Written by Rea Dennhardt Patel and starring Vaishnavi Survaprakash and Akaash Dev Shemar, The Undying is a cascading flow through time, memories, grief and significant life choices for husband and wife of 70 years, Prav and Amba.
We are immediately introduced to our characters at Prav’s 91st birthday, where, slow, frail and with movement reduced to a shuffle, we learn that Prav has Alzheimer’s and Amba has cancer. They have grown elderly, have greyed, and are dying. As a means to lift their spirits, Amba buys her husband three gifts for his birthday: a small present, a cupcake with candles; a medium present, a knitted jumper; and a big present: TwiceLife pills that make you younger each time you take one. Having conducted her research primarily on TikTok, Reddit and Google, Amba is as prepared as any other 90‑year‑old taking the plunge into the unknown: life as a forty‑something Indian woman in present‑day London.
Amba does not shy away from this decision, despite her husband’s protests, and we meet her again aged forty‑five, working as a barista at a café. The timeline here is not entirely clear – we move rather abruptly from Amba taking the pill to her working at a café aged forty‑five, while Prav remains ninety‑one and unfazed by the concept of the pill. It could be useful to have this timeline better relayed, but a vague timeline takes nothing away from the enjoyment and understanding of this play. What is clear, however, is that Amba is discovering a newfound freedom that she was not afforded in her youth, which Prav doesn’t take kindly to. Arguing that women didn’t work in their youth, that men would feel sorry for the husbands of those who did, and appearing shocked and confused when Amba tells him ‘no’, Prav distinguishes himself as a man who is very set in his ways with an unyielding mindset.
He expresses his outrage at young girls being entitled to opinions and freedoms, whilst Amba expresses her delight at being able to educate herself. This contrast in thought is a powerful reminder that in many cultures today, women are still seen as subordinate and serving one, maybe two, purposes in this life: to be a wife and a mother. This sentiment is exactly what pulls Amba towards TwiceLife and the chance to have a do‑over. She studies medicine, finally educating herself the way she always intended. Now in her forties again in present‑day London, she finally seems content… that is, until Prav decides to take a TwiceLife pill.
Prav doesn’t adjust to being a forty‑something Indian man in present‑day London quite as comfortably as Amba does. Eventually he finds his groove and expresses his delight in realising his knee and joint pain has disappeared, content at being forty‑five. They both are… until they aren’t. Prav decides they should regress again to their thirties; an age more likely to provide a child for them. This is where the cracks begin to show, and a startling revelation is made: Prav wants to take another pill so they can be younger still and erase all memories of their family and have children themselves. He is desperate in his pursuit of youth, and his desperation is tainted by a trauma that pulls him to his younger self, revealed only at the end of the play, keeping the audience on their toes as we try to understand and sympathise with his desperate pursuit.
The Undying is a particularly noteworthy commentary on South Asian culture and gender, and the difficulties many face in upholding outdated, archaic traditions in a modern world that has, for the most part, moved on. Amba takes the pill in the hopes that she can do things differently and live a life for herself rather than for her husband or family. Prav takes many pills in the hopes of doing everything again. Traditions are outdated in the modern world that this couple has joined, with Amba finally able to reap the benefits, though her benefits become a detriment to Prav. This once‑married couple of 70 years begin to slip further away from the life they knew – but never too far from each other.
Shemar and Survaprakash are incredibly charming in their respective roles, and in spite of some controversial remarks made by Prav, you can’t help but adore these characters. This duo have chemistry at every age – as an old married couple, right through to a mother–son dynamic. This is a play full of humour, self‑mockery, love, grief and an acceptance of oneself. It is warm and hearty, like a big bowl of soup on a cold winter’s day. Survaprakash is enchanting as Amba, playing her with equal parts delicacy and weight, anchored by Dennhardt Patel’s stunning writing. Shemar offers an equally brilliant performance, boasting a versatility that convinces us at every age he plays. Both translate the beauty, charm and magnitude of Dennhardt Patel’s script into their characters wonderfully, and I truly hope to see more of their talent in future.
Honourable mention must go to musician Ansuman Biswas, who sits to the side of the stage with an assortment of traditional South Asian instruments, playing soft vibrations from the moment you walk into the upstairs at Soho Theatre to the very last bow. He transitions the story between scenes with his music, incorporating a faster tempo during Amba and Prav’s age transitions to convey the magnitude of their decisions, and offers a stirring, soothing and startlingly beautiful means of supporting the flow of this story. Hats off to everybody involved in this production – it truly deserves its flowers.
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