Out West

The Overseas Student; Blue Water and Cold and Fresh; Go, Girl

Roy Williams, Tanika Gupta, Simon Stephens

• Éditeur: Methuen Drama
• Année: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781350272798
• Édition: 1
• Sujet: Mezzi di comunicazione e arti performative
• Sous-sujet: Scrittura di pièce teatrali

Three new plays from three of the UK's most celebrated playwrights. All rooted in West London, the plays explore race, identity and our sense of place and purpose, presented together as one piece, Out West. The Overseas Student by Tanika Gupta
London. 1888. An 18-year-old Gandhi has just arrived from India to study Law. Miles from home, his wife and his family, we see him navigate a time of uncertainty, growth and opportunity. As he builds a new life, he explores the joys of money, food and women whilst facing the struggles of class and imperialism. Gupta's sharp and profound play is an insight into the teenage years of a man we know will grow up to be one of the most significant figures in history. Blue water and cold and fresh by Simon Stephens
London. 2020. A walk back in time. A walk that may change everything he's ever believed.
In the wake of city lockdown living and the Black Lives Matter protests, one man's journey across London raises difficult truths he has to confront. The death of a loved one. His father's racism. His own white privilege. This heartfelt piece explores what it means to be a father, husband and son. Go, Girl by Roy Williams
London. 2020. Working as a security guard at Westfield and a mother to a teenage daughter, Donna sees her life as unremarkable. Why have things not turned out how she pictured when she was a young girl, inspired by the words of Michelle Obama? The hope and excitement she once felt has now become isolation and judgement of the choices she has made. Until one night Donna gets a call from her daughter that makes her rethink her entire life. As their bravery and humanity is tested, Donna realises just how remarkable they both truly are. A celebration of Black women, everyday heroism and female resilience.

The Overseas Student

Mohandas, an eighteen-year-old Indian student

Mohandas, an eighteen-year-old, slight Indian teenager walks up a gangplank onto a boat. He is dressed in a white dinner jacket and struggles with a large, battered suitcase. He stands on deck and looks out to sea as the boat pulls away. He laughs with delight.

Mohandas 4 September 1888.

He puts down his suitcase and looks around him with great excitement.

Such a huge boat! I must remember every detail, every heartbeat, every glorious sunrise and sunset. I am setting off for the adventure of a lifetime! Ready to experience the free atmosphere of the great metropolis.

Mohandas strokes his jacket lovingly.

Mohandas I purchased this beautiful and expensive flannelette jacket from a French tailor in Bombay as my first entrance into English society – chose it myself. I want to look the part.

The ship’s horn blasts. Mohandas looks out to sea, suddenly emotional.

Crossing the Kala Pani (black water) goes against my caste teachings but I will not be corrupted by England. I must obey my dear Mother. I made a sacred oath to her.

He gets down on his hands and knees and touches the feet of his imaginary mother.

I will not touch meat, women, or alcohol.

Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram . . . (Hindu God Rama – the embodiment of chivalry and virtue.)

He gets up and stands proud.

But I also make a vow to myself. I will learn to speak English as the Queen does, to learn French, to ballroom dance and to be able to play the fiddle. I think the violin is such a beautiful instrument. Such sleek lines, so delicate, and the sound is so sweet.

A smart Ship’s Officer comes up to me. His buttons are so shiny!

‘Excuse me young man, you are on the wrong deck.’

Mohandas I was taking the air.

‘Your deck is below. This one is reserved for European passengers only.’

Mohandas looks confused.

‘I must kindly request you to go down the stairs over there and take the air on the deck below where you and your fellow non Europeans are free to roam. Thank you . . . this way sir . . .’

Mohandas The English are so exquisitely polite. No shouting or cursing – simply a civil tone and firm kindness. It is a joy to be reprimanded by them.

He looks queasy and curls himself into a ball on the floor.

The boat rocks very unpleasantly, sometimes violently, and turns my stomach. I chew ginger crystals, which helps a little, but still my mind and guts churn like the waves beneath me. The meals are all with fish or meat and I cannot eat anything. Thank goodness I brought sweets and nuts for the journey. My fellow passengers think I am a fool for not eating meat or drinking alcohol. I find it hard to speak up with them – they all seem so confident and verbose.

My cabin mate is a Bengali chap – Mazumdar – who is also travelling to England to study.

He is a good sort. Comes from a wealthy family.

‘Arrey Mohandas! Live a little. You are away from home, an independent young man. You can do as you wish. No one will know. I won’t tell. You’ll starve! We’ll arrive in England and you’ll just be a skeleton rattling off the gangplank!’

Mohandas I wish I could eat meat – but I promised my mother and I cannot break my oath.

All forms of life are sacred. I will not be corrupted by England and I will not touch meat, women, or alcohol.

Some of the women on board are beautiful. When I look at them – feel my pulse throbbing – hot all over. Try really hard not to look – but their skin – so smooth. Imagine touching their hand – must be like stroking silk.

Mohandas slaps/ beats himself with his flat hand.

Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram . . .

I have made a terrible blunder and some of my fellow passengers have been laughing at my expense. It seems that the French tailor omitted to tell me a vital piece of information. The jacket I bought, at such great expense, is a dinner jacket, only to be worn for supper! I decide to hide in my cabin for the remainder of the journey to avoid any more such misunderstandings.

Today, I turned nineteen years old. Mazumdar brought me a plate of bread and jam.

I miss my mother.

Mohandas looks desperately sad/weeps like a baby.

Horn blasts as the ship docks. Mohandas picks up his suitcase and walks down the gangplank. He bends down, touches the ground with his fingertips and does a pranam. (Paying respects.)

27 October 1888.

Tilbury docks. We have finally arrived. Feel giddy with the enormity of what I have done. My ancestors travelled across the Arabian sea to trade, centuries ago, but none have come as far as I have or to a city such as this.

Mohandas cannot stop smiling.

A sudden stab of guilt for breaking with caste laws. Perhaps I was a little rash in going my own way?

But then I look around me at London! Even when I elaborately imagined England, I did not do it justice. The reality is so much larger! I could not conjure up the immense wealth, grandeur and beauty of the roads, the buildings, the modern conveniences, electric underground trains! And everywhere the English rush here and there as if time is so precious, they cannot bear to waste a moment. Mazumdar is ecstatic. He keeps spouting facts at me:

‘London is by far the largest city in the world – a population of five and a half million – more than twice of Paris, more than triple of Berlin or New York – it is six and a half times bigger than Calcutta or Bombay. And everything runs so efficiently. Even the horses that draw the carriages look healthier than any horse I saw in India.’

Mohandas Bless this land. I am here! Wish I could speak up though.

Perhaps England will make a man of me, instead of the shy, stupidly self-conscious boy that I am.

Mazumdar has booked us rooms at the Victoria Hotel.

Mohandas stands and stares in open-mouthed wonder.

So much elegance! Electric lights glittering brightly! I am so small. When the manager ushers us into a small room adjacent to the lobby, I assume this is to be my accommodation. A little small perhaps, but cosy. Then the doors close and the room starts to move. Terrified! Mazumdar can’t stop laughing at me. Oh, how he laughs. I am such a fool. Apparently, this room is called an ‘elevator’. As to my actual room. Never have I seen a room like this – I imagine the old Maharajahs of India must have lived like this. Such luxury and pomp – curtains, carpets, coverlets. I could spend a lifetime in this room, but I don’t feel like I deserve it.

I stay at the Victoria Hotel for a few days, but my family do not have endless funds. Now, I am lodging at number 20 Baron’s Court Road in the Metropolitan Borough of Hammersmith, where I pay 30 shillings a week for room and board. It is half an hour walk into the city and I save a lot of money by walking.

Everything is strange – the people, their ways and even their dwellings. I am a complete novice in the matter of English etiquette and continually have to be on my guard. The English are always drinking their beloved alcohol, wine, gin, frothy beer that looks and smells like urine. Always crammed in public houses, often inebriated in the street. Alcohol does not tempt me in the slightest. I have noticed how it loosens the tongue and robs men of their good sense.

And the women here are so . . . confident. Heads uncovered, walking straight, freely. I admire their spirit. Terrible thoughts sometimes when I look at the women on the streets. Especially the young ones.

He tries to shake himself out of his reverie.

Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram!

Am I a sex maniac? This constant hunger of mine for sexual gratification is slavery with a vengeance that keeps me so far from Him.

My landlady is a kind English woman with a good heart, but I cannot eat her food. Her kitchen is full of the pungent odours of dead animals. Boiled beef, fried bacon and mutton. I long for rice and dal, chapatis, some yoghurt and brinjal and a mango would be nice. I am constantly hungry. Still, she fusses over me. She places a plate of liver and kidneys fried with onions in front of me. Oh . . . (the smell)

Mohandas I am a vegetarian.

‘A what?’

Mohandas I cannot eat meat . . . or fish.

‘Lord! Never heard of such a thing! “V-e-g-e-t-a-r-i-a-n” you say?

Sounds like a nasty disease.’

Mohandas Elephants don’t eat meat. They are not carnivorous. Think of me as an elephant.

‘You are too skinny to be an elephant. Mr Gandhi, your ways are very strange.’

Mohandas 6 November 1888, I have been admitted as a student of the Inner Temple. The Inns of Court make the Victoria Hotel look like a small hut. I completed the forms and signed the books for admission. I have paid £140-1s (shilling) -5d (pence) in fees.

To my surprise, there are more Indians studying here, in this great metropolis, than I expected – at least a couple hundred – mainly students like me – in law, medicine, and some of them are taking the Indian Civil Service examinations. Mazumdar is one of them.

There are even very snooty members of Indian royalty, though they never speak to me as we have nothing in common. They have this extraordinary ability to look right through me – poof! –...