**** (4 stars)
“Beautiful”
Kiren Virdee is getting ready for her performance as we enter – sparkly tunic and trousers, long scarf: she looks beautiful, but has to keep checking every single detail of her appearance.
Finally she’s ready to face us – but still seems to find it hard to find the words. What does she want to say?
Does anyone else smell curry? <chuckle> repeat <chuckle> repeat <chuckle> <chuckle>. It could be taken as an innocent comment – but is it? Again and again, until it becomes unbearable: Kiren begins to tear at her clothes, to twist and gyrate and wrap herself into knots: finally succeeding in ripping them off, and putting on ‘western’ top and trousers…
There’s a constant soundtrack of individual remarks and comments, which slowly build up into a mosaic of voices recounting their experiences of growing up in South Asian households in Britain. Kiren lipsynchs a lot of these – it’s both unnerving and very powerful to hear so many different voices apparently coming out of one young woman’s mouth.
I didn’t see anyone who looked like me onstage, in films or on tv. Heroines are always white and blonde. I never came across other gay Asians. I didn’t see myself as a brown person. I was five, and one of my classmates wouldn’t hold my hand – even at five, though I didn’t understand why, I knew I was different. I’m too fat, too curvy, my face is not slim enough, I never liked my thick dark hair, my body hair was seen to make me unattractive. All our differences were laughed at; people didn’t understand our culture.
This stream of sound goes on and on. There are pop videos in which white people imitate Asian dance moves and gestures: stealing from the culture while not admitting the validity of the people with whom it originates. Kiren dances, at first with a big smile on her face, but slowly the repetition of the negatives distracts her from her dancing. Take my culture, but leave the person I want to be…
The hurts and rejections – a tangible violence – become more and more painful, driving her to self-harm. And all the time the frenzied whirl of efforts to conform to white standards of looks – pluck, wax, epilate, shrink: repeat: repeat: – faster and faster until she feels herself shrinking away into nothing.
More voices describe the realisation of being the only brown-skinned person in the room, or on public transport: of beginning to feel unsafe, often because of past experiences. It’s depressing: I thought we’d solved racism years ago…
And I can’t conform to your expectations – I can’t speak Punjabi, I can’t dance the way you want me to…
What colour are we inside???
The internal conflict between the two cultures becomes increasingly exhausting. The voices start to speak over each other, to grow louder and louder, and the tension in Kiren’s body increases – and always there is that little <chuckle>. All those little violences don’t make you stronger: Bit by bit you’re chipped away to nothing. Depression almost feels like self-care – have another hour in bed; you’re exhausted, have some chocolate; have the whole bar; go back to bed. Eventually you disappear altogether.
There are many beautiful poems in this show. The clarity of Kiren’s articulation of her feelings reminded me of the words of young poet Amanda Gordon at Joe Biden’s inauguration.
I wish more people could come and hear this compilation of experiences of growing up feeling different, of dealing with a clash of cultures, of trying to conform to other people’s expectations…. Why is it expected that everyone coming to Britain should abandon their native culture and traditions? Being unique in yourself can be a lonely place…
I’m glad that today’s show was a sellout, and really sorry that it was Kiren’s last one this August. I hope Does anyone else smell curry? goes on to reach a much wider audience – sadly, in this day and age, it’s still sorely needed.
Does anyone else smell curry? Theatre 3The Space @ Surgeons Hall (Venue 53) for more information go to https://www.edfringe.com/tickets/whats-on/does-anyone-else-smell-curry
ScotsGay Arts 