Dara

Shahid Nadeem, Tanya Ronder

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2015
• eBook ISBN: 9781780015606
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

An intense domestic drama of global consequence – for India then and for our world now.

1659. Mughal India. The imperial court, a place of opulence and excess; music, drugs, eunuchs and harems. Two brothers, whose mother's death inspired the Taj Mahal, are heirs to this Muslim empire. Now they fight ferociously for succession.

Dara, the crown prince, has the love of the people – and of his emperor father – but younger brother Aurangzeb holds a different vision for India's future. Islam inspires poetry in Dara, puritanical rigour in Aurangzeb. Can Jahanara, their beloved sister, assuage Aurangzeb's resolve to seize the Peacock Throne and purge the empire?

Originally performed by Ajoka Theatre, Pakistan, Tanya Ronder's adaptation of Shahid Nadeem's play Dara premiered at the National Theatre, London, in 2015.

ACT ONE

Scene One

DARA (forty-four), in a thin linen tunic, bangs on a huge door. He is half-wild with hunger and exhaustion. It is early 1659, Mughal India.

WATCHMAN. Who’s there?

DARA. Open up.

WATCHMAN. Announce yourself, sir.

DARA. Fetch your master.

The WATCHMAN opens a hatch in the door, peers out.

WATCHMAN. Your name, sir?

Silence.

I can’t hear, you have to shout through this wood, it’s such a heavy door.

The WATCHMAN speaks to another SERVANT inside.

He won’t give his name.

SERVANT. Why not?

WATCHMAN. I don’t know.

SERVANT (to DARA, through the door). Can you tell us who you are, sir?

DARA. Malik Jiwan will know, I am no foe, fetch him.

SERVANT. We can’t, sir, without your name.

DARA. Open, will you.

WATCHMAN. If we can just take your –

DARA (snaps). I am not giving it to you, get your master!

SIPIHR, a boy of thirteen, joins DARA.

Without the usual pageant, they want my name. I should have given it, they’re not to know it’s all I have.

Almost laughing at the absurdity of his situation.

Pushing me to pass it through some commonplace door.

SIPIHR. Father…

DARA. Even releasing a lock seems beyond me these days.

SIPIHR. Let’s ride on, it’s half a day to Persia…

DARA. I know where we are. We need help.

SIPIHR. Food?

They are both hungry.

DARA. Not just food. Malik has gold to give, Sipihr. We cannot turn up as beggars in Persia, stinking of defeat. They’re friends, yes, but still, we need a rock, a foundation, upon which to build the new army.

SIPIHR. You trust Malik?

DARA. I saved his life, Sipihr.

SIPIHR. But is he trustworthy?

DARA. What are we jeopardising? There is nothing left to take.

SIPIHR. There is you that is left to take.

DARA responds more gently.

DARA. We could all be taken at any moment, whenever Allah sees fit. We have no choice, we have to stop Aurangzeb, Sipihr, or our Empire will petrify. He is a blinkered bigot, a narrower vision of Islam never existed, we will all be driven underground.

MALIK speaks through the door, SIPIHR steps back.

MALIK. Who’s there?

DARA. Malik Jiwan?

MALIK. What do you want?

DARA. A harmonious kingdom, a glass of water…? It’s a difficult question to answer.

The door creaks open.

I know how I must look.

MALIK. Is that Prince Dara?

DARA. Emperor Dara, according to my father, but… he is imprisoned in his own palace. I am Shah Jahan’s Crown Prince.

A sudden movement, SIPIHR emerges from the shadows, MALIK slams the door.

MALIK. Defend!

MALIK’s MEN position themselves, armed, behind the door. DARA shouts to be heard.

DARA. It’s my son, Malik Jiwan, my son, Sipihr!

Slowly the door opens again. DARA ushers SIPIHR forwards.

The bravest of youths… His current garb does not represent his qualities but, which exterior was ever eloquent about the pearl within?

SIPIHR. Greetings, Sir Jiwan.

MALIK. Where are your men?

DARA. All in all we are thirty.

MALIK. Thirty?

DARA. The best thirty, the apostles of loyalty. A month ago we were a thousand times that many but, now, are without military escort.

MALIK. Who drives you to this, Prince Dara?

DARA. My brother, Malik Jiwan.

MALIK. Prince Aurangzeb?

DARA. The same. He has Delhi, and he has Agra Fort surrounded, my father and sister, Jahanara, beyond my care’s reach, inside. He uses my home for his family whilst his fast-swelling army hunts us down, baby brother Murad in tow. Aurangzeb claims no interest in the throne, yet he craves it unreservedly, but our father, the Emperor, still lives so I will not let him have it.

MALIK. You have always been brave, Prince Dara.

DARA. It’s bluster, Malik Jiwan – part grief, part fear, mostly fury. I am gripped with hatred for Aurangzeb as I have never been for anyone.

MALIK. Allah tests you, Prince.

DARA. And I am ready. We need a night or two under your roof before we march through the Bolan Pass to regroup. We might have reached Persia weeks ago if my wife –

He breaks off.

MALIK. Your beloved princess?

SIPIHR steps in to save DARA’s emotion from rising.

SIPIHR. The remainder of our army returned to Lahore with my mother’s body.

MALIK. Allah, may she rest in peace…

SIPIHR. They buried her next to her Sufi master, Mian Mir’s tomb.

DARA. Digging in the dark like thieves, because we are Aurangzeb’s enemies now, no Sufi is safe.

MALIK. I’m sorry.

DARA. In Ajmer, while we battled, they ransacked our women. The men we paid to guard them took everything – the clothes, the carriages – all they left was the tent in which Nadira relinquished her life. She had no stomach for war. The less one has the closer one is to God, yet this death punches the bliss from me. But here you are at the edge of our Empire.

MALIK. And here we stand talking in the dark. Come in, Prince, you are welcome, welcome.

DARA. Thank you, Malik Jiwan.

MALIK. I’d not be here were it not for you, Prince, I’d have been crunched under your father’s formidable elephant.

DARA laughs with relief, MALIK joins his laughter.

DARA. Please, let us follow you in.

Scene Two

AURANGZEB (forty-two) carefully unfolds a prayer mat. A MUEZZIN sings the call to prayer (this could be SHAH JAHAN). In the gaps of song, HIRA BAI, a girl in another time, another place – a memory of AURANGZEB’s – sings a Hindu song. AURANGZEB prays. He is in a large tent pitched amongst his army. HIRA BAI sings again; AURANGZEB, distracted by her, turns to look. His attention is snapped back by MURAD appearing at the...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• ‘Dara at the National Theatre’
• ‘The Original Dara’
• Original Production
• Characters
• Dara
• Glossary
• About Ajoka Theatre
• About the Authors
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information