New Delhi: When a mother, whose presence once seemed eternal, goes away forever—what does an artist do?
If you are writer and actor Manav Kaul, you produce a power-packed storytelling performance called Traasadi, meaning ‘tragedy’ in Hindi.
One line from the performance, “Maaye zaya ho gayi“—the mothers have been lost, squandered away—hits hard. It compels you to pause, reflect, and contemplate the weight of its meaning.
In this one-man storytelling play, written and performed by Kaul and presented by the Aranya and Unmask theatre groups, he digs deep into the grief of losing a parent over the course of just over an hour.
“Maa jitna thakti, main utna gehra sota” (The more exhausted my mother became, the more deeply I slept), he said poignantly at a performance last week at Delhi’s Shri Ram Centre for Performing Arts in Mandi House. Kaul then let the silence hang, giving the audience time to absorb a bittersweet truth—a child’s comfort often comes at a mother’s expense.
Manav Kaul is a well-known name in the world of theatre, Hindi literature, and even Bollywood, having acted in productions such as Kai Po Che. His writing, from plays to novels, is full of raw, complex emotions, emptiness, powerful metaphors, and unnoticed moments of life. And he isn’t afraid to channel his own vulnerability into his work.
“When you work in the performing arts, whether it’s acting, writing, or directing, you lose vulnerability very fast,” he told ThePrint. “Being genuine and honest while working hard creates a strong connection with the audience. Respecting their intelligence and trust builds this bond.”
On stage, he strips himself bare, telling stories that are intimate, authentic, and full of potent silences.
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Reality through the lens of loss
When Manav Kaul performs, it’s easy to forget that Traasadi is a work of fiction. He occupies his character so fully that the lines between autobiography and art blur.
Traasadi is a story about a man confronting the deep emotions lurking behind grief—regret over unlived moments, unresolved conflicts, and the struggle to accept the reality of his mother’s death.
The performance began with Kaul entering the stage before the third bell. He settled into his seat, made a cup of coffee, greeted the audience, and then fell into contemplative silence, absorbing the stillness. It was as though he was preparing himself for the unfolding of traasadi.
This simple act subtly illustrates how tragedies seep into our lives unnoticed, arriving before we’re prepared. They ring our doorbells suddenly, and we remain oblivious to what awaits on the other side.
What followed in the next hour was an emotive series of memories and anecdotes recounted by Kaul.
At one point, he quoted his mother’s encouragement for his writing: “Kalpana hi sach hai, yatharth jhooth hai” (Imagination is the truth; reality is a lie).
In another powerful moment, he recalled the special name his mother gave him—Kompal. When he asked her what it meant, she showed him the delicate new growths on a tree and said, “These are Kompal.” Disappointed, he replied, “But they’re fragile. I want to be strong, like you, like a tree trunk.” She smiled and said, “You’re not fragile; you’re soft. When you were born, I felt softness again after many years.” He then reflected on his mother’s advice that anger makes one harsh.
The actor also meditates on how he began writing because of his mother, who had always wanted to write but was stifled by his father. Whenever she picked up a pen, his father would break it. Whenever she stepped outside, he locked her inside. His father caged both her body and her creativity but she never stopped encouraging her son, often asking, “What are you writing these days?”
In another scene, Kaul’s character recalled discovering that his mother was an atheist and angrily questioning her: “Konsi maa naastik hoti hai?” (How can a mother be an atheist?)
The audience first laughed at this, but the mood shifted after the gravity of her response sank in: “Everyone is an atheist, including you. India has eight major religions, and if you believe in only one, you’re an atheist to the others.”
The performance also explored the aftermath of his father’s death, when the neighbourhood gossiped about his mother having affairs. He confronted her, accusing her of entertaining nightly visitors and demanding that she stop wearing sleeveless blouses. He questioned why she wasn’t like other women.
Years later, her answer came, quoted by Kaul on stage: “In every religion, men play the main roles. I don’t want to be in a supporting role anymore.” She explains that she had once played many roles—good wife, good mother—but now those “shops” were closed, and she could no longer sell herself.
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Breathing with the audience
What is the true ‘traasadi’ in Manav Kaul’s literary performance? Is it the death of a mother, or the guilt, regret, and unresolved wounds in the parent-child relationship?
The play offers no easy answers, but it immerses the audience in the experience, taking them from the sudden moment when everything changes to the emotional turmoil and eventual clarity that follow.
When ThePrint asked him about his writing style, Kaul said he has an “instinctive and exploratory” approach to storytelling.
“I let my creativity flow naturally without pre-planning. In theatre, I aim for impulsive and intimate storytelling, and creating a space where the audience can resonate deeply with the performance,” he added.
Kaul has written, directed, and acted in many plays, often incorporating elements from his literary works. Traasadi was adapted from a short story titled “Maa,” featured in his book Theek Tumhare Peeche. Readers familiar with his work have connected the dots and recognised the adaptation.
By the end of the performance, he recited a poignant poem titled “Maa,” which he had written for his mother.
“….Jab raat shor kha chuki hoti hai
Jab hamari ghabraahat neend ko raat se chhota kar deti hai
Jab hamari kayartaa sapnon mein dakhal dene lagti hai
Tab maathe par uski ungliyan harkat karti hain…
Aur main so jaata hoon.”
(When the night has swallowed the noise
When our anxiety makes sleep shorter than the night
When our cowardice begins to intrude upon our dreams
Then her fingers trace across my forehead…
And I fall asleep.)
These heartfelt words brought the audience to tears, and as the final line echoed through the theatre, an intense silence enveloped the hall.
(Edited by Asavari Singh)