Our cover story this week is about the sad affairs at the Karachi Arts Council. An apathy and anarchy that reduces an institution to being a white elephant. The story is meant to jog the concerned authorities out of their cocoon of lethargy and poor planning. The story, however, has me tempted to write about a utopian world where there is a stream of art-related events. Endless. Unceasing. One does not have to look far. India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka all have frenetic activity. With cities like Bombay, New Delhi and Dhaka having plays, performances, exhibitions daily at numerous venues. Theatres are booked in advance, and there are more than two plays showing in most theatres. Tickets are priced low, fledgling theatre groups are given concessions. Theatres are no longer clustered in the elitist areas of the city, but have mushroomed in areas with a middle class populace. The ambience of the place, however, may border on the eclectic. You see all kinds, hardcore theatrewallahs, the literati, the glitterati, the hunk in the latest ads, Miss Universe, your aging school-teacher, even your driver who may stroll in, opting to watch the play instead of cooling his heels outside. The Irish coffee spiked with some vicious cream in the interval ensures that the adrenalin keeps pounding.

There is something magical about an auditorium. Palpable. Expectant. Stand in the middle of a half-lit empty auditorium and look at an empty stage and yet it is alive. Waiting to happen. Row upon row of seats facing a raised or sunken platform. And if you stand in the middle of a stage and stare at the array of seats fanning out, a tingle runs down the spine. The smooth floor of the stage making the first contact with the soles of the feet is like a secret pledge between the artiste and that sacred piece of land. No wonder the artistes in India touch the floor in reverence when they come on stage.

The behind the scenes activity showcases a world, where like the genesis, a creation, is about to unfold. Another link in the chain of ongoing activity. The props, the backdrop, the hearts swelling and contracting in the wings, the lights dimming, the prophetic announcement and the heavy curtain swishing open. Time congeals for a split second. And then the artiste is propelled by a force, both, insidous and extraneous into the spotlight. The slough of anxiety drops away. A dream and passion rooted in the bedrock of hard work holds sway over the row upon row of people who are all riveted to that lit up stage. What is truly fascinating is when a an accomplished artiste single-handedly transports an audience to an aesthetic plane.

There is, however, one small room in the very heart of the auditorium that has always fascinated me. It is the Green Room. The room where the artiste arrives, not unusally, with his or her big entourage comprising invariably of students in the case of musicians and dancers. The heady smell of mogras, the yellow-orange gaindas, incense sticks, the rustle of the silk, the diamond buttons on the artiste's kurta winking in connivity, the dancer's gunghroos and clinking jewelry, all contrive to afflict your senses. The huge mirrors with makeup accessories spilling out of their cases on the table. The ubiquitous jounalist, the busybody, the intrepid organizer, the photographer all squeeze into the room. Queries made about the audience, the lighting, a cup of tea, the wah-wahs, chatter, all merge into a chiaroscuro of colour and sound. The instrument tested, the gunghroos tightened, the inner reserves beckoned. The artiste becomes manager, master and orchestrator at this point. It is he or she who has to make sure that all goes well. The dream, the hard work ends in a standing ovation. The same room becomes a magnet which attracts people like iron filings. The artiste sees himself in the image of his Creator.

There is also a strange kind of concomity, that all creative artistes have with their predecessors, (their contemporaries may draw ire in equal measures.) A classical singer can bond to Tansen, and a local theatre wizard may even pay a silent obeisance to Shakespeare.

But the gods bless a few with exceptional talent. The folk artiste roped in and brought to the city to perform for a function, who is paid a pittance, not before being treated with a complete lack of insensitivity by the personnel managing the affairs of any council, is shameful. The small-time artiste in ill-fitting clothes with a gaudy, brocaded jacket clutching his musical insturment, koel-lined eyes afraid to meet a million alien eyes is a picture of pathos. Dusted and pulled out to entertain, and that too, barely for a few minutes. You can't expect a urbane city crowd to digest a regional folk song for more than 30 seconds.

There also something about our philistine middle classes that has to be changed. If it is the the insular convexity of a television set that beams a play, a classical dance (Naheed Siddiqui's Payal, a case in point) then all is fine. They will watch and even enjoy if it's all showcased in the glass box. It should not spill out, or become larger than life. A TV soap opera has people hooked because they latch on to the lives of the character. But a theatre play will force them to think. It's too real for comfort. A dance is blasphemy. A classical is a mirasi.

An NCO has to be procured by all theatrewallahs before they stage a play. A actor friend who went to the thana to get one recently was asked by the policewallah, Koi ladki-shadki toh nahin hain play mein toh teekh hain. The plainspeak translating to that if you have girls then maybe there is something shady and worth investigating. What is really ironic that scriptwriters `get away' with lines which are rich in wordplay. The censorship at a very basic level by base people holds a sacred document, the ultimate written word, and still cannot desecrate it. The mental agony and indignity to the writer, aside, it's poetic justice.