Over the years, several theatre enthusiasts have asked why I even bother to watch the cheap imports that periodically provide featherweight entertainment to clubs and cultural societies. Readers, indeed, have the right to know. For one thing, the critic must keep pace with trends of all varieties and, ideally, should not prejudge. Next, readers must sympathize with his plight, so overburdened with high art and serious messages, that it comes as a huge relief once in a while to write lightly about arrant nonsense. Finally, since most of these productions emanate from Mumbai, they give me an opportunity to ride the artistic high horse and reclaim Calcutta’s theatre commitment.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, to find that Guwahati has jumped on the bedroom-farce bandwagon. I learnt from Stage Fusion’s Double Trouble (picture), based on Ray Cooney’s Out of Order, that English theatre exists there. Cooney specializes in adulterous romps, preferably involving London politicians. That means nothing here, unless adapted into local politics — an interesting thought which Stage Fusion avoids. But Cooney’s plays ultimately fail on believability. The hotel manager and waiter enter the VIP guest’s room without knocking so often, (naturally stumbling on shenanigans), that under normal circumstances they would have lost their jobs in no time. Uttam Bhattacharjee soldiers on manfully in the lead, but his girlfriend and director, Rupa Hazarika Som, possesses little stage presence. And to toss in lip-synced songs is most school-kiddish.

Back to Mumbai then for Moksh Creations’ A Perfect Divorce (presented by Sangit Kala Mandir). Having given its prequel, A Perfect Wedding, a miss, I felt obliged to attend, for fairness’s sake. I could have spent my time elsewhere: even the dowager behind me declared that she had seen better stuff. At least West End dramatists compose dialogue with some finesse, however racy. Here, writer-director Vandana Sajnani’s best line is when an officer returns from war, having suffered amnesia, and announces, “I’ve lost my mammaries.” The partners-swapping cast features TV stars who act, well, like TV stars. Billed as Anupama Verma’s maiden stage appearance, it will mercifully be her last. As for political incorrectness, Johnny Walker’s son, Nasir Kazi, doubles as a gay Parsi and a silly Sikh.

Three in a row, I thought, while going to Ashvin Gidwani’s Birthday Suite (the title said it all). But then, within a minute of the start, a nor’wester ripped through the Tollygunge Club grounds and launched the set into the air. Even nature has critical judgment.