Closed Doors of the Heart

There is an element of joy in anticipation, even when what is being considered is something that can prove to be a challenge. The first few minutes of Apne Ghar Jaisa, the Hindi adaptation of Barry Bermange’s 1967 play Oldenberg draws us into an older woman’s preparation to admit a stranger into her home, and accept him as the paying guest who will occupy her son’s room. Musing on this as she carefully pleats her saree, selects her bangles and the size of the red tika she will wear on her forehead, she brings us face to face with several notable facets of her situation.

Her son, whom she recalls as someone who strewed his books around the room and made scant use of the bookshelf, is gone, and it takes us some minutes of her references to him to realize that grief is central to all her recollections, even though she tamps it down. Her husband, who is out on some urgent work, has spoken on the phone to a young man and fixed up the paying guest arrangement. All he has done to get her on board with this arrangement is to tell her that the young man sounded decent on the phone. To the misgivings she has expressed, about giving up their son’s room to somebody else, (somebody, moreover, with a strange name) he has pointed out two things – first, they need the money, and then, what is the point of fearing some future mishap, when the worst is already behind them?

Stray scraps of these exchanges, the rehearsal of phrases and expressions with which she will greet the visitor, the arrangement of furniture and facilities to make the room more welcoming to a new presence, all these form the action of the play as the audience gets drawn into her vulnerability, pushed into sharing her space, her life, and her heart. Because, one of the phrases she rehearses to greet the stranger with is the hope for his long and happy stay in her home, followed by the injunction that he should indeed treat the home as his own – apne ghar jaisa.    

The joy of arranging the study table and chair next to the window, of placing a rug, of finding a mirror for the young man, and coasters for him to place his cup of tea or coffee on the coffee table, all of it begins to shift and fade the more she thinks about his name. Shokeen? What kind of a name is that? She tries out different combinations of what it could be - Shokeen to Shak to Shaykeen to Sheikh Haseen. Oh horrors!

From this, a host of questions and fears come tumbling out. Her confusion and anxiety mounts as she navigates the commonplace bigotry that we take so much for granted in those who share our social milieu. Who is this Shokeen, anyway? How did her husband conclude that he was decent? Does he speak their language? Where could he be from? What if he is a staunch non vegetarian? She rehearses the phrases she will have to use to break the news to him that he will get only vegetarian food from her kitchen.

As she becomes increasingly distraught, and the young man has still failed to appear, she carries the audience along through differences that divide people in our society. After all, what is there to dislike or criticize in a woman who is just reflecting the closed doors so many carry around in their hearts? “Pure” vegetarians cannot stand the smell of non- vegetarian food; people from the South suspect those from the North and vice versa. The Madrasi stereotype has been around as long as the one that sees people from the North East as Chinkis. So many such prejudices, expressed and unexpressed, are taken for granted in our midst. It is almost as if, to survive as an Indian, you must learn to smilingly step aside and around the bigotry of people you know.

Which is all very well, but the play brings us inexorably to a point at which the sweet, grief-torn, confused, woman on stage finally considers another aspect of what the still not present Shakeen could possibly be – an untouchable.

Padmavati Rao’s portrayal of the reluctant and bereaved mother letting her son’s room to a stranger is stunningly and skilfully apt. Abhitej Gupta as the “Shakeen” who eventually does arrive, makes an unforgettable impact with the few minutes he has on stage. The cleverly designed props allow for a good exploration of the psychological space that the play demands, instead of the merely physical. The music provides great reinforcement of key moments, and shattering sound effects bring the moment of abjection sharply into focus – when a sweet old woman must lose the sympathy of the audience and her deepest-rooted bigotry be bared.

Anmol Vellani’s deep commitment to theatre was something I knew about from the earliest times of our acquaintance, when he helped me bring my study of the poorest toymakers, whimsical creators, into the public domain. Seeing Apne Ghar Jaisa three years after it first appeared made me very grateful for his continued presence and practice of the art.