August 24, 1998

Professional and committed, the striking actress infuses vitality into English theatre.

By Farah Baria

When you spend the better part of your day wiggling under someone else's skin, the most prosaic chores can seem sublime. You could be loading the washing machine or scraping carrots for dinner when it happens. That light goes off in your head. And -- eureka -- after 11 readings, 24 rehearsals and six performances, you suddenly feel what Miss Irani felt when the cow gave birth in Rupert's Birthday. "It's a play about a young farm girl who delivers a calf, nurtures it, and eventually has to give it up for slaughter. I had been mulling over the role for days when suddenly I got it. I was her. You know how it is."

You don't. But she should. For 25 of her 30 years, Anahita Uberoi has been trying to separate Drama from Life. No wonder: she comes from formidable thespian stock. Her mother is Vijaya Mehta, the grande dame of Marathi theatre. "And director of Mumbai's prestigious National Centre for the Performing Arts," she reminds you languidly.

Everything about Ana is languid. Her speech is slow, measured, every word chosen, weighed and delivered with the flourish of a practised conjurer, punctuated by bursts of throaty laughter -- both entertainer and audience in her very own show. And when she talks, her hands take on a life of their own, moving through the air like fronds under water. "She's intelligent, quite batty, and lives on Planet Pluto," says Sharmilla Mehta, an old schoolfriend. "I guess I'm pretty spaced out," Ana agrees with another throaty gurgle, but her compelling grey-brown eyes are curiously alert and focused.

On stage she's something of an upstart, part of the new bratpack -- along with Rahul Bose and Vikram Kapadia -- that has bounced on to Mumbai's creaking stages and ejaculated fresh talent into the rather incestuous world of English theatre. "It's all so exciting," exclaims this striking actress, who trained at Broadway and came home to direct and act in local productions. Now with three box-office hits in the past year -- the last, Going Solo, has played to packed houses -- Ana is the freshest icon of the New Indian Theatre: unpretentious, unstilted productions, skilfully adapted for a local flavour.

She first wowed audiences three years ago in The Glass Menagerie in which she played a withdrawn, disabled girl. This was followed by a startlingly candid performance in Seascape With Sharks and Dancers, "a destructive love story" directed by Bose. Then came If Wishes Were Horses, her directorial debut, and finally Going Solo, a series of monologues about women that she directed along with Kapadia and Rahul Da Cunha. All open to gushy reviews, especially for her offbeat roles.

But Ana's role model is still Mum. In the '70s, when English plays were pretty much like schoolroom histrionics and all serious theatre was regional theatre, the two travelled through Maharashtra, taking drama to the boroughs. Nashik. Dhule. Nagpur. Amravati. Often, the little girl would sit in the orchestra box as her mother performed, to cry, laugh and eventually fall into an exhausted slumber. It was tragic, heavy, adult theatre -- hardly the stuff of bedtime stories for impressionable eight-year-olds. But Mum had a pragmatic way of dealing with things. "Once, when I was terribly upset because the heroine was widowed and dragged off screaming to have her head shaved, she took me backstage." There, under the harsh light of a naked bulb was the Bereaved One, yelling into a microphone, as she struggled with the buttons on her costume for the next act.

"Gradually, I learnt that theatre was not to be believed but to make others believe. But it's not easy." So, after participating in the odd drama contest at Mumbai's elite Cathedral School, and joining Shiamak Davar's Dance Company while at St Xavier's College, Ana picked up a diploma at the famous Herbert Berghof Studio in New York, a drama institute whose alumni include Marlon Brando and Marilyn Monroe.

In 1991 she landed a job as assistant to Gloria Muzio, one of New York's most successful directors. Together, they did 15 plays, four of them on Broadway. Then she quit to return home. Quite simply because it was home. "As a director, Ana's strength lies in characterisation," says actress Shernaz Patel. "She draws out nuances you never even imagined." As an actress? "She's a thorough professional," says Bose, who's a close friend. She's also that rarest of things, a committed artiste.

But the lady has a more practical agenda. "My aim is to bring money to Indian theatre so that acting becomes a profession rather than a hobby," she says quietly, draping one foot over a coffee table in the charming domestic clutter of her minuscule Malabar Hill apartment. It is filled with books, curious Indian objects, personal souvenirs and assorted bric-a-brac strewn about carelessly. "I guess I'm not what you would call an efficient housewife," Ana concedes ruefully.

She surfaces at the ungodly hour of 10 -- unless disturbed by rude journalists -- and potters around until noon. But as the clock strikes 12 something strange happens: Reluctant Cinderella turns into Dynamic Director for the daily afternoon rehearsal. "All of a sudden my mind starts clicking at top speed." In the process she is likely to forget her house keys, lose her bank book and ruin the curry for dinner. "But that is just part of the Anahita Uberoi Comedy Show," grins husband Samir, a partner in a flourishing travel agency. "You learn to live with it."

Mr Uberoi is as different from his wife as, well, ham and eggs from strawberry souffl . Incidentally, they were high-school sweethearts who could make it to the Indian version of Grease. She was headgirl (the cheerleader, all-rounder variety). He was headboy (cool, good looking, athletic). They fell in love, got married in 1994 and lived happily ever after.

Nice script, good cast. And, oh yes, a saleable young director who is part of the package. Takers anyone?

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