The February Issue 2022 Fireworks at Teesri Duniya

Alessandra Tom: I first met Teesri Duniya Artistic Director Rahul Varma in 2017, applying for a summer intern position. Overdressed both in style and temperature, I arrived at the ninth floor hallway half an hour early. After my interview, I remember leaving hopeful I might be a part of a company whose mandate dreams of “changing the world, one play at time”. Eager and wide eyed about the limitless potential of art. I don’t think I would have predicted how my involvement with the company would have extended and evolved since, nor the extent of my own evolution as an artist.

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A.T.: Mentorship has been such a core part of my artistic journey and especially as an artist of colour, finding those places of kinship, community, solidarity and guidance has been so rich. Were there any mentors that influenced you at the beginning of your career?

R.V.: There were none; need mentored me. I came to Canada in 1976 and co-founded Teesri Duniya Theatre in 1981 with Rana Bose, who later founded Montreal Serai, an arts and culture magazine. You could not miss that Canada’s streets were multicultural, but the stage and the screen were exclusionary. The country’s national theatre was monochromatic, both in English and French. It reflected settler colonialism to the exclusion of Indigeneity. Black Theatre Workshop was an exception and an example. Diversity and political theatre were non-existent, and I could not see anybody interested in representing diversity and more pressing subjects. I made myself a mentor, and my colleagues acted as mentors just by collaborating.

I received help from the Quebec Drama Federation and a few prominent people, such as Elsa Bolam, an important figure in theatre. Still, they were more consultants than mentors. Most of the theatre world accepted diversity as a pity rather than a national character. Much later, I came to know Lib Spry, Ted Little, Denis Salter, and things became brighter. My need for mentorship was linked to the absence of diversity and political theatre to answer your question.

Canada’s national theatre was Eurocentric and publicly funded. It was perceived as Canada’s national theatre representing the Canadian nation. But nations are not built by the majority culture. Nations are composite, consisting of cultures, languages, prosperity, rights, freedoms, and equality. That is why Teesri Duniya Theatre is multicultural rather than bicultural, heterogeneous rather than homogenous, diverse rather than exclusionary. Teesri Duniya Theatre has been inclusive from the beginning, addressing critical social issues.

A.T.: In times of isolation, what do you feel has kept you here, in this industry?

R.V.: We’re in a new wave of theatre movement. This is a positive movement and promises valuable benefits to Canada. The work that a company like Teesri Duniya Theatre and many other culturally diverse companies have done is a movement. It’s a movement to contribute to Canada something that did not exist and may not have existed had these people not done it.

BIPOC artists, even though Canadian citizens, were considered external who wanted to preserve ancient cultures. That was not the case with artists I worked with. We did not come to Canada to preserve an expatriate culture. We came to contribute to Canada something that did not exist and would make Canada a more inclusive place.

Now that I have a daughter who is twenty-three years old, my work is to ensure that she doesn’t go through the same struggle or a struggle to catch up. As a comparatively newer Canadian, I am a proud Canadian because I chose Canada to be my country, consequently I have responsibility to this country. Yet, in my work you will hear a voice of protest, but that is because I love this country.

A.T.: That reminds me of a James Baldwin quote where he says, “The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see” —of wanting to see the best in the things we love.

R.V.: Yes, and the role of an artist is to critique. Artists must always examine, question and critique. For me, culture is a framework to critique society, critique oneself and even the culture one belongs to. An objective critique makes a country better. The critique is not to denounce but advance.

A.T.: With this idea of advancement and the seeds you’re planting now, what do you hope this landscape will look like in the future?

R.V: I think diversity and plurality are important markers of peace and progress. I am interested in progressive diversity. Diversity, inclusion, and equity must have a socialist vision, if not, it will be a diversity management exercise.

Countries that are ethnocentric will not move forward; countries that are diverse offer the best guarantee for progress in all areas of human life. Just as biodiversity is important for the survival of the universe, cultural diversity is necessary for growth and sustenance of each country.

A vibrant discussion is taking place in Canada about anti-racism, anti-oppression, decolonization, inclusion, equity, and diversity. It is a struggle my generation fought. I wish that the younger generations not have the same struggle; I wish it to choose new struggles to take things forward. My generation of artists fought for recognition; the new generation of artists must go beyond it.

Sunday morning at the funeral home.

I walk down the hallway, passing by each room, making sure all is set, taking in deep breaths of the spicy flower scents that waft into the hallway from the almost wilted arrangements staged beside each coffin or urn. I do not hear my footsteps. My ears are blind to what I see. I’ve done this over and over again, walking the same hallway for two hundred and sixty Sundays, and I suspect that there will be two hundred and sixty more.

Widows and widowers pick up dead leaves and dried petals that fall to the floor like socks left by their life partners after a full day’s work. Life partners. A concept of commitment still foreign to me. Through sickness and in health, until death do you part? Does death really part you?

I pause at the doorway of the smallest room. There are only eight chairs, two windows showcasing the blue skies but are too high to see the cemetery grounds, standard beige walls, and one vase of white and pale yellow daisies, courtesy of the funeral home.

An old woman leans over her husband as she fixes his bow tie. She is not crying, but I can hear her slow and measured breaths. She pushes his hair to the side like a mother would, making sure it is perfect for the annual family holiday photo to be sent to uncles, aunts, cousins and anyone else who would be interested.

She is achingly beautiful in her age and quietness. “Eleanor Rigby” plays in my mind but, no. This is not a lonely person. She runs her hands down the lapels of his jacket, smoothing it down, as if to prepare him for his day’s work ahead. There is a tender trace of a smile on her face as she looks upon him.

Love hasn’t died. It lives on.

This is the place where serenity resides.

My exhale catches her attention. Her smile widens as she extends her hand towards the side table. I hesitate. She insists with eyes closed and a slight, yet, gentle bow of her head. I make my way to the refreshment table. A complimentary pitcher of water, plastic glasses and cups, a small thermos of hot water and generic tea bags accompany the paper plate of cookies.

She pours me a cup of tea and I think how inconsiderate it is to have forgotten the sugar, cream, and mixing sticks. Yet it doesn’t seem to matter to her. She offers me the cup and I stare into it as the tea bag darkens the water.

How can I refuse?

With tea and dry cookie in hand, she gently guides me to her husband. We stand by his side, my elbow still cradled in one of her hands. Her other hand rests on her chest. A still life with our breaths synchronised in a series of slow and comfortable inhales and exhales.

There is a sudden rustle and a discreet clearing of the throat behind us. She looks at me, eyes bright and hopeful. I look behind to see my supervisor at the doorway holding a tray of sugar packets and mixing sticks, head tilted down in studied respect, but eyes on me; beckoning. She understands, releases my elbow, allowing me to remove myself from her side.

Do I hear a sigh as I walk away?

Today is a busy day. The biggest room, one hundred chairs, is bustling with visitors in their finest attire; coming in and out through the revolving doors like customers at a super sale. Three guest books were fully signed within one hour of visitation, a record breaker for the home. Non-stop clicking of flash cameras, television personalities being interviewed, unknowns sneaking in selfies to catch the recognizable faces in the background. The who’s who and the curious nobodies oblivious to the noise they were making, oblivious to the bereavements in the other rooms.

Through it all, my attention is drawn to the small room at the end of the hallway where a soft light spills out.

Before my shift ends, I make my way to the smallest room one last time. She sits alone watching her husband. Her hand still on her chest.

I glance down at the guest book, the first page crisp and untouched.

I sign my name.

“lately (ver.21),” written, composed, performed & recorded by Tiernan.

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Special thanks to Avi Caplan & Elena Tresierra-Farbridge. ​​

The white walls of the hospital are more comforting than home
Cuz home is just a house these days
And I feel so alone there
I tried to call to catch you up
But it’ll take more than a phone call
So I’ll write, though I

Start thinking, then I start drinking
loosen the pen and nothing gets written
Falls asleep here with feelings still all inside

It’s been a lot to process lately
But I’m tryin’ to make it through
Breathing is strange because it scares me
But i still do it
I think of you and what you’d say
I take it in and let it go

And though those words they help me greatly
I still miss you though

The old halls of a sterile core
Are more heartwarming than here
I know those labels
Cleaned those tables
So familiar that they’re dear to me
I work the day with enough to say
But know I couldn’t make that phone call
So I’ll write, though I

Start thinking, then I start drinking
loosen the pen and nothing gets written
Falls asleep here still feelings all inside

It’s been a lot to process lately
But I’m tryin’ to make it through
Breathing is strange because it’s weary
But I still do it
I think of you and what you’d say
I take it in and let it go
And though those words they help me greatly
I still miss you so

I think of the best in everybody but myself
I don’t know how to tell these days what is well
So I’m fine
Really I’m fine
Clutching close fraying ends that I find
Disbelieving whatever’s not lying
I’m not sick I’m not happy I’m fine
But I guess I’ll write.

It’s been a lot to process lately
But I’m tryin’ to make it through
Breathing is strange because it wears me
But I still do it
I think of you and what you’d say
I take it in and let it go
And though those words they help me greatly
I still miss you though

I, perhaps like many others, pay not much attention to walking. Maybe it is because, on an average day, walking takes no particular mental energy. My route is pre-set, clear-cut, and generally determined by energy and time-saving calculations.

After moving into a new neighbourhood or starting to commute to a new office, my walking routine goes from a phase of exploration to being instinctive in a week or less. By the end of a month, my pattern is so well set that turning onto a less familiar left or right needs a moment of deliberation. Of course, these choices may be related to personality. Did I inadvertently start using the lane with prettier porches? Did I develop a penchant for walking in the quieter streets?

Walking has been philosophized thoroughly. From seeing walking as a space for creativity to being a spiritual exploration, thinkers have extolled the art of walking. As such, here, I recollect my memories, recent and past, where walking took on a (new) meaning.

Walking as negotiation: In Kolkata, where I grew up, the park was approximately four minutes and three blocks away from my house. I earned the licence to walk from my house to the field as soon as I demonstrated skills to negotiate oncoming cars. However, the desire to stretch the perimeters of my freedom increased quickly.

My friend lived on the next street. Therefore, I thought, that will be my first exploration. In addition to the guilt of misusing my freedom, there was another issue — dogs. Stray dogs are a common feature in many Indian roads and there were many in my neighbourhood. Like most other animals, dogs are territorial — strictly adhering to the streets where they lived. This meant that while you may be greeted with wagging tails in your lane, your entry will be scrutinized in others. To a seven-year-old me, thinking of exploring a new street, this meant danger.

To overcome, we decided to walk together one day on my lane and the next day on his. This had several advantages. First, we exposed ourselves to an equal risk of the other lane’s dogs. Second, we both significantly reduced the risk of canine aggression because one of us was always on “home turf”. This went on for a week, quite smoothly. So, I decided to venture on his street, alone. As I walked by, I dodged by a few of the dogs asleep in the middle of the road. Few others were congregated by someone’s garden. As I came closer, they turned towards me in unison. As I was getting ready to run, they turned their gaze elsewhere. While there were no wag of tails, but neither were there suspicious sniffles nor low disapproving growls. A perfect canine apathy — a victory to me. Next day, out of turn, while returning from football, I walked on his street — a sign of magnanimity.

Walking as Preserving: In thinking about why I took certain routes while walking, I understood there is a desire to preserve the uniqueness of the streets I did not walk on. So, one evening, while writing this, I took a turn out of the ordinary in my walks into one of the sleepy lanes in Saint-Laurent. A few steps into the street — the beautiful fountainhead that was working the last time I saw it in summer, now lay in the snow carefully packed, waiting for its reinstallation. Without it, the garden looked dull. A few more steps and there stood a house still adorned in Christmas lights. Even though there is no hard cut-off date to take them down, it was slightly late to still have the Christmas lights on in February. The large bay window of the house revealed nothing but stillness inside. As I walked past, this street successfully preserved its mystery. The next time I walk through, I may discover something new.

Walking to Choose: In 2017, on arriving in Montreal, I was given the city’s map at the immigration desk. Because I did not have a working phone in the first week, I relied on that map to get around. Every morning, I would write down the addresses of the potential places for rent and circled them on that map before I started walking. I criss-crossed neighbourhoods looking for À louer signs and imagined how it would be living there. I do not remember exactly where those walks took me, but later I unwittingly stumbled upon a few specific streets or intersections that reminded me of those walks. I have not seen the map in a while and there is a sense of familiarity walking around in the city now. Nonetheless, I continue to build on the choices made on those walks when I knew nothing about this city.