Thirty-five years ago (on January 2, 1989) firebrand playwright and street-theatre pioneer Safdar Hashmi was fatally attacked by alleged Indian National Congress workers while his troupe was performing their play Halla Bol during the Ghaziabad municipal elections. In the decades that have followed his death, the politics of the country, and consequently, the consumption of the visual arts have transformed significantly. On the buoyant socio-political landscape has now surfaced a more systematically aspirational right-wing shadow, which only deepened concerns about dissent through art in contemporary India.
Catalyzing the growth of nukkad-naataks as a prolific art-form, essential to Hashmi’s artistic politics was taking theatre from elite spaces, and politically and intricately bringing it into the common masses. Actor Naseeruddin Shah fondly introspects upon his bewilderment of seeing how despite his thespian vigour, Hashmi chased neither fame, nor fortune; immersing himself in struggles of peasants and workers, as he found himself performing for and amidst them. In conceiving the Jana Natya Manch (The People’s Theatre) – wittily abbreviated to JANAM (Birth) – Hashmi responded to the ruling class’ strategy for countering any claims against its oppression, as he puts it, “at the level of consciousness by propagating and strengthening all that is backward, obscurantist, and superstitious”.
Even then, Hashmi identified the ruling class’ inclinations to narrowly appropriate the “decolonisation” narrative; something now often invoked in justifying exclusionary politics. While acknowledging the depth of traditional performing arts, Hashmi saw fissures in a puritanical approaches towards theatre in India, and therefore devoted himself to developing a political art-form that secured a just future for the marginalized, instead of falling into the trappings of an unjust past. Up until his demise, JANAM performed for mass audiences under his de facto direction, engaging with the working class through thousands of performances carried out predominantly in working-class neighbourhoods, factories and workshops.
Safdar Hashmi performing with other JANAM members. Photo: Wikimedia Commons
To me, the current state of India’s visual “entertainment” poses the question of Safdar’s significance. In a confluence of screen and stage, the 2010’s marked a shift in how film, theatre’s more modern and pervasive counterpart, would be ‘consumed’. It also birthed the ‘web-series’, and consequently, the run-of-the-mill Bollywood movie’s religion-like significance dwindled. Works like Gangs of Wasseypur, Sacred Games and Mirzapur were original, exciting, with realistic visuals. Amidst declining public interest, the Goliath Bollywood too was coerced into incorporating a some form of originality. Thus emerged a new, ‘theatre-bred’ artist-class in the cinematic limelight. Actors who were ‘serious’ rather than frivolous superstars. While, on the surface, this guaranteed a theatrical enrichment of mainstream filmmaking, not all has gone according to plan.
In the backdrop of heightened sentiments in this consciously orchestrated decade, commercialisation and regressive politics render this “alternatively mainstream” artist class as a conservative tool. Dominating Indian screens significantly today, it often forgets its roots and the true political role of the performing arts – striking down oppressive structures. While it is undeniable that many such artists contribute to meaningful and humane projects, to the observant, simultaneously criticising oppression, and partaking in projects that appeal to the ruling class reveals an escapist hypocrisy. This phenomenon, as Hashmi himself identified, isn’t new but as India witnesses unprecedented social polarisation, it must draw conscious critical attention. This is simply because its danger lies in its effectiveness. It is clear how narratives of exploitation and discrimination become more palatable to the masses when artists with a theatrical background (or even otherwise) – who “take their craft seriously” – are associated with it.
One must remind oneself that Hashmi and his legacy are now more relevant than ever, with intensifying right-wing politics, and this unique artist-class’ tendency to absolve themselves of artistic responsibilities towards the oppressed. A recent example is a podcast discussing Sandeep Reddy Vanga’s soulless and gratuitously violent Animal, featuring prominent alternative artists, including Manoj Bajpayee, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Arshad Warsi and Aparshakti Khurana. Citing artistic license, and their “subjective moralities”, they almost unanimously denied any artistic responsibility, with Khurana even seeing merit in the film since it made him “forget his moral compass”, and Bajpayee laughing off cinema’s role in shaping public morality.
Also read: The Untimely Death of Playwright Activist Safdar Hashmi
To lacerate, or allow comfort in lacerating an artist’s moral fabric, under the garb of “objectivity” is to murder their conscience and it is here that we must remember Hashmi and his belief in tangible action. “To be intention-centric is to deny the world of action altogether,” he wrote “The mill owner may claim that he does not wish to exploit his workers. But shall we judge him on the basis of his alleged intentions or on the basis of his actions?” Today, the same applies to this artist-class, whose intentions and actions transpire in polar contradictions.
In circling back to Hashmi as a symbol of the freedom of expression, one must remember his devotion to “duties” as a performer. He sacrificed his life, not merely to secure the freedom, but to exercise it responsibly and for the oppressed, teaching others the same. So how might have his life unfurled today? Would he be staging plays in critique of waning democracy like he did in “Kursi, Kursi, Kursi”? Would he critique rising prices and privatisation, as he did with “DTC Ki Dhandhli”? Perhaps he would call for attention towards Manipur’s crisis, or the denial of marital rights to the LGBTQ+ community. Would he perhaps be silenced as he was thirty-five years ago, all for the sake of his ideals?
One certainty is that he wouldn’t emerge an opportunist in a visual pseudo-renaissance, absolving himself of reformative responsibility and ratifying oppression. The likes of him are devoted in establishing a world with true “objective” fairness, as JANAM continues to do. And while Hashmi created in a language often imposed on others, for one to seek him only within its folds would perhaps be an injustice. In my life anchored in the complexities of Northeast India, Hashmi also speaks in tongues long drowned out by Bollywood’s loudness; emerging in works like Jaicheng Jai Dohutia’s ‘Handuk’ (Assamese/Moran – 2016) which grippingly depicts lives in Assam arrested by hyper-militarisation and secessionist conflict; or Haobam Paban Kumar’s vignettes of Manipur’s political crises in Nine Hills and One Valley (Manipuri and Tangkhul – 2022). He similarly emerges from other parts of India, calling out injustice in the many languages that we speak. And while such works frequently find critical acclaim, the irony of contemporary ‘pan’-Indian cinema is that its cultural and commercial hegemonies still limit their access to the country’s masses. The truth remains however, that the likes of Safdar Hashmi are still sharing stories with a clean conscience. And we, as citizens, have the moral responsibility to listen, for only then will art serve its true purpose.
And only that is a tribute befitting his legacy.
Ayaan Halder is a writer and legal scholar at the Department of Law, Gauhati University, Guwahati, Assam.
