The following paragraphs ought to be read as a script for absurd, perhaps even provocative, theatre. Some of the incidents being described do border on the unreal; but, nonetheless, their claim on reality cannot be denied. For this drama, even if it makes blurry the line between the surreal and the real, did take place one afternoon a few weeks before Durga Puja, just as the giant — the Puja shopping frenzy — was waking up from its annual slumber.
The setting of this theatre is a mall in south Calcutta. The script involves four characters: a man in his mid-30s whom we shall henceforth refer to as Gablu and offer no explanation for this nomenclature lest some of you point fingers at me and bay “politically incorrect”; Gablu’s mother, an Amazonian woman with a bearish temper; Gablu’s father, a reed-like, quiet man; and Mrs Gablu.
The audience comprised two hapless onlookers. One was the young woman working at the store who made the cardinal mistake of volunteering to help the Gablu Clan with their festive purchases. The other equally hapless being was this writer, who watched as if transfixed, as Gablu, egged on by ma, baba and bou, tried to fit into a pair of jeans with the door of the changing room left ajar.
The first attempt ended much like one of Elon Musk’s Space X rockets: the jeans slid down Gablu’s waist. The audience could make out something had gone wrong because of the banshee-like wail that was let out by the two ladies. Launch I had failed.
Onto Launch II.
This time, there was no wail from the mercurial women. That could only mean one thing: the jeans had fit. But soon, there was a growl; actually two. Mother Gablu and Mrs Gablu both emitted guttural, blood-curdling sounds. Neither of the women seemed to approve of that particular shade of denim. Mrs Gablu insisted that it did not suit her husband’s skin tone. Mother Gablu simply made a face as if to say no material — not just denim but even silk and muslin — could quite capture the radiance that her offspring radiated.
The third launch of the jean up Gablu’s stratosphere was a success. The shop attendant — she resembled a mobile pile of jeans as she made her journey from the changing room to the shelves and back — had returned with something that had been hauled up, once again, by a mute and possibly exhausted Gablu. Mrs G gave a nod of appreciation; but the Mother-ship, as if to prove a point, withheld her consent.
Three things happened next, three different climaxes unfolded, in a manner of speaking.
Climax 1. The poor attendant, pulverised by the thought of donning the role of the movable pile of jeans yet again, seemed to crumble into a heap (of discarded denims).
Climax 2. I turned to see her turning, metaphorically, into a fallen heap of denims and, in the manner, missed the most important — THE — climax.
Climax 3. Gablu decided, for perhaps the only time in his life, to shun the child and embrace the adult in him. He shut the door on his audience and declared in a clear, if dull, voice that he had had enough and would not try out any more jeans.
It was then, at that fag end of the drama, that the fourth and the quietest among the dramatist personae entered the scene. This was Gablu Senior. He went to the door of the changing room that had been finally shut by Gablu and implored his son to step out.
The reason?
It was his turn to buy a pair of jeans.
The sound of two crashes followed Gablu Senior’s statement. The shop attendant, who was finally finding her feet after her labour, fell into a heap again.
The other deafening sound was the door of the changing room adjoining Gablu’s shutting with a bang.
That was me signalling to the cast in an unambiguous way that I had had enough of their absurd/real production.