Mahesh Elkunchwar wrote Party as a response to his first encounter with the artistic scene in Bombay — something new for him, a lifelong college teacher in Nagpur. What he experienced of the culture-vultures and ineffectual intellectuals there appalled him so much that he lashed out against their artificial and manipulative nature in his play. Art born out of angry outbursts tends not to rise to superior levels, nor mature with age. While both the 1976 Marathi original and Govind Nihalani’s 1984 cinematization attracted the press for allegedly painting portraits from life, Elkunchwar’s antipathy for these celebrities was apparent and not very attractive beyond a point.

Sensitive author that he is, Elkunchwar recognized its drawbacks himself: “Each man’s way of life has an inner logic. It was necessary that I should try to understand that. Instead I sat down to pass moral judgment. I was not wise enough then.” He rectified his methods, and ten years later produced his masterpiece of no-moral-judgment, Wada Chirebandi, about the Marathwada community he knew from within.

So Neev’s choice of Party to inaugurate its activities as a group seemed a bit strange. Although the conditions in a Bengali context may actually be the same, it becomes less believable in English adaptation simply because Bengali buddhi-jibis don’t talk much English. If Neev wanted to satirize that target, it should have primarily used Bengali; if it preferred English as language, the group should have set it in Page 3 English-speaking Calcutta culture. Moreover, the director, Udita Chakraborty, chopped out the gate-crashing couple, Narendra and Malavika, plus the journalist Jogdand — never recommended on an Elkunchwar text, for he always composes economically and purposefully. She also added a sarodist, poor thing, forced to sit in one corner and strum his strings every now and again, not the optimal means to suggest the host’s and guests’ ignoring of art.

The performances oscillated from superb to middling to pathetic (in a negative sense). Chakraborty is a natural as the laureate’s vulnerable but neurotic wife who gets drunk very fast, an excellent plug for the sponsors, Black Dog. The only truly credible author is Pratik Ganguly, his broken English suiting the part of the earnest young poet. Various degrees of competence are shown by Dilip Dave, the objective doctor; Ashoke Viswanathan, the much-lauded writer; Vishaal Sethia, the commercial hack; and Ranjita Biswas, the promiscuous jholawala. As the hostess, Renu Roy looks false whenever she starts weeping, and as her troubled daughter, Sudeshna Chatterjee, behaves very wooden.