Miscellaneous
Brewing a quiet storm
Given its minimal ingredients—milk, tea leaves and sugar—it is amazing that milk teas have become so ubiquitous in our society.Timothy Aryal
Given its minimal ingredients—milk, tea leaves and sugar—it is amazing that milk teas have become so ubiquitous in our society. Rounds of tea are served or offered to every guest, to every client and at every social gathering. But perhaps more indicatively, milk teas seem forever present when you are sat down with friends or family, immersed in lengthy bouts of gossip.
It is amid these rumours and gossip that we find Radha (Srijana Adhikari), the lead character of the play Milk Tea—currently being staged at the Mandala Theatre. A middle-aged woman employed in the civil service, Radha’s decision to remain single and live by herself, has raised eyebrows in her immediate family and her community at large. And even if never spelled out, it is clear she is burdened, and constantly reminded, that in this society, a woman derives her identity only when it is attached to that of her husband.
As one sits in the darkened theatre, the only thing visible is the pale, blue fire of a gas stove. But as the lights go up, the audience’s eyes are immediately drawn to a pair of identical paintings, hung on opposite walls. The paintings, a reimagining of the Mahabharatan tale of Hanuman fetching a mountain of Sanjivani herbs, that deck Radha’s living room, have not Hanuman, but a woman carrying the mountain—a subtle, missable, foreshadowing for what is to come.
Like the paintings, Radha’s character has also been flipped on its head. Unlike her namesake, whose identity is inextricably tied to the flirtatious Krishna (who courts dozens of other women as well), our Radha is happily single, fiercely independent and thus a sore thumb to those still unable to untangle the patriarchal undertones that seep through everything in our society.
What drives the plot forward then is Radha’s relationship with Shiva (Sulakchhan Bharati), another of the play’s pivotal characters. Shiva—a middle-aged, balding man with shaky nerves—is married and has two children. Radha and Shiva are intimate and spend time at Radha’s apartment, often to escape his unhappy marriage. One thing is clear though, under Radha’s roof, both are on equal footing, highlighted by both making teas for each other (even if Shiva makes playful remonstrations).
As the pace of the play picks up, Radha is visited by her brother and two constantly quibbling sisters-in-law, who have arrived to wish her happy birthday as pretense to curry financial favours. But the conversation quickly degenerates into them bringing into question Radha’s affair with Shiva and then to why it is not acceptable that she continues to live by herself, unmarried. The two sisters-in-law, though their performances do at times feel contrived, provide much-needed comedic relief to the plot. And even as they come in to the fray to underscore the constant judgment single-women are put through by the society, they also highlight, through their dysfunctional marriages, how marriages, by nature, are hit-and-miss affairs. In fact, none of the married characters in the play are happy with their lives. Yet, the same institution continues to be ardently pushed on to unmarried women like Radha, who then live resentful lives stuck in a societal quagmire.
The play, then, comes a full circle where it ends with the revelation that Radha is pregnant out of wedlock with Shiva. The plot culminates with a tense coming together between the two and Shiva’s wife (played wonderfully by Looniva Tuladhar). Here, after an hour of subtle hints, the last few moments of the play finally spell out what the makers are trying to get at. The closing scene sees Radha in silhouette, introspectively standing in front of a mirror, cradling her baby, vowing to take care of her yet unborn child even if she has to do it alone. Particularly, her announcement that, like herself, she wants to give birth to a Radha who doesn’t need a Krishna, a Sita who doesn’t need her Ram, is an apt closure to an engrossing play. As she exits the stage, the cry of a new born baby, crackles like lightning, driving the point home further.
Stellar in its theme, the play has executions to match. The stage, meticulously crafted, feels homely, and highlights the effort and thought invested by the producers (there actually is a working tap and gas stove on the stage, a welcome surprise and adding to the realism of the play). Likewise, the costumes are relatable and are grounded to the here and now. Every character might as well have walked on to stage from the lives of the audience. The acting too, even though occasionally ponderous or over-the-top, are naturally executed—not construed just for the stage.
Though powerful and moving, it is perhaps a limitation of the play, and, in fact, of the theatre scape in Kathmandu, that characters that ring truest to the educated, urbane audiences in the cities are being brought forth time and again. And while this may be path-breaking, it can also seem aloof from the ground realties that reflect on the society as a whole. But again, that is the very function of a play: to push the boundaries of narration and societal norms.
As a stand-alone play, Milk Tea is deserving of the acclaim it has received. But when set against the backdrop of recent lineage of plays—including Yuma and Boksi ko Ghar—that bring the pressing issue of gender equity to stage, this Srijana Adhikari-directorial takes that narrative even further.
Milk Tea will be on at the Mandala Theatre, in Anamnagar, until December 18.