ABSTRACT
It was late afternoon in a suburb on the outskirts of Mumbai. Later that day the monsoon started, but in that moment it was humid beyond belief, even my eyelids were sweating. A performance had just finished; the performers, a group of young women living in a Half-way House for abused women, were jubilantly hugging each other and everyone else in the room. The usual post-show euphoria was in full flow – young women in saris were whirling around the room and whooping with excitement, when just a moment ago the room had been silent, still and the spectators tearful. It was a women only space: a multipurpose sleeping, cooking, working, sewing space that had turned into a performance space for fifteen actors and an audience of twenty. The show, created by the young women, had been in Hindi and involved poetry, dance, mime and song; even though I do not understand Hindi it had been beautiful to watch. It had no lighting, sound or costumes, the performances were stilted, hesitant and awkward, and yet to the tiny audience it was beautiful. As the women twirled about the room celebrating the end of a five-week rehearsal process they proceeded to collect items of food saved for the event: mangoes ‘foraged’ from next door’s tree, pickled chillies, crackers, sambals, dried fruits and sweets that I couldn’t identify appeared as if by magic. A higgledy-piggledy feast was laid out on the floor – a triumphant picnic for everyone who had participated or witnessed this process. As we all moved to the centre of the room, actors and audience merged into one mass of women – all smiling, laughing and hugging each other. One young woman in a blue sari, trimmed with gold thread, darted from person to person offering each a teaspoon and a large jar of lime pickle; everyone dipped the spoon into the jar and licked off the pickle as if it were ice-cream. She reeled round making sure everyone had a taste – suddenly I was next. ‘Didi, Didi you must try’, she said, standing in front of me, her eyes shining with excitement and the joy of giving, both a performance and now the pickle… I hesitated just for a second – would it be too hot for me? Would it make me ill? I opened my mouth to speak, and in that moment she suddenly, and without thinking, popped a large spoonful of the green chutney straight into my mouth. In a second she was gone, moving on to the next person, while I stood still, shocked, with a blob of sweet and savoury chilli pickle gently burning my 103mouth. I was astonished, truly astonished: just days ago I had been a stranger, a stranger from a different culture and country. Meena had been shy and wary of my arrival, now she called me ‘Didi’, which I believe means an elder sister, and was spoon-feeding me. In the overall scheme of things this was a tiny event, but in that moment and in reflection since, it has become a moment of deep significance for me and my practice as an applied theatre practitioner. It was then, and is now, a moment of utopia.
