Ushaji’s demise shocked us all in the theatre world by its suddenness and unexpectedness. True, the death of her younger brother just a fortnight ago had devastated her. But otherwise, she had been as active as ever before the lockdown, travelling and organising the 44th anniversary programme in January of her group Rangakarmee, where I had last spoken to her, bubbling with her usual infectious zest about future plans of their studio theatre, a 74-year-old speaking like a teenager, albeit disturbed by governmental apathy to theatre and partisan favouritism.
She was always different from the norm – among artists in an art form who are themselves different from the norm. Born Usha Pandey on August 20, 1945 in Jodhpur, Rajasthan, she learnt Bharatanatyam as a child, which explains her sensitivity to bodily expression. After moving to Calcutta, she obtained an MA in Hindi Literature and taught the subject from 1970 until her retirement in the Bhawanipur Education Society College, keeping her in touch with students (significantly, young people formed the majority of Rangakarmee’s personnel in later years). Meanwhile, her marriage to trade union leader Kamalendu Ganguli had introduced her to Leftist ideology, to which she pledged unflagging allegiance to ever since.
Her acting career also began in 1970 with the amateur Hindi group Sangit Kala Mandir, and her interest in theatre rapidly deepened into such serious commitment that, with her husband and like-minded friends, she launched Rangakarmee in 1976 “to do socially meaningful theatre for the masses”, as she put it – quite at variance with the usual entertaining fare of the small Hindi theatre circle in Calcutta. During this time, she interacted with luminaries of the Bengali stage like Tripti Mitra, who directed her in Rangakarmee’s Gudiya Ghar (1981), adapted from Ibsen’s Doll’s House.
This apprenticeship under various senior directors grew naturally into Usha, taking up the reins herself as sole director for Rangakarmee. On Mannu Bhandari’s Mahabhoj (1984), and perfected on Ratnakar Matkari’s Lokkatha (1987), she not only targeted the Hindi belt’s backward politics and casteism, but also arrived at her trademark style: highly-charged passion, loud and in-your-face physicality including violence, precise and tightly cohesive mise-en-scene and lightning-fast scene changes. Her themes and techniques quickly won national attention, as Rangakarmee received invitations all over northern India.
In 1989, she chose the play Holi, by another Marathi playwright, Mahesh Elkunchwar, which deals with campus unrest. Not following the printed drama faithfully, she utilised the new concept of “performance text”, which means that an ensemble bases its work on the original script, but collectively improvises the scenes during rehearsals until satisfied with the result for its own purposes. This process expanded and intensified Holi explosively, presenting a much more scary picture of student agitations.
Usha applied the same method on her big successes in the 1990s, Rudali and Mukti, both dramatised from stories by Mahasweta Devi about dispossessed female protagonists at the edge of society. Both evolved into powerful statements on feminine bonding as well as personal independence. Compared to the film version of Rudali, released the year after Rangakarmee’s production (1992), one can appreciate immediately how much more rooted Usha’s vision was, not resorting to the movie’s colour and glamour.
Mukti (1999), which marked Rangakarmee’s Bengali-language debut, also improved on its source, rejecting the melodramatic and romantic ingredients. No walking off into the sunset holding her man’s hand. Usha’s anti-heroine found mukti in herself, to do as she pleased in future. Unlike most Indian directors, Usha didn’t waffle for 15 minutes on a scene when she could state its point in five. Mukti packed an emotional punch without luxuriating in it, and left us thinking about the subject of women’s empowerment.
Usha also deleted all male characters from Mukti, but she had already pioneered all-women Hindi theatre in 1996 outside the proscenium with Beti Ayi, translated from the famous street play about the girl child by Mumbai activist Jyoti Mhapsekar. In Usha’s words, it depicted “the everyday hell that rarely comes to light”. She understood that to truly make an impact where it mattered, she had to take her message out of the comfort zones of auditoria. This imperative continued with such social-work projects as Khela Gadi (2007), which documented the real-life histories of underprivileged Muslim women, one of whom acted as herself on stage.
Usha Ganguli during a play. Photo: Facebook
Her best productions in the past decade focused on women as well. She directed Tagore’s classic Chandalika (2011) bypassing the commonly performed dance-drama and spotlighting instead his neglected original prose play, therefore de-aestheticising it to better communicate Tagore’s protest against untouchability. Then she dramatized Ham Mukhtara (2013) from the horrific case history of Mukhtar Mai, the Pakistani honour/gangrape victim who fought valiantly in court for ten years before finally losing her appeal. Usha’s choreography, sometimes packing the cast like sardines, appropriately demonstrated the herd mentality and regimentation within the rural community, but also the bonding of a sisterhood.
Realising the importance of a home stage for any group, she laboured indefatigably to establish an intimate space for Rangakarmee. She opened it in 2018, naming it Binodini-Keya Mancha to commemorate the two celebrated but poorly-treated Bengali leading ladies, Binodini Dasi and Keya Chakrabarti. Characteristically generous, she offered the studio to other troupes for non-proscenium performances of all varieties.
Ushaji had a large heart. As a critic I often have to write critically, after all, but unlike some who think that reviews should serve as mere promotion, she accepted comments constructively. I looked forward to discussing with her all things theatrical, no holds barred. Strong-willed and fiercely independent, she lived life on her own terms, yet always had her mind open to new directions and heard out others’ opinions. That kind of liberalism finds itself increasingly threatened by violent, narrow-minded opponents today.
Ananda Lal was Professor, Jadavpur University, where he taught drama. As theatre critic, he has reviewed more than 3,000 productions. His books include The Oxford Companion to Indian Theatre, the first reference work on this subject in any language. He has directed over 30 plays.