The Radcliffe Line still bleeds

Written and directed by Sanjoy Sarker Muktonil, 'Radcliffe Line' is a perfect amalgamation of displaced aggression, vulnerable connections, and belly-aching humour, as the audience follows two border security personnel finding themselves in "No Man's Land" by the India-Bangladesh intersection. 

What ensues is the unadulterated interaction, not between two soldiers, but between two human beings being sighted by the disastrous aftermath of The Partition of Bengal in 1947.

This 15th of August marked 78 years since the 1947 Partition, where newly drawn state lines by the British rule tore apart families by selling an idea of Independent India and Pakistan, divided by their religion. 

In truth, it was just a way for the British rule to maintain their political power even after leaving Bengal by purposefully creating a division between its people who have been known to be of varying enriched faiths. 

The consequences of such delusions lead to a mass migration of the Bengal people, resulting in innumerable cases of displacement, years of consequent poverty due to abandonment of their homes and property, and violent uproar as people attacked their own because of trivial differences. 

Remnants of the state line dividing India and Bangladesh before its liberation still remain and is called the Radcliffe line [the boundary demarcated by the two boundary commissions for the provinces of Punjab and Bengal during the Partition of India]. 

In memorialisation, the enigmatic theatre troupe Batighar honoured these historical sacrifices by performing 'Radcliffe Line' at Shilpakala Academy.

After a cow strays across the border, Bangladeshi soldier Jamal and Indian soldier Hiralal both rush to seize it, but upon confronting each other at the Radcliffe Line, they scramble for cover.

This rare tragicomedy is spearheaded by the exhilarating performance of the leading dynamic duo, as they place a finger on the pulse of the audience and expertly pull them through the perfectly paced ebb and flow of emotions, filling the hall with echoing laughter one minute and teary eyes the next. 

The fixed set design becomes a third character silently speaking to the audience's psyche through symbolism. 

Against the backdrop of long fences of barbed wire, these two soldiers find shelter behind the remains of a man-made wall on one side versus the overgrowth of moss-covered boulders on the other, all under the same moon and in the same land. 

Yet, they remain imprisoned in place, not by the presence of a physical cage but by society's creation of a mental one. 

What starts as an array of angry cursing next turns into generalised bigotry and then slowly peels back the layers to the uglier reason why each feels this way about the other. 

The genius dialogue seamlessly stitches between the discussions of the multiple atrocities inflicted between the countries in the name of clashing political, religious or moral beliefs, but comically presents it as a Charlie Chaplin-esque Mexican standoff with a side of relentless comedic bickering. 

With each roast becoming funnier and unrestrainedly wild on both ends, you are struck by a thunderbolt realisation that this is the director's way of creating an impartial social commentary piece. 

Slowly but surely, the built-up tension reaches its boiling point and spills out, resulting in a ruthless brawl between these opposing soldiers, as new reports play at glaringly loud volumes in the background, stating the aggression carried out by border police on both sides of it. 

Every scene is set with echoing dramatic music and tantalising lights that synchronise with the intensity of the scenes. The actors' expressions are drenched in colours that reflect their inner turmoil, however hidden they may be. 

The stage was symbolically painted in blood-red during the fight scene, suggesting neither truly had their own anger for each other–but were rather taught to be angry. 

But that aggression doesn't last and instead shapes into pain as they both reach exhaustion, and we learn the unfiltered truth of the soldiers. 

Opening up about their childhoods reveals that both of them have fallen victim to life-scarring tragedies caused by The Partition. Facing loss in both their identities and their loved ones, we see Hiralal intensely mourn the death of his unfulfilled passions, as the consequences of The Partition wouldn't allow him any path in life other than becoming a border guard. 

Finding this much companionship in Hiralal, Jamal speaks of the toll this occupation has on his family, stating they are now vultures guarding the land who are only able to show up for their families through phone calls. 

My takeaway from this play is that it was only through the raw, honest exchange between Jamal and Hiralal that they began to recognise how their long-held animosity had twisted them—from victims of an inherited tragedy into perpetrators of the next.

Once they shed that unjustifiable hatred and met each other with genuine vulnerability, it became clear that such hostility was never truly theirs—it was manufactured, sustained by political forces across the border to keep the cycle alive, ensuring each new generation remains trapped as pawns in someone else's design.

When morning comes, Jamal and Hiralal come to the realisation they share the same ancestors, the same winds, albeit the time might be ahead by half an hour, but they have always shared the same sun.

Before the curtains draw to a close, the sound of gunshots shake the room. The lights go off, the theatre goes pitch black, nothing for the eye to see but the blood red of the illuminated sun.