There I was, shivering in the winds of the great plains, trying to figure out how, exactly, the Mutineers were going to haze me. Downing a glass of sweet and salty lime water to calm my fluttery stomach, I tried to imagine the worst. Would Abhi race me in rappelling down the face of the North Dakota headquarters? Perhaps Vinod and Manish might make me read aloud from the works of Ayn Rand while standing on one leg? Might Anna challenge me to a literary write-off?  Could Sajit make me play some hyped up diasporic version of the Filmigame? Perhaps in the mountain headquarters’ darkened corridors, Ennis would torment me with a tantalizing, mirrored glimpse of a single eye, stirring up Sepia speculation about the rest of his mysterious visage. 

Somehow, all these were not so scary. The Ig Nobel prize post, however, reminded me of last year’s peace prize–and the dreaded combination of Karaoke and Antakshari. What could possibly be worse than being made to perform in public like that?

Except, I suppose, that’s what blogging is. Hey, look at me, I’ve got something to say. Well, might as well make it an entertaining group activity. If I had to describe the culture of the South-Asian American community in a single sentence, I might very well hit on this: We’re very supportive–perhaps too supportive–of our children’s performance-related self-esteem. It only takes two or three Diwali shows with a hundred klutzy butterballs bouncing around the stage, adorably off-beat, to realize that we start drinking in theater with our mothers’ milk. This season brings a fresh batch. 

When characters speak to you from a murky stage, words and turns of phrase stick in your brain–say, “a raisin of startling white clarity.” That comes from an alternate translation of the Koranic verse thought to promise martyrs an award of virgins. Bangladeshi-American playgwright Sharbari Ahmed uses the ambiguity in titling her character-study currently playing in New York City’s Workshop Theater (312 W. 36th St., on the 4th floor, between 8th and 9th Avenues):

“Raisins Not Virgins is a tale of spiritual and political turmoil set against a backdrop of New York dating angst. It traces the hilarious journey and jihad of a young American-Muslim woman as she traverses the minefields of identity and love. Sahar Salam is a 29 year old, apolitical, well-heeled, and lonely New York advertising professional who loses her boyfriend to causes and ideologies greater than she is willing to admit. This loss forces her to confront a lifelong resentment against the religion of her birth, Islam. It also marks the beginning of her personal jihad, which, for Sahar, involves a great deal of drinking and a dubious flirtation with the world of art,” according to press notes. (Link)

Ahmed has an impressive life-itinerary so far: “She was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, grew up in Chester CT, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, Japan and studied Mandarin in China.”

Since my own tastes similarly run the spectrum of worldly flavors, I thought we’d move a little further west, closer to the North Dakota headquarters, and marvel at the diverse season that artistic director Dipankar Mukherjee and literary director Natarajan showcase at the Minneapolis Pangea World Theater. Sadly, we’ve just missed their run of Truth Serum Blues, which was directed by Mukherjee and was oh so timely. When our president promises to veto an anti-torture bill that passed the Senate 90-9, it’s a good day to pay attention to art like this: 

 “We’re not afraid of differing opinions,” said Dipankar Mukherjee, Pangea’s artistic director. “We know this is a sensitive issue and it will provoke disagreement. But if we don’t talk about it or if we talk only to ourselves, the gulf will remain.” (Link.) 

It’s overdue that Americans face the torture committed daily in our names. Ismail Khalidi and the Pangea Theater put us in that cell–confronting us with crucial questions we must ask. (Link)

From life in the city, to life in America, to life in the desh–let us now travel further west to my hometown of Berkeley, where 90 years ago Shakuntala marked the debut of Indian theater in America, accompanied by elephants and zebras. This November, Sudipto Chatterjee will direct the West Coast Premiere of Manjula Padmanabhan’s Harvest:

Om, a young man, is driven by unemployment to sell his body parts for cash. Guards arrive from the company to make his home into a germ-free zone. His mother makes use of the company credit card to purchase luxury goods, oblivious to her son’s predicament. When Jeetu, Om’s brother, returns unexpectedly, he is taken away as the donor, by mistake. Om can’t accept this and goes to the company to complain. Jaya, his wife is left alone. Will she too be seduced into selling her body for use by the rich westerners? (Link)

Shades of Ishiguro. Also turned into a film. We live together in a dark and intriguing world; let us share our shadowy thoughts. I think the Mutiny will drink to that, atop the moonless mountain.