Generation gaps are filled with differences that blaze up when ignited by life situations that demand decisions. Sometimes being of the same gender helps put off the fire, sometimes it fuels it further. Most times, there are no simple answers.
Naguvaaga Nakku , a subject-less phrase that lends itself to several subjective possibilities in translation — ( Having) Laughed When We Could , being one such, — is a play that explores this flammable space of mother-daughter relationships.
Written and directed by Shreekanth Rao, and produced by Sva Collective and Kriyative Theatre, the play finds a beautiful solution to this impasse of irresolution: poetry. After several successful runs since mid 2015, it played in Ranga Shankara last week.
A mother, whose whole life has been tied to her home and hearth, has raised her daughter to be a ‘career woman’. But the daughter, in her early twenties, has questions of her own that the mother is unable to respond to. Played by veteran theatre personality Laxmi Chandrashekar, the mother is in fact the mother of a whole generation of women in their 20s and 30s in our immediate society: she is caring, gentle, sweet, tiresome in her obstinacy, pitiful in her worldly handicaps, refreshing in her willingness to stretch her understanding of the world, and sad in her own painful secrets. The daughter, played by Raj Shri, is an IT professional, who wants to question patriarchal manifestations in her life; to understand why her father suddenly turned distant when she started menstruating; to question notions of marriage and motherhood; to live and love freely. Her questions are that of identity. The mother, who gave up aspirations of a career as a teacher, encourages her daughter to be financially independent in order to keep her husband’s respect, but finds it difficult to address her daughter’s ‘impertinent’ questions. Her questions as a woman, on the contrary, are that of existence: about life and death and the (in)ability of a woman to bear children.
Interestingly, the male characters that shape their lives are either absent on stage or have small but catalytic presences. The brother only appears once during a ‘Skype conversation’ as Akshay Gandhi pantomimes to Shreekanth’s voiceover; the father is relegated to third personhood . The boyfriend, played by Vinay Kumar, although personifying one part of the daughter’s hope for freedom, adds to her challenges by representing certain aspects of patriarchy himself.
In all this, poetry appears as a bridge between broken spaces: as the nostalgic mother’s reminiscences of unfulfilled dreams; her long lost sister’s romantic scribbles; the daughter giving abstract voice to her frustrations. Written by Shreekanth, except for one DVG stanza, the poems are rich in metaphor. An excerpt in translation would read:
To ascend a slide, you must go over the steps on the back– but I? I slip and fall while scaling up the smooth side – suffering alone as I listen to the sniggers of standers by.
The set and props are minimal and real, creating a spartan space for the actors to explore. The characters dressed mostly in pastel hues in handloom fabrics, aided by the wooden sheen of the platform, have a soothing, sepia-like effect. Vinay Chandra’s lighting enhances the softness. The minimal flute and veena compositions by Mahesha Swamy also have something of a sepia quality in an aural sense. Veena Basavarajaiah’s graceful movements carry the pathos of loss and absence in a tender, tearful way.
When you go home with a head full of images of DVG’s words, after the show (a lit home before a starlit sky, human company before a distant divinity) you might want to hold your mother’s hands – and sit in silence.
