Zorana Sadiq, Sahiba Arora, Anusree Roy, Sehar Bhojani, Prerna Nehta, and Muhaddisah in Trident Moon | Photo by Dahlia Katz
Ansuree Roy’s harrowing and intensely humanistic Trident Moon, presented by Crow’s Theatre and the National Arts Centre, traps us with nine Indian women in the back of a cargo truck hurtling through a fractured country. This fraught space is a sort of fractal representation of India in 1947—an intimate and abject portrait of Partition.
Nina Lee Aquino’s staging is rife with nuance, but her production opens with a blunt symbol—an angry slash, glowing orange, splits the stage in two. Both a wound and fiery chasm, it divides the space between the Muslim and Hindu women. As the story progresses and circumstances blur the edges of this contentious fracture, the women are forced to contend with each other as people and not merely antagonistic emblems of their religion.
Roy’s script is an extraordinary achievement, both in its richly rendered characters, who are neither precious nor demonized, and the naturalistic pacing of its continuous action. There are no scene breaks to ease the burden of maintaining this reality. The ebb and flow of the urgent, emotionally taxing situation is wrought with credible dialogue, fully lived-in performances and Aquino’s taut, deeply considered steerage. We feel the danger of this journey, both in the strained confines of the truck and the treacherous night air that surrounds them.
Roy herself plays Alo, the leader of this party. Armed with a pistol, she lords over this escape to the “new India” for her Hindu family, travelling though the newly formed Pakistan, with her bound Muslim compatriots in tow. In her costumes, Ming Wong contrasts the yellow and blue of the women’s saris to further indicate their social separation, though the blood leaking from Alo’s injured sister Bani’s (Sehar Bhojani) gunshot wound is a visceral indication of their common humanity. Slowly, the picture of their previous lives together comes into focus, giving us some context for their mutual cruelty.
Alo’s frank explanation to the Muslim women of her plan for them is the first of many appalling acts of brutality sprung from anguish. This is also where the central image of the play’s title is revealed—a perfect, awful portrait of weaponized symbology. Identities and alliances get muddled as women from the road join their ranks, where the outward indicators of their religious affiliations can be a disguise.
Each jarring moment the truck screeched to an abrupt halt, the women’s anxiety—and that of the audience—piques. There is an abundance of humour too, breaking up the tension and adding authenticity to this stressful situation. Zorana Sadiq’s pregnant and relentlessly talkative Sonali is a comic highlight of their time together. I found her fixation on a spit remedy especially amusing. The rest of the ensemble—Sahiba Arora, Afroza Banu, Michelle Mohammed, Muhaddisah, Prerna Nehta and Imali Perera—give vivid, carefully modulated performances and represent a hearty generational mix.
Their varied tensions and uneasy alliances culminate in a distressing encounter with an armed bandit. The incongruous presence of a man changes the atmosphere. The women pick up on Lovely’s dubious confidence and his impressionable youth is their lifeline through this dire episode. Mirza Sarhan is undeniably menacing, but we can recognize the havoc wreaked within him by conflicting pressures of society, his own moral compass and the nasty circumstances. Though Cara Rebecca’s fight choreography (or Sarhan’s delivery) is too hesitant, her intimacy direction makes for a truly agonizing depiction of his unbearably thorough search for gold—the real violence of the scene.
As each new passenger they pick up remarks on the stench of death, Roy sets up a vile ambiance. It is also one of her most effective payoffs—the revelation of the source of that putrid odour is shocking and heart-wrenching in equal measure.
Jawon Kang’s set manages to convey the claustrophobia of the women’s predicament while also expanding the space with poetic, stylized aesthetics. A grimy cargo door at the back of the stage, when opened, suggests a dark, uncanny void holding the potential for threat or salvation. Huge swaths of fabric are stretched up and out from this ominous door. Without drawing attention to itself, Michelle Ramsay’s light catches on this cloth, subtly changes colour and intensity to enhance the shifting mood and dynamics. Romeo Candido’s soundscape is equally constant and unobtrusive, supporting the heavy, ever-evolving atmosphere.
In every aspect of its execution, Trident Moon is, at once, both grounded and lyrical. More often than not, it is a difficult experience, but its wretchedness feels purposeful, compassionate and insightful. No great enemy is vanquished here and the human ugliness we’ve witnessed can’t be easily forgotten or dismissed; though it is also a galvanizing tribute to human endurance and empathy.
Trident Moon
running March 4 to 30, 2025
Streetcar Crowsnest, Guloien Theatre (345 Carlaw Avenue)
running time: 90 minutes (no intermission)
Mirza Sarhan, Zorana Sadiq, Imali Perera, Afroza Banu, Muhaddisah, and Anusree Roy in Trident Moon | Photo by Dahlia Katz