Adi Marzban took Parsi theatre to dizzying heights

“All this discussion on Miller and Bartok… how does their work apply to India? I give people what they want — healthy laughter and a few hours of enjoyment.”—Adi Marzban.

Last month marked the 100th birth anniversary of Adi Marzban, celebrated  theatre thespian and former editor of the mouthpiece of the Parsi community, the daily newspaper Jam-e-Jamshed. My association with Adi goes back to my college days when I landed a bit role in one of his plays. He was my mentor in theatre; at the same time he gave me the first break in my career when he offered me a position in the advertisement department of Jam-e-Jamshed.

Let me go back 60 years to some multi talented comedy actors who shared the spotlight with me. There was Jimmy Pocha — donning a Chaplin-style moustache, “ponia” trousers (that’s three-fourths in Parsi), dirty canvas shoes and red socks — coming from the audience and having fun with them as he climbs the stage. Jangoo Irani, forever playing the beleaguered, crusty family servant swearing at his masters in Irani dialect, which they don’t understand, spreading ripples through the audience. I recall the multi-talented Dinshaw Daji in a play where he played a psychiatrist dressed in ‘bawa adam’ time jacket with felt hat and bow tie advising a client on her husband’s peculiar behaviour. “Does your husband tap his foot on the floor or play drums on the sofa  arm and seeing the wife confused say ‘tabla’ ‘tabla’ or does he doodle on a piece of paper?” The wife mistaking ‘doodle’ for ‘noodle’ replies that her husband doesn’t know cooking. Exasperated, the psychiatrist says “not noodle, doodle, doodle, ghasa pisa”, sending the audience into peals of laughter. Then there was the poker-faced Dadi Sarkari in a play telling his best friend that he let him down by first saying he had only a couple of months to live and now saying he was mistaken since the doctor on the phone was talking about another patient. “I have taken one month’s leave from office, collected over a 100 signatures to send a letter to Parsi Panchayat for a condolence meeting in your honour at Sir Cowasji Jehangir Hall and spent hours preparing my speech and now you say you are not dying. This is most unfair.” And the audience is rolling in the aisles, nearly. These were true comedy stars, rare to find today.

And how about our lady stars, Piloo Wadia and Dinoo Nicholson, both talented old war horses vying with each other to grab the leading role. I remember a party scene in a play where one of them caught the audience’s attention with a bright red sari embroidered with silver sequins. In the next show we saw the other lady wearing a similar sari, much to the annoyance of the first one. In order to please both, very often Adi had to give an equal number of lines to both stretching the play to over three hours. My wife Ruby was a late entrant and made waves. Once she complained to me that she found her costume for the next scene hidden away. There were no such egos among male actors, each minding his own turf and actually appreciating the talent of their co-stars.

Today, we don’t see such plays or actors. Parsi theatre is virtually extinct. As part of Adi’s centenary celebrations we have worked out two events. One a drama competition called Draame Bawaas to unearth new Parsi talent in acting, writing and directing; the other, a sequel to our nostalgic theatre extravaganza Laughter In The House, which will not only draw from Adi’s work but will also include tributes from some of the new-generation playwrights, by way of special comedy sketches written in his honour.

Adi Marzban was truly described as “Emperor of Entertainment”. He is no more but his legacy lives on.

The author is a well-known stage personality