Tales from the Underbelly

The stench,however,is all around. It travels through the gutters,which pump out the used blood of the city,and the garbage vats,where buzzing flies participate in a story of their own. It accumulates intensity and then finally assumes a human form,that of the dirt god. Intro also takes scatological pleasure in categorizing the smells— the stench of pretension emanating from the stereotypical Bengali educated middle class professor who talks gibberish,the mediocrity that reeks from the two salesmen who discuss their lives and philosophies over glasses of “neat” rum.

Woven into all these,like a silvery bright seam,is a deceptively eulogizing meditation on the city itself —crowded,throbbing,hellish yet alive,the great survivor. Gunter Grass’s observation on the city (he called Kolkata a pile of shit) has raised many war cries and made argumentative critics out of Bengali youngsters; a similar claim can be made for Tin Can’s effort. It is possible to see Intro as a poem written to and for the city,incontestably the moodiest of all metropolises in the country. Over the last few years,I’ve begun my slow reacquaintance with the city,so my heart gives a little leap when I recognise familiar loci,such as the narrow bylane that Hulla (the kid who narrates the tale) calls home or the scene from the metro where the salesmen negotiate their way to comfort.

It is difficult to imagine that the original version of this play was staged by the group almost three years ago,so immediate is its connect. Brilliant lighting,innovative set designs and vibrant music collaborate with the energetic bunch of actors to make the play more than a theatre experience. Intro is a slice of Kolkata,served unabashedly in a soiled platter of reality.