Mockery, menace, manipulation: 'Coffee Bar' serves it all except truth

Directed by Usama Khan, the contemporary play raises important questions about thought control in today's world

KARACHI:

Do you ever wonder if the world around you, the way you get to see it, is controlled by someone else? We seldom get to question these things and are often blinded (against our wills) by 'factual’ representations simply because we are oblivious to what goes behind the scenes. While that isn’t our fault, opportunities that pinch open our eyes for reflection are a godsend—even if our realities don’t change.

Napa's Coffee Bar revolves around a conversation between a selfish, power-mongering producer (Hasnain Falak) and a passionate playwright (Ashmal Lalwany) with dreams of writing for social change. It’s interesting how an adaptation of an Egyptian play, The Buffet, written in the 1960s still holds mighty relevance in our society.

Usama Khan, who directed, translated and adapted Coffee Bar from English to Urdu, wanted the play to highlight that there are only two kinds of people; ones who fight the system and others who constitute it.

“When I read this play, all I thought was how relevant the play can be in 2022. While we can’t talk about certain structures openly, it is art that says the unspoken out loud without actually spelling it out, and that’s what this play was about,” said Khan. “I’m not here to tell people what’s right or wrong, I’m here to show people a reflection of their realities, without exaggerating or ‘purifying’ it, and the audience can decide what’s right.”

The 55-minute play began even before the auditorium fills up, with the power-hungry producer stiffly sitting in the dark with his back to the audience, waiting for his next prey to step in.

From the menu to the music and the chairs to the silent spy of a butler (Naveed Ul Hasan), everything is a metaphor in Coffee Bar, and the tragic relatability of it all brings in the kicks.

While the director had another song pinned down for the play while writing, Lalwany (the writer) found Mehdi Hasan’s gem to be the “synopsis” of the play. For a brief second, a mellow tune from the Riders on the Storm graces your ear but it's soon interrupted by Hasan's Tum Zid Toh Kar Rahe Ho. Kudos to the thoughtful choice of the soundtracks; the songs, both beautiful in their own ways, played at the right moment, described the forceful interruption of power. There's no space for stubbornness or a desire for your own likes, for the system will eat you right away.

Lalwany, who enters the coffee bar with hopes to stage his play, regrets it as soon as the producer takes his charming, overcompensating, mask off. He learns that his script is selected for a theatre festival, and he can choose a director he likes but there is a condition.

Falak, representing the system, owes it to his bosses to keep up with the "clean" public image of life on stage, that is only half, glorified truth. He asks the writer to take out the word "ch****iya* from the script because "it's below his standard.” The writer, faithful to his words, stays adamant on including the word because it is a commonly used slang in the real world, where his audience belongs, and hence is appropriate to be staged.

After a comical round of going back and forth with references to writings of Anton Chekhov and Saadat Hasan Manto, the producer realises that verbal manipulation won't change the writer's mind from deleting any filth from his script and so he chooses abuse; psychological abuse.

The waiter is summoned to take the writer to drink a "kehva." One can only assume what that is but the deed is done in the dark, away from the sight of mankind, and without any noise. The writer comes back in a mood to comply with anything and everything the producer wants, like a puppet returning to his master.

From "the best writer in the world," he is now a defeated, tortured, crying loser begging to go home but it’s too late. He has seen too much to be freed into a lot of the ignorant mundane. Or is it too late? The climax, even if unpredictable, is controlled by the master—and for that, there will be more shows to see.

“The most challenging part of this play was to see if the audience sees what we were conveying. Ofcourse, the metaphors would be different for everyone watching. People will imagine their own version of ‘kehva’ and even ‘Coffee Bar’. I left it open to interpretation so it allows people to think deeply about how and what constitutes their lives,” exclaimed Khan.

By the end, you find out that the waiter’s silence is both a sign of discomfort and relief. The death of the writer’s passions is reflective of the shunned marginalised voices and the producer’s eternal existence, even if dethroned and killed, is a testament that the system is independent of the common man.

While the dimly lit set allowed the audience to be fully engrossed in the conversation, it did take away from the actors’ expressions. However, even that had a reason. Khan said, “Whatever the supreme power there is behind the Coffee Bar, that power hasn’t given the people in the play any space or room to make amendments. It’s a decent nice office space but that’s it. The power behind it all has no room for changes beyond what’s there.”

The blocking and voice projection could have been better as well, especially with how the writer was seated. Now that they have the narrative locked, the Coffee Bar team can really focus on its presentation for the audience.

As per the director, Coffee Bar is returning to Karachi again for four shows in the first week of January and even in Lahore if the logistics work out.