So there we were, all 20 of us, at V.T. station at 7.00 am, waiting for our train to Bangalore. Our destination -- Rishi Valley, the boarding school started by J Krishnamurti near the Horseley Hills in Andhra Pradesh. Legend has it that this is the place where the rishis of yore did their tapasya, hence the name.

Once aboard the train, Sunil (Shanbag),our director, informed us that he had an important announcement to make. We were all told that if any of us was carrying any, ahem, alcohol we had the choice of either jettisoning it now or finishing it before we reached RV, since even smoking, leave alone drinking, was a strict no-no there. A general outcry followed, with a few chaps having a distinctly mutinous look on their faces. It was betrayal at its worst!

The depression wore off however, as this journey progressed, and by the time we were in the Ghats, the repartee was flowing, with everyone at their witty, or rather, twitty best. Lunch and dinner were had -- a mind-blowing mixture of house-made cuisine from 20 kitchens, and after the mandatory squabble over who would sleep where, we crashed out.

Eight am the next morning we were in Bangalore. Breakfast done, Captain Long John Sunil was handed over the black spot by his mutinous buccaneers -- to booze or not to booze, that is the question. The beer was bought, the bus boarded, and the spirit ofthe occasion took over. The booze bottles had to be dumped before we crossed into `dry' Andhra. No problem, boozards operate even better with a deadline! (Incidentally we were searched at the border for "licker" as the cop put it).

Four hours later, we were at Rishi Valley. So this was the place -- low hills all around, a huge campus and trees, trees, trees everywhere. To my urban psyche, it seemed as if the shoving, pressing, crushing crowd had suddenly been replaced by trees. It felt wonderful!

After a late lunch, we headed for the place where we were to perform. There it was -- a huge banyan tree with a cement platform beneath it, stone benches around it and orchards all around -- sandalwood, mango, chikoo, guava, tamarind. There was even a dairy close by with real buffaloes in it!

Dinner was had and we retired for the night. We also met the kids for the first time -- an unassuming, unpretentious, almost shy lot, which was quite a relief from the worldly-wise MTV types one normally encounters.

Thenext morning we were awoken not by the cockerel, as one would expect in these sylvan surroundings, but by the lilting strain of the Veena being played. We ran out to check if the Apsaras had really descended to seduce the Rishis, to find three girls doing their morning veena riyaaz sitting out in the open. The house next to ours, we discovered, was the music teacher's.

Today was D-Day! We headed for the banyan tree in the afternoon. The play was Tendulkar's Cyclewallah -- it describes the journey of a man whose dream it has been since childhood to go on a world-tour on his bicycle. We went to work with the two props we had, a bicycles and a huge banyan tree, and by evening the place was transformed into something almost surreal. The kids trooped in, the lights went down, then up, and Astad Deboo was on, two flashing torchlights in his hands, for his dance-piece in the play, with the eerily-lit banyan tree as a backdrop.

It was scintillating stuff! The kids watched in stunned silence -- they hadnever, ever seen anything like this in their lives. Come to think of it, none of us had ever seen anything like it either. It was magic -- pure magic. And it was magic that had been created on the spot, with whatever we could lay our hands on -- no machines, no revolving stages, no elaborate costumes, no mega budgets, not even a conventional performing-space with wings and curtains and light of sound systems. What we did have was one bicycle, one innovative dancer, 10 charged-up actors, one banyan tree and Sunil working wonders with his inventive use of the surroundings! (He surmounted the hurdle of not having a dimmer board for the 6 lights he had by connecting them to fan-regulator switches!). It was minimalist theatre at its best.

The kids warmed to us at dinner that evening and we heaved a sigh of relief. The "problem"' play had been well received, so the "normal" play the next day was assured of success.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we headed for the playground. We chaps quite fancyourselves as cricketers, and the school team was faintly amused at our heroics under the sweltering sun. Needless to say, we got a sound thrashing and we trudged back, sore limbs, bruised egos and all, to prepare for the evening show.

Mat Yaad Dila too was very warmly received and dinner that night was an emotional affair, what with addresses being exchanged, hands being shaken, backs being thumped and a few adolescent silent crushes being developed! We left Rishi Valley the next morning with a feeling that it had all ended to soon. But as John Lennon sang, "Everybody had a good time, everybody saw the sunshine".

Yes, the sun did shine on all of us at Rishi Valley for those 3 days, and it shone the brightest under the banyan tree.