In mid-20th Century Bengal in eastern India, some of the biggest female stars on stage were actually men. Foremost among them was Chapal Bhaduri - better known as Chapal Rani - the reigning 'queen' of jatra, a travelling theatre tradition that once drew vast, fervent crowds. Male actors playing female roles were a familiar trope across global theatre, from Europe to Japan and China. In Bengal, the form flourished in jatra - a rural, open-air spectacle of music, myth, and melodrama that often rivalled cinema in reach, though not in rewards. Rooted in epic and devotional storytelling, it played out on all-sided stages, driven by heightened voice, gesture, and costume.
In a new book, Chapal Rani: The Last Queen of Bengal, writer Sandip Roy traces Bhaduri's journey from stardom to obscurity - and, in doing so, captures a vanishing world where gender itself was an act. For decades, female roles in jatra were played by men known as purush ranis, or male queens, though the art form carried a certain stigma and was often dismissed as rustic or unsophisticated by colonial-era elites.
By the time Bhaduri entered the stage in the 1950s, women had begun to take up acting roles, but he stood out in a time of transition. His performances were immersive and deeply felt, defying the norm where queer characters were often ridiculed. Bhaduri's life off stage was more complicated; he did not openly identify as gay in a society that offered little acceptance. His remarkable journey raises questions about memory, visibility, and the complex narratives of those who shape our cultural histories.
In a new book, Chapal Rani: The Last Queen of Bengal, writer Sandip Roy traces Bhaduri's journey from stardom to obscurity - and, in doing so, captures a vanishing world where gender itself was an act. For decades, female roles in jatra were played by men known as purush ranis, or male queens, though the art form carried a certain stigma and was often dismissed as rustic or unsophisticated by colonial-era elites.
By the time Bhaduri entered the stage in the 1950s, women had begun to take up acting roles, but he stood out in a time of transition. His performances were immersive and deeply felt, defying the norm where queer characters were often ridiculed. Bhaduri's life off stage was more complicated; he did not openly identify as gay in a society that offered little acceptance. His remarkable journey raises questions about memory, visibility, and the complex narratives of those who shape our cultural histories.
