Dramatization Of Karma

[Lida Rick]

BhaktivedantaManor opened in 1973 and became the main place my family visited over the years. Over time, I got involved in a variety of services, such as gardening and chanting Hare Krishna on the streets of various towns. But one service really took hold of me, and that was drama.

This was around the time when the temple actors were coming into their own as an established drama troupe. I got involved with them at the age of thirteen, when the troupe asked me and my brothers to play monkeys in the Ramayana. Little did I know that this would change my life by igniting my passion for drama. Over the past thirty-five years, I have continually learned how to transform this passion for dramatic art into a spiritual meditation and an offering of love to Lord Krishna.

By touring with the Players, I had many opportunities to travel internationally. We toured in the USA ten times and have played at temples all over Western and Eastern Europe and South and East Africa. In India we performed in Mumbai and Delhi, and in Mayapur and Vrindavan.

Once we performed the Ramayana to an audience who absolutely loved the show. One man was so moved that he came backstage to see us and started crying. He said the drama had touched his heart and was his first experience of sacred Vedic pastimes.

Another time, we were on a nationwide tour of schools in the UK. While we were getting ready at a school with over a thousand children, a portion of the cast phoned us to say that their car had broken down and they would not make it on time for the show. My mind filled with anxiety. How could we go on without the other actors? I tried to adjust the cast. But we were too short of actors for such a big production. With a heavy heart I decided to cancel the show and went to see the headmaster to convey the bad news.

On another occasion, our drama was in full swing. The emotions were high, and the atmosphere thick with tension. More than seven hundred children were captivated with the show, when suddenly the soundtrack shut off. There had been a power cut. The actors froze onstage. With our backing track gone, we were lost. After a moment I felt Krishna empowering me to carry on. We were so familiar with the lines from the soundtrack that we were able to just go on. By the end of the play all the children stood up, shouting and screaming with joy. They were elated that we carried on. The teachers were so happy that they rewarded us with extra donations for our efforts.

A particularly memorable experience took place in New Delhi while performing for ten thousand people at an outdoor public program. At the end of the drama, the audience gave us a standing ovation and shouted for an encore. What a feeling that was!

It is moments like these that have inspired me to continue my service. It is a magical sensation to experience the cumulative appreciation of hundreds and thousands of people for more than thirty years.

Nevertheless, we still reach huge audiences despite our limitations. And we get due credit for our shows. Our biggest audience to date was twenty thousand spectators at an outdoor venue in the UK. Whenever we perform plays at a festival and receive feedback at the end, we invariably see our dramas ranked as one of the top three performances at the festival.

Still, some of the smaller plays are my favorites. They invoke a special sense of intimacy. You can really get into developing a tender emotional bond with the audience. One such play was a two-man show about Bilvamangala Thakura, an eleventh-century saint who struggled with heavy existential problems but ultimately conquered his demons on the strength of his devotion to Lord Krishna. Although he had blinded himself, he saw Krishna in his final days.

As the years have rolled on, I have been blessed with two wonderful children, Ekachakra and Varshabhanavi, who both pretty much grew up on the stage. They have been involved in many plays and have even traveled worldwide with our troupe. My daughter now wants to do acting as a profession. I wonder who she got that idea from!

Dvaraka Puri and I have been in charge of the Bhaktivedanta Players for thirty years, and last year we prepared several exciting productions in celebration of our anniversary. Our main presentation was a sumptuous dramatization of the Mahabharata, which we took to venues across greater London.

ONE of the never-failing attractions of the Tky stage is the performance, by the famous Kikugor and his company, of the Botan-Dr, or "Peony-Lantern." This weird play, of which the scenes are laid in the middle of the last century, is the dramatization of a romance by the novelist Ench, written in colloquial Japanese, and purely Japanese in local color, though inspired by a Chinese tale. I went to see the play; and Kikugor made me familiar with a new variety of the pleasure of fear.

"Why not give English readers the ghostly part of the story?"--asked a friend who guides me betimes through the mazes of Eastern philosophy. "It would serve to explain some popular ideas of the supernatural which Western people know very little about. And I could help you with the translation."

I gladly accepted the suggestion; and we composed the following summary of the more extraordinary portion of Ench's romance. Here and there we found it necessary to condense the original narrative; and we tried to keep close to the text only in the conversational passages,--some of which happen to possess a particular quality of psychological interest.

There once lived in the district of Ushigom, in Yedo, a hatamoto[1] called Iijima Heizaymon, whose only daughter, Tsuyu, was beautiful as her name, which signifies "Morning Dew." Iijima took a second wife when his daughter was about sixteen; and, finding that O-Tsuyu

[1. The hatamoto were samurai forming the special military force of the Shgun. The name literally signifies "Banner-Supporters." These were the highest class of samurai,--not only as the immediate vassals of the Shgun, but as a military aristocracy.]

O-Tsuyu lived happily enough in her new home until one day when the family physician, Yamamoto Shij, paid her a visit in company with a young samurai named Hagiwara Shinzabur, who resided in the Nedzu quarter. Shinzabur was an unusually handsome lad, and very gentle; and the two young people fell in love with each other at sight. Even before the brief visit was over, they contrived,--unheard by the old doctor,--to pledge themselves to each other for life. And, at parting, O-Tsuyu whispered to the youth,--"Remember! if you do not come to see me again, I shall certainly die!"

Shinzabur never forgot those words; and he was only too eager to see more of O-Tsuyu. But etiquette forbade him to make the visit alone: he was obliged to wait for some other chance to accompany the doctor, who had promised to take him to the villa a second time. Unfortunately the old man did not keep this

promise. He had perceived the sudden affection of O-Tsuyu; and he feared that her father would hold him responsible for any serious results. Iijima Heizaymon had a reputation for cutting off heads. And the more Shij thought about the possible consequences of his introduction of Shinzabur at the Iijima villa, the more he became afraid. Therefore he purposely abstained from calling upon his young friend.

Months passed; and O-Tsuyu, little imagining the true cause of Shinzabur's neglect, believed that her love had been scorned. Then she pined away, and died. Soon afterwards, the faithful servant O-Yon also died, through grief at the loss of her mistress; and the two were buried side by side in the cemetery of Shin-Banzui-In,--a temple which still stands in the neighborhood of Dango-Zaka, where the famous chrysanthemum-shows are yearly held.

slowly recovering, but still very weak, when he unexpectedly received another visit from Yamamoto Shij. The old man made a number of plausible excuses for his apparent neglect. Shinzabur said to him:--

"I have been sick ever since the beginning of spring;--even now I cannot eat anything. . . . Was it not rather unkind of you never to call? I thought that we were to make another visit together to the house of the Lady Iijima; and I wanted to take to her some little present as a return for our kind reception. Of course I could not go by myself."

when you were in that little room together. At all events, I saw how she felt towards you; and then I became uneasy,--fearing that her father might come to hear of the matter, and lay the whole blame upon me. So--to be quite frank with you,--I decided that it would be better not to call upon you; and I purposely stayed away for a long time. But, only a few days ago, happening to visit Iijima's house, I heard, to my great surprise, that his daughter had died, and that her servant O-Yon had also died. Then, remembering all that had taken place, I knew that the young lady must have died of love for you. . . . [Laughing] Ah, you are really a sinful fellow! Yes, you are! [Laughing] Isn't it a sin to have been born so handsome that the girls die for love of you?[1] . . . [Seriously] Well, we must leave the dead to the dead. It is no use to talk further about the matter;--all that you now can do for her is to repeat the Nembutsu.[2] . . . Good-bye."

Shinzabur long remained stupefied with grief by the news of O-Tsuyu's death. But as soon as he found himself again able to think clearly, he inscribed the dead girl's name upon a mortuary tablet, and placed the tablet in the Buddhist shrine of his house, and set offerings before it, and recited prayers. Every day thereafter he presented offerings, and repeated the Nembutsu; and the memory of O-Tsuyu was never absent from his thought.

Nothing occurred to change the monotony of his solitude before the time of the Bon,--the great Festival of the Dead,--which begins upon the thirteenth day of the seventh month. Then he decorated his house, and prepared everything for the festival;--hanging out the lanterns that guide the returning spirits, and setting the food of ghosts on the sbrydana, or Shelf of Souls.

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