Spect-Actors of the Dust and Debris: A Play

Posted on 4th June, 2025 (GMT 21:51 hrs)

ABSTRACT

The play, perhaps set in a dystopian, satirical India, employs a fluid theatre troupe in Khalasi Tola to present a radicalized performance that critiques and “plays out” systemic corruption, authoritarianism, and social injustice. Drawing primarily on Brecht’s alienation effect and Boal’s Legislative Theatre, it thematically intertwines real-world issues—such as the DHFL scam, the 2002 Gujarat riots, Adani-Ambani cronyism, and pseudo-science—with activated characters that blur the lines between fact and fiction, engaging interactive spect-actors in the process.

Characters: Václav Havel, Jerzy Grotowski, Badal Sircar, Augusto Boal, Circomedia (a wiry, acrobatic sprite), Utpal Dutt, Bertolt Brecht, Paulo Freire, Konstantin Stanislavski, Lauren Gunderson, Shyam Rangeela as Narendra Modi, Karan Thapar, Spect-Actors

Dress Code: All characters wear black jackets except Modi and Karan Thapar

Genre: Theatre of the Absurd, Poor Theatre (Per un teatro povero), Epic Theatre, Third Theatre, Revolutionary Theatre, Theatre acrobatics,  Arena/Atrium Theatre, fourth theatre, Circomedia, physical theatre techniques including acrobatics, Forum theatre  

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Scene I: The Dive in Khalasi Tola

Setting: A sweltering, cluttered shack in Khalasi Tola, reeking of sweat, smoke, and cheap indigenous liquor that burns like regret. A battered table holds dented tin cups and a crumpled script: Oligarchs, Jokes, and a Pinch of Democracy, its proscenium dreams laughing at their empty pockets. The characters—titans of theatre—sprawl, pace, and leap, their voices a cacophony of passion, slurred by liquor and desperation.

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Grotowski (leaping to his feet, knocking over a cup): Enough! This script—Oligarchs, Jokes⤡—it’s a corporate trap! Proscenium stages, chandeliers, velvet lies! We can’t afford a single bulb! My Poor Theatre rips it all away—bare bodies, raw truth! Actors sweating, tumbling, screaming! Circomedia, show them—make the air bleed!

Circomedia (somersaulting onto the table, eyes wild): Like this, Jerzy! (spins, lands in a crouch) No coins, no curtains—just muscle and madness! Let’s vault through Khalasi Tola’s streets, make the crowd feel the earth shake! Who needs their stage when we’ve got bones and breath?

Boal (jumping up, liquor splashing, voice electric): And no script! Why chain ourselves to paper we can’t fund? My Fourth Theatre burns it down! Let the people—spect-actors (!)—storm the story! No proscenium, no directors, just chaos in the slums. Oligarchs will rise from their voices, not some banker’s wallet!

Sircar (cutting in, calm but steely, cup steady): Augusto, you’re a dreamer, but you’ll drown in anarchy! My Third Theatre needs a spine—a script, born in workshops, etched with the people’s pain, the smell of mowed grass, and kerosene. We can’t afford their stages, fine! But we craft Oligarchs with Khalasi Tola’s workers, their stories shaped before we perform—in the dust, not the dark!

Dutt (roaring, slamming his fist): Badal, you’re soft! I’m a propagandist—damn proud! This script could torch India’s crony oligarchs! Proscenium’s the weapon—lights, sets, a spectacle to shame them! (pauses, grimacing) Except we’re broke as this shack. So, streets it is! I’ve screamed revolution in alleys—let’s make Oligarchs a Molotov cocktail for the masses!

Brecht (lounging, puffing a cigar, sly grin): Utpal, you’re all fists and fury. I learned from circuses—cheap tricks, no budget. Epic Theatre strips the stage bare, snaps the illusion! We sing, we mock, we make the crowd think. This Oligarchs script? It’s absurd already—let’s add a song, break the flow, expose the oligarchs’ lies. No money? Perfect. A naked stage cuts deeper.

Havel (quiet, but his voice slices through): You’re all shouting past the truth. In Czechoslovakia, we had nothing—basements, secret circles, the regime’s boot on our necks. Arena Theatre, Atrium Theatre—no walls, just eyes all around. Oligarchs doesn’t need cash—it needs defiance. Here, in Khalasi Tola, we perform in the round, where absurdity chokes their corruption.

Freire (rising, voice like a spark): Václav’s right—defiance is liberation! My pedagogy turns spectators into spect-actors, creators of transformative paradigms. But if we can’t afford this proscenium script, what’s our fight? What oppression do we crack open for these people?

Dutt (grinning like a wolf, cup raised): India’s crony oligarchs! Their greed, their lies, strangling democracy! Oligarchs, Jokes, and a Pinch of Democracy—it’s their pain, their fight, wrapped in resentful laughter and a spark of hope. That’s our play!

Stanislavski (standing slowly, voice low, searing): You’re all fire and noise, but where’s the soul of life itself? My method demands truth—the actor lives the biographed worker’s despair, the oligarch’s weight. No stage, no funds? Then the heart is our stage. Without that, your flips, your songs, your revolutions—they’re empty.

Boal (spinning to Freire and Dutt, eyes blazing): Utpal’s got it—the oligarchs’ India! But no script, I swear! We workshop it, Paulo, with the people. Blend Jerzy’s sweat, Circomedia’s leaps, Badal’s spine, Brecht’s tricks, Havel’s intimacy, Utpal’s fire, Konstantin’s truth. No proscenium, no money—just Khalasi Tola’s pulse!

Sircar (leaning in, urgent): Workshops, yes! My Third Theatre builds with the community—a loose script, their stories of toil and betrayal. No stage, just dirt and defiance.

Grotowski (snarling, but nodding): Fine, a frame—but the body rules! Acrobatics, agony, life! Circomedia, make them feel it!

Circomedia (flipping mid-air, landing with a thud): Like this! Let’s climb, crash, scream—the body roars what words can’t!

Brecht (chuckling, scribbling a lyric): And I’ll toss in a song—jagged, absurd—to wake the crowd. Oligarchs, Jokes is a dagger—let’s twist it.

Havel (raising his cup, voice steady): To a theatre without chains, without coins. Bottom’s up to absurdity.

Freire (grinning, fierce): To spect-actors, tearing down the oligarchs’ world with us!

All (cups aloft, voices a wild chorus): To Oligarchs, Jokes, and a Pinch of Democracy!

The shack pulses with their shouts, liquor spilling, laughter clashing with arguments. The script lies ignored, but the air crackles with a plan—a play born from nothing but their fire and the people’s will.

The room hums with chaos

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Scene II: The Workshop

Setting: A dimly lit, makeshift workshop space in Khalasi Tola, cluttered with props, tattered scripts, and a chalkboard scrawled with ideas. The air is thick with tension and the faint smell of sweat and cheap incense. The characters—Václav Havel, Jerzy Grotowski, Badal Sircar, Augusto Boal, Bertolt Brecht, Konstantin Stanislavski, and Utpal Dutt—are gathered in a circle, preparing for their “poor theatre” play, to be performed in the style of third theatre. They dig for content, their voices overlapping in passionate debate. Suddenly, Circomedia, the troupe’s athletic performer, stumbles to the side, clutching their stomach, vomiting melodramatically as the others recoil, some gagging, their faces contorted in nausea.

Stage Direction: The scene is chaotic, with Circomedia’s distress played up in an exaggerated, melodramatic style—slow-motion collapses, anguished groans, and clutching of the heart. The others’ nausea is less physical but equally theatrical, with exaggerated grimaces and swaying. The dialogue is rapid, cutting, and layered with ideological fire.

Circomedia (clutching their stomach, melodramatically): Ohhh, the world spins! My body—trained for feats of grace—betrays me! (Vomits loudly into a bucket, then collapses theatrically onto a mat.)

Boal (waving a hand in front of his face, gagging): Oh gosh, Circomedia! What’s this? Your acrobatics can’t handle a little workshop grit?

Stanislavski (squinting, suspicious): Is it the indigenous liquor? That moonshine from the local haat? I’ve seen actors undone by less.

Brecht (leaning back, smirking): No, Stanislavski. Nausea is just a symptom. The aetiology? Capitalism. It’s in the air, in our bones, in the very scripts we write.

Dutt (nodding gravely, clutching a tattered notebook): We’re all suffering from it—capitalism, a disease. Our easement is disturbed by the reality of savage, cannibalistic capitalism. It chews up our art, our people, our souls!

Havel (pacing, his voice sharp): Hold on, Dutt. I suffered under communism—jailed for my protests against the politburo’s iron grip. You call that capitalism too? Explain that!

Brecht (coolly, lighting a cigar): State capitalism, Havel, dressed up in communist red. Same beast, different mask. Centralized power, exploitation, suppression—it’s all profit in disguise.

Dutt (bristling, stepping forward): I beg to differ, Comrade Brecht! The outer forces—capitalist countries—sabotaged communism’s mission! They encircled it, starved it, turned it into a caricature!

Brecht (laughing sharply): Oh, Dutt, your communism is so fragile it collapses under a blockade? A victim of capitalism’s larger gamut? Then what’s the point of your revolution?

Stanislavski (raising a hand, reflective): Enough! You know why I staged Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People in the Soviet Union? One man—Dr. Stockmann—against the consensus of a corrupt crowd. Truth against the mob. That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it? Fighting the disease, whatever name it wears.

Sircar (quietly, but with intensity): Let’s ground this. Our play must speak to the MNC-controlled sufferings of our locality—India, Southeast Asia. The sweatshops, the land grabs, the cultural erasure. That’s our content.

Brecht (nodding, pointing at the chalkboard): Exactly, Sircar. But it’s not just local. In this neo-liberal market economy, everything is glocal—global plus local! The multinationals, the trade agreements, the Orwellian newspeak of “progress.” We’ve got to catch that in our play.

Grotowski (emerging from a corner, his voice low, almost mystical): But how? Poor theatre strips it down—no sets, no costumes, just the actor’s body and truth, as it was said here before. Circomedia’s nausea is the content. Their body rejects the poison of this world. Let’s use that—make the audience feel it, too.

Boal (excited, clapping his hands): Yes! Theatre of the Oppressed! Let the audience join the workshop—act out their own nausea, their own rebellion against this glocal beast. They’ll dig the content with us.

Circomedia (weakly, still sprawled on the mat): My body… it’s not just liquor or capitalism. It’s the weight of it all—communism, capitalism, the lies we tell ourselves. Groans theatrically. I can’t move!

Havel (kneeling beside Circomedia, sardonic): Then we’ll make your collapse the centerpiece. A tableau of resistance and ruin. The play-within-the-play starts here—with your body, Circomedia, as the stage.

Sircar (scribbling notes): We’ll weave it all—local struggles, global exploitation, the nausea of a world choking on its own promises. Third theatre demands we perform in the streets, in the faces of the people.

Brecht (grinning, tossing his cigar stub away): And we’ll alienate them just enough to make them think. No catharsis, no escape. Just irreal truth—glocal, raw, and ugly.

Stage Direction: The group begins to improvise, using Circomedia’s collapse as a starting point. They mime the weight of capitalism, communism, and exploitation, their bodies twisting in a grotesque, melodramatic dance. The chalkboard fills with phrases: “Glocal Suffering,” “Cannibal Markets,” “The Nausea of Progress.” This part of the scene I ends with a freeze-frame of the group encircling Circomedia, their faces a mix of determination and disgust, as the lights dim to a single spotlight on the bucket.

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Fade out

Setting: The chaotic workshop in Khalasi Tola, a theatrical scrapheap bursting with broken chairs, crumpled scripts, and a chalkboard scrawled with buzzwords: “Glocal Greed,” “Cannibal Capital,” “Nausea Now!” A flickering bulb dangles like a guillotine, casting manic shadows. Absurd props litter the stage: a giant inflatable dollar bill with a grinning CEO face, a squeaky toy tank, a plastic tiara dripping fake jewels, a comically oversized syringe labeled “Big Pharma,” and a neon-green pesticide sprayer burping glitter. Circomedia, the troupe’s fallen star, lies center stage, clutching a tattered shopping bag stuffed with Monopoly money, vomiting with the flair of a discount opera diva. Václav Havel, Jerzy Grotowski, Badal Sircar, Augusto Boal, Bertolt Brecht, Konstantin Stanislavski, Utpal Dutt, and Paulo Freire stand in a jagged circle, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of sarcasm and disgust. The Bankster, a sleazy money-launderer in a gaudy pinstripe suit with a briefcase leaking fake cash, grins like a cartoon gangster. Two new characters enter: The CEO, a slick corporate mogul in a tailored suit, twirling a gold-plated smartphone, and The BJP Pol, a greedy politician from the Bharatiya Janata Party, draped in a saffron shawl, waving a lotus-shaped fan emblazoned with “NDA 2024.”

Stage Direction: The satire is a feverish assault—Brecht meets South Park in a capitalist nightmare. Gestures are cartoonish: wild eye-rolls, finger-jabs, and pratfall stumbles. The characters wield props like weapons in a clown apocalypse. Their circular sprint around Circomedia is a deranged parade, props breaking and flying. The “desires” are spat like rogue infomercials, with the chorus chanting like a Black Friday mob. Sound effects—cartoon BOINGS, missile WHOOSHES, gunfire POP-POP-POPS—turn the scene into a Looney Tunes dystopia. The play-within-the-play is a raw third-theatre street performance, repurposing props to expose debt and exploitation. Circomedia’s sarcastic monologue hammers the debt theme, and The Bankster, The CEO, and The BJP Pol escalate the absurdity, linking money-laundering, corporate greed, and political profiteering to manufactured “terrorism.”

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Chorus (striking absurd poses, clutching props like deranged pageant queens—a toy tank, a tiara, the giant dollar bill): We are ALL choking on the plague of CAPITALISM! Fake-cough, wave props, stagger like drunk mimes.

Stage Direction: The characters charge into a frenzied, circular sprint around Circomedia, who’s sprawled center stage, clutching their shopping bag and moaning like a reality TV reject. The run is pure chaos—Three Stooges with a Marxist PhD. They trip over props, toss them wildly, and pant like over-caffeinated auctioneers. Each “desire” is a sarcastic sales pitch, punctuated by brandishing absurd props. The chorus answers in a mocking, sing-song chant.

Havel (panting, waving a tacky “Eco-Friendly” water bottle): We desire development—glorious, sustainable development! Squirts glitter. Green today, bankrupt tomorrow!

Chorus (jeering, waving fake eco-bottles): Sustainable development! Buy green, kill clean!

Stanislavski (panting, juggling a plastic skyscraper and mall sign): We desire smart cities! Bridges! Pools! Skyscrapers! Malls! Statues! Shrines! Streets lit like a Vegas casino! Drops the skyscraper; it squeaks.

Chorus (cackling, tossing mini mall signs): Smart cities! Bridges! Malls! Light the streets, torch the poor!

Boal (panting, hoisting a toy dam leaking glitter): We desire mega industries! Dams! Drown the land, float the profits! Shakes the dam, spraying glitter.

Chorus (whooping, waving toy dams): Mega industries! Dams! Flood the poor, raise the stocks!

Brecht (panting, smirking): You mean Stock Exchange? Craving the irrationally rational chaos of Wall Street? From Khalasi Tola to the trading floor! Twirls the tiara like a lasso.

Stage Direction: A ridiculous WHOOSH of missiles and POP-POP-POP of cartoon gunfire erupts, with a BOING. The characters flail, tripping over the dollar bill and tank, but keep running, grinning like deranged salespeople.

Dutt (panting, waving the squeaky toy tank): We desire war! Arms! Ammunitions! Blow it up, cash it in! Squeezes the tank; it farts glitter.

Chorus (howling, brandishing toy guns): War! Arms! Ammunitions! Ka-ching, ka-boom!

Freire (panting, revving a toy car belching smoke): We desire automobiles! More fossil fuels! Burn the air, baby, burn! Car backfires, spraying confetti.

Chorus (gleeful, waving toy cars): Automobiles! Fossil fuels! Smog’s the new Chanel!

Brecht (panting, donning the tiara and a gaudy scarf): We desire fancy dresses! Jewelries! Spas! Saloons! Look fabulous while the planet fries! Struts, trips over the scarf.

Chorus (preening, tossing fake jewels): Fancy dresses! Jewelries! Spas! Saloons! Makeover! Beautification without aesthetics! Glow up, world down!

Stage Direction: The sprint halts with a cartoon SCREECH. The characters freeze in a ludicrous tableau, brandishing props. Circomedia croaks pitifully, clutching their bag of Monopoly money.

Circomedia (weak, milking it like a reality TV reject): I’m… starving. Need… food. Dumps Monopoly money over their face, collapses.

Stage Direction: The freeze-frame shatters. The characters swarm Circomedia, wielding props with mock pity and savage wit, like carny barkers at a dystopian fair.

Sircar (thrusting the pesticide sprayer): Here’s your food—doused in pesticide! Suck down that pollution, corporate-style! Sprays glitter, cackling.

Brecht (twirling the dollar bill like a cape): Know how those pesticides, those fertilizers, are made? From war waste! Bomb scraps, tank grease—your Happy Meal special!

Circomedia (gasping, clutching the bag): Yes… from the debris of weaponries… the world’s trash, stuffed in my gut…

Freire (waving the syringe with a shark-like grin): Thus, we desire pharmaceutical companies! Costly meds to fix your poisoned husk! Jabs the air. A pill for every bill!

Grotowski (looming, holding a cracked globe): Oh, desiring machines! What’s the price of your shiny toys? A gutted Earth? A soul in hock? Tosses the globe; it bounces with a BOING.

Grotowski (repeating, voice rising): Oh, desiring machines! I repeat: How do you get all these? At the cost of what?

Brecht (holding a Monopoly note and a tattered shirt): Oh, dear homo consumens! You think this absurd money-signifier buys your desires? It equates unequals—shirts and skyscrapers, bread and bombs! Rips the note.

Stanislavski (mocking, waving a toy printing press): You think the mint’s printing machine will end your suffering? Churn out paper to patch a broken world?

Circomedia (rising weakly, brandishing a plastic credit card): I’ll take a loan! This is my credit card! I’ll fly to tax havens like the super-rich wilful defaulters! Swipes the card, collapses.

Sircar (laughing bitterly, waving fake loan documents): Ha! You’ve already taken loans, Circomedia! India’s trapped in pre-debt-ory capitalism—bled dry by the World Bank, WTO, IMF! From 1947 to 2014, India’s external debt crawled to $446 billion. Since 2014, it’s exploded to $717.9 billion by December 2024—doubled in a decade under BJP rule! Your country’s been auctioned off! Throws documents in the air.

Stage Direction: Enter The Bankster, strutting in with a pinstripe suit, slicked-back hair, and a briefcase leaking Monopoly money, waving a comically oversized check labeled “Terrorist Fund.” Close behind are The CEO, twirling a gold-plated smartphone and flashing a corporate grin, and The BJP Pol, fanning themselves with the lotus fan, a greedy glint in their eyes.

The Bankster (tossing fake cash, voice oily): Oh, dear artistes, why the sour faces? I’m your friendly Bankster—money-launderer extraordinaire! I funnel cash to craft those hungry “terrorists” you love to scapegoat! Waves the check. A few billion here, a few bombs there—keeps the war machine humming and the debt piling high!

The CEO (smirking, scrolling the smartphone): And I’m the brains behind the bucks! My multinational’s got your “smart cities,” your dams, your malls—built on the backs of sweatshops and tax dodges! Taps the phone, which emits a DING. Profit’s my art, and your misery’s my canvas!

The BJP Pol (waving the lotus fan, voice dripping with fake piety): And I, your humble servant of Bharat, deliver development! Swipes a stack of fake cash from The Bankster. With Modi’s blessing and RSS grit, I’ll pave your roads to nowhere—funded by loans you’ll repay for centuries! Fans themselves, smirking. Hindutva and hustle, that’s my game.

Boal (snarling, tossing the toy dam): You’re the slime in the system, Bankster! And you, CEO, Pol—peddling chaos and cronies to chain us to your loans!

The Bankster (dodging the dam, chuckling): Chaos? Just good business! Starving mouths make perfect “threats”—and fatter profits! Sign here, and I’ll fund your little play… at 30% interest! Offers a pen dripping glitter.

The CEO (laughing, tossing a fake contract): Or join my startup! Zero wages, infinite growth! Phone emits a CHA-CHING.

The BJP Pol (grinning, waving the fan): Or vote for me! I’ll build a temple on your debt, and call it “progress”! Drops the fan, revealing a wad of Monopoly money tucked inside.

The Bankster: Yeah, it does sell a lot these days….. that “progress” you speak of. It’s cheap and has brand value.

Stage Direction: The troupe pivots to the play-within-the-play, a raw third-theatre street performance. They repurpose the absurd props into symbols of resistance: the giant dollar bill is painted with “DEBT = SLAVERY,” the toy tank is smashed to signify war’s wreckage, the tiara is trampled as vanity’s ruin, the pesticide sprayer douses the audience with glitter, implicating them in the cycle. The Bankster, CEO, and BJP Pol are mocked as puppet-masters, their props (check, smartphone, fan) held up as tools of exploitation. The performance is chaotic, confrontational, performed as if on Khalasi Tola’s streets, with the audience as co-conspirators.

Havel (holding the cracked globe): Our play shows the world’s hunger—fed by debt, not bread!

Sircar (spraying glitter at the audience): You’re complicit! Your malls, your cars, your wars—built on loans you’ll never repay!

Stage Direction: The troupe forms a tableau, props raised like protest signs. Circomedia rises, eyes blazing, and steps forward for a final, sarcastic monologue, clutching the plastic credit card.

Circomedia (voice dripping venom): Oh, glorious debt! My credit card’s my savior, right? Swipe it, and I’m free! Free to drown in $717.9 billion of India’s IOUs—doubled since 2014, while the world claps for “growth”! From 1947 to 2014, we scraped together $446 billion in debt—cute, huh? Then BJP’s decade of “progress” sold us to the IMF, World Bank, and every Bankster with a briefcase! Swipes the card wildly. I’ll buy food… with interest! I’ll buy freedom… at 20% APR! Thank you, Bankster, CEO, Pol, for turning my hunger into “terrorism” and my country into a pawn shop! Hurls the card at The Bankster, who catches it with a smirk.

Stage Direction: The characters step back, forming a loose, mocking circle. The lights shift to a sickly green, like a dollar bill under a strobe. They launch into Pink Floyd’s Money with feral glee, hurling Monopoly money, waving toy tanks, and dancing a grotesque jig—capitalist mosh pit meets circus of doom. The Bankster, CEO, and BJP Pol join in, tossing fake cash, twirling the “Terrorist Fund” check, smartphone, and lotus fan. The saxophone wail (mimed or offstage) is a shrieking cackle, mocking the system’s absurdity.

All (singing, with vicious mockery, tossing props):
Money, get away
Get a good job with more pay and you’re okay
Money, it’s a gas
Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash
New car, caviar, four-star daydream
Think I’ll buy me a football team [Havel throws the bottle; it leaks glitter.]

Money, get back
I’m alright, Jack, keep your hands off of my stack
Money, it’s a hit
Don’t give me that do-goody-good bullshit
I’m in the high-fidelity first-class traveling set
And I think I need a Lear jet [Brecht twirls the tiara; it flies off.]

(Saxophone wail, shrill and deranged)

Money, it’s a crime
Share it fairly, but don’t take a slice of my pie
Money, so it’s said
It’s the root of all evil today
But if you ask for a rise
It’s no surprise that they’re giving none away [Dutt’s tank farts glitter.]

Away, away, away
Away, away
Away, away, away

Stage Direction: The song ends with a maniacal cackle. The characters collapse into a final, absurd freeze-frame, tangled in their props—Monopoly money raining down, the toy tank upended, the tiara dangling from the bulb, the lotus fan crumpled. The Bankster, CEO, and BJP Pol bow mockingly, waving their check, smartphone, and fan. Circomedia rises, eyes blazing, and hurls the shopping bag at the audience—a defiant, glitter-dusted middle finger. The lights snap to black, punctuated by a deafening CHA-CHING of a cash register, a final BOING, and The Bankster’s sinister chuckle.The arrangement used could be a dynamic orchestral or choral version (e.g., similar to the “Money Heist” rendition) to heighten emotional impact.

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Scene III: The Hot-Seating Crucible, Amplified with Spect-Actor Fury and Mussolini-Like Collapse

Setting: The same ramshackle workshop in Khalasi Tola, now buzzing with heated debate. The air is thick with the residue of Scene II’s chaotic performance—props like the giant dollar bill, toy tank, and scattered confetti symbolizing “sustainable development” litter the stage. The Pink Floyd track Money still echoes faintly in the background, as if mocking the discussion. The characters are restless, their voices overlapping, as they grapple with shaping a narrative for their radical play. A makeshift spotlight flickers, casting jagged shadows on the wall.

Dutt (enters, wiping his brow, visibly exasperated): Is this a theatre or a journalistic presentation? Where’s the narrative, the content? That last scene was a circus—vomiting clowns, chanting about smart cities, and a rock anthem! It’s all spectacle, no substance!

Brecht (leaning forward, stroking his chin): Agit-prop won’t land without a strong narrative spine. We need alienation, yes, but also a story that cuts deep, exposing the machinery of power. That mess in Scene 2 had energy, but it’s scattershot. We need focus.

Havel (humbly, raising a hand): May I suggest something? When I was in jail, we performed hot-seating theatre. Picture this: two chairs, one hot seat. Someone playing Modi sits there, grilled by an anchor—say, Karan Thapar—armed with factual questions. The audience sees him squirm, exposed by truth.

Stanislavski (scoffing, pacing): Why Modi? He’s an insignificant puppet–just like Augusto Pinochet of Chile, propped up by the extortionist trio: World Bank, IMF, WTO. He knows nothing of India’s constitution, dodges press conferences, and can’t speak without a teleprompter. He’s clueless about the climate crisis yet struts at global summits. His foreign tours—costing taxpayers over ₹2,021 crore from 2014 to 2018, with ₹258 crore more from 2022 to 2024—have yielded no tangible gains. He violates election codes, escapes punishment, and indulges in conspicuous consumption while corporates pay less tax than ordinary citizens. He’s the King Liar, a pseudologist par excellence. Pre-debt-ory capitalism thrives on such morons to fuel its conflict-and-debt game.

Boal (excited, stepping into the circle): Let’s take it further! My Legislative Theatre can transform this into a mock parliament. We’ll make the audience “spect-actors,” inviting them to the stage to voice opinions, act out solutions, and debate laws. Picture it: a transitive democracy where power flows between citizens and the stage, challenging Modi’s authoritarian facade. We keep the dollar bill and toy tank as props—symbols of his corporate and militaristic allegiances.

Freire (nodding vigorously): Yes, that’s our Fourth Theatre! A pedagogy of the oppressed, where the audience doesn’t just watch but reshapes the narrative. We expose the debt game and its human cost.

Badal Sircar (scribbling furiously on a worn notepad): I’ll weave this into the script on my mystique pad. Hot-seating Modi, spect-actors storming the stage, and those props from Scene II tying it together—a giant dollar bill waved as Thapar questions Modi’s FDI obsession, the toy tank rolling in when we grill him on militarized policies.

Lauren Gunderson (storming in, fists clenched): Hey, all you male playwrights, why are you sidelining me? I have questions for Modi too! Why not grill him on his abandoned wife, Jashodaben, left under surveillance? Or the Snoopgate scandal with Manasi Soni, both women tortured by his regime’s paranoia? And Operation Sindoor—glorifying Hindu patriarchy and women’s subjugation in the name of war? I’m not here for gossip; I’m exposing his patriarchal, authoritarian mindset, from family to fascist state.

Dutt (nodding, a spark in his eyes): Now we’re getting somewhere. Facts and fiction, woven tightly for epic theatre. Modi’s biography—his lies, his tours, his scandals—gives us the thread. Let’s keep the dollar bill and tank from Scene II, but use them deliberately: the dollar bill as a backdrop for questions about his ₹2,279 crore foreign jaunts, the tank for his war-mongering rhetoric.

Circomedia (grinning, juggling a prop from Scene II): Dear Gunderson, are you chasing scandals?

Gunderson (sharply): Not scandals—systems! I’m revealing the patriarchal authoritarianism that binds family oppression to state fascism. Modi’s not just a man; he’s a symptom.

Havel (chuckling, leaning back): That reminds me of Modi’s slip of the tongue. He meant to say “Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao”—Save Daughter, Educate Daughter—but swapped “Padhao” for “Patao,” implying “flirt with a girl to capture” a girl. A Freudian slip exposing his mindset!

Circomedia (leaping onto a chair, striking a dramatic pose): I’m ready to bring it to life with athletics and pantomime! Picture me, mid-flip, tossing the dollar bill into the air as Thapar fires questions. Or wielding the toy tank in a mock battle while Gunderson interrogates Modi on Snoopgate. I’ll weave in Scene II’s energy—maybe even hum Money as Modi dodges questions.

Brecht (clapping slowly): Good. We’ve got a narrative now: hot-seating Modi, spect-actors challenging his policies, and props from Scene II grounding the satire. Let’s make the audience feel the weight of ₹2,279 crore spent on empty diplomacy, the sting of patriarchal policies, and the absurdity of a teleprompter king. Badal, draft it. Circomedia, keep the antics sharp but purposeful. Gunderson, your questions are the heart—make them cut.

Curtain falls as the group huddles, Badal scribbling, Circomedia practicing flips, and the toy tank rolling ominously across the stage.

Scene IV: The Hot-Seating Crucible, A Grand Reckoning

Setting: A barren stage, scorched by a flickering spotlight pulsing like a dying star, casting jagged shadows that dance with accusation. Two chairs dominate: one a weathered wooden seat for Karan Thapar, the other a gaudy “hot seat” draped in tattered saffron cloth, buckling under Shyam Rangeela (mimicking Narendra Modi, fake overgrown beard slipping, kurta drenched in sweat). The giant dollar bill and toy tank from Scene 2 loom like specters, joined by a tattered map of India, its red scars—Gujarat, Manipur, Rajasthan, Delhi—bleeding vividly. A pile of pseudo-scientific pamphlets, labeled “Einsteinian Pain Waves” and “Cow Urine Cures,” sits mockingly near the hot seat. The Wire’s YouTube channel logo blazes on a cracked screen, broadcasting live to a restless nation. Spect-actors—farmers, students, activists, workers, Dalits, Muslims, women, scientists, professors—encircle the stage, their chants a rising tempest, carrying Scene 2’s chaotic energy: Circomedia’s vomiting, Pink Floyd’s Money, and satirical cries of “sustainable development.” The air crackles with rage, the stage a crucible of truth.

Enter Shyam Rangeela (Modi) and Karan Thapar. Rangeela slumps into the hot seat, adjusting his kurta with a forced smile, eyes darting nervously. Thapar sits, clutching a dossier bursting with damning facts, his gaze a guillotine. The spect-actors press closer, their murmurs a low growl, ready to erupt.

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (forcing a grin, voice oily): Dear Karan, don’t repeat that 2007 fiasco where I walked out because you asked awkward questions. Stick to the PMO script, will you? Why not take a leaf from Akshay Kumar’s book? He asked about my mango-eating technique—charming, light, perfect! Other anchors marvel at my 16-hour workdays, my boundless energy. Why can’t you?

Karan Thapar (leaning forward, unflinching): Not a chance, Mr. Prime Minister. This is a live show on The Wire’s YouTube channel. Camera’s rolling, no cuts, no teleprompter. First, congratulations to you and Mr. Shah for playing middlemen to Adani and Ambani—your foreign tours, costing taxpayers ₹2,279 crore from 2014 to 2024, secured their deals from Australian coal mines to Saudi energy contracts. In 2005, the U.S. denied you a visa over your alleged role in the 2002 Gujarat riots, where over 1,000 people, mostly Muslims, were killed in what critics call ethnic cleansing. Post-2014, the U.S. had to cozy up diplomatically. How do you justify tours enriching Adani-Ambani while that visa ban shadows your global image?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (fidgeting, voice rising): Arre, Karan, you’re asking out-of-syllabus questions! My tours bring global respect to Bharat, not just for Adani or Ambani—job creators! The riots? A tragedy, not my fault! I… I wish to quit! (stands, glancing at the exit)

Spect-actors (erupting, surging forward, pointing): No quitting! You’re answerable to us! Sit down! Face the truth!

The crowd’s roar forces Rangeela (Modi) back into the hot seat. He fumbles for a handkerchief, wiping sweat, the saffron cloth slipping to reveal the chair’s worn frame. The toy tank lurches forward, squeaking accusingly.

Spect-actor 1 (a young woman, seizing the giant dollar bill, voice fierce): Respect? Your tours are Adani-Ambani’s ticket to billions! (rips the dollar bill, tossing half at Modi) ₹2,279 crore of our money for their coal mines and airports, not our hospitals!

Karan Thapar (smirking, pressing on): Let’s talk elections. In 2024, you violated the Model Code of Conduct in Rajasthan, using communal tropes to sway voters, just as you did in 2019 by invoking soldiers in Karnataka, breaching the Representation of the People Act, 1951. The Election Commission gave you a free pass both times. Why do you flout electoral laws with impunity?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (stammering, clutching the handkerchief): Mitron, I speak for unity, for Bharat’s pride! These are opposition lies! The Election Commission knows I’m a patriot—my words inspire!

Spect-actor 2 (a Dalit activist, storming the stage, voice booming): Inspire? Your 2024 hate speeches sparked riots! (grabs the map, pointing to Rajasthan’s red scar) You divide us to win votes, then hide behind “patriotism”! Answer for your poison!

Karan Thapar (flipping a page, voice sharper): Let’s probe your commitment to the Constitution. Article 51A(h) mandates every citizen to develop scientific temper, humanism, and the spirit of inquiry and reform. Yet your regime promotes pseudo-science—like “Einsteinian Pain Waves,” claiming cow slaughter causes earthquakes, or cow urine curing cancer and COVID, even Ganesha’s head transplant as ancient plastic surgery. Do you believe your government has preserved this constitutional duty, or are you fostering superstition to appease andhbhakts?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (nervously waving a pamphlet, voice wavering): Mitron, our culture values traditional knowledge! Cow protection is our heritage, not superstition. Scientific temper? We’re launching satellites, building AI! Bharat is a global leader in science!

Spect-actor 3 (a scientist, snatching the “Einsteinian Pain Waves” pamphlet): Heritage? This is pseudo-science! (tears the pamphlet) Your party claims cow slaughter causes quakes and ancient India invented plastic surgery! You mock Article 51A(h) while universities crumble!

Karan Thapar (eyes glinting): Speaking of “achievements,” you were awarded the Ig Nobel Prize in Medical Education in 2020 for using the COVID-19 pandemic to show politicians’ influence over life and death outstrips scientists’. Why don’t you flaunt that alongside your supposed degree in “Entire Political Science”?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (flustered, voice cracking): Ig Nobel? A misunderstanding! My degree… uh, it’s a symbol of my dedication to Bharat! COVID was tough, but we provided free vaccines, mitron! I’m a servant, not a scientist!

Spect-actor 4 (a doctor, tossing a mock Ig Nobel medal): Servant? You ignored scientists, pushed cow urine over vaccines! That Ig Nobel was for your deadly negligence! Where’s your “Entire Political Science” now?

Karan Thapar (voice cutting): Let’s turn to economics. During the p(l)andemic, your government wrote off ₹68 crore in debts for super-rich wilful defaulters, while ordinary Indians lost jobs. Overall, from 2014 to 2019, banks wrote off loans totaling ₹6.66 lakh crore. As of March 2023, there were 2,623 unique borrowers classified as wilful defaulters, with an aggregate outstanding of over ₹1.96 lakh crore.

Shyam Rangeela (Modi): My government is actively pursuing recovery from these defaulters. The Directorate of Enforcement (ED) has taken up around 912 cases related to bank fraud, including those pertaining to wilful default, and approximately ₹44,204 crore of proceeds of crime have been attached, seized, or frozen in these cases.

Karan Thapar: In May 26, 2025, The Indian Express editorial titled “Express View on SC’s latest rap to ED: It should take heed and reboot” critiques the Enforcement Directorate (ED) for overstepping its authority. The editorial highlights a pattern of the ED’s actions being perceived as politically motivated, especially targeting opposition leaders. It has emphasized the need for transparency and respect for personal liberties in the ED’s operations. The agency’s low conviction rate—less than 1% over the past decade—raises questions about its effectiveness and method. What’s your opinion? Do you think that the CBI is a ‘Caged Parrot’ and ED is a ‘robot’?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi): They have autonomous existence. We do….(coughing) noo,,,tt interrrrrrvene.

Karan Thapar Demonetization in 2016, sold as a strike against black money, caused 100 deaths, cost ₹16,344 crore, yet 99.3% of banned currency returned, per the RBI. The DHFL scam, linked to your party, siphoned off ₹66,000 crore. Your Finance Minister’s policies, mocked as Ig Nobel-worthy for economic mismanagement, crushed the poor while Adani-Ambani soared. How do you justify these disasters?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (sweating profusely): Demonetization fought corruption! Debt write-offs? Economic relief! DHFL? Rumors! Adani, Ambani are building Viksit Bharat, creating jobs!

Karan Thapar: I wish to show you a DHFL victim’s lament.

Cut to:

Scene V: The Lament of a DHFL Scam Victim (Infused with Acrobatics and Pantomime)

Setting: The barren stage from Scene 3, dimmed under a ghostly spotlight that flickers like a fading pulse, casting long, jagged shadows. The giant dollar bill lies torn in the corner, the toy tank toppled, and the tattered map of India hangs crooked, its red scars—Gujarat, Manipur, Rajasthan—fading into gloom. Scattered across the floor are pseudo-scientific pamphlets labeled “Einsteinian Pain Waves” and “Cow Urine Cures,” mingled with shredded financial documents marked “DHFL.” The Wire’s YouTube channel logo flickers faintly on a cracked screen, a silent witness. Spect-actors—farmers, students, activists, workers, Dalits, Muslims, women—stand in a loose semicircle, clutching remnants of the dollar bill and broken saffron cloth, their faces etched with empathy and anger. Circomedia, dressed in tattered rags symbolizing financial ruin, stands center stage, gripping a crumpled DHFL fixed deposit certificate. Following Khalid Tyabji’s method, Circomedia blends acrobatics and pantomime with raw emotion, their movements fluid yet deliberate, embodying the victim’s despair and defiance through dynamic physicality. The air is heavy, the silence pierced by the faint, mournful drone of Pink Floyd’s Money.*

Circomedia (leaps onto the stage with a slow, graceful cartwheel, landing in a crouch, clutching the certificate aloft, eyes scanning the spect-actors): Look at this! (twirls the certificate like a flag, then freezes in a pantomime of hope, hands framing a dream house) My life’s savings, my dreams, my family’s future—gone, poof! (snaps fingers, collapsing into a mock fall, rolling backward and springing up, voice trembling) I’m no tycoon like Adani, no crony cloaked in saffron. I’m just… me. (spins in a tight pirouette, arms outstretched, mimicking a weary teacher) A retired teacher, a widow, a father who scrimped for decades. We trusted DHFL—Dewan Housing Finance, a beacon since 1984, 209 branches, ‘AAA’ ratings. (mimes signing a contract with exaggerated trust, then freezes, head tilted, as if hearing a distant betrayal) Safe, we thought. Fools, we were…

(executes a tumbling somersault, landing with a stagger, voice rising, certificate clutched to chest) The scam! (leaps into a high kick, as if striking an invisible foe) ₹34,000 crore, India’s biggest financial heist, dwarfed only by Adani’s shadow. (pantomimes a thief picking pockets, darting side to side) Cobrapost, 2019, cracked it open. KPMG’s audit spilled the rot: ₹29,000 crore funneled to 66 shell companies, Wadhawan brothers—Kapil, Dheeraj—pulling strings. (mimes pulling puppet strings, then collapses in a slow-motion fall, certificate fluttering) Fake borrowers, a ghost “Bandra Branch” in their software, ₹1,880 crore stolen from Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana, meant for the poor. (crawls forward, mimicking a desperate borrower, voice bitter) White-collar theft, dressed in suits and lies.

(springs up, balancing on one leg in a precarious pose, voice cracking) Me? I was their prey. (holds certificate high, teetering, then tumbles into a roll, landing on knees) My ₹5 lakh fixed deposit—my husband’s pension—gone. (pantomimes a vault slamming shut, hands slamming together) RBI, November 2019, sacked DHFL’s board for “inadequate governance.” (mocks a bureaucratic salute, strutting in a circle) Governance? They opened the gates for vultures! (leaps into a backflip, landing with a stomp) 2021, Piramal Capital—Ajay Piramal, a secondary kin of Mukesh Ambani, the “Paramavaiṣṇava”—bought DHFL’s ₹45,000 crore assets for a rupee. (mimes tossing a coin with a sneer) A rupee! (crumples to the ground, certificate pressed to face) We FD holders? 23% of our money, if lucky. A “haircut,” they called it. (rises, clawing at hair in a pantomime of despair) Financial abuse, I call it.

(cartwheels to the pile of pamphlets, snatching one, voice dripping sarcasm) And who backed this? The BJP, cronies, RBI’s Committee of Creditors—94% voted for Piramal over Oaktree, who’d have repaid us fully. (twirls the pamphlet like a baton, then tosses it skyward, catching it in a dramatic pose) Transparency? (mimes peering through a fog, stumbling blindly) As clear as Gujarat’s blood in 2002. (points to the map, executing a slow, mournful handstand, legs forming a V for “victims”) Piramal’s lawyers—Kapil Sibal, Tushar Mehta—stayed NCLT, NCLAT orders questioning his deal. (collapses from handstand, crawling to the certificate) The Supreme Court dawdles, while we—senior citizens, scraping for medicine, rent—starve.

(rises, voice raw, performing a series of quick, jagged flips toward the spect-actors) The Indian Air Force, Uttar Pradesh Power, Ramakrishna Mission—crores lost. (mimes carrying a heavy burden, back bending) Us? Ordinary people, not numbers. (pauses, pantomiming a widow counting coins, a father hugging a child) What hurts most? They call it “business.” (leaps into a high arc, landing in a predatory crouch, mimicking Piramal) Piramal, cloaked in Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism, preaches austerity while stealing our wealth. (quotes, voice mocking, performing a slow, mocking bow) “Yajñaśiṣṭāśinaḥ santo mucyante sarvakilbiṣaiḥ”—saints freed by sacrifice. (spins, pointing to self) He sacrifices us, the FD and NCD holders, for his greed.

(grabs a “Cow Urine Cures” pamphlet, twirling it like a prop, voice sharp) And the regime? They peddle “Einsteinian Pain Waves”—cow slaughter causing quakes—cow urine as a COVID cure, Ganesha’s head transplant as ancient surgery. (tosses pamphlet into the air, cartwheeling after it, landing in a defiant stance) This violates Article 51A(h)’s call for scientific temper, a mockery of our Constitution. (mimes tearing a sacred text, scattering pieces) A circus of lies, not governance.

(drops to knees, voice soft, clutching certificate) I wrote to everyone—President Kovind, Murmu, Gadkari, Kejriwal, Vijayan. (pantomimes writing letters, hands trembling) We DHFL victims launched #Seize_Cronies_Fairplay_for_DHFL_Victims, a non-violent web-movement. (rises, performing a slow, circular walk, as if rallying a crowd) We begged NHRC, UN’s OHCHR, Singapore’s Arbitration Centre. (pauses, miming a slap) Piramal’s lawyers hit our founder, Debaprasad Bandyopadhyay and others including FB, X and linkedI , with a ₹100 crore defamation suit to silence us. (spins, fist raised) But we won’t be silenced!

(leaps onto a makeshift platform of pamphlets, balancing precariously, voice a rallying cry) Our savings, our dreams, stolen by a system propping up cronies while we starve. (points to the saffron cloth) This isn’t Viksit Bharat—it’s a graveyard of trust, built on our ruin. (jumps down, facing the spect-actors, certificate held high) I see the scars—Gujarat, Manipur, now us, the financially abused. (pantomimes a chain breaking, arms snapping apart) This is our story—teachers, widows, fathers—who believed in a system that betrayed us. (voice hardens, executing a final, defiant backflip) Spect-actors, comrades of Boal’s theatre: will you let this scam fade? Or will you rise, demand justice, seize the cronies, restore our dignity? (lands, fist raised, certificate a weapon) For DHFL victims, for India’s soul—fight with us!

The spotlight dims, freezing Circomedia in a fierce pose, fist raised, certificate gleaming. The spect-actors erupt—“Justice for DHFL! Seize the cronies!”—as the torn dollar bill flutters, the toy tank creaks, and the map’s red scars pulse. The hum of Money slows to a dirge, confetti falling like ash, settling on the stage like a requiem for lost trust.

Circomedia’s monologue has just ended, their final cry—“For DHFL victims, for India’s soul—fight with us!”—still echoing. The spect-actors’ chants swell, fists raised, as the spotlight shifts to Rangeela (Modi), pinning him like a condemned man.

Karan Thapar (voice sharp, stepping forward, pointing to Circomedia): Mr. Prime Minister, you’ve heard this heart-wrenching testimony—a retired teacher, a widow, a father, financially abused by the DHFL scam, their ₹5 lakh life-savings stolen. ₹34,000 crore siphoned off, ₹29,000 crore funneled to 66 shell companies, ₹1,880 crore looted from the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana. Victims got a mere 23% of their fixed deposits, while Piramal Capital bought DHFL’s ₹45,000 crore assets for a rupee. What do you think about this?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (slumping further, handkerchief soaked, voice feigning humility): Arre, Karan, I am a faqir admi! A simple man, no wealth, no home. (raises hands in a mock gesture of poverty, mimicking a sadhu) What can I say about a sub judice matter? The court will decide, mitron. Justice will be done. (averts eyes, fidgeting, trying to deflect) Let’s move on to Viksit Bharat, shall we?

The spect-actors erupt, booing and shouting—“No dodging! Answer for DHFL!”—as Circomedia steps forward, shaking the certificate, their face a mix of fury and pain.

Karan Thapar (voice cutting like steel, leaning closer): A faqir admi? That’s rich, Mr. Prime Minister. If DHFL is sub judice, how did Ajay Piramal’s Capital & Housing Finance occupy DHFL’s assets in 2021, while the matter is still under adjudication? The NCLT’s May 2021 order and NCLAT’s January 2022 ruling questioning Piramal’s deal were stayed by his legal team—Kapil Sibal, Tushar Mehta—at higher courts. The RBI’s Committee of Creditors, 94% in favor of Piramal over Oaktree Capital’s full-repayment offer, pushed this through. Why was Piramal allowed to seize DHFL’s carcass while victims like this (gestures to Circomedia) beg for justice? Is this your “vibrant democracy” at work, or cronyism in plain sight?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (visibly shaken, stammering, clutching the saffron cloth): Uh, mitron, these are… complex financial matters! (mimes confusion, hands flailing) Piramal’s deal was approved by the RBI, by legal processes. I’m no banker, Karan! (forces a weak smile) My job is to serve 140 crore Indians, not to meddle in courts. The judiciary is independent, no? (sweat drips, voice faltering) We’re fighting corruption, building a new India!

Circomedia (leaping forward with a sudden cartwheel, landing in a defiant pose, certificate raised, voice raw): New India? (pantomimes a thief snatching the certificate, then spins, mimicking a victim’s despair) My savings, my life, stolen by your cronies! (executes a high kick, as if striking an invisible Piramal) You let Piramal walk away with ₹45,000 crore while we got crumbs! (tumbles into a roll, rising to point at Modi) A faqir admi doesn’t shield thieves!

Spect-actor 1 (a retired pensioner, clutching a torn DHFL document, storming forward): Independent judiciary? (waves the document) Piramal’s lawyers stalled justice! The Supreme Court’s still silent while we starve! (throws the document at Modi’s feet) Answer for our pain!

Spect-actor 2 (a young activist, grabbing a “Cow Urine Cures” pamphlet): And your regime pushes this nonsense while ignoring our cries! (tears the pamphlet, tossing it skyward) Article 51A(h) demands scientific temper, but you back cow worship over justice for DHFL victims!

Spect-actor 3 (a worker, rolling the toy tank forward): Cronyism! (points to the dollar bill scraps) ₹34,000 crore stolen, and you call it “business”? Use your ₹2,279 crore tours to help us, not Adani-Ambani!

Boal (clapping from the sidelines, rallying the spect-actors): This is Legislative Theatre, comrades! Demand justice! Propose your laws! Repay DHFL victims? Punish the cronies? End sub judice excuses? Take the stage!

Spect-actor 4 (a student, waving a Constitution): I propose: no crony takeovers until victims are paid! Enforce Article 14’s equality—justice for DHFL holders!

Spect-actor 5 (a farmer, raising a fist): Seize Piramal’s profits! Return our ₹5 lakh, our dreams! No more faqir lies!

The spect-actors’ chants—“Justice for DHFL! Seize the cronies!”—crescendo, shaking the stage. Circomedia executes a final, acrobatic spin, landing in a crouch, certificate pointed at Modi like a dagger. The spotlight tightens, the map’s red scars pulsing, pamphlets and dollar bill scraps swirling in a breeze. Rangeela (Modi) slumps, his faqir facade crumbling, as the spect-actors close in, their voices a tidal wave.

Karan Thapar (voice a guillotine, stepping closer): No more deflections, Mr. Prime Minister. The DHFL victims—senior citizens, the Indian Air Force, Ramakrishna Mission, UPPCL—lost crores while Piramal, backed by your regime’s silence, thrives. If you’re a faqir admi, why shield the looters? (points to Circomedia) Answer this victim, or is your “Viksit Bharat” just a throne for cronies?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (voice a broken whisper, hands trembling): I… I serve Bharat, mitron. Courts… will decide. I’m… just a humble man… (handkerchief falls, eyes darting, as if trapped)

The spect-actors surge forward, encircling the hot seat, chanting—“Liar! Crony! Justice!”—as Circomedia performs a final, slow-motion cartwheel, freezing in a pose of defiance. The toy tank crashes into the hot seat, pamphlets scatter like ash, and the map’s scars bleed brighter. The hum of Money returns, a dirge, as Rangeela (Modi) rises, clutching the saffron cloth like Mussolini before the mob. His eyes widen in panic, knees buckle, and he staggers, arms flailing. With a guttural cry, he collapses backward, toppling the hot seat in a crash that echoes like a fallen regime, sprawling amidst the wreckage—dollar bill scraps, tank, pamphlets, certificate—the map’s red scars glowing above like a judgment, the saffron cloth a funeral shroud.

Spect-actor 5 (a small trader, seizing the toy tank): Jobs? My shop died after demonetization! (rolls the tank at Modi) ₹68 crore for defaulters, ₹2,279 crore for tours—Adani’s coal mines got richer, not us!

Karan Thapar (dossier raised): On human rights, Barack Obama and Joe Biden criticized your erosion of minority protections, with Biden raising concerns in 2023. In 2002, as Gujarat’s Chief Minister, you oversaw a pogrom—over 1,000 dead, mostly Muslims, in riots labeled ethnic cleansing. Your U.S. visa was banned until 2014. Your silence on Manipur’s violence mirrors that inaction. Are you a mass-killer, complicit in ethnic cleansing?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (handkerchief soaked, voice shaking): The riots… a tragedy, not my fault! I restored peace! Manipur is complex, but we’re working on it. Ethnic cleansing? Lies! I’m a peacemaker—Seoul Peace Prize, UN Champion of the Earth!

Spect-actor 6 (a Muslim woman, tearing a piece from the map): Peacemaker? My family burned in 2002! (points to Gujarat’s scar) You watched mobs kill! Manipur bleeds because of your silence! Answer for the blood!

Karan Thapar (voice like steel): Let’s talk fundamental rights. Articles 14–19 of the Constitution—equality, freedom, education—are enforceable by the Supreme Court. Yet, under your regime, academic freedom has plummeted to 0.38 on the V-Dem Index, placing India in the bottom 20-30%. Equality is eroded by communal policies, free speech stifled, and education saffronized. Are these rights preserved, or are they at stake?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (gasping, clutching his chest): Mitron, we uphold the Constitution! Equality? We empower all! Free speech? Look at our vibrant democracy! Education? We’re modernizing it for Bharat’s future!

Spect-actor 7 (a professor, holding a tattered textbook): Vibrant? You’ve gagged universities, pushed pseudo-science like cow urine cures! Article 14’s equality is dead when Muslims and Dalits live in fear!

Lauren Gunderson (storming in, fists clenched): And answer for the women you’ve betrayed! Jashodaben, your abandoned wife, lives under surveillance. Snoopgate—spying on Manasi Soni—shows your paranoia. Operation Sindoor glorifies Hindu patriarchy. You said “Beti Patao” instead of “Beti Padhao”—flirt, capture, control. Is this your vision for women?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (voice breaking): Personal matters… baseless rumors! I respect women, empower them! Beti Patao was a slip! Snoopgate? Fiction! I’m here for Sabka Saath, Sabka Vikas!

Spect-actor 8 (a feminist activist, hurling a torn saffron cloth): Respect? You cage women like Jashodaben! (throws the cloth at Modi) Your “Beti Patao” betrays patriarchy—control, not empowerment!

Circomedia (cartwheeling in, juggling pamphlet scraps and the toy tank): Oh, mitron! (mimics Modi) Let’s juggle scams, slaughter, and cow worship! (hums Money, tossing debris) ₹68 crore for defaulters, ₹66,000 crore DHFL scam, ₹2,279 crore tours for Adani-Ambani, 1,000 dead in Gujarat, earthquakes from cow pain! (lands the tank at Modi’s feet) Your throne’s crumbling, Vishwaguru!

Boal (clapping, rallying the spect-actors): This is Legislative Theatre, comrades! Propose your laws! Tax corporates? Justice for Gujarat? Freedom for Jashodaben? End pseudo-science? Take the stage!

Spect-actor 9 (a student): No leader dodges press conferences! Mandatory accountability, no teleprompters!

Spect-actor 10 (a worker): Tax Adani-Ambani! Stop ₹68 crore handouts to defaulters! Use ₹2,279 crore for jobs!

Spect-actor 11 (an elderly man, holding the map): Justice for 2002! Prosecute ethnic cleansing! No silence on Manipur!

Spect-actor 12 (a rationalist, waving a Constitution): Enforce Article 51A(h)! Ban pseudo-science like “Einsteinian Pain Waves” and cow urine myths!

Spect-actor 13 (a farmer, raising a fist): Stop corporate handouts! ₹2,279 crore for tours should feed farmers, not Adani’s empire!

Spect-actor 14 (a young Muslim man, pointing to the map): Answer for Manipur! Your silence lets violence fester while you pose as “peacemaker”!

Freire: Bravo Spect-actors! We are in the peak of conscientization. We have defeated the concept of Banking theory of knowledge transmission–it is not a bi-way traffic! (clapping)

Karan Thapar (delivering the final blow, voice a guillotine): One last question. You’re called a “King Liar,” a master of pseudology. Swachh Bharat? 70% of rural India lacks sanitation. “Acche Din”? Unemployment’s at a 45-year high, debt at ₹183 lakh crore. You dodge unscripted press conferences, your biopic flopped as propaganda, and your tours prop up Adani-Ambani while India bleeds. As a middleman for corporates, a leader accused of enabling ethnic cleansing, and a peddler of pseudo-science, how can you call yourself India’s “Chowkidar”?

Shyam Rangeela (Modi) (slumping, voice a broken whisper): I… I’ve given my life to Bharat. Debt, unemployment… we’re trying, mitron. Swachh Bharat is a vision… I’m not a liar… not a killer… (handkerchief falls, hands trembling) I’m… your Chowkidar…

Spect-actors (surging forward, encircling the hot seat, voices a deafening roar): Liar! Killer! Middleman! Resign! Justice for Gujarat! Justice for Jashodaben! Justice for India! We must have the right to recall.

The spotlight blazes, pinning Rangeela (Modi) like a condemned dictator. The spect-actors swarm, shredding the dollar bill to scraps, rolling the toy tank until it crashes into the hot seat. The map’s red scars pulse, Gujarat, Manipur, and Rajasthan bleeding into a crimson flood. Pamphlets of “Einsteinian Pain Waves” and “Cow Urine Cures” scatter like ash. Circomedia spins wildly, humming Money at a fever pitch, tossing confetti that falls like dust. Rangeela (Modi) rises, clutching the saffron cloth like Mussolini before the mob, his face a mask of defiance. Then, his eyes widen in panic, knees buckle, and he staggers, arms flailing. With a guttural cry, he collapses backward, toppling the hot seat in a crash that echoes like a fallen regime. He lies sprawled amidst the wreckage—dollar bill scraps, tank, pamphlets—the map’s red scars glowing above like a judgment, the saffron cloth a funeral shroud, confetti settling like dust on a toppled empire. Curtain crashes down, the stage plunged into darkness, save for the flickering spotlight on Modi’s fallen form.

VO: In Nagpur, India, on May 20, 2025  three individuals, including Pushpa Sathidar, have been charged under Section 152 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), a law akin to sedition, for reciting Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s poem “Hum Dekhenge” by Faiz Ahmad Faizat a memorial event. The complaint was filed by a right-wing activist, claiming the recitation endangered national sovereignty and promoted communal disharmony. The poem, which has become a symbol of protest, was recited by a member of Samata Kala Manch. The police are investigating and have stated that those who recited the poem and raised anti-establishment slogans are likely to have gone underground. No arrests have been made yet.

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Curtain Call:

All the Spect-Actors stand united . Sircar initiated to build up a human chain and sing हम देखेंगे by Faiz Ahmad Faiz :

हम देखेंगे,

लाज़िम है के हम भी देखेंगे,

वो दिन के जिसका वादा है,

जो लौह-ए-अज़ल में लिखा है,

हम देखेंगे।

Hum Dekhenge,

Lazim Hai Ke Hum Bhi Dekhenge,

Wo Din Ke Jiska Wada Hai,

Jo Lauh-e-Azal Mein Likha Hai,

Hum Dekhenge.

We Will See,

It’s certain that we too will see,

that promised day

which is written on tablet of eternity,

we will see.

जब ज़ुल्म-ओ-सितम के कोह-ए-गिरां,

रुई की तरह उड़ जाएंगे,

हम महकूमों के पांव तले,

जब धरती धड़-धड़ धड़केगी,

और अहल-ए-हकम के सर ऊपर 

जब बिजली कड़-कड़ कड़केगी,

हम देखेंगे।

Jab Zulm-o-Sitam Ke Kauh-e-Giran,

Rui Ki Tarah Ud Jaenge,

Hum Mehkumon Ke Paon Tale,

Jab Dharti Dhad-Dhad Dhadkegi,

Aur Ahl-e-Hakam Ke Sar Upar,

Jab Bijli Kad-Kad Kadkegi,

Hum Dekhenge.

When big mountains of oppression,

will blow away like cotton,

beneath the feet of the oppressed,

when earth like heartbeat will be shaken,

and on the heads of the power bearers,

when lightning will be thundered,

we will see.

जब अर्ज़-ए-ख़ुदा के काबे से,

सब बुत उठवाए जाएंगे,

हम अहल-ए-सफ़ा मरदूद-ए-हरम,

मसनद पे बिठाए जाएंगे,

सब ताज उछाले जाएंगे,

सब तख़्त गिराए जाएंगे,

हम देखेंगे।

Jab Arz-e-Khuda Ke Kaabe Se,

Sab But Uthwaye Jaenge,

Hum Ahl-e-Safa Mardood-e-Haram,

Masnad Pe Bithaye Jaenge,

Sab Taaj Uchale Jaenge,

Sab Takht Giraye Jaenge,

Hum Dekhenge.

When from god’s holy place,

idols will be eradicated,

we the purest,we the outcasts,

on thrones will be seated,

all crowns will be tossed,

all thrones will be dumped,

we will see.

बस नाम रहेगा अल्लाह का,

जो ग़ाएब भी है हाज़िर भी,

जो मंज़र भी है नाज़िर भी,

उठेगा अनल हक़ का नारा,

जो मैं भी हूँ और तुम भी हो,

और राज करेगी ख़ल्क़-ए-ख़ुदा,

जो में भी हूँ और तुम भी हो,

हम देखेंगे।

Bus Naam Rahega Allah Ka,

Jo Gayab Bhi Hai,Hazir Bhi,

Jo Manzar Bhi Hai, Nazir Bhi,

Uthega Anal Haq Ka Nara,

Jo Mein Bhi Hun Aur Tum Bhi Ho,

Aur Raaj Karegi Khalk-e-Khuda,

Jo Mein Bhi Hun Aur Tum Bhi Ho,

Hum Dekhenge.

Only Allah’s name will remain,

Who is invisible yet present,

Who is a spectacle and a spectator,

Slogans of ‘I am truth’ will be raised,

Which is you as well as I,

and the creation of God will rule,

Which is you as well as I,

we will see.

हम देखेंगे,

लाज़िम है के हम भी देखेंगे,

हम देखेंगे।

Hum Dekhenge,

Lazim Hai Ke Hum Bhi Dekhenge,

Hum Dekhenge.

We will see,

It’s certain that we too will see,

we will see. 

[pantomime and acrobatics are performed by Circomedia and his/her fellows with Hum Dekhenge song.]

Yes, the play perhaps concludes here with this poignant song. Did it feel sudden? Was it forced? Everything was there…brewing, spewing, and battering against the mockery of oppressive systems. It is essential for a play like this to possess propaganda value and a mission to fulfill. However, it doesn’t always need to provide answers. Not a single character offered one definitive answer; rather, they formed a bri-collage, culminating in a glaring, burning reflection on contemporary India and its ills. For what purpose? Certainly, for the seeds of resistance. Take-aways….up to you!

Or… does it really end, after all?

Outcast Scene X: Spect-actor Storms

(Read this as a ‘could be’ or ‘could totally not be’ part of the above script—your call!)

Enter: A ragtag procession—locals from Khalasi Tola, now involved in the play, barefoot, bearing real tools: spades, ladles, broken mobile phones. They blur the line between actor and audience. A drumbeat begins—not from instruments, but from fists on metal. Rhythm from refuse.

Boal (stepping forward, arms wide, voice fierce):
Here begins no scene—this is rehearsal for revolution!
Your boss? A character.
Your hunger? A monologue.
Your eviction notice? A prop.
Your silence? Not welcome.

Freire (climbing onto a box, chalk in hand):
The oppressed must write the script by acting out, not just recite or conceive it.
(He begins scrawling words on the chalkboard: “Decolonize Desire”, “Eat the Elite”, “Question Progress”.)
Let’s ask: Who laughs at the jokes in “Oligarchs, Jokes”… and who gets eaten by them?

Circomedia (rising, no longer ill, charged):
I am nausea no more! I am rupture!
Watch me flip from victim to myth-breaker!
(Performs a cartwheel across the stage, knocks over the gold toilet, revealing a mound of shredded loan papers beneath.)

Stanislavski (addressing a young spect-actor):
Don’t act the worker. Be the one denied the wage.
What do you feel, child of the neoliberal ruin?

Young Girl (stepping forward):
I feel… like my dreams smell of diesel.
My brother coughed blood after spraying pesticides.
My school was turned into a warehouse.
My play is real.

(The actors fall silent. The audience begins to murmur—some in shock, some nodding, others rising.)

Sircar (writing on the wall with ash):
Third Theatre:

• Local story
• Real space
• No illusions
• Rehearsed resistance

Dutt (breaking character):
We scream into policy! Into power’s eardrums!
We will heckle the bulldozers with streetlight sonnets!
“Jokes” must riot.

Havel (gently):
And yet—hold contradiction.
Laugh in ruin.
Cry in satire.
Let absurdity be the knife-edge.

Brecht (strumming a makeshift banjo):
The oligarch eats his fill by dawn / While we chew laws ’til teeth are gone / But flip the stage and twist the grin / And you’ll find truth where jokes begin.
(Pauses, then deadpans.)
And remember—never believe the applause. It might be sponsored.

Grotowski (hurling a prop briefcase into the crowd):
Feel that? That’s not theatre—it’s a tremor.
Your spirit-ing is the set.
Your bones hold the sound.
Your body becomes the revolution.

Boal (to the crowd, almost whispering):
Now… you.
What will you do with “Oligarchs, Jokes, and a Pinch of Democracy”?
Change the ending?
Burn the theatre down, completely?
Stage the world anew?

Lights flicker.
The chalkboard crumbles.
The line between fiction and fury vanishes.
Freeze.

. Blackout .

APPENDIX

Conceptual Outline: “Hum Dekhenge – A Performative Story of Resistance”

Stage Setup: As the final scene fades, the stage is dimly lit with a warm amber glow, symbolizing hope and resilience. Dust motes float in the air, illuminated by soft spotlights, evoking the play’s title. The Spect-Actors—diverse in appearance, representing the oppressed, the dreamers, and the truth-seekers—stand scattered across the stage, their faces resolute yet weary from the narrative’s journey.

Action: Sircar, the visionary leader (a central character or symbolic figure in the play), steps forward, arms outstretched, calling for unity. In a slow, deliberate movement, the Spect-Actors join hands, forming a human chain that stretches across the stage, a powerful visual of solidarity. Their faces reflect determination, their bodies swaying gently as if moved by an invisible wind. The chain is not rigid but organic, with subtle shifts and leans, embodying a collective heartbeat.

Song Begins: The haunting melody of Hum Dekhenge by Faiz Ahmad Faiz fills the air, sung live by a chorus offstage or by the Spect-Actors themselves, their voices rising in unison. The song’s Urdu lyrics, rich with revolutionary fervor, are projected in translation on a backdrop for the audience, ensuring accessibility. The chorus swells with each verse, building emotional intensity.

Circomedia’s Performance: As the song progresses, Circomedia (a renowned acrobatic performer or troupe) and their fellows enter from the wings, dressed in flowing, tattered costumes that mirror the “dust and debris” motif. They begin a pantomime and acrobatic sequence, weaving through the human chain without breaking it. Their movements are fluid yet defiant:

• Pantomime: Circomedia mimes the weight of oppression—carrying invisible burdens, struggling against unseen chains, and collapsing under pressure—only to rise again, symbolizing resilience. Their expressive gestures amplify the song’s themes of resistance and hope.
• Acrobatics: The troupe performs breathtaking lifts, flips, and balances. One performer leaps over the human chain, landing softly as if defying gravity, representing freedom from tyranny. Another balances precariously on a partner’s shoulders, arms outstretched like a crown dissolving into the air, echoing the lyrics about falling thrones.
• Group Floor Acrobatics: The ensemble forms dynamic tableaux—pyramids that collapse and reform, rolls and tumbles that mimic the “lub and dub” of the earth’s heartbeat. A slow-motion sequence shows performers rising from the ground, their bodies arching upward as if summoned by the song’s call to truth.

Climax: As the song reaches its peak—“I am the truth and you are the truth”—the human chain tightens, hands clasped firmly. Circomedia’s troupe forms a final tableau: a circle around the Spect-Actors, some standing tall, others kneeling, all gazing upward as if envisioning the “One name” that remains. A single spotlight illuminates the center of the circle, symbolizing divine truth and unity.

Final Moment: The song fades, and the stage falls silent. The human chain slowly releases, but the Spect-Actors remain standing, facing the audience, their eyes burning with resolve. Circomedia’s troupe freezes in their final pose, a living monument to resistance. A single voice (Sircar or a chorus member) softly repeats, “Who you are – and – who I am too,” as the lights dim to black, leaving the audience in reflective silence.

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Choreography: “Hum Dekhenge”

1. Performance Concept

A. Theme of the Song: Hum Dekhenge is a poetic anthem of defiance, hope, and collective liberation. The performance reflects the song’s narrative of dismantling oppression, celebrating the voiceless, and affirming freedom. The human chain and acrobatic elements symbolize unity, struggle, and transcendence, aligning with the play’s themes of resistance against systemic injustice and the reclaiming of human dignity.

B. Duration: The curtain call lasts approximately 5–6 minutes, aligning with the song’s typical length (based on popular renditions, e.g., Iqbal Bano’s version). The performance is paced to allow the song’s emotional arc to unfold naturally, with choreography intensifying during the climactic verses.

C. Performers:

• Spect-Actors: 15–20 actors, representing diverse identities (age, gender, ethnicity), embodying the play’s collective voice.
• Circomedia and Fellows: 6–8 acrobats, trained in physical theater and circus arts, led by a central performer (Circomedia) who embodies the spirit of defiance.
• Chorus: 4–6 singers (offstage or integrated into the Spect-Actors), delivering a powerful, harmonious rendition of Hum Dekhenge.

D. Venue: A proscenium or thrust stage, with a minimum depth of 20 feet and width of 30 feet, to accommodate the human chain and acrobatic movements. A bare stage with minimal props allows focus on the performers. A large backdrop or cyclorama is ideal for projecting lyrics or abstract visuals (e.g., dust clouds, breaking chains).

2. Performance Structure

• Opening (0:00–0:45): Sircar initiates the human chain. Spect-Actors join hands slowly, moving into position with deliberate steps. Lighting shifts from dim amberguida: System: You are Grok 3 built by xAI.

amber to warm white. Circomedia enters, performing subtle pantomime gestures (e.g., pushing against invisible walls).

• Verse 1 (0:45–2:00): The human chain sways gently, synchronized with the song’s rhythm. Circomedia’s troupe begins acrobatics—low rolls, partnered lifts, and slow-motion falls—symbolizing the struggle against oppression.
• Chorus (2:00–3:30): The song’s intensity builds. Circomedia performs dynamic group floor acrobatics—pyramids, synchronized tumbles, and leaps over the human chain. Spect-Actors raise their joined hands, amplifying the sense of unity.
• Verse 2 (3:30–4:45): The acrobatics peak with a solo by Circomedia—a high flip or balance act—representing the fall of “king-mounts of violence.” The human chain pulses forward and back, mimicking a heartbeat.
• Climax and Close (4:45–6:00): The performers form a circular tableau around the Spect-Actors. The chain releases as the song ends, with all performers frozen in a final pose under a single spotlight. Silence follows, then a single voice repeats the final line.

3. Acrobatics and Pantomime by Circomedia

A. Acrobatics and Pantomime:

• Pantomime: Circomedia’s gestures are exaggerated yet poignant—miming the weight of chains, the collapse of thrones, and the rise of the oppressed. Performers use slow, deliberate movements to convey struggle, followed by fluid, triumphant gestures to reflect liberation.
• Group Floor Acrobatics: The troupe performs synchronized rolls, cartwheels, and partnered lifts. A key sequence involves a human pyramid that collapses and reforms, symbolizing the cyclical nature of resistance. Another performer executes a series of flips, landing near the human chain, integrating with the Spect-Actors.

B. Integration with Spect-Actors: The acrobats weave through the human chain, never breaking it, to symbolize the integration of art and activism. Their movements are timed to the song’s rhythm, with peaks during the chorus and softer gestures during quieter verses.

4. Technical Illustration (Text Description) – Lighting

• Opening: Dim amber spotlights create a dusty, ethereal atmosphere. Soft beams follow Sircar as they initiate the human chain.
• Verse 1: Warm white and golden lights intensify, illuminating the human chain. Moving spotlights track Circomedia’s pantomime and acrobatics, creating dynamic shadows.
• Chorus: A burst of red and orange lights symbolizes the “thuds and grrs of thunder,” fading to soft blue as the lyrics shift to hope and truth.
• Verse 2: Strobing white lights mimic lightning during the “crowns of the oppressors” line, transitioning to warm gold as the truth-seekers rise.
• Climax: A single, bright white spotlight centers on the circular tableau, with soft amber fill lights bathing the Spect-Actors, creating a halo effect.
• Close: Lights dim to a single spotlight on the final pose, fading to black over 5 seconds.

5. Technical Requirements

• Lighting: Programmable LED spotlights (minimum 12) for dynamic color changes and movement tracking. A cyclorama for lyric projections or abstract visuals. Haze machine to enhance dust mote effect.
• Sound: High-quality surround sound system for live vocals and instruments. Microphones for chorus (wireless, hidden). Optional live tabla and harmonium for authenticity.
• Stage: Non-slip stage floor for acrobatics. Minimal props to maximize movement space. Backdrop for projections (white or light grey fabric).