Only 58% of the English population is familiar with Shakespeare, says a survey. I doubt it. The Bard is a stranger in his own country as the following episode revealed to me.
The year was 1996 and it was my very first visit to England. My itinerary consisted mostly of visits to the homes of English poets and writers.
To me, England meant only one thing. It was the world of English literature. I set out to Stratford-on-Avon on a bright September afternoon. But, the British skies are treacherous, as you know. They cannot be trusted. So, I went armed with an umbrella, raincoat and heavy shoes. After tramping through streets which took you back effortlessly into the 16th century, I went to The House where this incredible genius was born.
The British are great custodians of relics. They know their monetary value too. A visit to the cottage where his wife was born cost a neat 10 pounds. His own house took a big chunk out of my foreign exchange. A peep at Elizabethan costumes cost a small fortune. So, I decided to see only the streets, the quaint 16th century restored cottages, and the public gardens which were all free to wander in at leisure.
There was a statue of Shakespeare’s most cherished hero of the soliloquies. I gave my camera to someone and posed next to the drooping, thoughtful figure. I sat on a park bench and recalled all my English teachers in college who taught us Shakespeare. There was K Anantharamaiah brooding over his upturned palm and reciting “Will all Neptune’s great ocean wash this blood clean from my hand...?” Then, I began recollecting all the gems that were preserved in his plays when I noticed the skies suddenly take on an ominous purple shade.
I still had to experience the famous theatre which staged his plays every night for tourists from other countries. That night, it was “The Merry Wives of Windsor.” The lowest priced ticket would have wiped me out. I waited in the lobby and contented myself studying the posters on the wall.
Someone sold Shakespeare artifacts in the gift shop nearby. There was also a shop selling VHS cassettes. I thought I would pick up a movie to remind me of my visit to the theatre. Imagine my shock and dismay to find out that each cassette was priced 20 pounds. They were also films that did not interest me.
“Don’t you have anything for less than 5 pounds that I can take back with me?” I asked the salesman desperately. He rummaged in a tray placed on the ground. It had unsaleable cassettes meant to be discarded.
“You can have this for three pounds!” He looked apologetic as he handed it to me. I gasped as he held out Laurence Olivier’s “Hamlet.”
Mumbling my thanks, I rushed out of the shop hugging the paper bag containing the precious bargain before he changed his mind. Did they say 58%? I don’t believe it.