by Anosh Irani
gantaal: Yes, I cannot wait.
top rani gives gantaal the key. gantaal turns the key to unlock the cage. top rani picks up the stone phallus and strikes gantaal on the back of the head. gantaal falls to the floor. top rani ties him to the cage with a rope.
top rani: From the beginning, it’s all about betting. From the time of birth. Will it be a boy or will it be a girl? If you start betting with the unborn, then naturally the rest of your life will also be a gamble. But every once in a while God throws us a googly: a eunuch is born. And God, the greatest bookie of them all, looks down and laughs. “It’s a sin to gamble,” he says. But it’s not a sin to take what is rightfully mine. At midnight when I put my hand in the matka, I am meant to pull a king. For I was not born a eunuch. I must honour God’s wishes and live in the form he chose for me.
He holds the matka in his hands.
Ten minutes to Pull the King.
He caresses the matka. He sees that it is dirty.
Why has it not been washed? Chandni!
He goes to the inside of the brothel with the matka. gantaal slowly regains consciousness. top rani comes back without the matka.
(to aarti) You’ve already seen one father die. How do you wish to see this one go?
aarti stares at him.
How do you wish to see this one go?
gantaal: Same way the first one did.
top rani: Should I throw you in traffic?
gantaal: Matka. Let us make a bet. If I guess the closing number, she goes free.
top rani: We are betting on how you die. Plus, tonight, no closing number. We play Pull the King.
gantaal: That is a stupid game.
top rani: What did you say?
gantaal: Pull the King is a stupid game. No one ever wins because you are cheating.
top rani: I am not cheating! I want to pull a king!
top rani regrets uttering these words. gantaal notices.
gantaal: I believe you. I know that you are not cheating.
top rani: And who told you that?
gantaal: Polly the Punter.
top rani: Polly the Punter?
gantaal: He is capable of guessing the opening and closing numbers of Matka.
top rani: If that were the case, why are you so poor? You should have been rich knowing the Matka numbers in advance.
gantaal: Polly only helps those in real need. If he predicts the numbers for financial gain, he will lose his powers.
top rani: (dismissing him) Cha!
gantaal: Polly the Punter said that you will never pull a king.
top rani: You’re lying.
gantaal: Bring him to me and I shall prove to you that I am not.
top rani: Where does this Polly the Punter live?
gantaal: In my trunk.
top rani: In your trunk?
gantaal: Polly is my parrot.
top rani: A parrot? Why would I listen to a worthless parrot?
gantaal: Because the two of you have something in common.
top rani: And what would that be?
gantaal: Your name. Because of his gift, Polly the Punter is also known as the Matka King.
top rani: What?
gantaal: That’s what the gamblers of this city call him.
top rani: And he said I will never pull a king?
gantaal: Correct.
top rani: Why?
gantaal: Ask him yourself.
top rani: Where is your trunk?
gantaal: Just outside.
top rani: Chandni!
She enters.
You must get Polly.
chandni: Polly?
top rani: His parrot.
gantaal: It’s in my trunk, just outside. When you get there, keep the trunk open, just a little, for a minute, and let the smell of the city seep in. Only then will my parrot sleep. Otherwise it will escape.
chandni exits.
top rani: Hurry up! It’s almost midnight! (to himself) If he is a king I must listen. Polly will tell me what I am doing wrong. I cannot wait another year.
chandni enters with a small bag slung around her shoulder.
Where is my king? Let me see him.
She takes Polly out from the bag.
No . . . he’s not even a real parrot . . .
He grabs Polly and flings him against the cage bars. He moves towards the cage. chandni steps in his way.
chandni: It’s midnight.
He stops. He looks for the matka.
top rani: Where is the matka? Get it right now.
chandni exits. top rani goes to the cupboard to get the pack of cards. He opens a new pack of cards and takes out his customary blindfold as well. He blindfolds himself and kneels on the floor.
I shall no longer be called Top Rani. I shall go by the name my father gave me. Vijay. Victory.
chandni enters and puts the matka in front of him. top rani throws the cards into the matka. As he does so, we hear the hiss of a cobra. top rani freezes. He takes his blindfold off and looks into the matka. He cannot take his eyes off of it. Eyes still on the matka, he hands the cage key to chandni.
Free them.
chandni: What?
top rani: If you ever set foot in this brothel again, I’ll kill you.
chandni: You’re just letting us go?
top rani: Trees, fire, mud, and betrayal. Now get out.
chandni goes to the cage to free gantaal and aarti. They exit.
Surya was right. What is a cobra if not a king?
He lets his long hair loose. He takes his bangles off. He rubs off his makeup. He slowly puts his hand into the matka. The cobra strikes. But he still keeps his hand in. The cobra strikes again. He slowly falls to the floor.
When you die . . . everybody is the same . . . neither man nor woman . . . neither woman nor man . . .
He waits for death to come. There is the sound of fire. The dark shadow of Surya looms behind him. Surya has come to take top rani to the spirit world.
Epilogue
The sound of people speaking in different Indian languages—bits of Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati, and so on. The tone is forceful and congested, as if a heated debate is taking place. satta stands alone on stage.
satta: The moment I came to the spirit world, I looked for my wife everywhere. I called her name a thousand times—Shanti, Shanti . . . but there was no response. I understand why. She’s in a different place. When you die, your own conscience takes you to the place you deserve to go to. A man who gambles his own daughter away isn’t a man. He’s a eunuch. Testicles notwithstanding. If you gave such a person a moral compass, it would point straight to his heart and his heart would tell him what a coward he’s been.
Pause.
Right now, I’m part of a reception committee. Half of Bombay is here—gamblers, bookies, prostitutes. Even Sudha. There are scores to settle, questions to ask. So you’ll have to excuse us. We’re awaiting the arrival of a very important guest. We have lots to talk about.
The voices rise again to a frenzied crescendo.
End of play.
Bombay Black
Production History
Bombay Black was commissioned and developed by Nightswimming Theatre and produced by Cahoots Theatre. It was workshopped and given a public reading at the On the Verge Festival 2005 at the National Arts Centre, Ottawa. The play premiered in January 2006 at the Theatre Centre in Toronto with the following cast and creative team:
Padma: Deena Aziz
Apsara: Anita Majumdar
Kamal: Sanjay Talwar
Director: Brian Quirt
Assistant director: Andrea Romaldi
Set design: Camellia Koo
Lighting design: Rebecca Picherack
Composer/sound design: Suba S
ankaran
Choreographer: Nova Bhattacharya
Production manager: Stephen Lalande
Technical director: Greg Poulin
Design assistant: Jung-Hye Kim
Scenic artists: Camellia Koo and Jung-Hye Kim
Stage manager: Isaac Thomas
The play was subsequently revised and toured to Mississauga’s Living Arts Centre (February 8–10, 2008) and Vancouver’s Arts Club Theatre as part of their subscription season (February 21–March 15, 2008).
Bombay Black was translated into Hindi by Saurabh Shukla and staged in Bombay at the National Centre for the Performing Arts and the Prithvi Theatre, and in New Delhi at the India Habitat Centre in 2007. It was directed by Anahita Uberoi and produced by Shiamak Davar.
The playwright is extremely grateful to the Canada Council for the Arts for its generous support.
Characters
Apsara: A dancer in her twenties.
Padma: Apsara’s mother. In her forties.
Kamal: A blind man in his thirties.
Setting
The play is set in an apartment in Bombay overlooking the Arabian Sea.
The time is the present.
ACT ONE
One
Evening. The stage is dark.
The sound of a woman’s anklets beating against the floor in the darkness.
This is apsara.
Only she can be seen.
She performs the “Dance of Empowerment.”
The music and the dance should have a modern sensibility. The dance apsara performs borrows from the courtesans of ancient India as well as present-day Bombay bar girls.
The idea is that she is sucking away the energy of the man she is performing for, all the while pretending that she is serving him. The dance progressively becomes more and more seductive.
After a minute of dance, a voice:
padma: Make eye contact with the man. Then lower your eyes from time to time as though you cannot bear the strength of his gaze. This will make him feel powerful. Go slower when you reveal your thighs. Make the man wait. Punish him. That’s the true purpose of dance, my dear—to turn men into vegetables.
apsara stops dancing.
Lights.
padma is revealed.
What’s wrong? Why did you stop? I thought you liked vegetables.
Pause.
I’ve been meaning to ask you: Isn’t it time you learnt some new moves? It’s quite charming, your little dance, but . . . I need you to swivel your hips more. Dance more like a tart and less like an artist. Yes, that’s it. Be more tartish. And make sure you oil your hair every night. It needs more shine.
apsara: It’s too much work.
padma: Being a tart is hard work. Requires dedication and commitment. That’s the problem with you young people. You don’t take anything seriously. Now get some rest. You have an appointment at nine.
apsara: Who is it tonight?
padma: A new client.
apsara: From where?
padma: He’s from the suburbs—Malad or Mulund, one of those—I can’t remember. Anyway, I spoke to him over the phone. He has no reference so I’m charging him three thousand rupees—not bad for an hour of dance, hah? Now. Let’s go for a walk.
apsara: No.
padma: Fifteen minutes. That’s all. The sun’s about to set. Whenever I watch the sun go down, I always ask myself, “What if the sun doesn’t show up tomorrow?” Such a massive universe, one wrong turn and the sun is lost. That’s why I always thank the sun each day. To make it feel appreciated.
apsara: You need to make some friends, Mother.
padma: I have friends. The butcher’s my friend. What’s his name . . .
apsara: The butcher cannot be counted as a friend.
padma: But I bought a knife from him. What’s his name . . . Hanif Bhai, that’s it. We had a friendly exchange once. “What nice meat you have,” I said, and he replied, “It’s all in the knife, Madam. The way you cut meat is important.” I have friends.
apsara: You can’t go for a walk with the butcher.
padma: That’s why I’m asking you to go with me.
apsara: I don’t want to.
padma: Fine. Then I won’t go either. There will be no one to thank the sun. If the sun doesn’t rise tomorrow, it will be your fault. The whole world will be plunged into darkness because you are a selfish little bitch.
Pause.
Is it such a task for you to spend time with your dying mother?
apsara: I wasn’t aware you were dying.
padma: I might, I might. Anything can happen. Heart attacks come when you least expect them. They’re like surprise tests.
apsara: You’re a beacon of hope today, Mother.
padma: By the way, I had a new costume made for you. It reveals your stomach more. Every man that comes in here wants to lick your stomach and thighs. So we must open the door a little more. Not a lot, just a little.
apsara: How thoughtful of you.
padma: More meat, more heat.
Pause.
Apsara, what’s the matter with you today? You’re not your usual unintelligent self. You look like you’re actually contemplating something. Even during the dance, you were distracted.
apsara: It’s nothing.
padma: Tell me. You know how soothing I can be.
apsara: It’s just that I can smell country liquor. You know, the kind father used to drink. I smell country liquor made out of orange peels and leather. It’s been years since I’ve got that smell.
padma: It’s probably the sea. It’s called the Arabian Sea because it smells like a camel.
apsara: It’s not the sea. My father smells nothing like the sea. You know that. It’s that thick, heavy smell . . .
padma: First of all, your father’s probably dead. No one in the village knows where he is and it’s been years since anyone’s seen him. But if he’s alive, we’re in a city of eighteen million people. He’ll never find us.
apsara: What if he does?
padma: I won’t let him near you. I promise.
Pause.
Now let’s go—the sun is waiting.
Two
Night.
padma is preparing the apartment for the customer’s arrival. She fluffs the cushions on the swing, dims the lights to set a mood.
There is a knock on the door.
padma opens the door.
It is kamal. He is unseen.
kamal: Is this apartment 4-A? Ocean Heights?
padma: Yes.
kamal: I spoke to you over the phone.
padma: You’re late.
kamal: I’m sorry. It’s just that . . .
padma: Why are you panting? We’re only on the fourth floor.
kamal: Yes, but there’s no lift . . . and the stairs are very steep.
padma: Come in.
kamal walks in.
His manner of walking suggests that he is blind.
Are you blind?
kamal: Yes.
There is a long silence.
I apologize.
padma: Would you like me to help you?
kamal: Yes, please.
He offers her his hand.
But she does not take it.
padma: Keep walking straight for four feet. Then turn left about one foot. There’s a swing. Sit on it.
He finds the swing.
Don’t you people normally use a cane?
He sits.
kamal: I lost my cane. The footpath is dug up just outside your building. I think I might have tripped over some wires.
padma: Yes, yes. Telephone wires. Those phone company dogs are always digging. So many cross connections because of that. The other day I was on the line with a cli
ent and this little girl enters the conversation—she was trying to call her mathematics teacher. So I said to her, “Listen, little one, there’s no use studying. Only your body will be of use.” She started yelling for her mother. I quickly put the phone down. Some children are just not ready for the truth. Anyway—you were saying?
kamal: Er . . . nothing. I wasn’t saying anything.
padma: You lost your cane.
kamal: Yes. I lost my cane because I tripped over telephone wires. That’s why I’m late.
padma: Did you fall?
kamal: No.
padma: Were you robbed?
kamal: I’m fine.
padma: Good. Then I’ll take the money first.
He reaches into his pocket and hands her a wad of money.
kamal: No need to count. Fresh from the bank.
padma: Before we begin, let me explain the rules to you.
kamal: You make it sound like a jail.
padma: Apsara must be safe.
kamal: Apsara. Beautiful name.
padma: Bombay’s Celestial Nymph.
kamal: That’s not what her name means.
padma: I know what her name means.
kamal: Apsara. Water that moves. A literal translation.
padma: As I said, you need to know the rules. First and foremost: This is not a brothel.
kamal: I’m aware of that.
padma: That’s what they all say. So allow me to get it through your thick skull. In a way it’s good that you are blind. You people are acute listeners. This is not a brothel. There will be no touching. At all. She will not touch you. You will not touch her. Is that clear?
kamal: No problem.
padma: If at any point you do touch her, your hands will be broken with an iron rod. There are one-way mirrors. So I can see you, but you can’t see me. A concept you’re more than familiar with.
kamal: Understood.
padma: Any questions?
kamal: No.
padma: I have one.
kamal: Go ahead.
padma: What pleasure does a blind man get from dance?
kamal: None whatsoever.
padma: Then why do this?
kamal: Tax writeoff.
padma: You look suspicious. Do you work for the police?
