Playwright, actor, director,producer and activist, M.K. Raina talks about theatre, films, culture and the lack of it

If you are in your early twenties and addicted to watching commercial cinema, then you might remember M.K. Raina as a man who played Sonam Kapoor’s father in Aisha. Or, as the man who played Anushka Sharma’s father in Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi. If you do, you can put the magazine down; this article is not for you. It is for a reader who, when he or she thinks of theatre, thinks of M.K. Raina. Who, when he or she talks about inspired performances, talks about Raina’s role in 27 Down, who does not forget to discuss Ek Ruka Hua Faisla either. Only such a reader will be interested to know why M.K. Raina cut himself off Hindi parallel cinema. She or he will wish to know why he did irrelevant roles in commercial films such as Aisha or Rab Ne... Such a reader will be surprised by Raina’s answer; that being an actor was never his ambition. M.K. Raina passed out of National School of Drama in the year 1970, with a best actor award. Ironically, he never aspired to be actor. “Being an actor never fascinated me,” says he, adding, “I was always a stage person, I fancied the roles of a director, a producer and a writer more.” Had he chosen it, he could also have become a teacher at NSD. Right after his graduation, Raina was asked to teach at the institute— an honour bestowed on few. He declined the offer. His reason: “I was never a nine-to-five person. Staying at a single place was impossible for me.” There cannot be a more truthful sentence; if one notices the way he talks, the way he sits and the myriad expressions that flash across his face, one understands that this man has an active brain and can’t sit still. He is a restless soul, so restless in fact, that the very day he finished shooting for his debut film—27 Down—he took the first train to Delhi. But more on that later. Raina was offered 27 Down while still studying at NSD. One fine day, while he was sitting in his hostel room at NSD, Naseer (Naseeruddin Shah), a year junior and a good friend, came knocking. He informed Raina that ‘a director’ had come to meet him. When Raina went downstairs, he came face-to-face with Awtar Krishna Kaul—a young director who made just a single gem of a film before his untimely death. That film was to be 27 Down. Kaul asked Raina out for tea, and Raina, Kaul and a mutual friend went off to New Delhi’s Bengali market. “Kaul and Bakshi (the friend) got into an intellectual discussion about literature and what not,” Raina recalls. “They gave me a book and said why don’t you read this and meet us later. I took it, read it and made a few notes. Then we met again to discuss the book. They asked me if I drank, and I said ‘why not!’ Somewhere between the drinks I was told that I was selected for Kaul’s first film.” He was cast opposite Raakhee, who was already a veteran actor and a star. But Raina was not intimidated, even though he had barely stepped out of NSD. He says that at times “arrogance is a good thing”. On sets, people would tell him to “behave himself and not be too intimidated” by the superstar. Raina, blissfully arrogant as he was, told himself that if Raakhee was a superstar, he, too, was a trained theatre actor who had Shakespeare and Munshi Premchand dramas in his repertoire. This arrogance, made him shy away from Raakhee on the first day of the shoot. Then when he saw the actor’s dedication to her craft and saw how she without a fuss worked her way through crowded trains and stations during the shoot, they became friends. The film shoot also made him realise how he did not like living in Bombay (now Mumbai). “The thing about Bombay,” he says is that “one has to ask for work all the time. I knew I had enough talent to get work and keep my life going.” So, the moment he finished the shoot, he booked a ticket in third-class sleeper, made a bed out of newspapers and returned to Delhi. Here, he founded his own theatre group called Prayog, and occasionally went down to Mumbai to do films when he got exciting offers. He talks fondly about the time he spent in NSD, calling himself and his generation the ‘guinea pigs of Indian theatre’. That was a time when Indian theatre was moving away from the shadows of western theatrics and trying to find its voice. And that was also a time when Indian cinema was experiencing a major change—when legends like Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal and Govind Nilhani were trying to redefine cinema. Those were the first days of Parallel cinema. “That was an exciting time to be,” says Raina. He expresses his disappointment on the current state of Indian cinema. The fall of the parallel cinema movement, according to Raina, was caused by the focus shift of many of its frontrunners. “Several of the directors tried to make similar kind of films with big budgets and bigger stars. That just fell flat,” says the thespian. “The biggest mistake of them all was that directors also tried to become producers. For small budget directors, producing and directing a big budget film was a disastrous decision,” he adds as an afterthought. The fall of parallel cinema also brought upon the end of Raina’s film career. For almost two decades he did not act in films. The films that he does today do not do justice to Raina’s potential or talent. Then why does he choose to be a part of such ventures? Because he loves a picnic! “The roles are easy, the money is good and it is fun to be a part of such a posh picnic.” Films, he stresses, have never been his priority. And they never will be. Theatre is his life and his soul. Today, when he is not-so-active in the theatre scene, he is busy reviving the Kashmiri art and culture. M.K. Raina or Maharaj Krishna Raina—a Kashmiri pandit—was born and brought up in Srinagar. He learnt acting in Kashmir; he fell in love with theatre in Kashmir. When Raina was a boy of nine, he performed in his first play— Neki Badi—written by his school principal, the famous Kashmiri poet Dinanath Nadim. In it, he played a flower in a jungle, where birds and plants get together to fight an evil owl. That play laid the foundation of his theatre years. So, it isn’t surprising that when he was offered a state scholarship for studying drama, he abandoned what could have been a flourishing career as a dentist, took a train to Delhi, gave an interview at the NSD and decided to settle here. “Tum ab kahi nahi ja rahe ho, tum yahi rahoge (You are not going anywhere, you are staying here)” were the words of his interviewers at NSD—Mohan Rakesh, Ebrahim Alkazi and Mukesh Awasthi. Kashmir of that time wasn’t the Kashmir we know. It was a more beautiful and peaceful Kashmir akin to the paradise on earth that it is often called. The Kashmir which gave him everything is in shambles today. This fact pains him the most. Some 12-13 years ago, he went back to Srinagar, and what he saw there —the years of violence and bloodshed—had robbed his beloved land off its beauty. The culture was dead, art was dead and life was dead, it seemed to him. The visit left him in distress, and he decided that he had to do something for his land. He spoke to a few like-minded people and decided to start a cultural movement. As the first step, the group began to organise drama classes and invited people for it. “The first day, just two people turned up,” he tells us. “There were four teachers and two students! The morale was running low. I informed my group that I will teach even if one person turns up. We started the classes and in seven days we had 30 people showing up. And after a few months of practice our play was ready and Rabindra Auditorium opened its doors for a cultural performance after years,” he adds smiling proudly. Today, his theatre group travels country- wide performing from ‘Kashmir to Kanyakumari’ quite literally. Raina also started a pan-India literacy movement. Today, he is still trying to change the way formal education is being imparted to students. He goes to the smaller public schools and teaches the kids through drama, performance and visual arts. If you, like me, were taught Shakespeare by enacting his plays instead of reading them, then you will appreciate the power of this rather silent movement better. It is a movement that will bear fruits years from now, it is a movement whose value shall be realised only when these children grow up to become citizens of our country and contribute towards nation building positively. In the words of the man, “It is not a glamorous movement, so no one talks about it.” And the man himself is much like his movement. He is a simple being who has dedicated his life to stage; his problems are like yours and mine. He, too, like you and me, gets angry with the system, with the governance and when the politics becomes disruptive. And he uses theatre as a medium to convey his feelings. It is not about the bread and butter, but theatre is about life, purpose, and a way to give back to people. And it is a medium that has given him his closest friends and confidants. If he talks fondly of his friendship with Naseeruddin Shah and Om Puri, who he met at NSD, he talks about his friendship with the legendary Safdar Hashmi with a sense of nostalgia and loss. Safdar Hashmi lost his life while performing his street play called Halla Bol, in an attack by the goons of the Indian National Congress. When this news reached Raina, he rushed to the hospital thinking, “Haath ki haddi tooti hogi, ye sab to hota rehta hai.” When he reached the hospital, it was a sight of horror that greeted him. Hashmi was unconscious, bleeding profusely. Lying on the bed of a government hospital, he was moments away from his death. Raina and friends took Hashmi to a better hospital, but the doctor informed them that “only a miracle” could save Hashmi. A miracle that never occurred as the very next day Hashmi died, leaving a vacuum in Raina’s life and in the Indian theatre scene. As a cultural activist he worries that “culture has seeped out of the society; it is no longer a priority.” In the wake of recent incidences, one could but agree. Crimes such as the one that happened in Delhi recently, do not occur in a ‘cultured and a civilised’ society. “There is an intellectual bankruptcy in today’s time,” he says, and falls silent. A silence that is a rebellion against all that is wrong. This silence is similar to his other endeavours (strong and motivated) through which he is trying to bring out a change. If he succeeds, the success will be his, but the celebrations will be ours. If he fails, the failure will be his, but the sufferings will be ours. For a country stuck in a time of anguish and hopelessness, people like Raina are the silver linings. They should be celebrated, lest we forget.

I Wish I Could Be

M.K. Raina hailed from a family of doctors and engineers. Almost everyone in his family was a dentist. So it was natural for him to take up science in school. He studied biology and chemistry and was prepared to take up medicine when a drama scholarship came knocking. This scholarship provided him with an opportunity to study arts and he decided to break away from the family tradition and became a dramatist instead. Raina, however, waves it all aside as conjecture. “Even if I had studied medicine, I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t think I had the capability of becoming a clerk even,” says he and breaks into laughter. He tells me that he isn’t good at anything else—apart from the stage. Perhaps he is not. But that’s a blessing.