Haththa: Painting the drama of the street

Prof. Gamini
Hattotuwegama
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He is recognised as the father of modern street theatre in Sri Lanka.
His students have moved from the street to the stage, from stage to
television and some even to the silver screen. They owe much to Gamini
Haththotuwegama, who, even after many decades of political theatre, does
not seem to have moved at all. In his mid sixties now, the man remains
in the street, metaphorically and literally.
He was maybe a couple of years senior to my parents at the Peradeniya
University, and they called him “GK”. Some refer to him as “Hatha”, some
as “Gamini” and others like myself, “Haththa”. My first recollection of
this effervescent man goes back to at least thirty years. I had heard my
grandmother complaining that “GK hadn’t returned some books he had
borrowed”. They belonged to my late grandfather, who died before I was
born.
So, a couple of years later, when he happened to visit us, I asked
him, quite rudely actually, “where are seeya’s books?” He laughed quite
heartily.
I can’t remember if I thought it was funny, even though I have known
people to laugh with Haththa, not so much for the content of his jokes
but his laugh itself.
It would have been about fifteen years later that I really got to
know him.
I was in my second year at Peradeniya. This was just before the
bheeshanaya was forced down our throats, although the signs of the
impending tragedy were there for everyone to see. My friends, a group of
around 25 people, had been “banned” from engaging in politics. It was
quite fortuitous then that Haththa happened to be around, as a visiting
lecturer in the English Department. He organised a street theatre
workshop, which most of us joined not really realising at the point that
it had great potential as a medium for political commentary. We ought to
have known, however, because by the time Haththa would have logged
almost twenty years of uninterrupted experimentation with the genre with
great success.
The workshop snowballed into a production, “Sarasavi Kurutu Gee”
(Campus Graffiti) which we played at the Sarachchandra Open Air Theatre,
better known as the “wala”. If anything captured all the elements, the
subtle nuances, the tragedies, the humour and hopes of what being a
“student” at that time involved, it was this very deliberately rough
collage of incidents, songs, skits put together by a group of around 30
students.
Haththa crafted this production with a series of exercises, seemingly
unrelated but all touching on issues pertaining to the university
student in a time of political turmoil. We all chipped in with ideas. We
took popular songs and parodied them to suit the general temper of the
“play”. We made fun of our teachers, the university administration, the
government and of course ourselves.
Perhaps what was most educational in the entire process was that we
realised that everyone could be an actor. Well, to be more honest, that
we all act, all wear masks and therefore “acting” is not something that
has to be learnt, but a human trait that is in all of us waiting to be
recognised and exploited. Hopefully for beneficial purposes. I am sure
that if not for Haththa, Chandraratne Bandara, Priyantha Wickramasinghe
and Upul Kaluhetti, among others, would never have dreamed that they had
the potential to become excellent actors. We wouldn’t have known either.
Haththa, to my knowledge, had a problem getting a master’s degree.
His argument was that there was no one competent to supervise his
thesis. That may have been true, but I believe the real reason was that
he found it boring to write about what he did - theatre. Being a
non-conformist in many ways, Haththa might have found the task of
satisfying some departmental requirement too much to take. He had to pay
for this intransigence, of course. For too long, he has had to depend on
the good heart of department heads for visiting lecturer appointments.
He is a character. A legend, in fact. He had a carefully developed
reputation as a man who paid scant attention to physical hygiene,
although I am sure he would deny this. During those turbulent years,
Haththa often stayed at Marcus Fernando Hall, as the guest of the then
Subwarden, Navaratne Bandara. Navaratne once told me, “can’t you tell
your sir to at least wash his clothes?” He was smiling when he said
this. I am sure it was said in jest. But Haththa’s “haduness” was
legendary. I distinctly remember him making quite a cogent argument for
non-bathing. He said, “It’s not good to take a bath on the morning of
the play, because it could have an impact on your voice. Actually a bath
on the previous night might not be a good idea either. Come to think of
it, bathing definitely involves the risk of ruining your voice, and the
smallest impact might ruin the production.” His guffaws as he meditated
thus, were reminiscent of his laugh when he adroitly brushed aside my
complaint about the non-returning of borrowed books. In the year 1990,
he had to cancel a performance of the Sinhala version of Hamlet at the
Sri Jayewardenepura University because he lost his voice. Maybe he had
taken a shower, I don’t know.
And yet, unlike most “legends”, Haththa remains one of the most easy
going, easily accessed personalities around. I remember him as a man so
generous with his time and his knowledge, that he would forget that
although theatre was life to him, it was not exactly seen in those
dimensions by all his students. His rehearsals would take up entire
days. They were at times preceded by a couple of hours by Haththa’s
yarns and he had hundreds to relate. Some he would repeat, forgetting
that we had heard it all before.
All part of the personality, I believe. Easily forgiven, for he was
not only respected but loved too. “Haththa pehedilivama kollek” (Haththa
is most definitely a boy). He was and still is I believe, ageless. A
wise old man, a teacher, a young man at times as fervent about
“revolution” as an undergraduate, and a baby too.
I remember him as an adoring father. His two children, Rajiv and
Chamindu, who were fully fledged members of the drama group at
Peradeniya even though they were in their early teens, were loved by all
of us. Haththa loved singing the immortal theme song, if one may call
it, of Sinhabahu. He would launch into “gal lena bindala” at the
slightest provocation. I have seen many versions of Sinhabahu over the
years, but have never encountered such a powerful and passionate
rendering of this song. It has to do with his children and particular
circumstances which I do not intend to go into here.
Haththa knows, I am sure. So do we all.
I do know that there are people who see Haththa as just a “street
theatre” person. He is much more than that. His knowledge of theatre
goes beyond being familiar with one of its many forms. He is an expert
on world theatre and someone who can creative fuse the many forms and
themes that he encounters. There are others who would be more competent
to write about these things. For me, Haththa is an effervescent
character, a one of a kind, full of idiosyncrasies, full of vigour, full
of hope for the future. I was never fully convinced of the logic of
political positions he advocated. I do know however that he has not
willingly harmed or wished harm on anyone.
“One day I fell asleep in a Horana bound bus. I got up somewhere
close to Horana yelling, ‘budu thaaththe maava beraganna’ (Father, save
me). The bus was almost empty and most of the people knew me. If I had
been a ten year old, it wouldn’t have been strange. But here I was, a
fifty plus man, yelling out to my father!” We all burst into laughter
when he related this story.
A man who can laugh at himself is half way towards enlightenment, I
believe.
I shall not comment on the other half. I don’t need to, for we live
in a world where 99% of those who profess a love for humanity are just
play-acting. In Haththa’s case, theatre is a heart that he embraces and
acting is the way he pumps this heart so that its message of love and
love for the collective effort is sent along all the arteries that feed
hope in hungry people.
We need more of his tribe both on the street and out of it, if only
because of all the histories, violence, oppression and resistance that
are embedded and in fact make up what is so casually and un-politically
referred to as “the street”. This street, we must not forget, is not
found only in the teeming metropolis. It is in every village, every
factory, every school, police station, army camp and even the jail. He
has my salute, this man who has never been dazzled by the glitter of the
lush avenues. He has my salute, for what it is worth.
Dr. Gamini Haththotuwegama, widely
recognized as the father of street theatre in Sri Lanka, and versatile
and indeed omnipresent personality in the arts, passed away in the early
hours of Friday, October 30, after a long battle with cancer. He was 73
years old. Dr. Haththotuwegama taught both in the formal academic
institutions (University of Peradeniya and Kelaniya University) as well
in informal settings through innumerable drama workshops. The
beneficiaries of his teaching largesse have gone on to become experts
and stars in their own right, on stage and on screen. He is survived by
his son Rajith and daughter Chamindu. His mortal remains will be moved
to the Kala Bhavana for the public to pay their last respect from 10.00
am onwards on November 1. The funeral will take place at 4.30 pm the
same day at the General Cemetery, Borella.
Courtesy:http://www.srilankaguardian.org/2008/04/haththa-painting-drama-of-street.html
(This was written in
April 2008 by Malinda Seneviratne)
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