Anupama Chandrasekhar’s The Father and the Assassin grew out of the question, what would the history of India have been like if Gandhi had not been assassinated. This led her to his assassin, Nathuram Godse, and an explanation for this act which changed that history forever. It is not a historical play but a fascinating and gripping account of the life of someone about whom very little is known. Indeed, few until recently would have been able to say what his name was. This play gives him back his name. At a time when Hindu nationalism is a factor in modern-day India, this play has uncomfortable resonances, writes Elizabeth Carlin.
The facts are that Nathuram Godse, was, for superstitious reasons, brought up a girl, and believed as a child to have the power to channel the goddess Durga. A special child then but later, when insisting on being a boy, he failed to distinguish himself at school or be able to support his parents as expected. Ripe for radicalisation as a disaffected young man, he was influenced by Vinayak Savarkar’s party which advocated Hindu-ness and was violently anti-Muslim, and from there made two attempts on the life of Ghandi, the second being successful.
The play uses these facts to imagine the character of Godse to whom the audience is immediately drawn as he speaks directly through the 4th wall and invites participation in the story. This is an extraordinary performance by Shubham Saraf who is on stage throughout the play either leading, taking part in or observing the action. He seems a pleasant character, and talks in a relaxed fashion about how he would prefer to be called a murderer than an assassin. He tells or shows us his story, which jumps about chronologically and links him to Gandhi (Paul Bazely), who initially is his hero in his espousal of nonviolent protest. His change of allegiance is explained by Gandhi’s suspension of the Non-Co-Operation Movement at the point when he wanted him to help with justice for his friend Mithun (Nadeem Islam). In a series of scenes showing his development, set against political commentary from a disembodied radio voice, and political negotiation between Nehru, Jinna and Ghandi, leading up to Independence in 1947, the audience becomes intimately acquainted with him.
The director, Indhu Rubasingham, has collaborated frequently with the writer and this shows in the brilliance with which the performance moves through this complicated scenario. The set designed by Rajha Sikhara, a seemingly simple divided semicircle of sloping ramps and a flight of steps, makes full use of the moving stage to become whatever is required to dramatise the action, the atmosphere being well-supported by the effective use of music (David Shrubsole). Particularly memorable was the salt march rising in silhouette at the back of the stage, lit with white light and the transformation of refugees fleeing from either side during partition, sliding past each other and turning into a violent mob.
All the cast of 19 were excellent. The ensemble performed in beautifully choreographed waves (Lucy Cullingford) as curious onlookers, admiring supporters, distressed farmers or most disturbingly, Hindu marching mobs. The play deals with serious matters but is not without humour in the presentations of Godse to the audience and in the characters from his childhood, Madhav (Ankur Bahl) and Vimala (Dinita Gohil) who both make convincing children. Vimala keeps popping up in Godse’s narrative which annoys Godse and makes the audience laugh. More light relief is later provided by Ankur Bahl as the tailor to whom Godse is apprenticed and whose behaviour as he works there, demonstrates through several scenes his radicalisation.
It’s uncomfortable for a British audience to be faced with Indian colonial history and a different perspective from the hagiography of Attenborough’s Gandhi which the author saw each year at school on Independence Day. Her character, Godse wants his name to be remembered, not lost in the story of Gandhi who he, as they meet as dead men at the end, accuses of making him ‘ordinary’. This play works on many levels. Historically it gives a précis of the years leading up to partition and independence, it reminds us of Ghandi’s journey to becoming the Father of the Nation, but mainly it is the story of a confused young man who wants to feel he can be special as he had been brought up to expect. His final speech is a chilling call to arms, which was deeply disturbing.
The National Theatre, South Bank, SE1 until 18th June.Times: Mon – Thurs 7.30pm; Thur & Sat matinees 2pm. Admission: £20 – £89. Booking: www.nationaltheatre.org.uk
