The Man Who Became One of India’s Greatest Stage Queens

During the mid-20th century, in the eastern Indian state of Bengal, some of the most celebrated figures on stage were men who performed as women. Chief among them was Chapal Bhaduri, whose stage name—Chapal Rani—earned him a place as the dominant queen of jatra, a nomadic theatrical tradition that once captivated enormous, passionate crowds. While male actors portraying female roles were a common sight in global theatre, from Europe to Asia, this practice thrived particularly in Bengal’s jatra, a rural, open-air spectacle blending music, myth, and melodrama. Though it rivaled cinema in popularity, jatra offered fewer rewards, rooted in epic and devotional storytelling performed on all-sided stages, driven by exaggerated voice, movement, and attire.

A Stigma in the Spotlight

Despite its cultural prominence, jatra faced criticism from colonial-era urban elites in Calcutta, who, influenced by European tastes, viewed it as crude or unrefined. A 19th-century Anglo-Indian publication mocked the voices of boys in female roles as “discordant,” likening them to “howling jackals.” By the 1950s, when Chapal Bhaduri entered the spotlight, the landscape was changing. Women were beginning to take on acting roles, shrinking the space for male impersonators. Yet Bhaduri emerged as an exception, blending grace and authenticity in his portrayals.

The Art of Transformation

Bhaduri, born in 1939 in north Kolkata to a stage actress named Prabha Devi, grew up surrounded by performers. He began acting at 16, later reflecting, “I had girlish manners, a girlish voice.” On stage, he transformed into queens, courtesans, goddesses, and brothel madams, crafting a femininity that felt deliberate and powerful. His costumes, both meticulously prepared and occasionally improvised, included rags shaped to mimic a bosom and sponges for a more polished look. “Femininity was always a part of me,” he said, emphasizing the sincerity behind his art.

Rejection and Resilience

As the decades passed, the jatra world began to shift. Audiences, now accustomed to female performers, grew less forgiving of male actors in female roles. By the late 1960s and early 1970s, the “moustachioed queens of jatra” were increasingly sidelined, writes Roy. Bhaduri experienced this firsthand, once being booed offstage with a clay cup hurled at him during a performance. Despite his talent, the convention that once elevated him started to unravel. Many of his peers faded into obscurity, some becoming seamstresses or tea stall operators, while others turned to manual labor or faced tragic ends, like one who died by suicide.

A Life on the Margins

Offstage, Bhaduri navigated a complex social world. While he did not publicly identify as gay, his relationships were marked by affection and pride. He maintained a long-term bond lasting over three decades, even as his partner married and raised a family. Bhaduri remained on the fringes, acknowledged but not fully embraced, eventually becoming more of a housekeeper. Yet he endured, taking on odd jobs like library cleaning and, at one point, performing as the Hindu folk goddess Sitala on the streets. This role, part of a tradition where performers exchanged blessings for food or small offerings, symbolized his resilience.

The Last Queen of Bengal

In a new book, *Chapal Rani: The Last Queen of Bengal*, writer Sandip Roy explores Bhaduri’s journey from stardom to obscurity, capturing the essence of a fading theatrical era. Roy notes, “In Indian performing art where playing gay or queer was in the form of characters who are ridiculed, Chapal morphed into a woman and played his roles with honesty and an act of bravery.” Though his career declined, there were brief revivals in the late 20th century. Bengali filmmaker Kaushik Ganguly featured him in his works, and in 1999, theatre impresario Naveen Kishore, publisher of Kolkata-based Seagull Books, documented his story. Bhaduri’s legacy endures as a testament to the courage of those who defied norms to craft art.