In the preceding entry, I said that Karnad has turned Yavakrida’s story into a complete disaster .

A few years ago, when I was still suffering from the Karnad-play hangover, I used to relish reading stuff by, and about Karnad. One was an interview where the playwright spoke about Agni Mattu Male: The inspiration from this play comes from Rajaji’s Mahabharata, a highly condensed version of the original. I found it significant that he has included this episode in his book. The play lived in my mind for 37 years before it took its present form. (Ed: Paraphrased) I was euphoric. Such is the stuff creativity is made of, I thought, that’s how great plays get written; the seeds are sown in the years passed by and the fruit is a wonderful play like Agni Mattu Male. To get a taste of my intellectual state back then, dear reader, I urge you to read this review I have written on Agni Mattu Male.

I have read Rajaji’s Mahabharata and refer to it now and then. I never cease to marvel at his grasp of the epic: only a person who has read and digested the Mahabharata in the original (Sanskrit) source can author such a work. The fact that it is condensed heavily–the original roughly contains about 1,00,000 verses–doesn’t stand out as a negative mark. On the contrary, Rajaji has stunned all of us by retaining its essence intact. I can liken it to a “ready reckoner” of the original.

I therefore find it astonishing that Karnad, who was inspired by Yavakrida’s episode he found in the book chose to twist it in the manner he has done. Karnad has barely managed to retain a semblance of faithfulness to the original only as far as the plot is concerned. On comparison however, you discover that the faithfulness is merely a facade, more appropriately, a foundation on which to maul the original.

Agni Mattu Male is a curious title for the play based on what is originally a straightforward story. The blurb to the play (it was printed on the attractive invite I received to its screening in Chowdaiah Memorial Hall) mentions–among other things–that it is a tale of deception and passion–which is very dimly true but far from the message conveyed by the original. It is not difficult to detect the rationale for this title: in Vedic ritual, Agni (Fire) is almost always used in any sacrifice. King Brihadyumna performed a sacrifice to appease the gods to deliver rain (Male) to his drought-stricken kingdom–there you have, Agni Mattu Male, the Fire and the Rain, a play in English by Girish Karnad.

Karnad’s protagonist is Arvavasu, the Existential Man. Karnad calls him Aravasu for reasons I cannot fathom. I’m curious why such an acclaimed playwright has made this basic error. Was it on purpose? Karnad it seems to me, has deliberately chosen Arvavasu (or Aravasu, according to him) because he is, relatively speaking, the perfect ingot into whose character Karnad could skilfully pour Existential nonsense and transform him into the Existential hero. In Karnad’s hands, the original Arvavasu from a betrayed scholar-brother who engages in rigorous penance for the good of others, metamorphosizes into a person who should choose between his “personal good” and the good of others. In fact, much of Aravasu’s journey to this final act of choice is smeared with hideous episodes, most of which don’t exist in the original. But we’ll come to that shortly.

Sage Vyasa’s Arvavasu is no conflict-torn character. He knows he has been wronged, and like all humans, is angry at first at the betrayal. As you can recall, Arvavasu and his brother are both scholars who equalled their learned father in knowledge and fame. This is an important premise, which Karnad not only discards, but blackens completely. After overcoming his initial anger, Arvavasu realizes that Paravasu’s treachery was the result of his unexpiated sin. Arvavasu’s conviction is clear: like a true Rishi who seeks only the betterment of the world (loka hita), he does penance for the benefit of others, even those who have harmed him.

Not Karnad’s Aravasu.

Karnad makes him wade through, and almost drown in a quick succession of progressively grievous perfidies. Otherwise, the build up to the grand finale (I’ll elaborate on this play’s climax much later) wouldn’t quite be so spectacular. The evidence? Read this gushing review:

…said Lakshmi Chandrashekhar. “He foregrounds the social context of individual conflict, something that is further developed in Agni Mattu Male (The Fire and the Rain), his most recent play. The modern relevance is unmistakable.”

A couple of quick observations about this review itself. One, that it is written typically in the undecipherable academic language. And two, when I managed to decipher it, that it is bromidic. All the tailormade words are present: “individual conflict (sic),” “modern relevance (sic),” “social context (sick),” yadda yiddi yaah. I wouldn’t of course, fault her because she has merely reviewed Karnad’s (mis)interpretation, so we’ll let that go.

For reasons best known to him, Karnad introduces a character not present in the original: Nittilay. She’s–if memory serves me right–part of a drama troupe. More significantly, she is Aravasu’s girlfriend. To establish their relationship, Karnad tries to convince the readers/audience that Aravasu somehow loves playacting; he is also part of the drama troupe. These unnecessary twists are necessary because they install the structural support for a mindless climax where Nittilay dies. This also serves as another instance of Karnad’s feverish creativity, which turns a straightforward Arvavasu into a playacting Existential monster.

In all of Agni Mattu Male, nothing repluses me more than Karnad’s characterization of Raibhya, Arvavasu’s father. He is depicted as a dirty old man; literally, a lecherous old father-in-law who lusts after his youthful daughter-in-law in the absence of her husband. But Karnad is ingenious. He doesn’t paint the dirty-old-man picture directly, offensively. He does it through another perversion in the plot: Yavakrida and Raibhya’s daughter-in-law were lovers before she married Paravasu! The couple meet secretly after Yavakrida returns from his penance and his newfound power. It is during one of their encounters that she reveals to Yavakrida her apprehensions about her depraved father-in-law. To heap another convolution on the plot, Karnad later reveals to us that the daughter-in-law plots Yavakrida’s death while putting on a show of still-existing love for him during their (illegitimate) trysts. The case of Paravasu killing his father is no better: he murders wilfully and if I remember correctly, it is out of spite.

So there you have: at the end of it all, the impression is that all except Aravasu are vile, scheming, ungrateful, and treacherous wretches.

The climax is Hamletesque, the oft-repeated technique of play in a play. Aravasu, Nittilay, and company stage a play for Brihadyumna. While my memory fails me in regard to the content of the play, I do recall that Nittilay is killed. The Gods appear and ask Aravasu to seek a boon. They can bring Nittilay and all the others back to life–with the following caveat (paraphrased):

Doing this will mean that we have to turn back time. There is no telling that the same events will not be repeated.

This portion is purely Karnad’s contribution to further the destruction of the original. This involves choice on Aravasu’s part: he should either choose Nittilay’s revival, or bring all others (including Nittilay) back to life. The choice of the suffering, Existential protagonist. Should he be selfish and choose just Nittilay who he loves dearly? Or should he bring back to life all the other traitors? I leave it to you to guess the obvious.

As the play concludes, we hear a great thunder followed by (the sound of) torrential downpour.

Much to our (my) relief.