devotion to God unabated. It does not matter if he is refused admission to the temple. His daily life is the worship of God, and the performance of duty his constant meditation. Finally God Siva appears to him in the form of a sweeper and tells him that he himself is of the same caste, being the sweeper of the universe. He purifies the universe by absorbing all the sins himself.

It is in ‘Udhara’ that the problem is given its contemporary setting. All the implications of the efforts of the Harijans to enter the temples, belonging to the higher classes, by force are examined in the light of cold reason. There emerges the conclusion that such a situation bodes no one any good. Reformists must act with patience and understanding and, above all, in the interests of harmony.

There are plays which inspire a general political awakening,–Mr. Rajaratnam’s ‘Parashurama,’ ‘Gandu Godali,’ Mr. Kadengodlu’s ‘Guru Dakshine’ (dealing with the Drona-Drupada episode) and several others. Interesting side-lights on the Kannada-Marathi problem appear in Sri Ranga’s ‘The Mass-Meeting at Home’ and Mr. A. N. Krishnarao’s ‘Gubachiya Gudu.’ The inadvisability of making Hindi compulsory for all and sundry, and of canvassing for pupils with propagandist fervour, instead of restricting it to workers in the political or any other inter-provincial sphere, forms the ground of the story in Mr. Krishnarao’s ‘The Volcano.’

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When soulless conventions seek to govern the social and religious life of a people, certain minds take to free thinking, and begin to preach independence of thought with all the emphasis at their command. This emphasis should be understood in its emotional rather than in its intellectual implications. To some it may seem that such thinking is profanation and an attack on the very core of religion. But that is because they have failed to notice the shifting of values that goes on for ever.

Thus, in Sri Ranga’s ‘Niruttara-Kumara,’ the opening situation of the ‘Bhagavadgita’ is viewed in a different light altogether. Arjuna refuses to fight against his relatives ranged on the side of the Kauravas. Krishna has just started blowing his metaphysical conch: "All souls are one. There is only one Over-Soul," etc., etc. Uttara, the son of Virata, now appears on the scene. He charges Krishna with inciting Arjuna to fight because Krishna wants his sister, Subhadra, to be an empress. He exercises with Krishna the right of a relative in teaching him Vyavahara or practical wisdom since he is so much steeped in Vedanta or metaphysics. And Uttara tells Arjuna that it is necessary for him to fight in order to defend himself, not to kill others. He has already taken leave of Draupadi, assuring her of victory. How will he face her if he slinks like a coward from the field? And if he does not defend himself, where can he go? The Kauravas will lead the man-hunt even in the forests. It is the commonsense of Uttara, not the metaphysics of Krishna, that prepares Arjuna for the battle!

In ‘The Universal Religion’ by Mr. A. N. Krishnarao, we are introduced to an author who is writing a book on universal religion. His child tears away the Mss., and the father is all grief about it. His friend tells the author that the immediate problem is one of Samsara. Universal religion may wait till the author turns an ascetic!

In ‘Purva Ranga,’ ‘Sampushta Ramayana’ and ‘The Justice of Hell,’ we have statements regarding the new values that should prevail in dramatic art and also a criticism of the old.

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There are other plays which lay down a positive creed for individual as well as corporate action. In ‘Shanta,’ Srinivasa shows how man and woman are complementary to each other, almost platonic halves. Rushyashrunga, who sees a female form for the first time, says to the heroine: "This life of mine has attained perfection through you." In ‘Usha,’ the same author represents dramatically his own conception of art, and shows how perfect realisation is a manifestation in conscious life of the inspiration that haunts the subconscious in us,–our dreams and visions. This is one of our finest one-act plays and the songs in it are charming. ‘Tapaswini’ by ‘Bharati’ or Srimati Rajamma, one of the talented women-writers of Karnataka, exploits a neglected episode of the ‘Ramayana’–the meeting of Lakshman and Urmila after all the years of parting–for depicting how the ‘blank spaces in their togetherness’ ennobled both the lovers. The impregnable will of Lakshman and the unshakable faith of Urmila transformed a period of intense agony into an opportunity for a prolonged striving after the Truth. In Vinayaka’s ‘Mahashweta’ we find an original handling of some of the episodes from Bana’s ‘Kadambari’ for illustrating the Truth stated felicitously by Donne:

"Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,
And yet the body is the book."

The stories of Mahashweta and Kadambari form, with a few modifications, ideal material for illustrating the truth. Here is a song of the ‘Kinnara’ (fairy) lovers from ‘Mahashweta,’ describing the twilight loveliness that lingers between night and dawn:

"Beneath the self-same tree we stood,
I king, you queen, of the old dim world;
The well-shaped tree with bell-flowers, for good
Had hidd’n us from the eyes of the old dim world:
But the morn came laughing like a silver nymph
And moved on her primitive feet in our world.
Oh! How she glanced at us! How her eyes danced at us!
Did you see it, fair?
But the moon was on high,–we had hung him in the sky,–
And we knew we would soon be inthe air,
In a moon-mad love-tryst we met
Beneath the bell-flower tree:
But the morn came and discovered us,
She shed light all around us
In all the four corners in her name:
Our old world was gone,
We had nothing leftour own,
We had nothing, nothing left for us
Butto hide our shame!"

There is a play called ‘Nagarika’ by Mr. Srinivasa Murti. It presents a contrast between the priest of the Pampapati temple in the ruins of Hampi, a pious and God-fearing person and an educated sceptic from the town who isvisiting the ruins. The nagarika or educated townsman is a peculiar product of modern civilisation and appears to be an unbeliever and an atheist in the eyes of the pious priest. Vidyaranya, the spiritual founder of the Vijayanagara Empire, reveals himself to both of them. He shows the priest that the townsman is a believer in his own way and also gives to the latter what he needs,–an assurance that the disintegration in the past was inevitable and that the glory awaiting India inthe future is greater than any of her past achievements; The play portrays, inan admirable manner, the temperament and the mood that are responsible for the regeneration of the country. A boundless love of the mother country, a genuine enthusiasm for the achievements in the past, a careful diagnosis of the disease that overtook feudal India, and the will to build splendidly for the future,–these are the qualities sorely needed for the country if she is to keep to the path of progress.

In a play called ‘Goal,’ Mr. Bendre makes the position still clearer, though, by doing so, he is forced to confine himself to character-sketches and not full-length portraits. A few college students have gathered together in a room in the hostel to bid farewell to their friend, Mr. Ranga Naik, a fellow of the college. Ranga Naik is a philosopher and thinker. Gokhale, another member of the group, is a Karma yogi, a man of action. Timma and Gouda are epicureans and Kulkarni a sceptic. Kaji is a perfect sportsman. An interesting conversation arises in which we are told that all the world is a football field and all of us players. The epicureans are the defenders, and the poets, thinkers and men of action the forwards in the game. To be is the goal. We want actively good men and great men in all fields of life. That is the goal. This is the only way to build up the mother province and the mother country.

In a collection of lyrical plays, called ‘Pavana Pavaka,’ or The Sacred Fire,’ we have a symbolic presentation of the spirit that is prompting modern India. Mr. G. B. Joshi has dreamt these dreams, and Prof. Mugali has presented them in dramatic form. In ‘The Sacred Fire,’ a youth hears a voice bidding him go and fetch the sacred fire. He is bent on his quest, in spite of the tearful protestations of his parents, sisters and brothers. He wanders through the vegetable world, the land of apes, the land of beasts, the land of children and the land of the gods. But he cannot catch even a glimpse of that light. Finally, he comes across a sage sitting in meditation. The sage takes him through the very countries he had visited, and shows how all the objects in each of them are permeated by a fire resembling a burning lotus. In answer to a question by the youth, the sage shows that the lotus-shaped fire is burning in the youth’s own heart, and disappears. What India needs today is this consciousness of soul. We must become so many points of light united into a constellation.

There is another play by the same authors, called ‘Pratirupa’ or ‘Reflection.’ "Every time we try to destroy others, we destroy ourselves," is the central idea brought home by the story of a prince who loved game and war. As a young boy he tried to kill a sparrow sitting on the branch of a tree. He saw that a boy like himself was taking aim at him, armed with bow and arrows as the prince himself was. But the prince loosens his arrow from the bow all the same. The boy on the tree disappears and the sparrow falls down dead. This happens to the prince again on the occasion of a deer-hunt and a tiger-hunt. When the prince grows up, he thinks of killing his elder brother and usurping his throne. He steals into his elder brother’s room at night and thinks of killing him, now that he is asleep. But he sees a child with features like his own, flourishing its sword at him, instead of his own brother. The prince uses his sword nevertheless. The child disappears and he sees his brother lying dead in a pool of blood. In the same way, the prince kills his father and sister. Tired with his life of sin when he is old, the prince seeks to kill himself. The angelic infant appears to him at that time and tells him "You thought of killing me. But you have killed yourself." The infant then disappears. The prince looks into his own heart and finds there a beautiful infant groaning with agony. Its limbs are mangled and only the head is whole. The prince knows now that he has lived a life of prolonged suicide! Is this not a beautiful dream-symbol?

In a play called ‘Patana’ by Vinayaka, we are told that, though we may rise by sheer force of will and aspiration, we must suffer a miserable fall if we do not have the personality or the spiritual strength to sustain our rise. And, in his ‘The Road Unending,’ we see how the ideal always baffles us, though we still seem to clutch the inviolable shade. The jewelled bird of paradise, which two dreamers had hoped to find within the easy grasp of romance, escapes them, leaving only its image in their hands. And it sings to them from amidst the clouds:

You have broken beyond the bounds of beautiful forests
And toiled up the mountain-ranges, peak by peak.
And you have diffused everywhere a smile
Radiant like that of the stars.
Why then be down-hearted, my child?
Why turn and flee?
You have set your heart on the bird of paradise.
A dream is on your brows, transfiguring your life.
Why not pursue it for ever and ever and ever?
Scatter worn-out creeds to the winds.
Plunge headlong into the flames of suffering,
And reap from them the harvest of endless light.
You have set your heart on the bird of paradise.
Why not pursue it for ever and ever and ever?
Attune yourself to the world around you.
Forget the pomp and pride that lie writhing in the dust.
Put your trust in the beauty that is to come,
And pursue it for ever and ever and ever!

In this essay, I confined myself strictly to the vision of the Kannada dramatists. I have said nothing of the technique of their plays or of the marvellous perfection of art that is to be found in at least half the plays I have mentioned. For, all that has been attempted here is the elaboration of the social and psychological content of those plays.

1 Sri Masti Venkatesa Iyengar.