Stratford upon Avon

Remembering Shakespeare

Dr. Satyabrata Rout

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Stratford upon Avon, A small Elizabethan hamlet, may be insignificant in the world atlas, but holds an important place in the art, literature and culture over the world. Situated upon a small and streaming river; Avon, this medieval countryside township of England attracts thousands of tourists over the year not to spend a weekend but to feel and experience the presence of the greatest playwright of the world, who was born and grew up here to rule over the English theatre, literature and culture; William Shakespeare.

It took me three hours to reach Stratford upon Avon from central London. The road that leads to Stratford was full of with serine natural beauty. The nature’s scenic visuals, the countryside landscapes and the gentle crystal water of the Avon River had definitely contributed spiritually in making of A Shakespeare in the pages of the world history. 

This small city, 100 miles away from London has retained its old and ethnic value in its culture and architecture. The houses on the streets reminded me the Medieval Elizabethan England, which we have read only in the books. While passing through a small old bridge above the river, an unusual excitement engulfed me. Just attached to the bank of Avon, is the world famous Royal Shakespeare Company (SRC), which campuses a huge red brick building. This theatre company is known to me for many years. They have travelled in India and presented Shakespeare many times. My curiosity of watching a play leads me inside the building. The authorities of the company were pleased to let me in and allow me to visit the theatre though no show was going on at that time. But I could see a simple fragmental design of a set installed for “As you Like it” for the evening production. I walked down on the stage, gallery, wardrobe, and their exhibition hall and moved straight to see the birthplace of Shakespeare.

Henley Street

I passed through a cobbled old road named as Henley Street. On the both side of the road there were rows of old white thatched colonial buildings. Walking on the foot on the street will definitely remain a memorable experience in my life. There were lots of restaurants; English, Italian, Chinese, Indian… and small countryside pubs crowded with people. It was a Sunday and the whole township of Stratford was rejoicing and dancing near by the river, on the streets and at the eateries. It was a colourful noon with sun playing hide and seek behind the clouds by leaving its impression on the silver water of Avon through the Willow trees on the either bank.

The old 16th Century bridge upon the river

…… I was standing in front of an old thatched mansion, the home of William Shakespeare. I was about to plunge into the history of Theatre; another world of fantasy and metaphor… into the creation of Shakespeare!!! I bought a student concessional ticket in 13 Pound and stepped inside the home where he was born 500 years ago in 1564 a.d. With my first step in to the house, everything came alive. The life and work of that great bard stood aloft in front of me. His books, manuscripts, word-robes, the model of his dream theatre; The Globe Theatre’, His fireplace, kitchen, his birth cradle, old small bed with pillow, pen, small cutting knifes, and everything was kept intact in their proper places… I became nostalgic to see some of the old 17^th century printed books of Shakespeare. Out of many one, which was in my reach…. I wanted to touch … only to feel the essence within me… With the permission of the guide I touched an open page… This was Henry Sixth; a play written by Shakespeare…

Royal Shakespeare Company

The guide told us…

“The year when Shakespeare was born, there was plague around England, which wiped out fifty per cent of the total population of the country. Prior to the birth of the poet all most all of his siblings were succumbed to death because of this dreaded disease. The survival of William Shakespeare from the mouth of Plague and to elevate in to such height was just a miracle. It was the destiny.”

The manuscript of Henry VI

The Avon River

Coming out of that two-storied small mansion; I started roaming around a nice little garden, which was once belonged to the poet… This flower garden attracted me… There was divinity in that small but beautiful garden. The tourists were gathering there to be photographed against the mansion… But I was searching for something else…. The colours of the roses, the various shades of dahlia, stalks, and pansies, took me somewhere else…. While roaming in this garden I was thrilled by seeing a small bust statue of Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore; the voice of Indian literature, surrounded by Indian Rajnigandha and Jasmine flowers around…. I could not see any other poets of the world except the Gurudev.

After coming out from the Shakespeare’s home, I went to see his grave. He was buried in the campus of Trinity Church, an old 15^th century Catholic Church on the bank of Avon. I walked around the town, and enjoyed the serine atmosphere and returned back to Essex by late night.

An issue hunted me all the night…

Gurudev at the Campus of Stratford upon  Avon

How much importance we have given to our poets and philosophers, literates? How much we care for them? Have one of us ever visited the Tagore museum, his birth place at Joda-shankho, the Shantiniketan, or the Tagore’s house in North Bengal near Jalpaigudi? Have any one of us ever thought of visiting Maghar, the graveyard of the great Indian saint and poet; Kabir Das!!!! Has one ever care for Baishnav Pani of Oriya Gitinatya! or Bhikari Thakur, the father of Videsia? Indian culture is built by them and over the world the fragrance of their creation is spread. We have many things…but we never feel concerned about them. We have thousands of year history but we did not keep any record. But here in west… They have few… but they know how to preserve and market it.

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Dr. Rout is an Associate Professor of Theatre Arts at University of Hyderabad, India

And A Visiting Professor to East 15 Acting School at University of Essex, England.

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