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Dramaturgy : Nisha Abdullah
Characters :
1. Darling Sir (DS): A Hindu man in his early 60s. He is the principal of a technical college.
2. Saquina: A Muslim woman in her mid-50s. She lives on the Muslim side of Seelampur in North West Delhi, sits on protest at Chaand Bagh, and works as a cleaner in the Jamia Millia Islamia University library.
3. Naajma: A Muslim woman in her early 30s. She has come from Assam to Delhi. Her citizenship status is unknown.
4. Gulbadan/Aftab: A 16-year-old boy, Saquina’s son.
5. Tyagi: A Hindu man in his mid-40s. He works in the same college as Darling Sir and is his junior.
6. Man: A Hindu man in his mid-30s. He has come from a village to Delhi.
Act 1, Scene 1
Early evening. 6 PM. Northeast Delhi. A small room in a lodge, often used for sex work. Darling Sir (DS) is sitting on a chair, dressed as a teddy bear. The teddy bear head is placed on a dressing table next to him. The room has a bed with a shiny pink blanket, under which someone is lying, hidden from view. DS is looking at his mobile phone. Two more phones of different models are on the table—some are smartphones, others not.
Stage right, there’s a door leading to a passage. A window is also visible. A television in the room plays muted Hindi news, showing coverage of women’s protests in Delhi, interspersed with ads and interviews of politicians. The stage is dark at the start of the play. Sounds of protests in Delhi can be heard. The noise fades as lights come on, revealing DS. His hair is neatly gelled back, though a single lock keeps falling forward. He has no beard, giving the impression he might even shave his chest hair.
Silence.
DS: Do you know the password?
(Silence.)
DS: Password?
(Waits. Still looking at the phone. Then glances at the blanket.)
DS: Oh.
(Smiles.)
DS: Instead of circumcision, why doesn’t any religion say anything about pubic hair? (Laughs.)
(Silence. DS looks at the phone again, picks up the other phones, tries them.)
DS: No. Nothing.
(Pauses.)
DS: These lodges, I tell you. They promise the moon when you book. A simple Wi-Fi…
(Pause.)
DS: I went to Malaysia once. Abroad. You know Malaysia?
(Looks at the person under the blanket.)
DS: Lot of Muslims. You should go. (Laughs.) Good internet.
(Pause.)
DS: I was surprised. Communists and Muslims—not exactly known for their internet. (Laughs. [Scene: A dimly lit room. DS, a middle-aged man, sits at a dressing table, surrounded by various items. Gulbadan, a young man, lies on the bed.]
DS: You know, even in countries like Saudi Arabia and the UAE, internet access is restricted. And in Oman, the prince might be gay, but there's still censorship.
Gulbadan: (Chuckles) I'm not sure about Russia. Communists don't matter there, do they?
DS: (Thinking) Well, there might be some communists left in Moscow. Like how you can always find a few cockroaches even after spraying insecticide.
[Gulbadan reaches out from under the blanket, holding something in his fist.]
DS: Drop it. Tyagi's gone to get a broom.
[Gulbadan drops a small object onto the floor and withdraws his hand.]
DS: (Picks up his phone, takes a sip of Red Bull, and examines his costume) Look at this. A patch. In India, they only care about quantity, not quality.
[He finds another patch on the back of his costume.]
DS: Disgusting. This country, once called the golden bird, can't even make a simple costume. Where the Kama Sutra was written, where sex was invented, they can't ensure a teddy bear without holes.
[His phone buzzes again.]
DS: (Answers the phone) Good evening, sir. I'm on my way home. I'm meeting some potential clients... Yes, sir. I know, sir. It's Thursday, so my wife... Yes, sir. I understand, sir.
[Gulbadan sits up, revealing his bare legs and holding a pair of scissors.]
Gulbadan: Done! (Points to the scissors)
DS: All clear?
Gulbadan: Yes.
DS: Good boy. Do you know the password?
Gulbadan: No, but I know you.
DS: (Laughs) I know what you want.
Gulbadan: You know what day it is?
DS: Thursday. My wife fasts on Thursdays.
Gulbadan: I thought they only did that on...
DS: Karva Chauth. Generally, yes. For ordinary husbands.
Gulbadan: Come to me.
DS: Since I became principal, she does it every Thursday.
Gulbadan: Come to me.
DS: Love is as good as the last meal it replaced.
Gulbadan: Do you have to go?
DS: Yes.
Gulbadan: We have a three-hour booking.
DS: You'll get your full payment.
Gulbadan: I don't take money without work. (Teasing)
DS: (Laughs and goes closer to him)
Gulbadan: Go, go to your wife.
DS: Don't be upset, my Gulbadan. (Slaps him lightly)
Gulbadan: Go, go.
DS: (Slaps him harder)
Gulbadan: What did I take this out for? (Points to the hair on the floor)
DS: (Laughs and slaps him again, harder) Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Gulbadan: It's okay, darling sir.
DS: No, no. I'm sorry. When we do aquarium, you slap me.
Gulbadan: No, sir. It's okay.
DS: Ring my ear if you want.
[His phone buzzes again.]
DS: (Answers the phone) Yes, sir. I understand. I'll get someone before that.
[The phone call ends.]
[Gulbadan is looking at him. He looks at Gulbadan, who looks away and lies down, stroking his navel.] DS stands and shouts loudly.
DS: Tyagi! Tyagi!
(Silence.)
DS: I don’t know how long it takes to get a broom in this country. If I wasn’t allergic to dust, we’d have finished the aquarium by now and left.
(Takes puffs from an inhaler.)
DS: Pressure, Gulbadan. Growing up is all about pressure.
(Gulbadan is curiously watching the television.)
DS: In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna this. Arjuna, growing up is all about pressure. Essentially.
G (looking at the television): This is our area, Darling Sir.
DS: And Arjuna says to Krishna, “If all this is rightfully ours, why should we give it to the Kauravas?” And Krishna replies in unwavering Sanskrit, “Arjuna, all this is an illusion. You are here because I am here, because you were meant to be. The battle is a—”
G: Sir, the road is getting blocked.
(DS looks at the TV screen, walks closer, and looks disapprovingly.)
DS: It’s the police. They’ll clear it.
G: The police are blocking the road, Darling Sir.
DS: Why would the police block the... Do you know any of them?
G: Who, sir?
DS: These women in veils.
G: No, sir.
DS: Good. I’m glad you’re from a good family at least.
G (still watching the screen): Yes, sir.
DS (smiling): I don’t know what you’re looking at. Can you tell one from another?
G: Sir, if the road gets blocked, you’ll be stuck here.
DS (smiling): I won’t let you go without the aquarium. I won’t let you go without...
G: I can walk home, sir. You won’t be able to take the car out.
(Silence.)
DS: I have complete faith in our police, Gulbadan. In our army, navy, air force, submarines, missiles, tanks, nuclear power. A bunch of women in veils cannot stop me from getting home.
(Gulbadan looks at DS. There is noise outside as if more people are arriving in other rooms. They are listening to some 1980s Bollywood music on a transistor.)
DS (looks out of the window): The moon isn’t out yet. I have to get home before it comes out, Gulbadan. She prays for my well-being. I can’t keep her hungry.
G: I am ready, Darling Sir.
DS (laughs): Yes, but you know how old I am. (Smiles.) I’ll need some time... or not.
DS: I know why Tyagi is late.
G: Why?
DS: He must’ve gone to get green tea. He knows it helps me relax.
G: Green tea?
DS: Such a fool, looking for green tea in this area. I told you to come to Connaught Place, but your success is going to your head.
G: Arre no, Darling Sir. I can come anywhere you want. But my Ammi said, “Don’t go too far.” With these protests and the police rounding the area, what if I’m not let back in?
DS: Your Ammi knows you do this?
G: No, no. (Laughs.) She thinks I work in an agency.
DS: An agency of what?
G: Replacing old cell phones. We have a lot of those in our area. She thinks I do deliveries.
DS: Your Ammi must be proud of you.
G: Yes, I’m earning to buy college forms. That does make her proud.
DS: Your father is dead, you said?
G: Yes, Darling Sir.
DS: Life is hard. Really hard. I lost my father too when I was young. The world is fucking brutal. Full of motherfuckers looking for young boys without fathers.
G: I have a brother.
DS: Older?
G: Yes.
DS: Where?
G: Ladakh.
DS: Ladakh?
G: Army, sir.
DS: Lovely. More Muslims should join the army.
G: Yes, sir.
DS: Your mother must be so proud of both of you. (Looks at the television.) And look at these women. Always seeing the world from inside a veil. Never even stepping out of their homes. But instead of taking care of their sons like your mother, here they are, sitting on the road protesting against a law they understand nothing about. Just sitting, knitting sweaters, eating biryani, drinking tea, listening to some hippies come and sing old songs whose meaning no one understands... just for media attention.
(Pause.)
DS: Give my regards to your mother. Great lady.
G (smiling): What should I tell her, Darling Sir?
DS: Say I sent my regards.
G (teasing): Who are you?
DS (laughs): Tell her the truth.
G: The truth?
DS: That you met a professor who is helping you prepare.
G (laughs): Yes, Darling Sir.
DS: You want to be an engineer?
G: Yes.
DS: I would have offered you a seat in our college, but unfortunately, our fee is too high, and there are no scholarships.
G: I understand, sir.
DS: How is your preparation?
G: Good, sir.
DS: How much did you get in the 10th standard?
G: 94%.
DS: Good, good. Well begun is much more than half done.
G: Now I am struggling with Chemistry.
DS: Chemistry is a female subject. How is your Physics and Mathematics?
G: Good. Mathematics is a bit uneven.
DS: Mathematics is everything, Gulbadan. Mathematics is the soul of the world. You see these women on the screen... they are all bad at Mathematics. No reason, no logic.
DS: Religion does that. It kills your ability to think. You know why the Hindu religion is great?
G: Why, sir?
DS: Because it is not a religion. It’s a philosophy. It’s a way of life. It has everything—from Karva Chauth to the Kama Sutra. Don’t mind me saying this, but in my college, we only have two Muslim students. You know why?
G: Why, sir?
DS: Religion, Gulbadan. Religion. It can destroy the ability to think for an entire race. Look at them—just look at them.
(Pause.)
DS: I don’t know where this Tyagi is. Can you come and sit here? Stroke me. It might help.
G: Yes, Darling Sir.
(DS sits facing the audience. Gulbadan sits with his back to the audience, stroking DS through his teddy bear costume.)
DS: If you have any doubts, you can ask me.
G: Sir?
DS: I like to help minority students. I am a teacher. It’s my duty.
G: You’re very kind, sir.
DS: No problem.
G: Can I get my notebook, sir?
DS: Oh yes. You have it?
G: Always, sir.
DS: Get it.
(Gulbadan rushes to his bag, takes out a notebook, and returns.)
G: Sir, this is a coordinate geometry problem. I’m not sure if I’m thinking about it correctly.
DS: Ah. Here. Can you stroke this side? Under the—
G: Yes, yes, sir. Are you sure this will—
DS: Of course.
G: Okay, sir.
(DS quickly kisses Gulbadan.)
DS: Thank you, my darling.
G: Yes, sir.
(DS reads through the solution as Gulbadan continues stroking him. Gulbadan is also watching the television.)
DS: Your approach is right, but you’re making it too complicated here. (He circles something with a red pen.)
G: Sir? (He presses a little too hard.)
DS: Careful, careful.
G: Sorry, sir.
DS: You’re unable to make the shift from a 2D image to a 3D image. Think of this as an equation of order 2 moving to form an equation of order 3.
G (looks closely): Yes, sir.
DS: If this arc is this equation and this arc here is another, and you factorize it, what do you get?
G: Sir, may I?
DS: Yes, yes, of course. Damn. I don’t know—I just can’t get it up without the green tea.
G: Some drinks, sir?
DS: I don’t drink or smoke, Gulbadan. Neither should you.
G: Yes, Darling Sir. Sorry.
DS: Here.
(DS holds the notebook with one hand. Gulbadan continues stroking DS with one hand while solving the problem with the other.)
(The sounds outside seem to increase as more people arrive. It’s clear that they are checking in, talking to each other, and dragging luggage.)
G: Here, sir, is this right?
DS: Exactly. See? You’re good at algebra.
G: Yes. Yes, sir.
DS: Then think of coordinate geometry as algebra. It’s the same thing, really. Trigonometry, calculus, coordinate geometry, and algebra. If you know one, you know all.
G: Yes.
DS: Many forms. Many, many forms of knowing the truth. Different names. In essence, not exactly the same, but close. Reality—in many, not in one.
G: Who taught you this?
DS: Down there.
G (correcting himself): Yes, yes, sir.
DS: My mathematics teacher. He was a party worker. Devout man. Broke the Babri. Himself. He was on top of it. Fucked it. Had a hard-on. Knew mathematics like butter.
(Pause.)
DS: People say they were all illiterate violent goons. No. Just when... (DS gestures) ...down... cup it, cup it here.
G: Yes, yes, Darling Sir.
(DS kisses Gulbadan again.)
DS: Just when he was breaking the mosque, he said he had great visions in mathematics. With every bang on its dome, elusive shapes appeared before his eyes. He had nothing against Muslims. I have nothing against Muslims, but it was coming in the way of reality. He got past it... just break the bloody thing and...
(DS begins to climax.)
DS: Hold it... hold it... Yes... Yes...
(The door opens, and Tyagi enters. The room lights dim for a moment. In the corridor, lights of revelry fill the space. We hear several people coming up, laughing, talking, and dragging heavy sacks. There’s the sound of bottles clinking. Outside, the light resembles that of a dingy lodge, with an old yellow bulb flickering. Tyagi enters. Room lights return.)
(Silence.)
(Tyagi looks at Gulbadan with disgust. DS looks at Tyagi and stops Gulbadan with effortless authority.)
Tyagi: Sir. (He places a disposable cup on the table and starts sweeping the hair from the floor.)
DS: Sit.
Tyagi: Sir. (Shows the broom.)
DS: Sit.
(Tyagi sits on a chair facing away from the bed. DS takes some water from the table and gives it to Tyagi. Tyagi stands up and takes it.)
Tyagi: Okay, sir. I’m—
(DS insists non-verbally that Tyagi drinks the water. After Tyagi finishes, DS puts the glass down and tastes the green tea.)
DS: Aah. (To Gulbadan.) I told you. You know why the Chinese have such a large population? Green tea. (Laughs.)
(Everyone awkwardly laughs along with him. Tyagi looks worried.)
DS: Tyagi ji, all okay?
Tyagi: Yes, sir. Yes, yes. Can we leave a little early? If you don’t mind—if it’s possible—can we leave?
DS: Yaar, Tyagi, this isn’t accounting that you can do anywhere, anytime. (Laughs.)
(Again, everyone laughs forcefully. This is a pattern whenever DS cracks a joke.)
Tyagi: Sir, yes, sir.
DS: What happened?
Tyagi: Gulbadan... maybe Gulbadan can make something happen... quickly... as in—
DS: Gulbadan wants his full three hours, even if I pay him for the whole amount and leave in one. (He touches Gulbadan’s face and gives an air kiss.)
(Tyagi looks sternly at Gulbadan, then goes back to cleaning the floor with the broom.)
Tyagi: Oh, sir. Your other phones.
DS: The party phone was with you.
Tyagi: Yes, sir. It was buzzing continuously, and I didn’t want it to disturb you.
(DS grabs the phone and looks at it.)
DS: Three hundred and eighty-three messages on WhatsApp! (As DS checks, messages keep coming in. He checks his phone in one corner. Tyagi goes to Gulbadan.)
Tyagi: The roads are closing. Take your money and leave.
Gulbadan: Which roads?
Tyagi: From this side to the circle, all the way to the metro station. The police have surrounded the procession. All the women are inside.
Gulbadan: You—
Tyagi: I walked to the main road. Do you have anyone there?
Gulbadan: No.
Tyagi: Bloody liar!
DS: Did you see the messages, Tyagi?
Tyagi: No, sir. How can I see your—
DS: Gulbadan, we’d better finish quickly and go home. Any moment now, everything will be shut down.
Gulbadan: Yes, yes, sir. I am ready.
DS: Is the moon out?
Tyagi: No, sir, not yet.
DS: Good. (Pause.) Listen, we will do "aquarium." You know aquarium?
Gulbadan: No, Darling Sir. But if you teach me, I’ll—
DS (laughing loudly): If I teach you at my age, I’ll die. Tyagi, have you got the costumes?
Tyagi: Yes, sir.
DS: Ready?
(Tyagi goes to another part of the room to take out costumes from a big bag. DS’s office phone rings again.)
DS: Good evening, sir... yes, sir. I’m still on the way. Yes, I know, sir. They called me from the board. I know you trust me, sir. You’ll look after it... No, no, no, sir, I’ll do my best. (Pause.) Sir, I will— (the line gets disconnected)
DS (loudly): Bloody bhench—
(He sits down and calms himself. A different phone rings. DS picks up.)
DS: Yes, yes (very sweetly). Yes, yes, betu. Yes, papa is— (He gestures to the others and leaves the room.)
(Gulbadan and Tyagi remain standing.)
Gulbadan: Who?
Tyagi: Baby.
Gulbadan: Oh.
Tyagi: Can you finish quickly? I have to—
Gulbadan: Me too.
Tyagi: What?
Gulbadan: I should leave soon.
Tyagi: Then just take the money and leave.
Gulbadan: He won’t give it if I don’t do "aquarium."
Tyagi: (Mumbling in frustration) Ram ram ram ram...
(Tyagi goes back to the bags as Gulbadan drinks a sip of the green tea.)
Tyagi: If you finish early, I’ll pay you extra.
Gulbadan: Why?
Tyagi: My wife is not well. I need to be home.
Gulbadan: She too?
Tyagi: What?
Gulbadan: Won’t eat till she sees you with the moon? (Laughs)
Tyagi: Look, something major is about to happen here. The party messages are sending this location. My wife is really not well. If I get stuck, my daughter will—
Gulbadan: I am ready to go, but he won’t.
Tyagi: He wants to. You’re stopping him.
Gulbadan: Not surprised that you’re an accountant for so long.
(Tyagi looks at him in anger.)
Tyagi: If sir wasn’t here, I would have—
Gulbadan: What?
Tyagi: Sent you to jail.
Gulbadan: The local station will take 30% of tonight. You’re middle class. Above you and below you, everything is a deal.
(Pause.)
(Tyagi throws a costume toward Gulbadan in disgust. Gulbadan starts to wear it. Tyagi looks away, picks up his phone, and dials as Gulbadan dresses up in a small fish costume, resembling a pretty Barbie-like get-up.)
Tyagi: Hello. Yes. Yes, Beta, where is Mummy? (Pause.) Has she had the medicines? Ask aunty next door to give her hot water. You don’t go near the gas, Beta. Yes. Yes, papa is coming. Yes.
(Gulbadan looks at him and smiles.)
(Gulbadan starts to sing loudly—an unbearably greasy 80s Bollywood song. Tyagi gestures to him to be quiet, but Gulbadan keeps dancing.)
Tyagi: Yes, Beta. I’m coming. No, no, that is— (laughs) —nothing. I’m in the office. Some birthday party.
(Gulbadan dances provocatively on the bed. Tyagi, frustrated, gets on the bed, cuts the call, and slaps Gulbadan hard.)
Tyagi: MOTHERFUCKER!
(Gulbadan falls to the ground, turns, and smiles.)
Gulbadan: Fuck, how was I supposed to know that to be an engineer, I’d have to be fucked by the uncles of this country?
Tyagi: Fucking dog... dog from fucking Seelampur, you— (he charges toward Gulbadan)
Gulbadan: If I get even a scratch on my face, you know what Darling Sir will do to you.
(Tyagi stops, goes, and sits on his chair helplessly.)
Tyagi: My wife is dying there. You understand? She’s almost as old as your mother. Any day now, she’ll die. And I cannot go because of you. I’m stuck here, and if this goes on for a few more hours, God knows how long we’ll be stuck here. How many nights and days?
Gulbadan: I’ll try. Faster. But it’s up to him.
Tyagi: He’s a man. Just jerk him off and get it done with.
Gulbadan: I don’t think you understand.
Tyagi: What?
Gulbadan: He doesn’t want sex.
Tyagi: Then?
Gulbadan: He wants... revenge.
(The door opens. The room lights dim again. Sounds and lights from outside of revelry seep in. Darling Sir enters. Lights change. The outside is darker now. It’s much later in the evening. Darling Sir stands at the door. The television shows veiled women passing by in groups, surreal. Darling Sir stares at the screen in horror.)
Darling Sir: Oh, you’re in costume. Good.(To Tyagi) Tyagi?
(Tyagi hands him his costume.)
DS: Gulbadan?
Gulbadan: Darling Sir?
DS: Have you done aquarium before?
Gulbadan: (Coyly) No, sir. Only fisherman.
DS: What happens in that?
Gulbadan: I run away, and the fisherman casts a net. I get caught, and then he eats me. (Laughs.)
(Tyagi is horrified at the description. He goes and sits at his desk, takes out a small prayer book, and chants quietly.)
(DS begins to wear his costume, shaped like a shark. As he finishes, Tyagi gets up impatiently.)
Tyagi: Sir, may I wait outside?
DS: No, no. What if I need you?
Tyagi: Just call me, sir.
DS: No.
Tyagi: Sir, please. My wife—
DS: Shut up, Tyagi. Sit.
Tyagi: Please, sir.
DS: I said shut up, Tyagi. Not tonight. Tyagi: I’ll be right at the door, sir.
DS: Don’t be stupid, Tyagi. This is a Muslim area.
Tyagi: Sir?
DS: You cannot go out and wait by yourself. I cannot take that chance.
Tyagi: Sir, I was out looking for your green tea.
DS: Messages are coming, Tyagi, on WhatsApp. You want to see? We are surrounded by Muslims. Everywhere. This entire place. Women in veils. Their daughters, their aunts— all women in veils are out there, blocking all roads. They will eat you alive, and I won’t even know which veil to look inside to find you. So just shut the fuck up and sit there. Shut your ears if it’s suddenly making you all impure. Bloody Brahmin bastard. Doesn’t think twice about living on other people’s favor for 20 years. For three minutes, if he has to hear an orgasm, it’ll make him impure for nine lives.
(Tyagi goes quiet and sits.)
(Silence.)
Gulbadan: What messages is the party sending, sir?
DS: Aquarium.
Gulbadan: Yes?
DS: Chase me. Treat me badly. Make my life miserable. You are a small fish, yet you make me believe that you are more in number. That somehow, other than me, everyone is you. I pant, fear, and swim around in terror. The fear gives me a hard-on.
Gulbadan:
DS: And then, suddenly I hear calls from my other fishes. Tyagi?
Tyagi: Sir.
DS: You’ll make noises when I wave my hand.
(Tyagi nods.)
DS: Then I will know we are more and we will chase this small fish. It will run everywhere but should not breathe.
(Pause.)
DS: Ok, Gulbadan. No breathing. You have to block it till I come and hit you. When I hit you, you can ask for mercy and breathe. But until then, go around the tank without breathing. Face red with horror. Ok?
(Pause.)
(Gulbadan is looking at the television. More police seem to be in the frame now.)
(DS looks at the screen.)
DS: Are you ready?
Gulbadan: Yes, yes, Darling Sir.
DS: How long can you hold your breath?
Gulbadan: Haven’t tried.
DS: Scare me.
Gulbadan: Sir?
DS: Scare me. I’ll run around.
(Gulbadan makes ridiculous scary noises and DS pretends to be scared, running around and hiding. He expects Gulbadan to find him wherever he hides. He does this for some time and then signals to Tyagi to make some sounds. Tyagi hesitates but eventually starts making noises. DS suddenly makes violent noises and Gulbadan blocks his breath, running around. DS makes him run to the corners of the room. Gulbadan turns red but DS does not relent. He takes out a belt and starts hitting the bed as if it were Gulbadan. Gulbadan lies in a corner, holding his breath, fearing when the belt will hit him.)
Tyagi: Sir, sir, catch him, sir.
(DS does not concede and keeps going close to Gulbadan without touching him.)
Tyagi: Sir, please, sir, catch him, sir.
(Tyagi runs to Gulbadan, holds open his mouth with his hands, and makes him breathe. Gulbadan gasps for air and falls on the bed, almost choking. Tyagi gets water from the table and gives it to him. Gulbadan drinks and throws it up, lying on the bed. DS, still in the shark costume, looks on. Tyagi sits next to Gulbadan.)
(There is a call for prayer from the mosque.)
DS: Move away, Tyagi. Let him pray.
(Tyagi and DS move away. Gulbadan sits, looking at them, and somehow gets his breath back.)
Gulbadan: Let me go, sir. Please let me go.
DS: Pray.
Gulbadan: I don’t pray, sir. I have never prayed in the evening.
DS: I don’t want to hurt you, Gulbadan. I love you. I really love you. You are Muslim. We are surrounded by your people. I came into your area. We took the risk, but see, I still love you. You pray, my dear. No problem. I will not come between you and your God.
Gulbadan: Darling Sir, I want to go home. Please let me.
DS: I want to go home. Tyagi wants to go home. We all want to.
(The door opens suddenly. A man in his 30s enters. He looks like someone who has come from a village, wearing a sweater, a muffler, a lungi, and another muffler wrapped around his head. He walks in and looks at everyone around in shock. He is fixed in position.)
(No one knows what to say.)
Man: Sorry, Sir. (To Tyagi.)
Tyagi: Come, come. (Trying to push him out the door.)
Man: Sir, I have a request, sir.
Tyagi: Come outside and—
Man: Some show is happening here, sir?
Tyagi: What do you want? Why didn’t you knock?
Man: On what, sir?
Tyagi: The door. Get out. Get out and speak.
Man: Sir, is this what I think it is?
Tyagi: What?
Man: Are these men dressed as fish?
Tyagi: Come out. Why are you standing?
Man: Which fish, sir? River fish or sea fish?
Tyagi: I’ll tell you.
Man: I am pure vegetarian, sir, with occasional meat-eating.
Tyagi: Will you just get out and speak?
(The man suddenly spots something and starts pointing to it.) Man: That, that, sir. Exactly.
Tyagi: What?
Man: Scissors, sir. I’ve just come, but my sack is not opening. Please, sir, if you don’t mind, can I please have the scissors? I will give them back.
(Tyagi looks at DS. DS nods. Tyagi goes and picks up the scissors.)
Man (to DS): Just one hour in the city and already...
DS: Take the scissors and get lost.
(Man receives the scissors and looks at them keenly.)
Man: Haircut? Barber’s?
(Tyagi quickly takes the scissors and cleans them.)
Tyagi: Here, take this and keep it.
Man: Keep it! Really?
DS: YES, YES, KEEP IT!
Man: No, sir. If you keep other people’s scissors, there is a possibility of a fight. They say in our village—I do not want to fight with you, Saheb.
DS: Okay, don’t keep it. Just use it and give it back.
Man: Keep the scissors, sir. This is a Mohammedan area.
DS: What if I were one?
Man: You are not, sir. Impossible.
DS: How do you know?
Man: Prayer has been called in your local mosque, and you are standing, looking like a big fish. (laughs)
Tyagi: Yes. Please, please go out.
Man: I will give it back, Saheb.
(Tyagi pushes him out and goes out with him.)
(DS looks at Gulbadan.)
DS: How did it feel, Gulbadan, to not be able to breathe?
Gulbadan: I want to go home, Darling Sir.
DS: I feel that way every day. At home. At work. Every day I cannot breathe.
Gulbadan: You want one shot, Darling Sir? We can do it. Then can I go home?
DS: You are young. You will go. Where will I go? This is your area. Your mothers and sisters have blocked the roads, trains, everything. But what will happen to me?
(Pause.)
DS: If the party had not reassured us by now, your people would have killed me, Gulbadan. Would you have been able to save me?
Gulbadan: Sir, what has the party assured, sir?
DS: It will come. It will come for us—us who are trapped in life, who have been wronged for 70 years. Who, despite being the big fish, have had fathers who were slaves, mothers who toiled, brothers and sisters who died young.
(Darling Sir is very emotional.)
DS: My dear Gulbadan, you have Saudi, Dubai, Oman, Palestine, Egypt—the whole world for you. Where will I go? The party is coming. I do not hate you people, believe me. Not one bit. I want everyone to be one and be together. But you also have to think like that, don’t you?
(Goes close to the television.)
DS: Can you tell which one of them is your mother?
Act 2
A one-room house in the Muslim side of Seelampur. The previous room could be converted to this house with basic changes. Attached is also a small kitchen. There is a small window. Outside it, some cables of television and electricity can be seen. The house is on the first floor, so when people look out, they look down. It is late at night in December, Delhi.
Saquina Bano *(in her 50s) is setting up a hammock with a saree. On a chair, Naajma (in her early 30s) is sitting with a baby in her lap. The baby is crying. On the wall hangs Saquina’s veil. Next to her veil, there is a nail for another. Naajma is wearing a hijab, but her face is not covered at the moment. Saquina’s is black, and Naajma’s is green.
Saquina finishes tying the hammock. She looks at Naajma, who is sitting still. The baby is crying, and Naajma is making no effort to placate it. She seems stunned into silence. Saquina goes and picks up the baby from Naajma's lap, places it on the hammock, and swings it a little to placate the baby. She gives the baby a little water. The baby quietens. Saquina sits in another chair on the other side of the table, looking at Naajma. She gets up, goes to the window, and opens it. A lot of commotion can be heard outside. She shuts the window and looks at Naajma.*
(Silence.)
Saquina: Now stay here.
(Silence.)
Saquina: I’ll go.
Naajma: I’ll come with you.
(Silence.)
Saquina: You can’t come back.
Naajma: It’s not your protest.
Saquina: Yes, it is.
(Silence.)
Saquina: You’re just the kind of person they are looking for. Get angry and hit a constable—all the work blown in a moment.
(She pulls out her phone from the pocket of her kameez, dials a number. It keeps ringing, and no one picks up.)
Saquina: It’s been 70 days. In 13 sites now around the country. The government wants us to hit. We make one mistake, and it’ll become another ‘violent Muslim’ story.
Naajma: He pushed me with a baton.
Saquina: You are in Delhi.
Naajma: I was not doing anything.
Saquina: You’re wearing a veil.
Naajma: He moved my child with the stick and pressed my breast.
Saquina: Welcome to India. Are you hungry?
Naajma: I ate.
Saquina: Good. The baby?
Naajma: Yes, a little.
Saquina: What’s her name?
Naajma: I’m not sure.
(Pause.)
Saquina: How old is she?
Naajma: Maybe a few months. Maybe close to a year. I don’t know.
Saquina:
Naajma:
Saquina: You—
Naajma: I found her.
(Pause.)
Saquina: Where?
Naajma: In Jorhat station.
Saquina: Railway station?
Naajma: Police station.
Saquina: You stole her?
Naajma: No.
Saquina: Did you steal someone’s child and run away? Are you someone who sells children to—
Naajma: I saved her. She would have been sold.
(Pause.)
Saquina: How do I believe you?
Naajma: Have I sold her?
Saquina: You might. Why are you in Delhi?
Naajma: I saw on television.
Saquina: What?
Naajma: Women in veils. Sitting for days, night and day. Bringing the government to its knees. Powerful men begging for you to go home. I wanted to be nowhere else in the world.
(Pause.)
Naajma: And I also wanted this child to start her life here. Saquina: How did you buy the ticket?
Naajma: Sat next to the toilet in the train.
Saquina: From Jorhat?
Naajma: Yes.
Saquina: How long was it?
Naajma: Four days.
Saquina: Food?
Naajma: India starves you. Indians don’t.
Saquina: You came here just for this?
Naajma: Do you remember anything like this in your life?
(Saquina gets a call and picks it up.)
Saquina: Yes, Rukhsar. (Pause) Did you ask Mohsin or Aquib? Mohsin was with him in the morning. I know. No, no, you don’t cross the Nullah to look for him now. Please stay there. Have you eaten? Stay in Chaand Bagh. Don’t walk back alone. And don’t get impatient with the police. (Pause) She is here. I’ll come. Yes, I’ll come. Be careful. Yes. (Ends the call.)
(Naajma has gone close to the baby and is looking at her. She gives the baby some more water.)
Saquina: You have to give this baby to the police or an orphanage.
Naajma: I am not giving her to anyone.
Saquina: Her parents could be looking for her.
Naajma: Her parents can make another.
Saquina: It’s a crime.
Naajma: What is?
Saquina: Lifting a baby. You could be put in prison. And along with you—
Naajma: I don’t have papers. She doesn’t have papers. Our entire existence is a crime.
(Pause.)
Saquina: Oh.
Naajma: You have papers?
Saquina: Yes.
Naajma: Which ones?
Saquina: Everything.
Naajma: Like?
Saquina: Aadhaar Card, Ration Card. My sons have driving licenses; one of them is in the army. My daughter is a graduate.
Naajma: Then why are you sitting in the protest?
Saquina: Because I won’t show.
Naajma: What?
Saquina: My papers.
Naajma: Why?
Saquina: It’s my country.
Naajma: How do they know?
Saquina: Who?
Naajma: The government.
Saquina: They knew when I went to vote.
Naajma: You voted for them?
Saquina: I could have voted for anyone. That’s none of their business.
Naajma: Did you know this protest would last so many days?
Saquina: I didn’t think it would last a day.
Naajma: Why do you think it did?
Saquina: Because there is a clear reason.
Naajma: Which is?
Saquina: They’ll keep asking for papers, but we won’t show them.
Naajma: If you don’t show them, they’ll put you in prison.
Saquina: If I need to show papers to prove that I am of this country, then I am in prison.
(Pause.)
Saquina: I have papers. My grandparents left for Pakistan with their second son. My father stayed back in India. They wrote three letters urging him to come to Pakistan. He stayed back here with his family. I have those three letters. For 60 years in my family. In which a father is telling his son over and over again that being a Muslim here is a curse, and the son keeps replying that this is his country, he is not going anywhere. My grandparents stopped writing to my father. He died with no contact from his own family. I have those three letters. What do the Hindus of this country have?
(Silence.)
(Saquina picks up her phone and tries calling again. The phone rings; no one picks up. She tries another number. Someone picks up on the other side.)
Saquina: Hello, Mohsin. Salaam alaikum. I am Aftaab’s Ammi. He has not come back home as yet. He was with you in the morning, wasn’t he? (Pause) No, but I saw you together. (Pause) Why are you not saying anything? Where is he? (Pause) I know the police have blocked the roads, but he should pick up his phone at least, shouldn’t he? Or call from someone else’s. (Pause) It’s not off; it’s ringing, but he isn’t picking up. (Pause) When did you see him last? He said he was going where? To Connaught Place? To do what?
Saquina: Oh... I told him not to go out of the area. You boys, this is the problem with all of you. You just don’t listen. That’s why— (Pause) Yes, I scolded him. In front of everyone at Chaand Bagh. So? Give the phone to your Ammi. Give the phone. No, I don’t want a lecture from you. Give the phone. (Pause) Hello. Yes, Salaam alaikum. Will you please ask your son what he knows about Aftaab? There is something he isn’t telling me. I know, I know. I can tell. Instead of giving me lectures on my son, can you please find out from your son what he knows? Yes. (Silence) And why are you not in Chaand Bagh? I haven’t seen you even one day. Your husband doesn’t like it? What? What exactly does your husband not like? (Pause) Tell him if he doesn’t step out of the house today, him, his half-dead father whom he’s looking after, and his good-for-nothing son will all have to step out of the country one day. With Muslim men like this, who needs Hindus to take us out! (Pause) Shut up. I am older. I am telling you. Find out about my son and get to Chaand Bagh. Yes, Khuda Hafiz.
(Ends the call.)
Saquina: This son, this second son will be the end of me.
(Suddenly, loud sounds are heard from outside. The lights of the room dim for a moment. Lights outside the window go up. There are sounds of excitement. Large crowds of women can be heard. She goes to the window and looks outside.)
Saquina: Come here.
(Silence.)
Saquina: COME HERE!
(Naajma goes to her.)
Saquina: Look. Are you seeing what I am seeing?
(Naajma looks out.)
Naajma: The police are retreating.
Saquina: Really?
(Saquina goes around the house, finds a pair of glasses on top of the television, wears them, and comes back to the window.)
Saquina: Move.
(Saquina looks out, joyously closes the window.)
Saquina: This. This is the power of Chaand Bagh. Did you see? If we had hit them like you did, this would never have happened.
Naajma: You think they care?
Saquina: See for yourself. The people. The people have to be on our side.
Naajma: They are retreating because they’ve been asked, not because they feel for you.
Saquina: Yes, but they have been asked because the world is watching. The world still has a moral compass.
(Naajma laughs.)
Saquina: And this is why you will return this child. Do the right thing.
Naajma: The world has a moral compass?
Saquina: Are you Indian?
Naajma: They can’t ask you, but you can ask me?
Saquina: There are people in Assam who are not. At least some.
Naajma: If I’m not, then your police can press my breast with a baton, can they?
Saquina: No. That’s not what I am saying. Naajma: Your first son is fighting in the mountains to protect a country that is against you. Your second son is missing. Your daughter is out there in 5 degrees Celsius, sitting with women of all ages for over 70 days now, and for two minutes, the police retreat, and you can see a moral compass in the world?
Saquina: Look, all I’m saying is that this movement is clean. It’s not just a Muslim movement. Not just a Muslim women’s movement. Though it might seem like that and that is what the government will push for. But it is clean and inclusive. It is a moral movement. Like... like Gandhi’s.
Naajma: You know Gandhi?
Saquina: Through every banknote. How can I miss him?
Naajma: So we cannot have thieves, child lifters, robbers, murderers, fundamentalists amongst us. You understand?
Naajma: I’m in your house. You have a little power over me, and you have already declared that I’m a criminal. You are up against people who burned an entire city to come to power, and you’re surprised at their need to declare you one?
Saquina: Don’t compare me to them.
Naajma (taking her child): Don’t compare me to anyone.
(Naajma is about to leave.)
Saquina: Where will you go?
Naajma: Back to Chaand Bagh. I didn’t come all the way to sit in your house.
Saquina: This child needs to sleep.
Naajma: She is my child. I saved her from being sold. She saved me from going insane and drowning myself in a river. This is a relationship of life and death. For this, there are no papers.
(Pause.)
Naajma: You said you are doing something that Gandhi did, didn’t you? Gandhi, the man on the banknote. I’m sorry, I’m not sure who Gandhi is or what he freed us from. I lived by a river. My forefathers lived by that river. I have heard it has been our place ever since we were anywhere. My parents knew the river inside out. I have heard it is inside something called India. Earlier it was called something else. Then it was called Pakistan by some. Then it became something called Bangladesh. People have said all these are real places. I’m not sure.
After the rains every year, part of my land submerges. We move. Not now, but for hundreds of years. Since the beginning of time. Since the first crocodile ate the first fish. We move. Then the land comes back. Then we move again. Then it rains, and then we move. I’m standing on a patch of mud in this big world. The mud patch gets washed out every year and drowns in an ever-rising sea. I don’t know Gandhi, I’m sorry. Because I don’t think Gandhi knew my mud patch.
So I have a paper. The rupee note. That’s all. If that’s not enough, I have none.
I am not a robber, a criminal, a child lifter. I am someone who lives on land that is changing all the time. You people in the cities, you build houses, roads, offices, and stamp everything with your name. You own things. You should have papers. Why should I have papers?
I had no idea what India was until five years ago. But Allah knows, I have seen India. I met India and saw her stare at me for five years. Night and day in a room for 10 people, in which 140 people are stacked. Where mothers can stay with their children until they are six. Then the children are separated, and they never see them again.
I know India from a detention center in Keonjhar where nothing happens every day except hearing the wails of women. You carry a flag, hold up pictures, and call this house India. I have India as a feeling in my uterus. It’s a kick by a boot of a man who shoved us in a truck. And when he kicked, there was a picture on the wall behind him. That man I am told is called Gandhi. He is supposed to be the father of a nation. A nation I’m told some people actually believe exists in reality.
(Silence.)
Saquina: Let her sleep. My children are out there anyway. Let yours be at home at least.
(Brief pause.)
(Naajma places the child back in the hammock and sits again in her chair.)
Naajma: Where do you think your son is?
Saquina: I don’t know. Now that the police are retreating, the roads will open. He should be back soon.
(Pause)
He comes late sometimes when he is angry. This boy will be the death of me.
Naajma: Is he angry?
Saquina: I scolded him in front of everyone today. In front of Chaand—(smiles)—a girl who lives in that house over there. The one with the dish antenna. Can you see?
(Naajma looks at it and smiles.)
Saquina: He has gone out to see films with her twice. Thinks I don’t know.
Naajma: In our village, boys and girls go to the forest.
Saquina: Here, they go to the cinema. It’s the same if you ask me.
(Pause)
This morning he wanted me to give him 1000 Rs. As if it’s a joke. Wastes so much money.
Naajma: 1000 Rupees!
Saquina: He can ask, but I don’t have that kind of money to give him. So I didn’t. Then he came to Chaand Bagh and started insisting.
I shouted at him, and Chaand was sitting on the other side with her mother. He must have been upset.
These young boys... You are fortunate you have a girl.
Naajma: What does he do with the money?
Saquina: Same. Like all boys.
Naajma: What?
Saquina: Wastes. What else? And this girl, Chaand, she will never pay for her ticket. They go together, and he pays. Always.
Naajma: How do you know?
Saquina: He forgets the tickets in his shirt pocket.
(Naajma and Saquina smile. They sit down and look at the baby in the hammock in silence.)
Saquina: Boys are impulsive. My daughter is not like that. She has been sitting right from the beginning. I was also not going in the beginning.
Naajma: She took you?
Saquina: I kept telling her this is exactly what they want. A Muslim protest. It will only increase the divide.
(She gets up to make tea.)
Till one evening, I realized she was right. We cannot stay at home anymore.
Naajma: What happened?
Saquina: I was in the library where I work, at the university. I was cleaning up the desks of all the officers at the end of the day. It was like today. The police were outside. I don’t even know why.
The students were all studying for their exams. And then the police barged in.
(Pause)
You saw India in a police station. I saw India in a library.
The next morning, I washed blood for three hours. At lunch, no one could eat.
For weeks, there was a silence around us which could not be broken by anything anyone could say in any of the lectures. I am a cleaner. I cleaned. For two months, I have been going to the campus, around the library, and making sure I clean all the spots of blood.
There hasn’t been a day when I have not found an unnoticed mark.
Naajma: Is it a Muslim university?
Saquina: Largely. After that day, I went to Chaand Bagh and sat next to my daughter. I wept for the first six days. Then I started to sing. Then talk. Then hear people read—the Quran, the great poets, the Constitution. Then... then I started to look into the eyes of men. Our men first—Maulvis, husbands, brothers, sons, Maulanas. Their father used to beat me up. I never questioned it. I just prayed that either he should die or I should. And he did.
I never knew of myself as someone outside of my father, my brothers, and their father. I was scared of their father even after his death.
Chaand Bagh changed it. I sat there with all these women, with men standing outside. With the women asking all the questions. One night, my son, who is in the army, was telling me not to go to the protest. He said that he had enough to answer for in the barracks. I told him, for the first time, “Don’t ask me to stop. Ask yourself if you know what you are protecting?”
He kept the phone. He had never heard me say something like that. 15 days later, he called me and said, "Ammi, I am protecting what you are protecting. Don’t stop."
(She serves the tea.)
Naajma: You are fortunate. You have a family. A family without a husband.
Saquina: You have a country without papers.
(Both of them laugh.)
(The lights change. They dim in the room. Outside, the lights of Chaand Bagh shine brightly. Big halogens are visible, along with announcements.) Act 2 Scene 2 The scene transitions from the sounds of the previous scene to the television images in the room of the lodge.
Gulbadan is fast asleep on the bed. Tyagi is sitting next to him on a chair, looking at his phone. DS is also looking into his phone. It is much later at night, with sounds of excitement and people arriving just outside their door.
(Lights in the room dim.)
Tyagi: Sir?
DS: Hmm?
Tyagi: Sir, the news says the police cordon is retreating. Shall we try to get out? Maybe the roads won’t be blocked.
DS: Which news are you following? (laughs)
Tyagi: Sir?
DS: Look outside the window.
(Tyagi goes close to the window and looks.)
DS: Does it look like—
Tyagi:
DS: Always check more than one source of news, Tyagi. Everyone is lying. This is not a good time for the truth.
Tyagi: Yes, sir.
DS: There’s a lot of activity in our party WhatsApp groups.
Tyagi: Must be, sir.
DS: You’re not a party man. How would you know? (laughs) Actually, I’m not a party man either. I don’t believe in parties. They’re full of bigoted assholes.
Tyagi: Yes, sir. Sir, maybe I should go down and check?
DS: And if they ask you what you’re doing here at this time?
Tyagi: I am—I am just here, sir.
DS: In this lane? Every police constable to the Assistant Commissioner of Police receives hard cash from here. They know what this lane is.
Tyagi: I won’t tell them.
DS: And if you have to? Can you imagine what would happen to my reputation? I’m the principal of a respected institution. You, you’re a respected middle-class man, Tyagi. Respect. That’s India. No food, no water, no security—just respect.
Tyagi: Sir, my wife is very unwell.
DS: And my wife must have slept on an empty stomach. She is a goddess, a devi. Do you know how much she has done for me? I am an animal. I used to have sex only with her. Believe me.
Tyagi: Sir, my daughter is also very young.
DS: And sometimes, when she went to her mother’s house, I went to someone with Khanna.
Tyagi: Sir, my daughter and wife are both—
DS: But there, just Khanna used to visit. I never even touched anyone. These Punjabis are such perverts, I tell you.
Tyagi: Sir—
DS: Yes?
Tyagi: My wife might need hospitalization. Let me at least go down and—
DS: Tyagi, Tyagi. If your wife needs hospitalization, I take full responsibility.
Tyagi: For what, sir?
DS: I take responsibility. I’m telling you, I take responsibility. Don’t you trust me?
Tyagi: I trust you, sir, but you are also here.
DS: Exactly. We are in this together, Tyagi. You could have brought me. I could have brought you.
Tyagi: Sir?
(Pause)
DS: Look at the action in the party WhatsApp. In the last four hours, two crores have come in from the USA, London, and Australia. There’s a separate NRI group. The administrator won’t add me to it, even though I say I’m an NRI.
Tyagi (irritated): Sir, we’re stuck in Seelampur in Delhi, and you’re talking about London, USA, Australia?
DS: You’re very impatient, Tyagi, you know. That’s been your problem from the beginning. It’s why you didn’t complete your graduation.
(Tyagi falls silent.)
DS: Look at the NRIs. They’re all graduates, post-graduates, or entrepreneurs. Real India is actually outside India. They are the hope. My dream is to get added to that WhatsApp group somehow.
(Gulbadan makes some noises in his sleep.)
DS: Put his blanket properly at least. Poor boy must be cold.
(Tyagi goes to Gulbadan and covers him properly. He is still in the fish costume.)
Tyagi: He’s bleeding, sir.
DS: Ugh... terrible. You have to stop me, Tyagi. You have to. I get carried away once in a while. I was so frustrated today. I must have—ugh. Ram ram ram. How could I beat up a helpless boy? You know, in the Gita, Krishna says to Arjuna that every innocent, unarmed person is his own child, his dearest. I hurt Krishna’s child.
Tyagi: I tried to stop you, sir.
DS: You have to hold me, Tyagi. You have to hold me and pull me back.
Tyagi: I tried to stop you from coming here today, sir.
DS: Oh, Tyagi ji, the astrologer. Saw the future. (laughs)
(Pause)
DS: Accha, Tyagi, do you think I’ll become part of the NRI WhatsApp group one day?
Tyagi:
DS: I know you’re good at astrology. Tell me.
Tyagi: I don’t practice anymore.
DS: Why?
Tyagi: My father asked me not to.
DS: Oh. May his soul be at peace. Where did you immerse his ashes?
Tyagi: Hardwar.
DS: Very nice. Very nice. Lucky man. For my father, I had to do it here in Surajkund. That day too, there was some road blockage. He couldn’t even get his ashes submerged in the right place.
Tyagi: Sir, his ear is bleeding.
DS: Must be an infection.
Tyagi: Sir?
DS: What?
Tyagi: The pillow is soaked with his—
DS: We can’t do anything until morning. Let him sleep.
Tyagi: I have his phone, sir. Should I call his family?
(DS is quiet, looking at Tyagi.)
DS: Give me the phone.
Tyagi: Sir?
DS: Give it to me.
Tyagi: Sir, you already have so many phones to manage.
DS (laughs): Home, family, office, party, stocks. Childhood was best. We were so free. But see, responsibility after responsibility. You know, in the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna says that responsibility is—
Tyagi (extremely irritated): No, sir. (looking closely at Gulbadan’s ear)
DS: What?
Tyagi: Arjuna says nothing about responsibility in the Gita. He asks questions, and Krishna answers.
DS (smirking): You seem to know a lot about the Bhagavad Gita. Tell me something about the Vedas too.
Tyagi: He’s bleeding, sir.
DS: He’ll be okay, Tyagi. When I was 16, I could—
Tyagi: It’s a big blow behind his ear. Did you hit him with an object?
(Tyagi looks at DS.)
(DS looks away.)
(Tyagi places his hand under Gulbadan’s nose to check if he is breathing.)
DS: Oh, he’s breathing. Of course he is. You’re being melodramatic. As if you’ve never seen me with other boys before. As if you don’t know how careful and cautious I am. It’s a disease I have. A sickness. But that doesn’t make me an animal. I am still a father, a husband, a principal, an Indian, a Hindu—
Tyagi: What did you hit him with?
DS: I was with him when he was breathless. He breathed out, and guess what he said immediately?
Tyagi: What?
DS: He called for his mother. (laughs)
(Tyagi looks at him in disgust.)
DS: These people—(laughs) I’m sorry. They really are… Ammi… can you believe it? He has a man in his ass and he calls for his mother. (laughs)
(Tyagi throws the scissor on the bed at DS suddenly. It goes past him, and he screams, “teri bhencho!”)
Tyagi: He calls his mother’s name, sir. You call other people sister fucker. I hope that’s not the difference between them and us.
(Silence.)
(Tyagi lifts his head slightly to examine Gulbadan.)
DS: Put him down.
(Tyagi does not listen.)
DS: You’re doing this because you think I’ll lose my job by Monday, aren’t you?
Tyagi: No, because I don’t want you to end up in jail for murder.
DS: If I do, you’ll go with me.
Tyagi: I’ve lived 20 years every day with the fear of losing my job, sir. I am still loyal to you.
DS: You have a fake degree. What will happen if your family finds out?
Tyagi:
DS: You lied to your family for all these years. Your daughter looks up to you, and you have a job with a fake degree. Are you moralizing me? Are you going to—
(Silence.)
Tyagi: I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir. But he is seriously hurt.
(DS’s WhatsApp buzzes suddenly 8 to 10 times on the party phone.)
(DS takes it out and looks at it.)
DS: I’ll send you a forward, Tyagi. You forward it to three people. You’ll get 1,000 per forward. Give me 500 for each.
(DS quickly forwards the message.)
(Tyagi looks at the message, shocked.)
Tyagi: This place, sir… it’s—
DS: It’s here. (DS smiles.) Open the window, Tyagi. See what’s happening.
Tyagi: The police are moving back, sir. More buses are arriving.
DS: Buses?
Tyagi: Yes, sir.
DS: I’m always surprised by the efficiency of this party. Hard work. Just pure hard work. Planning. What the Congress could do in the '84 riots, they can do day after day. What to do? Everyone wants peace. But if they fight with their women in front, what can anyone do? This is how the Mughals took India. Rana Pratap, Maharana Pratap, Jai Singh, Hari Singh—they didn’t fight the Mughals because they made their women stand in for them. Hindus don’t hurt women.
DS: Have you forwarded it?
Tyagi: No, sir. What is this?
DS: Send it to more people. You need your own people, or not?
Tyagi: Sir, we are here for this. You’ve said you are unwell. We’ve finished this. Let’s not get into the middle of a riot.
DS: You are in the middle of a riot, Tyagi. It’s called the 21st century.
Tyagi: Sir, let’s not forward these messages. They’re just calling for war.
DS: 1,000 rupees per WhatsApp message. They used to give 200 rupees and a biryani to vote. That’s GDP for you.
Tyagi: Sir, you are a rational man, aren’t you?
DS: Of course I am a rational man. Who will protect you and me from the Muslims? Who? Can you do it? You wince at a little blood from the ears of a prostitute. I can’t run three times around the room without an inhaler. (laughs) I have nothing against Muslims, believe me. Or Christians, Buddhists, Jains, or even caste. My God, what a horrible thing in Hinduism—caste. That’s why we have Hindutva. Casteless.
Tyagi: We should get out of here before the riots start.
DS: Yes, but now what will you say to the police? Let them retreat tonight. Tomorrow morning, we’ll step out before the riots start. They are all our people. They’ll understand.
Tyagi: We should stop the riots, sir.
DS: What?
Tyagi: Sir, you should do something. You know what this is? Tell the police. Call someone. Let’s stop the—
DS: I’m not starting the riots, Tyagi. I’m not going to stop them. If you can stop it, please do.
Tyagi: Sir, you are in the party WhatsApp group. You can say something.
DS: You’re talking like an imbecile, Tyagi. How will you raise a child in India? Do you know the number of Muslims? Do you know how much they have grown since independence? I have nothing against Muslims, but there has to be some control over the population, or not? In the Manusmriti, it clearly mentions that upper castes should defend themselves against lower castes so that the lower castes are not sent to eternal damnation. You are a Brahmin. If you will not sacrifice your liberal morality for one night to save them from eternal damnation, then who will, Tyagi? Who will?
Tyagi: What are you saying, sir? What has—
DS: Don’t you have a single person in your family who has ever said this? Father, uncle, no one?
Tyagi: Yes, sir. They did. But they did not say it on—(shows the WhatsApp)—in public and cause a riot.
DS: Hypocrisy. That is hypocrisy. If society has to change, everything has to be out there. This is why Hindus are weak. Believe me, I know most people don’t know anything about Hinduism. You think these rural, illiterate, dirty, filthy bastards coming to Delhi Buses from neigbouring areas for a day of sight seeing ,3000 rupees and a bottle of local liquor know Hinduism ?
They know nothing .
But people like you and me have to say what we know in public. Otherwise like your father or grandfather who were masters of Hinduism. Pandits . great learned scholars of Sanskrit , we will also die poor and our grandchildren and children will end up like you. Clerks in some hopeless private technical institute while these Muslims will make money in the middle east and breed here like insects .
Tyagi: You can get us out of here sir
DS: No I cannot
Tyagi: Sir please you don’t understand , we will
DS: you are being pathetic Tyagi. Just pathetic. Our people are here and you are so scared of everything
Tyagi: Sir I am telling you if there is a riot
DS: what will happen if there is a riot . In India there is a riot somewhere or the other every year
Tyagi: Sir , please listen to me . Let’s go out and tell the media . Some media. Someone who will report on what might happen tomorrow. They will listen to us sir
DS: Oh come on Tyagi! You want to make the same mistake that your forefathers made. You want to say horrible things about muslims at home but out there/
Tyagi: but sir
DS: what you are such a hypocrite. Your father the pandit his father the pandit all were hypocrites. Here I am doing everything openly in front of you . The new india. And you have a problem? Actually you know what I do not have a sickness . You have. Your father and grandfather did. All of you wanted to fuck young boys but never could . So you sat in your houses and just chanted rubbish hoping someday all the darkness in you will just become magically good. While these muslims they looted your houses, raped your women and ..
( goes out of breath and takes the inhaler)
( SILENCE)
DS: what’s the time ?
Tyagi:
DS ( looks at his cell phone) : Its just 2:00 am . Ill have another shot at him when he wakes up. You get some sleep
Tyagi:
DS: If you try to leave while I sleep you know what’ll happen right ?
( Tyagi looks at him )
( Tyagi takes out Gulbadan’s phone. Starts looking through his phone book)
DS: what are you doing? Give me that phone .
Tyagi: You are wrong sir.
( The phone rings on the other side . No one picks up)
( DS tries to get up )
Tyagi: If you stop me sir I will tell everyone that you are here .
( DS looks at Tyagi in horror)
( On the other side the phone rings again and someone picks up)
Tyagi: Hello..hello. .is this ..is this ..who is speaking?
I .. i am a friend. Are you his mother ? Aftaab? Oh yes Aftaab.
Yes he is with me. Can you please come before tomorrow morning and take him .
He Is slightly unwell. Nothing to worry. (pause)
I will get him to the Nullah. In 20 minutes. On the
other side. If you can take him.
Yes . yes.
Ok.
Namaste
( he keeps the phone)
Sir
DS: so you’ll take him
Tyagi: Yes . and you can leave tomorrow morning after you see the riots.
DS: you know what this means
Tyagi : I made a mistake sir. For twenty years all I ever wanted was to be a good man. At home. First for my father, then to my wife and then to my daughter. I lied to everyone that I am a graduate . That was it. That is how simple it was. I needed a job when my father was unwell. I lied. You found out and since then I have supplied you with everything . I am as dirty and sick as you are sir.
But I can’t do this anymore ( looking at the phone) This machine is running you. You are calling it your religion
My father , his father came from Pakistan. During the partition . From jhaang. They lost everything but not once . not once did they ever say one thing in our house which was against Islam.
They really had seen the partition. They had seen the bloodbath on both sides.
They just said to me make sure you always remain human . We didn’t lose our religion during the partition. We lost our sense of being human.
Your sickness with Gulbadan ..Aftaab . by the way his name is Aftaab. I am sure you never asked.
You want him to be an animal . A bird. A fish. Because you are terrified of humans.
I have learnt Hinduism in my house Sir. It has great ideas. It also has enough problems.
But what you have is not a religion.
You are not a patriot. You are a pervert. A sick pervert who is waiting for a riot to happen so that he can make 1000 rupees per tweet.
I am going
( He is about to wake Gulbadan up. He waits . He picks up his phone and calls . The phone rings . He waits . Someone picks up the phone)
Tyagi: Betu..how is Mamma ? Better? Alka aunty is there?
Don’t worry betu. Pappu is coming home. Ok? I am coming betu. Everything will be alright.
( He is about to wake Gulbadan up . The door opens suddenly . The Man from next door enters back with the scissor)
Man with the scissor : Is there a Mohammadan here ?
BLACK OUT ( (The next two acts and scenes will be published in the coming weeks.)
(Abhishek Majumdar is an acclaimed playwright, essayist, scenographer, and director with an international presence. His works have been featured at renowned theaters including the Royal Court Theatre London, Prithvi Theatre Mumbai, and Théâtre du Soleil Paris. He has received multiple awards, such as the META Award, International Theatremakers Award, and the Segal Center Award for Civic Engagement in the Arts. Majumdar's book Theater Across Borders is published by Bloomsbury International, and his works are available in various languages. He is the Artistic Director of Nalanda Arts Studio in Bangalore, a creative producer for the New Voices Arts Project, and a faculty member at New York University.)
*The play is open for performance and translation without a fee but with permission from author. Permission can be taken from majumdar.abhishek@gmail.com
*The play was first developed with support of the Royal Court Theater London " and the playwright would like to thank the people of Jahangirpuri, Delhi.
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