PLAY

The main theme of the play is loneliness and repressed trauma, which is revealed through the madness of the main character Jack. In a confined room of a madhouse, Jack immerses himself in the hazy memories of his childhood and the busyness of all imaginary things. His only companions are a tape recorder and a radio. A dark past of his life emerges in a conversation with his own recorded cassette tape. The outward release or freedom, instead of reassuring him, terrifies him with fear of the unknown, because the outside world seems unsafe to him. However, suddenly he feels that he is free from today; he is about to go out, but just then his mother's voice comes from the tape recorder, and he stops. He hugs the tape recorder and starts reminiscing about old memories when the recorder suddenly turns off. Jack, imprisoned in the labyrinth of his memories, that is, the reels of the cassette, finally refuses to leave his mental prison. The suspicion of his mother's death at the hands of his father and the painful truth of unknowingly killing his own father keep him trapped in a limbo. The play presents the tragic consequences of guilt and loneliness deep within the human mind. 

Oikollo was born from a question I could not silence: what if the room we fear leaving is the one inside our own minds? Jack’s story is not only his; it belongs to anyone who has ever found loneliness safer than the noise of the world outside. In writing and directing this play, I wanted to sit beside that silence rather than explain it away. The tape recorder, the radio, the half-remembered mother’s voice—these are not props but witnesses. If even one of you leaves Natmandal is a little less alone tonight; the play has done its quiet work. 

The play is highly relevant and urgent for the present time. In this play, we primarily see a mental prison—a prison from which no human being is truly free.

I am sure the director has already spoken a lot about the play, but I want to talk about the rehearsal process.

As far as I can remember, from the day I started rehearsals, there were only two days left until the performance. The playwright and director, Sadman Soumik Siam, is my friend. The play was written during the rehearsal process itself—meaning my brilliant friend wrote the play while we were rehearsing. However, it wasn’t as easy as I’m making it sound. It was a challenge for both me and the director. We faced many significant challenges throughout this production. Accepting genuine challenges has always been my source of joy.

We had only two days, and I was the sole actor. Yes, the director searched extensively and brought a co-actor for me. A highly conscious, dedicated, and punctual person who doesn’t wait even a single second for anyone—that honorable co-actor was none other than Mr. Radio.

I’m not joking. The director handed me a radio and said, “This is your co-actor.” It would deliver dialogues—at the beginning of the play, a pre-recorded file would play, and I had to exchange dialogues with it, fitting perfectly into the gaps of the recording. So, as you can understand, if I missed a line even once, my co-actor wouldn’t wait for me. And if I couldn’t finish on time, it would speed away like a train. That meant neither slow nor fast was acceptable—I had to stay within an absolutely fixed timeline with my actions and dialogues. This was one of the biggest performance experiences of my life. That’s why I’m thinking of writing a research paper titled “When the Tape Recorder Becomes the Co-Actor.”

Speaking about the directing process—the director was extremely trustworthy. He believed in me and trusted that I could do it, and for that, I am grateful. The most important aspect of direction is having faith in the performers. This quality remained present until the very end of the play, and the production ended successfully. Beyond this, I don’t feel the need to say anything more about the directing process, because this core virtue was present one hundred percent in the director.

Gratitude.