Laal Micchil: A silent ode to the spirit of revolution

RING RING…. RING RING….  

The play begins. A nameless man steps onto the darkened stage, a kerosene lamp in hand. He sets it down and struggles to light it—once, twice, thrice. On the fourth attempt, he finally succeeds in lighting the flame. He glances around, eyes darting, as if fearing he might be seen, then cautiously moves to the other side of the stage.  

Scattered before him are a blank canvas and two paint boxes. He picks up the green and strokes the canvas in an urgent, vertical motion. Yet, with every stroke, he looks over his shoulder—wary, as if someone might stop him. When he finishes, the canvas resembles a familiar flag, but something is missing—the red.  

Reaching for the red paint, he squeezes the tube—empty—his face twists in silent agony. Footsteps echo. Gunshots rip through the air. He staggers, his hands clutching his chest. 

He sees red. He sees… blood.

With trembling fingers, he smears the crimson across the empty space on the flag.  

And thus ends the first chapter,  'Rong, Rokto, Ar Ekti Chitkar'.

The 11th pantomime of Mir Lokman's Laal Michhil was staged on 6 February, at Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy in the evening. The performance unfolded in eight segments—each distinct, yet bound by a common thread, like chapters from the same book—Revolution.

Power cuts. A stumbling narrator. A faulty sound system. A crew that missed its cues. Everything that could have made the play—this pantomime—more immersive worked against it instead.  

Yet, the audience stayed, not for the production, but for Lokman.  

Toward the end, when asked to say a few words, he simply replied, "I prefer to speak in mime."  

He commanded the stage through each segment, shifting seamlessly between antagonists in some stories and protagonists in others. No words—only expression, movement, and presence. He was in his element, enough to hold the room.

The final segment of the pantomime, 'Biplobi, chitroshilpi, ba kichui na', unfolded with an air of inevitability. Dramatic music swelled as recordings from the July Uprising played—Abu Sayed's sister's voice trembled through the speakers, demanding justice:  

"Look at my father, look how helpless he is! Who will take care of my mother? Did I know my brother would lay his life for a fair shot at education?"  

Her cries were not just her own; they carried the weight of every grieving family who had lost one of their own in the protest.  

Lokman's performance stretched on.

Now, the year is 2053. Lokman appears on stage, an artist at work. His brush moves with careful precision, recreating images burned into our collective memory—a lifeless body being carried away on a rickshaw, a police officer silencing a protester with force. His strokes become more frantic as he paints over an already crowded canvas, swirling crimson red in circular motions.  

To his left, a stark white cloth hangs. Shadows emerge behind it—silhouettes of actors reenacting moments from the July Movement. Their silent gestures bring the past to life as if history itself refuses to be forgotten.  

Up until this segment, the pantomime had told stories of resilience. But this—this was a glimpse into the future. A warning. How will these stories unfold decades from now? How will an artiste keep the movement alive when the world moves on? Through art and writing, moments of defiance are preserved, untouched by time.  

This was not just an added narrative to the July Uprising. It was a reminder that history repeats itself, over and over again, for as long as humanity exists.  

Mir Lokman's Laal Michhil was not the first to tell this story, and it will not be the last. But what remains unshaken—what remains unbreakable—is the resilience of the common people.