Here’s a promise: You’ve never seen a play—or been to a party—quite like “Mrs. Krishnan’s Party.”
Mostly funny but also at times sad, it’s wonderfully immersive and to a (high) degree improvised.
Produced and created by New Zealand’s Indian Ink Theatre Company (cowriters Justin Lewis, who also directs, and Jacob Rajan), the two-hander has been touring the United States for a while and is now in a short run at Marin Theatre.
For this special production, the audience is seated onstage in an expanded area that includes backstage; some people are at a long table in the middle of the room and others are on peripheral folding chairs.
Everyone is in the back room/kitchen of Mrs. Krishnan’s convenience store, which she’s planning to sell so she can move back to India. Her lodger and helper, college student and DJ wannabe James, greets theatergoers at the door costumed as apparently an ancient Indian king in a tall sparkly hat, silky Aladdin bloomers and curly-toed shoes. He’s planning a surprise party for Mrs. Krishnan to celebrate the Hindu harvest festival of Onam, and we’re the guests.
The intermission-less, 100-minute play may at first seem like a raucous comedy. Mrs. Krishnan (a wonderfully convincing Kalyani Nagarajan as the high-strung, strongminded shop owner) is completely taken aback and upset about us, the group of strangers yelling “surprise!” in her back room.
The more James (an equally impressive Justin Rogers) tries to ratchet up the forced merriment by turning up the music and jollying up Mrs. Krishnan and us, the more Mrs. Krishnan becomes unnerved, running around with a broom and dustpan to tidy, shrieking at James.
The interaction with the audience is a major part of the play’s success, and the quick-witted actors are more than prepared for ad-libbing.
As Mrs. Krishnan whips up a feast of dal (yes, cooks it right there in the playing area, with help from James, who merrily shakes every possible cannister of seasoning into the bubbling pot, and from coerced and volunteer audience members who pitch in), a gradual picture emerges.
This scene of merriment covers up plenty of the kind of human sadness, even despair, that we all experience: “My husband used to say, if you work hard enough, you can have anything you want,” says the hardworking widow, and her story of struggle and disappointment gradually unravels, and, eventually, James’ does, too.
It’s a beautiful, delicate way for us to get to know, and even identify with, these characters.
Along the way, Mrs. Krishnan dances, a graceful and even surprising traditional Indian dance, on the tabletop; audience members (whose names we learn along the way) sweep up spilled rice on the floor, carry big pots and obediently follow Mrs. Krishnan’s orders; and significant telephone calls take place.
If you’re willing to participate—even if as minimally as donning a flowing Indian-style scarf and blowing up a balloon, or as maximally as leaping up to help stir the pot of simmering dal—you might very well leave the theater feeling deliciously partied out and emotionally connected to these two characters—and to the audience, too.
“Mrs. Krishnan’s Party” runs through March 30 at Marin Theatre, 397 Miller Ave., Mill Valley. Tickets are $53 to $106 at marintheatre.org.
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