It was bold. It was different. But it wasn’t my kind of theatre.

It was experimental. It was the Theatre of the Disconnect. But it wasn’t my kind of theatre.

The actors moved like well oiled cogs in a wheel. The scenes moved ahead at vignette pace. But it wasn’t my kind of theatre.

It wasn’t my kind of theatre. And that’s what intrigued me. For most of the time I was spell bound. I was just looking at the opera on stage.

I was just looking at the clouds that gathered. At the landscape that changed. At the black vs. white battle that took on colorful hues.

Some of the scenes were instantly recognizable. Some took some doing. But as the story unfolded I realized that while this wasn’t my kind of theatre, it was planned mayhem.

The idea of layering the stage with television performances behind the actors…and actors holding giant remote controls, pointing them at the audience…almost willing for them to change like channels…that was good. Not my kind of theatre you understand, but good. Creative. A kind of Urdu…a language that’s written from right to left.

I liked the introductory slide sequence…even though there was a false and silent start. Even though the audience behaved as if they were grouped in alphabetical order.

Fans of Aditi on one side. Fans of Bhagyashree on the other. Fans of Jay Jha on one side. And the many fans of Kanishka sprinkled all over. The cheers were loud and in definite spurts. In an emerging pattern.

The only sound…of music, a mellow nationalistic one. Not my kind of theatre, but stuff that legends are made of.

Questions like “Will Hyderabad ever progress beyond Bedroom Comedies? Can it?” became redundant. “Does Hyderabad have real talent” got answered emphatically.

Mayura and Rahul in poetic spotlight. Sutradhars in a Dramanon play. Harika, that "will-o'-the-wisp", that waif. Flitting across the stage in countless costume maneuvers in a kind of petticoat frenzy.

Oh, the evening was full of individual brilliance. Full of parts that gelled together but only made up a kind of ‘join-the-dots’ kind of a perforated picture. Not my kind of theatre, simply because it was too full of holes, but stunning in complexity that cascaded into simplicity.

And in the final chapter, a Marlon Brando dressed up like ET. Shayantoni, I discovered later, floating across stage with a near anti gravitational mirth. While two actors tore each other into pieces. The Red and Green lights, the red, green and white costumes, the red and green furniture…the string of lights that snaked across the floor in hypnotic meander.

Not my kind of theatre but stunning. I loved the way English morphed into Hindi. Loved the way that body language crumpled stereotypes onto the floor including an endearing one that made Harika fall on stage. Again. A heap that picked itself up, and danced the night away.

That was the key perhaps. The energy. The raw energy. With RK’s calming influence mimicking real life with great effect. KD’s Facebook Posts singing their usual version of “Punning Alive”.

Simon and Garfunkel in drag. Singing “Time it was; and what a time it was. A time of innocence. A time of confidence”.

Bookends. The span of what theatre can do. Especially when it dares to cross the comfort zone of audience likes, and brings down the fourth wall barriers of tragedy, comedy, insanity…

Not my cup of tea, but then they did say that it was Coffee that was being served.