Prithvi Theatre Festival 2026: Two Kapoors, One Stage And A Rule Not Even A Kapoor Can Break
· Free Press Journal
You are sitting with two Kapoors. Father and son, one stage between them, and a running commentary on each other that no script could improve. It is festival time at Prithvi, and the theatre has just turned 48. So I begin with the easy question. What is the first thing you feel when you walk in here?
Kunal Kapoor doesn’t hesitate. “Why is the dustbin not being cleaned? Why is the ashtray not empty? Why is the box office not open yet?” A beat. “You want to know more? I can give you a lot.”
His son Zahan laughs. “It’s funny, but it’s true.” Beneath the checklist is concern, he explains: making sure everyone who comes here feels at home.
Visit newsbetting.club for more information.
For the audience, Prithvi means a performance, something at the café and a conversation that can outlast both. For these two, it also means checking what needs fixing before anyone arrives. They talk about it all with affection, occasionally interrupting each other and often finding something to laugh about.
A Stage, Not A Statue
Kunal takes the story back to his grandfather, Prithviraj Kapoor, whose touring company, Prithvi Theatres, put the concerns of its time on stage. Deewar warned against Partition, Pathan championed Hindu and Muslim harmony, and Paisa examined corruption and the growing power of money.
“What is embarrassing, and I will use that word and say shameful, is that those issues in 1945 and 1952 are still there today,” he says.
Some of that history is now difficult to trace. Prithviraj made a film of Paisa, Kunal recalls, losing a great deal of money when it failed. The family has been unable to locate the film. He says they have also been unable to trace the script of one of the company’s plays.
Prithviraj wanted a theatre that would belong to the nation. Kunal recalls a letter seeking support for that ambition, which he believes went to Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. His grandfather did not live to see the dream realised. His parents, Shashi Kapoor and Jennifer Kendal, eventually gave it a home.
Kunal has little enthusiasm for memorials that simply stand around. Many statues in Mumbai, he observes, are of people passersby cannot identify. “Only the pigeons come and sit on them.”
A theatre, meanwhile, keeps everyone busy. There is salt air to contend with, maintenance to pay for and equipment that needs more space. Kunal would like better backstage facilities, storage and rehearsal space, while retaining the intimacy of the auditorium.
The priorities his parents established remain, he says. Ticket receipts go directly into the performers’ accounts, with contributions towards Prithvi’s running costs. No advance deposits are demanded. Audiences get somewhere to gather, watch, argue about what they have seen and perhaps stay a little longer than planned.
Third Bell, No Exceptions
For Zahan, the welcome starts at the entrance. “When you enter this space, there’s no gate,” he says. That openness is deliberate. Even if people do not consciously notice the absence of barriers, he believes it helps them feel welcome.
There is, however, one point beyond which nobody gets to stroll in: the third bell. Kunal considers the rule a matter of respect for performers, crew and audience members who have arrived on time, having faced the same traffic and parking problems.
He has enforced it on himself. Years ago, he travelled from south Mumbai with his daughter to watch a play. They reached a couple of minutes after the third bell. He told her they could not enter.
“But why not, Papa? Don’t you own it?” she asked.
That was beside the point. “It cannot be selective,” he says.
What happens on stage is the companies’ call. Kunal says they do not dictate what invited groups perform. For the festival, they ask for productions being presented in Mumbai for the first time, even if they have travelled elsewhere.
Two Generations, One Shared Space
Ask about favourite memories and Zahan recalls a Symphony Orchestra of India concert with a choir of 60 and roughly 20 chamber orchestra musicians squeezed onto Prithvi’s small stage. The sound and intimacy of them together have stayed with him.
There have also been power cuts, with performances continuing under service lights. When a junction box on the main road caught fire, however, a show had to stop for safety.
Kunal remembers a festival in 1983 when he borrowed Shakespeare films from the British Council’s 16mm library and screened them free, loading and threading the projector himself. Finding those films took effort then. Today, he points out, extraordinary collections are available at a click.
Zahan’s way into organising the festival was also through film. In 2012, while working as an assistant director, he suggested a teaser showing a performer preparing, with makeup, costume and the festival mask. Kunal agreed, provided he helped with the other work too.
One promotional film became an education in logistics, budgets, technical setups and hospitality. Today, Zahan helps shape the festival’s visual identity and online presence.
Ask where they disagree and the conversation briefly acquires something rare: silence. “I love the silence,” I tell them.
Differences are inevitable, Kunal explains. He makes decisions, but wants discussion and opinions. At work, he sees professionals bringing their skills to a shared task.
The clearest disagreement concerns Excel. Kunal loves it. Zahan would happily find something else to do.
“I have Excel phobia,” he admits. His father, he says, will make a spreadsheet for anything, including vegetarian and non-vegetarian requirements.
Zahan helps Kunal navigate social media. Kunal, in turn, values his son’s editing instincts and “great sense of rhythm”, and still likes to run film edits past him.
Their thoughts on younger audiences reveal another difference in emphasis. Kunal thinks the young have become a little lazy, then promptly broadens the charge: “We all have become lazy because everything comes to us.” Theatre still makes people leave home.
Zahan would offer that audience an invitation, without a lecture. Speaking for himself, he would rather share someone’s curiosity than be told what deserves his attention. If stories thousands of years old can still feel relevant, he wonders, why should understanding each other across two generations seem so difficult?
At the end, I invite them to ask each other a question. Zahan wants to know his father’s favourite café order.
“It keeps changing.” First paratha, until it became too heavy. Then dal khichdi. Lately, three fried eggs. To drink, espresso coffee and kahwa.
Kunal asks whether Zahan ever curses having been born into this situation.
“Yes,” comes the immediate answer. Then he adds that he has reached a place of gratitude.
“You could have been sitting behind a desk doing accounts,” his father offers.
“No, no, no.”
Excel, after all.
Somewhere, a third bell is about to ring. Nobody, not even a Kapoor, will be let in late.