Guards at the Taj @ Orange Tree Theatre, Richmond, London
In a two person play, mostly on stage most of the time, we encounter the lowliest guards of the under-construction Taj Mahal in the distance. Only this wonder of the world has been hidden for 16 years. The two guards are friends and ponder life as they stand and march. Ofcourse, they wonder too what the Shah is creating to wow the world. And then worry about who might be watching them wonder — and perhaps report them.
Babar (Usaamah Ibraheem Hussain) is a dreamer, a lover and appreciator of beauty — including that of the Harem. He fizzes with ideas for inventions. Maanuv Thiara’s Humayun is much more about respecting authority (his father), the Shah, the government and the rules). He can even recite and explain the nuances between the different levels of punishment in the law. But they’re friends and enjoy the time they spend together, guarding. But why they wonder, does blasphemy lead to 3 days in gaol, whilst speaking against the Shah leads to mutilation and loss of limbs or sight or life — or all of the aforementioned?
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Shah Jahan may be a great romantic immortalising his loved but deceased wife in a world-changing, commemorative art-work. At the same time, he’s very much a respecter of his person and deals severely with those who challenge it. Or those he interprets as challenging him.
The guards gossip. The chief architect has asked if his crew can inspect their finished handiwork — he’s asked the Shah this (in person, to him, outright). Outrageous they think to ask something like this of the Shah! They just want to admire the beauty of what they’ve made. Pondering this request, the shocked Shah has decreed that heads and hands will be lost so that another such work can never be built again. Surely, Babar theorises, this stops beauty, by being the only one. Amazed by the scale of the decree against the artisans, the guards alarmingly start to work out who will get the gruesome task of doing this. And how to get out of it when they realise that the horrible work has come to them to action.
Next, we’re with the guards post-this event. Humayun is groaning as he can’t see — the amount of smoke used to cauterize wounded stumps has choked up his eyes. He cries out weakly for water. Only Babar can’t help — his muscles have locked around his scimitar due to the amount of dispatching he was doing. Under guidance, Humayun has to walk towards Babar and massage his hands, avoiding the sharp blade. Once Babar’s hands relax, he can fetch water — and Humayun can see again. Then they have to start cleaning up, using white cloths to mop up blood — and clean themselves.
Babar undergoes a mixture of guilt, shame, revulsion, blame, feeling that he has killed beauty — and yet he loves beauty. We’ve already experienced what a imagination he has as he dreams of aircraft, naming his invention. Humayun humourously comes up with a portable hole, which then needs a sack so that the things you store in the portable hole don’t fall out! Babar longs to run away from court life and live free in the surrounding jungle, in the trees, appreciating the wildlife and colours.
Humayun takes a more pragmatic ‘we were only following orders’ approach. Yet even he has to deal with practical horrors — where do you put baskets full of heads? Heaps of severed hands? Where are the women who usually clean up when you need them? Babar begins to break down as he tries to scrub himself clean and can’t — and the horror of what he’s carried out on so many hits him. Uniquely in a play, we see male friendship tenderly explores. Humayun washes Babar clean, almost soothing him with a lullaby. It’s an evocative, poignant moment, full of love — and yet un-sexual. You just never see anything like this — it was extraordinary and compassionately done.
As a reward, Babar and Humayun get to guard the Shah in the long dreamed of Harem. Though there are jokes a plenty made about this being just another government office, not full of ‘naked sluts’. As ever, Humayun is full of what his father said and the rules of the Harem, trying to move on and forget what has happened. Babar can’t forget and plots to kill the Shah — which leads Humayun to try to defend his friend from the death penalty. Only his father quizzes him — which results in a less than lenient punishment.
Humayun finds himself in an appalling position again — he has to dispatch his friend. Who pleadingly — and then frantically — begs him not to. It’s horrific — yet Humayun clearly follows the rules and we see him memoralising his friend at the end, haunted by his memories even now. And dreams of what might have been if he’d been willing to question the rules or the ethics of what he was doing.
A fascinatingly intimate drama of what happens when you follow the rules (mostly because of what might happen to you if you don’t). And comparable to Putin’s Russia or Nazi Germany, in current day Afghanistan or Iran, how much free will you have under such a regime, to do or not do, to question leaders’ decisions, to obey or not obey, to follow or not follow. Can you still choose when you appear to have limited choices? Also who is guilty? Is the Shah? Is Babar more guilty than Humayun because he actively chopped, removed, whilst Humayun cauterised, restoring, healing, ‘soothing’. Babar feels the weigh of what he’s done or been forced to do. Engaging, dynamic and whimsical, it also has deep moments of real horror. There’s also a lot of humour (such as when surrounded by an audience in the round) the guards talk about being ‘alone’, wondering who might be watching them really?
I was streaming a recorded version of the play, so the horror of the bloodied stage and cloths (and just how much of it there was) didn’t quite come across, as I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at. It’s only through reading around the subject later that I got what was going on (though the heads and hands removed are mentioned by the characters and you definitely get it when Babar starts trying to scrub himself raw and can’t). If then I felt (as a viewer) removed from it, how much more impactful must it have been to see the play, particularly given how close the audience is at the Orange Tree Theatre to the stage — and events.
Wonderfully and powerfully too, given that it’s two men and a pole with some other minor props on stage, the play, the performances and the text get your imagination pumping and filling in everything, such as when they see (jaws literally dropping) the Taj Mahal for the first time. Clever use of lighting, darkness and sound (sometimes screams) in the distance add to the atmosphere and completely draw us into their world. The history of the events described is under debate as to whether it happened or not — but this ‘what if’ gets us thinking, considering ethics, complicity and the people at the sharp end of a harsh regime. Standing ovation both for writer Rajiv Joseph and Director Adam Karim.
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