Introduction: Râs Lila Theatre and Its Implications

Abstract

Everyone is a little wound up, not only because the play is about to start, but because Holi celebrations have been already going on for a couple of days. A particularly rambunctious Spring holiday in India, Holi gives license to assault perfect strangers with water and dye. Vrindavan, a small dusty town just off the national highway south of New Delhi, is owned by teenagers and other hooligans for the week surrounding Holi, and all in attendance at this morning’s râs lila performance show the damp and colorful signs of their encounters with the masters of the narrow lanes and streets outside of the ashram. Once sharply white kurta shirts are now splashed purple and red, the patterns of already colorful saris are blotched, and the skin of smiling faces and clasped hands is green and pink—hues that will remain on people for days to come. From his seat located downstage right, the play’s director, Swami Fateh Krishna Sharma, has warned the crowd not to indulge in the traditional, messy revelry that proceeds outside, so as to keep the ashram neat. Nevertheless, the crowd is jittery. They anticipate the climax of this morning’s play, which employs truckloads of fresh flower petals to transform Holi’s typically sloppy revelry into explosions no less colorful, but much less wet.