The juggernaut that Natrang was

And how it broke every bias

20 kgs. The amount of weight actor Atul Kulkarni had to lose in a matter of weeks for a role of a ‘Nachya’ in Natrang. Fifteen years after its release, the film continues to offer an incisive insight into what it takes to practice art in India. To me, it is my favourite dance film.

The Step Up era has forced us to think of dance films as those with hip-hop dancers in baggy clothes fighting it out with ballet dancers in prim and proper tutus, trying to determine what real dance looks like. In Natrang, however, the fight is different; a tussle between art and society. It is a battle for the allta-lined feet, pancaked makeup and jingling ghungroos of our desi dance traditions to simply be able to practice its art.

Natrang pays no heed to biases. Director Ravi Jadhav follows Gunavantrao “Guna” Kagalkar and his dreams of creating a tamasha (a popular form of theatre in Maharashtra) troupe. His decision to create a troupe causes a stir within his family. Brick by brick, musician by musician, poem by poem, he makes his troupe. He learns quickly that there can be no tamasha without a female dancer and so collaborates with the hidden dancing gem of Kolhapur, Naina Kolhapuri. However, she makes an almost impossible demand; there will be no theatre group without a naachya, an effeminate character who is usually the female lead’s trusted aid. No one is ready to heed but for our protagonist Guna. Guna, who was a wrestler, a man with the longest moustache and the biggest muscles, decides to surrender his masculinity for the sake of the troupe. He loses weight, shaves, and learns how to embody feminine characteristics. The journey he and his fellow theatre mates go through makes Guna question his life as a writer, a man and as an artist.

The first song of the film, Wajle ki Baarah, The Clock Strikes Twelve, introduces us to the art of tamasha. This form of regional theatre from Maharashtra involves a travelling troupe of artists who sing and dance to tell stories. The main dance form used in these presentations is lavani, a folk form from the region that has links to the popular Indian classical dance form of Kathak. In the song, actress Amruta Khanvilkar teases her audience with the words “Mala jau dya na ghari aata vajle ki bara,”Let me go home now, the clock has struck 12.” The audience, as editor Jayant Jathar shows us, is full of burly men watching on with a look of desire. Among the crowd is our protagonist Guna. By this time we know that Guna is in love with tamasha. He spends the little money he makes on these evening shows. And like the other men, we too assume that he enjoys it for the dancing women. The song builds from a simple, seductive number about a young woman wanting to go home, to a show of musical mastery in what is known as a jugalbandi. In this traditional musical structure, musicians and dancers showcase their artistry by engaging in a sawaal-jaawab or question and answer session where one plays and the others dances in response. It is in this sequence of the song that we see Guna in a completely different light and that too all in one shot.

While the rest of the crowd seems to be cheering for the dancer, hooting with desire, Guna turns his gaze to the musicians. We realise, he is not interested in tamasha for its women, but for its art.

And there lies his biggest weakness.

His art becomes a catalyst for humongous change. His decision to make a tamasha troupe destroys his family life. His decision to play the role of the naachya makes him vulnerable to the sexual harassment of men. The theatre becomes the reason he misses his own father’s death. And yet, when everything and everyone has abandoned him, his art still stands strong.

It is in Waajle Ki Baarah that we also encounter cinematic techniques that Director Ravi Jadhav along with editor Jayant Jathar will use in the rest of the film. The jugalbandi section that introduces us to Guna’s love for art uses double exposure to signify how both the musicians and the dancers come together to create magic. The quick cuts between the dancers feet, face, movements, the choice of staying still in a long shot, all make the dance sequences in Natrang enthralling to watch. The editing makes the absolutely brilliant music by Ajay-Atul come alive. The actresses who are dancing in the film are trained and that makes the biggest difference. Both Amruta Khanvilkar, who comes in for a cameo only, and Sonalee Kulkarni who plays Naina bring such presence to the screen. A personal opinion: when actors are trained in dance, and I mean for years, not three days of rehearsals, even a lay person can spot the difference. Dance expects of its practitioners controlled movement. It is only when that movement happens with clarity that it is communicated effectively.

One of my most beloved songs from the entire album is Apsara Aali which translates to The Celestial Dancer Has Come. Sonalee Kulkarni dances in a red and white sari in front of a light blue background supposedly resembling Indra’s court in the heavens. It begins in a wide shot, with the camera at a slightly lower angle. Kulkarni walks in covering her face with one end of her sari. The music literally swells with mood and melody. As her hips sway, the accompanying dancers and musicians sway with her.

The snaking melody is punctuated by light bell sounds which cause Kulkarni to flinch in pleasure. The beat arrives with a drone and she throws her hands into a diagonal shape, one leg stretched out. She begins to sing and we finally move to a mid shot. It is ironic that as she sings about her supple skin being drenched by moonlight in “Komal kaaya ki mohamaaya punawachaandann nhaali,” we do not see it, we stay transfixed on her face. Everyone in the background continues swaying as if they too are mesmerised by the music and her beauty. We move with single-minded focus between three shots only; a wide, a mid and a closeup; all from the same angle. Could get boring, no? It could. Some might feel that the dynamism in the music needed more dynamism in the camera to come alive fully. But the intention of the director here seems different. He works in service to the dance which clearly is a part of a theatre performance. And so, when Sonalee Kulkarni looks us straight in the eye and tells us “Hee natali thatali/ Jashi umatali chandani rang mahali” “I am dressed up, looking like moonlight has descended on the stage,” we full well believe it.

The chorus begins and now everyone joins in, swaying musicians included. The camera moves to a corner of the theatre and we see the effect that Kulkarni’s dancing has had on the audience; they are swaying with her. The song keeps the picturisation minimal. It moves between magnifications and variations of only 2-3 angles. No complex camera movements, no fancy rigs, nothing. It allows us, the audience, to really bask in the beauty of this apsara.

The women in Natrang are essential. They are the catalysts for success. While forming their troupe, Shirpat Rao, Guna’s previous employer, asks Guna “Will you ever visit a theatre without a woman?” “A woman is necessary, Gunavantrao. Or else no matter what you do, the outcome will be zero.” While training for his role as the naachya, we see Guna receiving training from Naina in dance, body language, and the art of movement. Later in the film, Guna offers her a sari as guru dakshina, a gift to the teacher, the same one she wears in Apsara Aali. He says “you taught me everything, you are my teacher.” In the context of performing arts in India, it has often been the men that have been given credit for the development and advancement of many forms. The women, often the majority in the fields, have been sidelined. [Note; While men are conferred the title of an Ustad or a master, there is no female equivalent] In that context, this simple line in Natrang makes an impactful comment on the real world.

Natrang makes us uncomfortable in the best possible way. Above all else, it teaches us an important lesson about art in the country; it is all political. While writing his newest play, Guna decides “I will tell my story. That within every man there is a woman, and within every woman, there is a man.” While staging this play titled Arjun-Bruhananda, the theatre catches fire, Guna is kidnapped by political goons, and in what is the most gut-wrenching scene in the film, he is raped.

To divorce art from its social connotations is next to impossible in India where being able to be creative is a privilege and yet, her citizens helplessly foster art in every corner. Whether it be folk art, dance on the proscenium stage, music shows in small villages or traditional ballets that travel abroad. We are helplessly tuned to poetry, art and dance. Natrang shows us that.

Sources for the lyrics and translations:

Waajle Ki Baarah - Source

Apsara Aali - Source, source

Sources for videos:

Waajle Ki Baarah - Youtube/See Music Marathi

Apsara Aali - Youtube/Zee Music Marathi