This is the description of the play, Kolachi, that ran at T2F in Karachi, this past week of August.
Picture your life in this City of Lights … now flip it on its head, invert the colors and forget what you think is right. What you see might not make sense, but be careful to pass judgment based on a daily pretense. Welcome to “Kolachi”, your one-stop destination for not so obvious truths and inglorious revelations. The routine here is all too absurd instead of the absurd being all too routine. These are your scenarios, your thoughts and concerns, depicted in a way that will make you wonder, laugh, and if lucky, maybe even look away. We’ve got eight stories to tell, some involve strong language and others involve going to hell.
Picture your life in this City of Lights … now flip it on its head, invert the colors and forget what you think is right. What you see might not make sense, but be careful to pass judgment based on a daily pretense. Welcome to “Kolachi”, your one-stop destination for not so obvious truths and inglorious revelations. The routine here is all too absurd instead of the absurd being all too routine. These are your scenarios, your thoughts and concerns, depicted in a way that will make you wonder, laugh, and if lucky, maybe even look away. We’ve got eight stories to tell, some involve strong language and others involve going to hell.
This was theater -- eight pieces. A bizarre opening scene, an angry end scene, a dating scene, a hell scene, aunties trying to get a boy married, a father and his son's tuition teacher, Mr. Ghani, two boys in a cafe talking about being stuck "in a Karachi," and four boys smoking a joint and blaming everything on Britain, USA, Israel, and India (in that order).
Often farcical, there were moments when it seemed like "Goodness Gracious Me" on crack, and at other times, as if the entire cast had just taken their A -level exams and were giddy to display that they too absorb politics and are imploding with creativity, bursting in irreverence. Most characters' lives revolved around fashion, espresso, Canadian universities, chicken rolls, shaadis, and Boat Basin. Still, there was enough self criticism with dashes of humor (American breakfast: cheese omelet, desi breakfast: Double roti), that you can't entirely dismiss this effort. Ultimately it was a little bit about the madness of Karachi. And a reminder, that even burgers suffer the disorder of this city. That when you order a 7-up you get everything but a 7-up. And internet service providers provide service so poor, that in hell, they would be relegated to the torture chamber. Edgier than Nida Butt's Mamma Mia, and more light hearted than Sheema's Tehriq-i Niswan, this was something that may just grow into something bigger if it steps out of the transit lounge into Karachi Real.
One scene teenage critics, who punctuate their statements with "chootia" and "bhen chod", is observation that our youth have nothing useful to add to the debate except blaming every other nation for their misery and pinning hopes in the Muslim ummah. Probably the preachiest skit. What else could the message be but -- improve yourself instead of blaming others? But isn't this the unfinished politics of our youth already?
Most good artists have politics, or as Anis Shivani said, good writing has a "moral core." What are their politics? What was the moral core? And in the madness of Karachi, do they have a vision beyond sending the city's madness through a prism? This was not bad writing. It had comic timing, a fluidity. Even in the stammering, "actually, actually, actuallys," it had flair. But, conspiracy aside, Israel and the US are big problems, no? And in immature politics, we often miss that subtlety that, yes, it may somehow be connected to the craziness of our city. And bringing about social change does not mean forgetting structural critiques and focusing on self, but both.
Or maybe the moral core was, this shit is so bad, we can only enact it with mad genius and young guts. One skit showed that in Karachi if you want something, you will never get it, so ask for the opposite. It was good commentary about the dis-empowerment of youth, and their twisted adaptations to the city they will inherit. But ultimately class is a subject most artists ignore or deal with inaptly. In a conversation, an actor insisted Karachi is safe saying, "I have never ever been robbed." Another responds. "But would you ever let your sister walk from one end of St. Pats to the other? The joke got laughs because the inside joke was that the Saint Patrick technical school boys seem really horny. But between the lines is the realization that perhaps their sexuality (they being lower and middle class) is threatening to their richer counterparts.
Most good artists have politics, or as Anis Shivani said, good writing has a "moral core." What are their politics? What was the moral core? And in the madness of Karachi, do they have a vision beyond sending the city's madness through a prism? This was not bad writing. It had comic timing, a fluidity. Even in the stammering, "actually, actually, actuallys," it had flair. But, conspiracy aside, Israel and the US are big problems, no? And in immature politics, we often miss that subtlety that, yes, it may somehow be connected to the craziness of our city. And bringing about social change does not mean forgetting structural critiques and focusing on self, but both.
Or maybe the moral core was, this shit is so bad, we can only enact it with mad genius and young guts. One skit showed that in Karachi if you want something, you will never get it, so ask for the opposite. It was good commentary about the dis-empowerment of youth, and their twisted adaptations to the city they will inherit. But ultimately class is a subject most artists ignore or deal with inaptly. In a conversation, an actor insisted Karachi is safe saying, "I have never ever been robbed." Another responds. "But would you ever let your sister walk from one end of St. Pats to the other? The joke got laughs because the inside joke was that the Saint Patrick technical school boys seem really horny. But between the lines is the realization that perhaps their sexuality (they being lower and middle class) is threatening to their richer counterparts.
And more of this: When Sindhis go to hell, they are to stand in one spot for the rest of their duration as punishment for owning too much land. Really, all Sindhis? Even the Haris, and the dalits? Most farmers in Sindh actually own too little land. (1)
The narrative was pretty male-centric. Testicle jokes, homophobia, a gratuitous swing at Mathira's breasts. (Why would U.S. like to control Pakistan? Answer: Mathira, accompanied by grabbing motions) And in hell, the devil sends atheists to one corner. Later the militants are told, they will not get the hoors they imagined, but are free to screw the atheists. One denies the existence of God; the other its essence. So they get to do each other? Not asking for political correctness, but at least be outrageous with finesse.
There was genuine angst in the last skit, which had all the makings of a disastrous ending. In an emotional piece, the lead, Amr Rouvan, pulls off his shirt, exposing a vulnerably thin torso, and asks a guardian angel to protect him, the city. He beats himself, yells, does maatam, acts psychotic. Not one person in the crowd was smiling. In fact some looked disturbed and self conscious when accused by the actor of voyeurism. After a series of funny skits, it was a manipulative trick. Almost as if the actor wanted you to feel shame for laughing. Herein, was the genius. And why not shake people up? We have floods and evacuations and yet we are sitting in a cafe giggling. Kudos to Amr Rouvan Mahmud for being brave enough to thoroughly alienate the audience and distance himself from them, after winning them over with hard work and humor.
In the end, just as the angst filled young man (of course, a metaphor for Kolachi) gives up, and turns away, the angel bends down and embraces him from behind. The sweet moment was ruined by audience members murmuring "Awww.."
This brings me to dating scene, the second skit. As audience members rushed to their cars, I kept hearing people say. "The dating scene was the best." "Oh, the dating scene." The dating scene was, indeed, very clever. The concept was to get retakes at dialog until you get the girl! Ahad was a brilliant actor. And the fact that it could have played out anywhere goes to show that the elite live their lives "in a Los Angeles" even if their bodies are, sadly, in Karachi. The tuition scene is hilariously dark, deliberately surreal. A very crazy tuition teacher has no remorse over killing a student, nor recognition that murder is a crime. He studiously lectures a parent about the dead boy's bad behavior. Apparently the teacher can not be sued because of a contractual provision.
What else can I say? Karachi got talent! I was surprised, excited, and entertained by most of the stuff.
And T2F audiences are so beautiful, it reminds of what Khuswant Singh was once rumored to say. In Pakistan, you look at a line of women and it is hard to find one who is not pretty.
I am not sure how much Karachi there is in Rouvan, but there is definitely some Faulkner. ("The writer's only responsibility is to his art...If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate.") And naturally, one of the characters is reading "The Sound and the Fury."
And T2F audiences are so beautiful, it reminds of what Khuswant Singh was once rumored to say. In Pakistan, you look at a line of women and it is hard to find one who is not pretty.
I am not sure how much Karachi there is in Rouvan, but there is definitely some Faulkner. ("The writer's only responsibility is to his art...If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate.") And naturally, one of the characters is reading "The Sound and the Fury."
(1)According to Pakistan Agricultural Census Organisation, in 2000 more than half of the cultivable land was possessed by less than 10 percent of the landowners – who own 20 or more acres of land.
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