Exit-stance by Atreya Sarma

Courtesy - Muse India: Issue 39, September/October 2011


Book Review

Harish Trivedi
Exit-stance
A Play
The Sharonom Media Group (2011)
895 Kentshire Drive, Dayton, Ohio 45459-2327
Pages 46+ :: Price $15.95
ISBN 978-0-578-07767-3


Drama of an old man refusing to die and hell-bent on living

Here lies OM.
OM.Com!
OM, calm at last and silenced forever!
Life has deserted OM; and Death, as always, has won!
His body was burnt not at the stakes
But at an electric crematorium. And
What remained was a heap of ashes
Salvaged from an ass-hole.
An ash hole for an asshole!
Finally dissolved with the five elements.

The above seriocomic poetic epitaph is scripted by OM – for himself, the only protagonist in the melodramatic one-Act monodrama - Exit-stance – who lives his final days in a nursing home for assisted living; and is torn between life and death, between traces of hedonism and shadowy spiritualism; and who suffers isolation and loneliness. And the character, who has none to turn to, presents us with a lot of gallows humour. In one moment, OM is curious about - and wants to see - his own death. So he says:

“No one has ever said what it’s like to be dead. I want to enjoy my death. I want to be fully aware of my final escape, the ultimate liberty!”

But in another moment, he is dead scared of death; and is insistent on living out. What for? Yes, he wants to enjoy the life the way he wants to. His libido is aroused when the nurses attend on and touch him. “… a mere thought of lust and sex keeps me alive!”

But soon he realises, albeit fleetingly, and despairs: “But what good is lust when youth has fled?” and taunts himself, “What a pathetic and perverse craving for human touch!” But is sexual urge an abomination or an abnormality for a man of his age? OM answers: “Lust and desires are normal feelings. And I think I am too just f…ing normal!” Mind you, this is not the only time OM chooses the four-letter word; he, in fact, suffers from oral diarrhoea of them. The doc tries to dissuade him from the compulsive addiction, but to no avail, for habits die hard, much less the instinctually obscene ones.

We’re treated to bouts of bawdy jokes, every now and then. He even makes fun of his name OM – the sacred Hindu syllable as well as an acronym of how he is called, Old Man. In a disgusting mood, he has this dig at his name: “I am not THAT OM! Instead of ‘OM tat sat’, I am OM tat shit…”

When it comes to the male doctors, he feels “like grabbing the crotch of a student doctor and squeezing his balls” whenever he is “upset and angry.” But the sight of a female nurse turns him on. “If this is a nursing home then why a big bosomed nurse hasn’t nursed me?” he longingly rues.

By now it’s evident that OM is certainly not in the class of a Tennyson’s Ulysses synonymous with a spirit of adventure and the concomitant heroic struggle or of a Hemingway’s Santiago, a symbol of stoic and silent struggle. OM, no doubt, has no nobler goals for the remainder of his life, yet he wages a struggle - a paranoid mental conflict; and also suffers an ethnic conflict and a cross-cultural dilemma, having his roots in India – though untraceable – but living in America. He pooh-poohs the various racial and sub-racial identities, and asks – why can’t all of us be just humans - for he finds himself to be neither an American nor an Indian? Despite his quarantined existence, “deaf and legally blind” status, a life of vacuum, “Isolation, desolation, frustration and anger,” and his body being “nothing but an ill-smelling heap of bones, skin and blood,” - he is hell-bent on surviving and continuing to live … to enjoy the good things of life!

And OM, by that very token of being an ordinary mortal like most of us, is a representative of a massive majority. So everyone can relate to and touch a chord with him. It’s how Harish Trivedi - the playwright – moulds the character of OM, in a postmodernist universal cast influenced as he is by Nobel laureate Samuel Beckett in whose birth centenary homage he wrote this play.

It needs guts and creativity of a high order to write a full length piece on the travails and derisive idiosyncrasies of a typical old man and the dreadful old age. The author has, evidently, succeeded in closely and deeply studying the geriatric psychology from various angles. He extracts the secrets from the darker recesses of the protagonist’s subconscious and makes him boldly and unhesitatingly vent his feelings.

No wonder, Harish Trivedi could bring it off what with his credentials. An Indian American – living in the US from mid 1960s – Harish has a doctorate in Theatre and Communication and is an associate of the Dramatists Guild of America. He is also a prolific journalist-poet-writer-translator – with his works appearing in English, Gujarati and Hindi. He is the founder Trustee & Chairman of the India Foundation in Dayton, Ohio; “his plays have a distinct Indian ethos” appealing to the “sense and sensibilities of viewers and readers… in the US,” says the author’s profile appended in the book.

Not everything OM chants can be dismissed as senile balderdash. Some of his observations stand out as a testimony to his wide reading, poetic taste, wit, experience, and keen observation of life. We also perceive that he is ‘bipolar’ – tossed between American materialism and Indian spiritualism, though he quips he is ‘multi-polar’ to the doctor’s diagnosis that he is bipolar. Tongue in cheek, OM remarks that the staff at the nursing home “changes frequently and fast – even more often than my bed sheets or towels.”

OM draws a nuanced distinction between freedom and liberation, while in an extreme mood of dejection. “I don’t need freedom; it is meaningless! I need liberation, liberation from my self.” All of us know that in our world - a topsy-turvy world full of hypocrisy - appearance need not be reality. See how OM puts it: “People are always pretending. Life itself is pretending – Pretending, masking, and hiding!”

Also notice how effectively OM portrays the monotony of the grind of a life lived cosmetically: “I used to go to a spa every day. Going around the jogging track, walking or running on the treadmill, lifting weights, riding a stationary bicycle… doing all that and still remaining in the same place.”

OM’s mind goes through a chiaroscuro of memories – of movies, music, books of literature, great personalities; as a result we’ve a quotation to suit his every mercurial mood. Being an American Indian, his mind sweeps across the Western world as well as India. Scriptures like the Rig Veda, the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, aphoristic literature like Bhartrihari Shataka, movies like Gigi (English) Jagate Raho, and Mera Naam Joker; diverse personalities like Mahatma Gandhi, Ezra Pound, Robert Frost, PB Shelley, Neil Armstrong, Mata Hari, Freud, Descartes, Maurice Chevalier, and Clarence Day are paraded before us.

All this hyperactivity of his mind erases the timelines for him so much so he feels that he exists “in a timeless zone!”

OM’s self-unsettling loneliness causes a mental drift in him. He imagines things; he sees a cat that isn’t there; and even plays with it, only to drive it away. He is ‘the Duke of Darkness’ and “a camera obscura, a dark chamber with a lens that has turned things upside down.” At the same time, his bizarre and disjointed thoughts sometimes glimmer with coherence and agreeable reason.

Mortally afraid of death, for all his iconoclastic philosophy, OM panics and collapses on seeing (in his hallucinations) a duster plane hovering over him. When he comes to, he flies into a flash of eschatological spirituality and reconciliation by invoking the Holy Grail, the Five Elements and the Shanti mantra; but even before the chant is over, he swoops down onto his wonted earthly bohemian reality where he belongs and declares “I do not need to find any holy or unholy grail… for me it is always going to be singing and dancing…,” unmindful of his irreversible physical limitations! So go on and celebrate the bacchanalian revelry!

Thus, “Important is the OM’s universality… He is a kind of everyman ranting about the injustices of life. His ethnic identity fixes the play in reality, but the specific Indian identification of OM transcends mere individual concerns…,” remarks Dr Robert Conrad, Professor Emeritus, Dept of Languages, University of Dayton, Ohio, and he proceeds to teleologize the character’s raison d’être: “OM maintains his dignity with irony and humor as he confronts his end. His disquieted suffering and his methods of coping provide a bitter hope to all who face the last stage of existence.”

The strength of this one-act & one-character play lies, perhaps, more in its performance than in its reading as a closet drama – unless the latter is taken up with necessary breaks, for otherwise the reader could feel some monotony however powerful the monologues are. The writer has incorporated elaborate stage directions; and set the play, aptly, in a late winter night. Following these directions and with assured technical effects, histrionics, and music regularly fading in and fading out - the punch and poignancy, the absurd and the black humour would briskly come into bold relief in performance. And yes, the play has a good track record: having been staged at Clayton and Cincinnati, Ohio; while the author rendered its staged reading at a theatre in Mumbai, sponsored by the government of Maharashtra.

Exit-stance - More than a play on words By Tevia Abrams

Harish Trivedi, transplanted from India and residing in Dayton, Ohio, sends an old curmudgeon on a theatrical journey in a nursing home; it is a journey at once harrowing, comedic and totally existential. I refer to the one-character play, ‘Exit-stance’, which Trivedi wrote in 2006 in homage to playwright Samuel Beckett’s birth centenary, and which was premiered in Ohio in 2007, with subsequent production the following year at the Cincinnati Fringe Festival. Curmudgeon of the piece is OM, or Old Man, who serves, among other purposes, as metaphor for the immigrant’s condition within American society.

As I came across a copy of the script only recently, I am unable to report on the original production; however, I was impressed in the reading by Trivedi’s manner of tracing OM’s voyage in monologue form through loneliness, isolation and despair, despite the proffered medical services, facilities and managed care within the confines of his nursing home. To make matters worse for OM, he is hobbled at the very outset of his journey by the fact that he is both deaf and legally blind.

The monologue form is enlivened through the use of audio and visual effects to heighten audience interest. So there are snippets of nostalgic American and Indian songs – some even from old Indian films, as, for example, ‘Zindagi Kwab Hai’ from the film ‘Jagate Raho’:

“Zindagii khvaab hai khvaab men jhuuth kyaa Aur bhalaa sach hai kyaa Sab sach hai Zindag I kvab hai”

In his tirades, interspersed with poetic asides, OM curses his entrapped situation; but in a calmer and more thoughtful moment, he can say, with resignation: “This is a warehouse for old people. No, this is a place for rich homeless people, people whom nobody wants, society’s rejects.”

At this point in the play, we learn that the old man is aware of the broader meaning of his existence: “So OM I am. OM is the first sound, the first Word – ‘Aadee Swara’ in Sanskrit, the first symbol of the entire universe.” But he quickly turns from it: “I am not THAT OM!” This is but one of many moments where we see OM struggling with intense desire to recapture some sense of personal worth and dignity.

Personal memory is important for OM, as he turns at times to comforting passages from the ‘Rig Veda’, where the ‘dawn’ is equated with hope. Given that he is now blind, OM cannot really share that hope.

All this might suggest the work a gloomy piece, but in fact the melancholy is balanced by moments of sardonic humor and by occasional sound bites of recorded poetry by Shelly and Robert Frost on beauty and dying. Other projections of sound, music, and occasional voices of cold institutional medical authorities help to broaden and enrich the landscape and cultural dimensions of the stage. And there is a tender moment with OM’s cat, whose mewing breaks a moment of dramatic silence.

As the play nears its close, OM offers a prayer that would appear to represent an utterance from his soul, his Atman. Is he ready to be reconciled to his fate?
“Remember, O Lord, remember OM; and remember my deeds . . . Peace! OM, shanti, shanti, shanti.”

But, no, the Old Man suddenly recoils from going the way of traditional acceptance of man’s fate. He’d rather take leave of the world in a jaunty manner, “singing and dancing . . . didn’t I say I had no regrets?” At this, the stage directions call for filling the theatre with Frank Sinatra’s bravado come-what-may song, ‘My Way’, which takes the play to its curtain.

I can only imagine how audiences might have responded to Trivedi’s sensitive mix of monologue with the varied Western and Indian audio materials. They must surely have been touched to the core by the OM’s struggles with hopes and fears about life, death, and the meaning of personal and social existence.


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Tevia E. Abrams completed post-graduate studies on traditional Indian theatre with research focused on the Tamasha folk theatre form of Maharashtra, India.

Mr. Abrams, a Canadian, and now permanent US resident, was recruited by the United Nations Population Fund, and served variously at headquarters and in India. He is currently retired but remains committed to his playwriting activities.