D Anuradha Kapur which is necessary for historical understanding, and for any dismantling the form may require; and belongingness which is part of the present, where forms are made real, made contemporary enough to matter. Complicity acknowledges both faulty vision and partial vision. It seems to me that today in studying traditional theatre it might be necessary to accept a faulty vision; especially in order to avoid a sort of muscology that assumes that forms can be summarized, essentialized, held stable, so as to be successfully ingested by the viewer. Rather a narrative which is formed by the author's perceptions, shaped by 7 all the disruptive detail that might come along with that, is to be created; such a narrative has space for speaking along with, and intervening in, the history of traditional theatre forms. There are some forms on which writing cannot but be faulty; these are the forms that are plural in themselves, and that present themselves as inevitably varying. Naturalism presents itself as unvarying. It ca 11s for no moves between the shown, the unshown and the imaginary, because there is already a too well delineated picture on stage; that table, that chair, that window, in specifically that house; the theatric image is there, replicating lived space. Because the governing convention dictates that a fourth wall exists where the stage ends and the seats begin, the actors behave as if they are neither being seen nor being heard. Equally the audience behaves as if it is not there, neither to see nor to hear. But as we know, even when the audience is by convention invisible it does come into the performance. The actors interpret its signals — murmurs, tears, silences, coughs — and translate them into action by playing for laughs, hurrying a scene, or editing it altogether. Non-naturalistic forms by convention acknowledge the audience; in so doing they emphasize the fact that meaning in theatre is created by the actors and the spectators together; that every performance exists in the precise way that it does because the audience on that day is what it is. In short, such forms present themselves as being open to change, varying. Consider for example the custom in certain traditional Indian forms of heeding requests from the audience: the spectators ask for repeats of heart-rending dialogues, dying declarations, complex dance steps, and the actors promptly oblige. Consider too the Kathakali performer playing Draupadi who alters the width, depth, and quality of his performance in response to his audience. Draupadi has to tell Krishna about the dishonour done to her by Duryodhana. She does so, not by narrating in detail the happenings at the Sabha, but by repeating, insistently, illogically, passionately, a single gesture. She pulls forward a strand from her waist-length jute hair and directs Krishna's gaze to it. She points. Look at my hair, she says, it has remained undone since that fateful day. Look at it, she says, and points. Look, again, and again, and again. By pulling at Krishna's gaze, she in fact seizes ours. Every time she points her finger at her hair she adds a layer of emotion, karuna:: sadness, pity, shame, despair, grief. The more she narrows the event the wider the gesture becomes, and the better able it is to hold the spectrum Number 16