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Indian Express

Love is revolution

Somewhere between breath and silence, between a lingering touch and a retreating glance, between two men standing in the light and each other's shadow, something extraordinary unfolded. It wasn't just a performance. It was a pulse, a whisper, a cry, a prayer. Sam Aaj, the dance narrative by Jainil Mehta, staged Monday night at the Little Theatre Group Auditorium in Delhi, didn't simply tell a story. It opened a vein — raw and tender — and let emotion spill across the stage like monsoon rain on burning earth. There they stood: Samir and Miraaj. Two men lip-syncing poetry and music that cascaded from the speakers like a river just over its banks — the treble sometimes too sharp, cutting the clarity of words, but never the feeling. That was always intact. Breathtaking in its vulnerability, the performance throbbed with sensuality, tension, nervousness, joy, longing — and love. A love so unflinching and honest, it eclipsed the specifics of gender. What mattered was not that it was two men. What mattered was that it was love, and love in its truest form is always a revolution. There was nothing exaggerated. Nothing timid. Everything — the movement, the music, the gaze, the distance, the closeness — felt precise and correct. Every step carried weight. Every pause held meaning. There were moments when their hands barely met, but you could feel the electricity. In one gesture, there was more storytelling than entire scripts manage. This was dance that didn't need dialogue to be understood. But when the words came — in Hindi, in Urdu, in English — they embroidered the air with longing and insight. 'Koi cheez jab khaali ho toh itni bhaari kaise ho sakti hai?' (How can something so empty feel so heavy?) The poetry, written by Amrita Saluja and Devarshi Shah, acted like a low flame burning under the entire performance. It didn't overpower; it illuminated. These weren't just lines — they were confessions. Hiccups of the heart. Soft bruises of memory. 'Par in hichkiyon ne pareshan kar rakha hai. Kya tum kuch der, sirf kuch der ke liye mujhe bhool sakte ho? Main khud ko yaad karna chahta hoon.' (These hiccups are bothering me. Can you forget me just for a while? I want to remember myself.) What do we become in love, and what parts of ourselves do we lose? These questions floated just beneath the surface, like shadows beneath rippling water. And then came the music — composed and sung by Shivansh Jindal and Aasa Singh. Songs that didn't just accompany the dance but gave it breath. The score was woven with nostalgia and ache. 'Kya hum waise hi hain, jaise pehle the? Ya rishta hai ya sirf yeh yaadon ka khel re…?' (Are we still who we were? Or is this just a game of memories now?) The lyrics were like letters never sent — filled with tenderness, fear, resignation. They echoed in the auditorium, and in us. The lighting, designed by Vijay Kumar Asokan, painted their silhouettes in soft amber, bruised purples, moody blues — as if the stage itself were bleeding emotion. And it must be said — this production is a culmination of many artists' labor. Jainil Mehta choreographed and led, yes, but the soul of Sam Aaj was communal. Shubham Mahawar, as Miraaj, brought a counterpoint of gentleness and depth. His performance was electric, magnificent. If I thought Jainil was incredible, this performer just took it to another level still. Together they were ethereal. On stage, it was a performance of two who excelled at what they did, and together became greater than the sum of their parts. Their chemistry — unforced and sincere — shaped the narrative. The voiceovers by Nakuul Mehta and Aaryama Salim, paired with live-synced dance, added another layer of theatrical intimacy. But beyond the performance, Sam Aaj is a story long in the making. Jainil Mehta first caught the eye dancing on the concrete of Jersey City during the lockdown. There he was — barefoot on asphalt, draped in the colors and drama of Gujarat and Rajasthan, making the dull gray of New York shimmer with movement. Even then, he wasn't just dancing. He was reclaiming space. Resisting silence. Bringing rhythm to stillness. That same spirit threads through Sam Aaj. It is at once a personal journey and a universal one. It's about queer love, yes — but more than that, it's about what it means to be seen, to be held, to be understood in a world that often asks us to perform, but rarely allows us to just be. After the show, an audience member asked about the co-performer's name. And while Jainil answered, there was a murmur in the crowd — some wondering if enough credit was given. I hope they were wrong. Because what I saw on stage was collaboration. I saw generosity. I saw one artist lifting another. I saw a duo, not a solo. And I hope that Jainil Mehta — who clearly has the talent and the vision to go far — continues to share the spotlight, continues to mentor, continues to remember that the art is brighter when shared. Because this — this performance — was not a solo act. It was a symphony of people. Behind the scenes: the poetry, the lighting, the costumes by Rasa by Jainil, the singers, the musicians, the stills captured by Raashi Ganeriwal and Kush Patel, the support from Another Light Counselling, from family, from friends. This was a village making art. This was love in motion. The show will travel — from Mumbai to Vadodara, Ahmedabad to Delhi, Jaipur to Bengaluru. And I hope each city walks away feeling what I felt: that Sam Aaj is not just about two people. It's about all of us. About now. About society. About how we balance the 'Sam' — the equilibrium — in today's fractured world. If I could, I'd bottle the performance and mail it to everyone I love. I'd send it to my mother, my friends, the ones who ache in silence, the ones who've forgotten what it feels like to be held — truly held — without fear. Because this performance reminded me that love, when performed without apology, can be the most radical act. There was one line that echoed long after the stage went dark: 'Dekho… main jaanta hoon ke jo bhi hai humare beech, woh pyaar hai. Par main do logon ke hisse ka pyaar akele kaise karun? Aur kyun karun?' (Look… I know what we have is love. But how can I love for two people alone? And why should I?) It's a question asked in heartbreak, but the performance answered with hope: You shouldn't have to. Love, when it is right, is shared. It flows. It gives. It meets you halfway. And sometimes, it meets you on stage, with light in your eyes and music in your bones. So here's my review: Go watch Sam Aaj. Not just for the dance. Not just for the poetry. But for the reminder that we are all, in the end, trying to love and be loved. And when we witness it, unfiltered and true, we walk away changed. This wasn't just a performance. It was a gift.