In silence we are vigilant,” declares Humayun, a young man who stands guard at dawn in front of the Taj Mahal, 16 years in the making but never laid an eye on by anyone other than those who built it.
However, Humayun and his fellow guard and childhood friend, the garrulous dreamer Babur, are anything but silent in this intense, but darkly humourous play by Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Rajiv Joseph, as they bicker in the way that only old friends can, exchange ideas on the future and dream of being posted to the Emperor’s Harem.
“Guards of the Imperial Harem are tip top guards…We are not tip-top…We’ll both be grey and toothless before they let us guard the Harem,” declares Humayun who likes rules and regulations, and knows them by heart, frequently pointing out the ways in which his friend is abusing the Emperor’s strict rules on sedition. Babur, by contrast is wildly imaginative and comes up with the idea of a future “palanquin that can soar into the stars like some giant bird.”
Babur is eager to turn around and look at the Taj—unseen throughout the play except through the usage of white light—much to Humayun’s horror. “Today at first light, Taj Mahal will be the most beautiful thing in the history of everything that has ever existed,” declares shiny-eyed Babur of the day the monument is set to be open to the sky for the first time. Guards at the Taj , which premiered in the U.S., swiftly takes a dark turn, picking up on the legend that in his eagerness to maintain the Taj’s position as the most beautiful thing on earth, Emperor Shah Jahan ordered the hands of those who had been involved in the project, including architect Ustad Isa, to be cut off.
Tyranny of leadership
It is upon Humayun and Babur’s shoulders this terrible duty falls, with dreadful consequences for the victims and the two friends themselves.
While focused on the Agra of 1648, the play has many themes that resonate today. The playwright is careful to avoid the issue of religion, making it more about the tyranny that leadership can fall into.
“It’s as if the Emperor doesn’t really care about speaking ill of Allah. He’s way more concerned about himself,” says Babur, contrasting the Emperor’s lax stance on blasphemy against the terrible punishments that await anyone found guilty of sedition, which fall into three categories (memorised by Humayun).
With a play so rich in ideas and words, few props are needed and the characters, skilfully played by British actors Darren Kuppmann and Danny Ashok, are dressed in plain dark blue outfits, keeping focus on their characters and relationship.
Humayun’s pedantic-ness appears funny at first but quickly takes on a far more sinister and dangerous turn, highlighting the dangers of unquestioning loyalty. At a time when nationalism and sedition are at the heart of political debate in India, this strikes a chord.
The play also tackles the dangers involved in utopian pursuits. “We get the most beautiful thing ever made here in Agra…but the flip side to that is that if nothing else will ever be built that is as beautiful, it means beauty has actually gone extinct... I killed Beauty,” bemoans Babur, who, in a Shakespearean way, cannot rid himself of the stench or feel of blood.
The play is not for the faint-hearted—intensely gory, visually as well as in word—but is made more digestible through the humour that pervades it. The friends bicker over whether chopping or cauterising the hands is worse, the details of their ideas for inventions of the future, and whether prostitutes were more compassionate in Turkey than Hindustan.
It is also, at points, uplifting. The friends may have had no choice but to be the ones to carry out the dreadful deed (their eyes would have been “pecked out by the royal crows” had they refused, Humayun plaintively reminds his friend) but their minds know no bounds. They race around the world, to a treetop safe place they built for themselves, amid the smell of sandalwood, long ago, and to Humayun’s idea of a “transportable hole” of the future that can take you anywhere.
