One of the finest Indian dramatists of human relationships and one of our finest senior actors join hands on Mukhomukhi’s Atmakatha. The combination of Mahesh Elkunchwar and Soumitra Chatterjee on such a contemporary classic ensures an intense theatre experience, though those privileged to have seen the perfect Marathi original (1988) may find some shortcomings here.

Atmakatha has only four characters — the famous author (picture, centre) dictating his autobiography, and three women in his life: wife (right), sister-in-law (left) and the scribe, whose insistent probing into his past brings out the lies and self-centredness with which he treated people close to him while single-mindedly pursuing his profession.

This apparently simple theme uncovers the flaws of the artistic ego and the ethical question of individuals sacrificing personal integrity for creative, yet selfish, goals. Chatterjee has translated the text faithfully enough, instead of his usual practice of adaptation, down to the ambiguous final minute, when the phone rings unanswered as the stars begin to shine.

Chatterjee slips into the writer’s skin with nonchalant ease, expressing his affable personality as well as the duplicitous manner in which he cheated on his wife with her sister, and ultimately, his genuine surprise that the researcher has fallen in love with him. Unfortunately, Senjuti Mukherjee portrays the student too coyly, so that we can predict the sudden announcement of her affections — compared to the effortless casual behaviour with which Shubhangi Sangwai (a talent that theatre lost) created the part and made it so believable. Lily Chakraborty depicts Chatterjee’s wife with dignified detachment, and Poulami Bose her sister as suitably distraught.

The situation in Atmakatha closely resembles that in Mukhomukhi’s previous production, Homapakhi. Clearly, Chatterjee (who admits his distaste for current Bengali cinema) wishes to direct drama starring an older leading man. But in both these plays, even the supporting roles, and to some extent the psychological circumstances, are similar.

Homapakhi, too, has one hero and three women: a professor of sociology, his alienated wife; his former student, now a psychiatrist; and her mother. We hear that Chatterjee suggested the storyline to the author, Amit Ranjan Biswas, himself a psychiatrist in London.

The retired teacher, once very popular, retains his youthful charm (easy enough for Chatterjee). His spouse has grown apart from him because he pays hardly any attention to her concerns. The student, a practitioner in London, has returned to Calcutta to recover from an impending divorce and unfulfilling career, shot by guilt feelings in the case of one patient who committed suicide. Her mother cannot understand, and wants her to patch up with her husband. She goes to her favourite professor for support, but eventually learns from him that he himself was diagnosed as manic-depressive at an early age. All seem lost in isolation.

Besides Chatterjee, Aloknanda Roy gives a controlled performance as his impatient and scornful wife. But Poulami Bose must stay away from teary portraits — although Homapakhi is earlier than Atmakatha, both her characters end up weeping too much. She should ask her director for variety and scope for more singing. As choreographer, she should recognize the redundancy of the symbolic dances between scenes.

Back to Elkunchwar. Hindi audiences, too, can taste his mastery of subtle domestic dynamics and dialogue in Spandan’s Apan Hain Deshpande, translated by Vasant Dev from Magna Talyakathi, the second part of the Wada trilogy. Viewers of the Hindi Virasat can follow this sequel better, but it also stands on its own and can be appreciated independently.

As with the superb Wada Chirebandi, it presents the declining fortunes of the Deshpande homestead in Vidarbha when the clan gathers again to celebrate a double wedding (in the first play, the occasion was a funeral) — the spotlight, this time, is on the next generation, though Elkunchwar gives every member ample space, sensitively evoking the synergy of the great Indian joint family.

Ashok Singh’s direction focuses on the unhappiness of the distaff side, culminating in the final freeze as the three wives look sadly into the distance. Their acting (except the grandmother, who looks too young) comes off the strongest: Renu Roy as the older sister-in-law, Rajasri Gaggar as the younger, Karuna Thakur as the immature daughter, and Kalpana Thakur as the uncertain new daughter-in-law.

For the sake of balance, Singh should show the unmarried sister as he does the departed brother, since their mother misses both equally. Among the men, Rajesh Jayaswal leaves an impression as the angry son with a huge chip on his shoulder.