lone ghara (clay pitcher) sits in the middle of the stage. A single, white spotlight shines on it, ochre turning silver. One can sense the tragedy about to unfold in the heavy air. This is the set of Sohni Mahinwal, a folktale, presented at The Colony on August 5 and 6 by Behind The Mask Productions.

The hosts introduced the play as a “modern retelling” of the classic. For a modern retelling to do right by a folktale as revered as Sohni Mahinwal’s is a daunting task, but the self-aware hosts of the play took it in their stride, sarcastically quipping at the less-than-ideal set. Cramped quarters and a small stage are certainly drawbacks, but theatre in Pakistan is a dying art so this is what Lahore makes do with.

Behind The Mask Productions’s Sohni Mahinwal considerably deviates from the original in terms of plot, but the beginning is rooted in the classical tradition. Dancers rise from the stage appearing as apparitions, stuck in time. They rise to the beat of the dhol as Paar Chanad Dae plays, feet thrumming rhythmically, bodies bathed in bright pink and purple.

This rendition of the folk tale unfolds in a small village where Sohni, the titular character, moulds earthenware (gharas and matkas) by hand for sale. Eman Hussain’s Sohni speaks about gharas shaped with wet earth, baked with love and patience, in enchanting, rapt tones — her devotion to the art of pottery shines through her voice.

It is here that the play starts to stray: the sister-in-law becomes party to Sohni’s love. Mahinwal returns to his Chaudhraain mother to ask for Sohni’s hand, and politics in Sohni’s small village and Mahinwal’s feudal lands take centre stage. Instead of a sister-in-law’s treachery leading to Sohni’s drowning death in the Chenab, the Sohni of this play falls prey to the machinations of politics as she races to the flood to save her nephew with a ghara that cannot stand the billowing waves of human cruelty.

Government and feudal politics spin an intricate web as the victim’s brother and the culprit of a murder in Sohni’s village take to the imperious Chaudhraain’s court to seek justice. The decision is for the victim’s brother to marry one of the culprit’s underage daughters. The Chaudhraain’s unyielding callousness also shows when a government clerk brings a notice for occupied lands, and she threatens him with her village’s voting power in the coming elections. These subplots are essential for the climax of the play — the Chaudhraain diverts floodwaters to Sohni’s village, saving her own sugar crops while those of the less fortunate are wiped clean. But political statements take away from the star-crossed romance at the heart of the age-old tale. Without the all-consuming love, and the waylessness that follows, Sohni Mahinwal isn’t Sohni Mahinwal.

Rather than have the actors on stage, director Ali Shan bin Sohail chose to show the moment of Sohni’s death through a shadow sequence. Above the waves, Sohni’s lone hand clenches on air, the ghara out of reach.

Mahinwal doesn’t have the characterisation that his transcendental, spiritual ishq calls for. He is still around by the end of the play while Sohni succumbs to the waves. He neither wanders the earth looking for his beloved nor drowns with Sohni.

In comparison, his love feels contrived even as he discovers his mother’s insidious schemes, a disappointment where the audience expected raw emotion and mystical vision. The Chaudhraain, acted by Malika Akhter, is loud, conniving and visceral. She tries to convince her only son, and perhaps herself as well, that she did it all for him.

It is fitting that in a world where capitalistic systems of oppression have caused “global warming” to become “global boiling,” Sohni drowns in a flood rather than the Chenab, whose waters had blessed her people from time immemorial.

Between heavy dialogue, musical sequences, hearings at court and ominous monologues by Ishq and Maut, Ali Qureshi’s pompous, stomping Munshi (the court assistant) makes for brilliant comic relief.

Witty one-liners in Punjabi directed to Mahinwal’s insta-love and edging for more money with the Chaudhraain fill the pauses in the play well. At the same time, the Munshi is easily bribed by the Chaudhraain — his amusing manner does nothing to hide his burgeoning greed.

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One of the play’s most well-received attempts at integrating modern elements into the story came through music. Coke Studio’s haunting Paar Chanan Dae was interwoven into the plotline seamlessly, when Sohni falls in love, when that love strengthens and when it falls to tatters. The lyrics morph and fit Sohni as she goes through the trials of love, just as they have been sung for decades in remembrance of love that never bloomed.

Ishq and Maut are compelling characters as they present the savage embodiments of love and death: bloody lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, haunted dances. Lurking in the shadows, foretelling visions of misfortune, shouting death and destruction as Sohni is enchanted by Mahinwal, these two claim that true love is made complete in death.

Sohni Mahinwal makes a heroic effort at showing a flood on stage through ripples of blue fabric, turning and blowing forwards and backwards. Rather than have the actors on stage, director Ali Shan bin Sohail chooses to show the moment of Sohni’s death through a shadow sequence. Above the waves, Sohni’s lone hand clenches on air, the ghara out of reach.

The writer is an interdisciplinary student of literature and sciences at Lahore College of Arts & Sciences. She can be reached at fajr.rauf5@gmail com