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The art of disguise makes its way to the shadows
Gururgam: The 33rd Surajkund Mela, which started on February 1, was pulsating with energy, folk music reverberating from its nooks and corners, and lots and lots
Gururgam: The 33rd Surajkund Mela, which started on February 1, was pulsating with energy, folk music reverberating from its nooks and corners, and lots and lots of colourful stalls wherever the eyes could see.
When I went there for a story, there were the maverick men (there were no women) in the garbs of Ravana and Narayana, Aladdin’s Djinn and Raj Kapoor’s Joker, Vasudev and Adivasis who floated around from one part of the fair to the other doing a hearty laugh, making an angry scowl, chanting nonsensical verse, or bursting into a quick dance, basically and unabashedly playing to the whims and fancies of the visitors. These men I later learnt are the Behroopiyas or impersonators, who have traditionally disguised as different characters from history, mythology and cinema to entertain people and earn a living.
Seeing me following them and my thoroughly interested expression for a few seconds, one of them who was dressed as a scary-looking genie came up to me and said, “Behroopiya hain hum, Jaipur se aaye hain, Feroz naam hain, aap kahan se?” (I am a behroopiyan from Jaipur. My name is Feroz, what is yours?)
Over the course of a three-minute conversation with Feroz Bandhiqui, I learnt that these men, painted in garish colours, donning larger-than-life costumes and serving up a dozen expressions a minute are the legacy bearers of a centuries-old art form that found great appreciation and favour among ancient Indian rulers.
The art of behroopiya implies donning multiple (bahu) forms (roop), which explains the costume, mannerisms and the makeup. Feroz, the jovial genie, then goes on to narrate how he comes from a family of behroopiyas. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had been Behroopiyas. “We have been practising this art in our family for 150 years. We are six brothers, and all of us practise the trade,” he said beaming with pride and pointing to his brothers, one of whom, dressed as Narayan, was clicking a picture with a foreign tourist, while the other, dressed as Ravana, was widening his eyes and mouth to scare a little girl.
“It’s all part of the act. We love our profession. It held great pride of place once. Kings, the rich, and the wealthy would not travel without their behroopiyas, you know. Now things are different, obviously,” Feroz said.
He then went on to tell me, quite matter-of-factly, how his father had been in hospital for the past few days and the brothers don’t have a steady source of income to pay for his medical expenses. He added, with a hint of lamentation, that his father earned so little in his heydays that he doesn’t have any savings either. As the crowd around us thickened, he moved towards them while asking me one last question, “Who looks after a behroopiya when he is old, when he can’t dress up and impersonate anymore?”
As I am left pondering over the loss of an indigenous art form in the wake of television, cinemas, theatre and web series’, and the condition of the artists and legacy-bearers, a blue-faced god emerged in front of me. He looked at the notebook in my hand and said, “Yavatmal, Maharashtra, se aaye hain. Aap kuch likh rahe hain. (I’m from Yavatmal in Maharashtra. You are writing something.) You can write about me and our group — the Shubhrati Bahuroopiyas. Our troupe needs more such cultural functions and avenues to perform. Nobody asks about us anymore,” he said.
And then, like the rest of the kaleidoscopic men all over the fair, he moved on too, obliging a tourist with a selfie, a couple with a grin and the likes.
Behroopiya as an art form finds mention in the Arthashastra, but has, over several years, been largely overlooked and undocumented. Those who practise it may be seen wearing bright smiles and gregarious expressions for the onlookers, but in reality they fight a constant battle for recognition and financial stability.
