The ghost of a colonial law still haunts Indian theatre

IT WAS A RAINY AUGUST EVENING IN AHMEDABAD IN 2024. A group of young theater artists gathered at Scrapyard - The Theatre, an amphi-theatre space, rehearsing for their play, Return to Filastin. 

In the play, American-born Palestinian Zed confronts uncomfortable truths as he journeys to Palestine for the first time to explore his roots, ultimately leading him towards a renewed sense of solidarity with his people. 

The production was a unique collaboration between Scrapyard, an Ahmedabad based group of young theatre enthusiasts, and The Freedom Theatre, based in the Jenin refugee camp in the West Bank. Having already performed a successful premiere in June, which garnered a warm audience response, the team now faced a new, vital responsibility. They had announced two upcoming shows—one at Natarani Theatre and another at Footlight Theatre—to raise funds for medical treatment for children in Gaza. Though prepared and enthusiastic, their faces betrayed tension, and a serious discussion was underway.

Unexpectedly, an actor had declared he wouldn't be able to perform due to unavoidable family circumstances. With only three days left before the show, they desperately discussed options but couldn't find a feasible solution. A heavy silence, filled with a sense of disheartenment, settled over the room - the sorrow, about potentially not being able to raise crucial funds for children in urgent need. 

Just when despair seemed to take over, a team member stepped forward, accepting the daunting challenge of preparing for the role in such a short time. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, filled with joy and excitement. They immediately resumed rehearsal, fueled by their theatre's rallying cry: Natak to Thasej (The play will be performed anyhow).

The next day, the play's director received a phone call from both venues. Teams of police officers from the respective areas had arrived, questioning the performers' identities, their backing, and the motives behind the show. Police also took one of the venue managers in for inquiry, notably without a warrant.

The police demanded to see permission for the script from the Gujarat Sangeet Natak Academy, an autonomous body of the Gujarat government dedicated to promoting and preserving the state's performing arts, including music, dance, and drama. 

The theatre group had not applied for the said permission, as they typically performed in small spaces with a maximum capacity of 80-100 people, where police usually did not interfere. Here, however, the script being about the Palestinian freedom struggle had meant a problem. The following day, the Commissioner of Police personally intervened, threatening the owners of both venues. Ultimately, the group was forced to cancel both shows.

The incident mentioned is one of many cases where authorities successfully silenced theatre artists in Gujarat. Government officials draw their power from Section 33 of the Gujarat Police Act, 1961.

This modern law contains provisions similar to the now-repealed Dramatic Performances Act, 1876 (‘DPA’). The DPA  was a colonial-era law first introduced by the British in 1876 to suppress plays critical of their rule and supportive of India's freedom struggles. Ironic as it is, in 2024, the current administration used a law with identical censoring power to halt a performance that intended to oppose colonialism itself.