Leisure: For the Love of Theater
The sudden appearance in Atlanta of a beloved character and actor from my childhood in Mumbai led to a wonderful evening out and a precious ride down memory lane.
[Left] Poster of, and stills from, Chimanrao Gundyabhau, the beloved Marathi classic of a bygone era.
One morning, the social media algorithm surprised me with a post about an upcoming Marathi play. I might have scrolled past it had it not been for the lead: Dilip Prabhavalkar.
Decades ago, Prabhav-alkar had brought to life the beloved Chimanrao, an endearingly frugal, middle-class character, in a television series Chimanrao Gundyabhau that aired on Doordarshan in the late 1970s. Though set in an era long before my time, Chimanrao’s world arrived at our home each week, his quirks and comic misfortunes becoming a weekly ritual.
My father’s love of theater was well-known. He grew up in a very frugal household where, much like Chimanrao, every expense was carefully considered. Yet he and his brother once took the bold risk of attending a bhajan recital several kilometers away, without telling their parents. Having spent their daily allowance, with no money left for the return trip, they hoped to walk home. They chose the shortcut, which meant walking along the beach—a decision that would land them in trouble. Miscalculating the tides, they found themselves stranded in a rapidly rising tide. In a moment of desperate ingenuity, they “borrowed” a local fisherman’s dinghy to cross the inlet and left it moored on the opposite shore.
Their late-night escapade did not go unnoticed. By morning, much to my grandfather’s annoyance, an irate fisherman was knocking on their door, demanding answers. The punishment from my grandfather was swift, but it did little to dampen their passion for theater. Years later, when both brothers joined the police force, they carried that passion with them, weaving theater into their family life. It reminded them that life was more than crime and punishment, and that to live fully meant remembering to enjoy the simple things.
[Right] Dilip Prabhavalkar, the legendary thespian who immortalized the quirky character of Chimanrao for a couple of generations of Maharashtrians. (Photo: IMDB.com).
My father was nothing like Chimanrao in his professional life. Yet, at home, he often mimicked the character’s mannerisms, sometimes to diffuse the tension of the real world that he saw up close as a police officer. He lovingly teased my mother as “Kau,” and I became “Maina”—both characters from the series. These were moments of our shared laughter—first with him, and then at him, as he playfully performed those memorable lines.
That black-and-white show added color to our lives in ways I didn’t fully appreciate then. Seeing Prabhavalkar’s name again all these years later felt like stumbling upon an old friend, a memory of my father’s love of theater, a reminder of the simple joys that can surround us, and live with us—if we let them.
Decking up for an evening of entertainment
Having spent his entire career in Mumbai, my father sometimes caught wind of upcoming shows before they were even announced in the newspapers. An errand boy would be dispatched to secure the best seats for a Saturday night performance—our ticket to an evening out.
With that, the rituals would begin in earnest. My mother would carefully select one of her three earrings and a saree, ensuring it was dry-cleaned in time from Leech & Weborly at Dadar TT. She would lay out our outfits, including a neatly pressed safari suit for my father—because, as she would say, “What if we run into someone we know?” Shoes would be polished, belts located, and everything perfectly matched. The gajra-wala was instructed to deliver strands of fresh mogra that evening—some for her bun, some for my braids.
No matter where the play was staged, even before we departed, we knew exactly where we’d end up afterward—Great Punjab, the Punjabi restaurant near Chitra Cinema. The routine never changed, and neither did the flavors.
My father, meanwhile, had his own set of responsibilities for show day. He had to fill up our trusty white Fiat with enough petrol for the night’s outing. But his most crucial task? To ensure that he came home from his work shift early enough to have time to change out of his uniform and into his safari suit—and that he did not have a night shift that would shorten our evening.
Let the curtain roll
In one such episode from the archives of my memories, after dressing up in our finest, we piled into our tiny Fiat and zoomed through Mumbai’s bustling streets towards the theater. While my mother talked excitedly about the play in the front seat, I poked my face out of the rear window, anchoring my chin on the curved glass edge, counting the number of traffic lights along the way. I watched restaurants dress the awnings with fresh garlands to attract the evening crowds and people milling along busy sidewalks that connected all parts of our city. There were bus stops, train stations, and corner vendors selling lottery tickets and evening newspapers.
In the anguished face of someone who had missed the bus by a few seconds and the resignation etched on the brow of a lottery ticket vendor who promised a tryst with Lady Luck for a rupee or five—I saw the real Mumbai: a city of equal parts dreams and irony.
Soon, we arrived. The marquee lights twinkled around oversized posters with smiling faces of the leads. The lobby was busy, photographs of famous artistes adorned the walls, and the garlanded bust of a prominent artiste welcomed patrons. Ushered into the auditorium quickly, we settled into plush red velvet-covered seats. There was a tall, tiered brass lamp on the stage, a reminder of reverence for the arts. The auditorium was filled with sensory delights: a multitude of starched, colorful sarees, and matching delicate jewelry, such as pearl earrings, a touch of attar, the occasional gulab (rose), ananta (gardenia) sontakka (ginger-lily) or sonchapha (yellow magnolia) peeking out over buns and braids. Men dressed in many styles of safari suits, or ironed checkered bush-shirts, and the occasional Gandhi topi rose above the crowds. Young boys wore clean shirts and pants, and young girls like me dressed in frills and ribbons.
We were gathered for the main event, and the magic was about to begin. The first bell called the audience to order, the second bell made us restless, and the third signaled that the curtains were up—it was show time.
Scenes from a recent performance in Atlanta featuring Prabhavalkar.
Each moment in the auditorium was measured. I listened in earnest. Marathi is my father tongue, and I eagerly studied it through high school. Each word, phrase, and action on stage was deliberate, and each delivery was pointed and sharp. It was about the atmosphere they created, the cadence.
I couldn’t help wishing I were allowed to be one of the performers, instead of just an audience member. But alas, I was often reminded that girls were only meant to be seen and not heard. They were to observe silently, serve, and sometimes facilitate, but never interfere with the grand “program.”
Intermission came and went, and I never moved, wanting to soak in every bit of the show’s energy. I laughed when I understood the humor, smiled politely when I did not, and rubbed away the frequent goosebumps. Was I responding to the air conditioning, the poignant monologue, or the irony of our culture? Perhaps all of it at once. All I could do was hold on to that feeling: every moment, every word mattered.
Even now, the faint scent of freshly dry-cleaned sarees mingling with the heady sweetness of mogra and the promise of redolent Punjabi food transports me back to those nights of lingering highs after taking in a live performance.
O’Nostalgia!
Decades later, both Godbole brothers now rest in heaven. As for me, in my American life, going to see Marathi theater is a rarity. Seeing the announcement with a familiar name gave me goosebumps. Whether or not I had company or a freshly laundered saree, whether I had mogra for my hair or nothing, or whether I would eat out or settle for a home-cooked meal, I had to attend. For my sake. For my father’s sake. Just to take in that reminder once more—that laughter mattered, engaging in the simplicity of every moment mattered, and being present in the moment mattered.
Sometimes life repeats itself. At other times, we adjust. That morning, I checked the charge on my white EV. I had planned out a saree for the evening, but a scheduling error meant I dressed in formal western clothes, requiring less time to adorn. I grabbed a set of pearl earrings, secured a faux fabric flower in my bun, because none of my sontakka, ananta, or the roses were blooming yet. I battled the evening rush hour traffic to make it on time. There were no street vendors with wares to ogle at, or public transit buses—just long streams of cars headed to various destinations. This was metro Atlanta on a Friday night, another city of dreams and irony.
Unlike the grand auditoriums of Mumbai, the play was performed in a school auditorium. There was no deep stambh, thanks to the building fire codes. The food vendor was late, and the attendees, who had intended to socialize over chai and samosas in the lobby, were hungry and restless. There was no fragrance of mogras or attar. I saw some ironed sarees. Western office attire had replaced the safari suits and ironed bush shirts. Cardigans, jeans, and sweatshirts also abounded (The new normal of “working from home,” I suspect).
And yet, all the guests had made time to take in this rare evening, socializing in the aisles while we waited for the show to begin. I was attending alone, so I listened. In the enthusiasm of the crowds, I heard many dialects of Marathi—some from Pune, some from Solapur, and some—like mine—from Mumbai. There was a blend of broken Marathi, imperfect Gujarati, and English, all shaped by the chisel and tidings of time and distance.
At the third bell, when the curtains rose, Prabhavalkar’s appearance on stage evoked a standing ovation. The play, written by Prabhavalkar, was about two retired friends, Tatyasaheb played by (Prabhavalkar) and Madhavrao (played by Vijay Kenkre), exchanging details of their everyday life through postcards and airmail letters. It only took two characters to rope us in and enthrall us with the joy and elegance of simplicity. We laughed at their comedic delivery, wiped away tears as the jokes intensified, collectively groaned to empathize with their misfortunes, cheered at the success of an endeavor or two, and sighed at the warmth of an old and comforting friendship.
For those few hours, we all left our lives, troubles, worries, and opinions outside the door and in the parking lots, and just savored the performance. My eyes did not leave the sight of two veteran actors on stage, doing what they did best, beyond the dialogue or script, beyond the props and the backdrop, reminding us to cherish every nuanced emotion and every word. It was about nurturing relationships and being in the moment, in the simplest, organic ways possible. Before I knew it, the duo had delivered their last lines and bowed to a thunderous applause.
Soon after this soul-satisfying act, we began making our way to our cars and our worries again. As I headed home, my tiredness and my hunger—and my troubles (which I had momentarily forgotten)—had all returned. It was too late to stop at any restaurant—the roads were quiet and empty, starkly different from a few hours earlier. In the stillness of the drive back, I ran my fingers over my father’s rudraksha prayer beads, which I had worn around my neck specifically for that evening (instead of a pearl necklace to match my earrings). I mumbled quietly, “I hope you enjoyed the show, Papa. I know I did.”
Nandita Godbole, a cookbook author and food critic, also frequently writes about arts, music, culture, and more. Masaleydaar: Classic Indian Spice Blends is her most recent book.
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