And it is this truth that I seek in theatre. It comes my way but rarely. But when it does it overwhelms. To seek the truth in the other is my job as a critic. But as a lover I must know how this truth is created, what is it that the actor and director must do in order to communicate his creation to the spectator. The last fortnight was rewarding.

There are two women on stage and silence. One sits smoking at a rough table. The other holds a broom. She strikes the broom with a spoon. The other woman replies with the strike of her lighter on the ashtray. She drags the broom on the wooden floor in abrupt strokes. The swishing sound is echoed in gentle consoling clucks. ``Do you remember the outside?'' The seated woman asks in a heavy Italian accent. ``It is dangerous. There are strange people outside,'' replies the girlish woman with the broom. A long silence.

Suddenly there is a commotion offstage. A man clad in khaki shorts and shirt, wearing large boots, carrying a wicker basket enters. He opens a book and starts reciting, ``Our Father thou are in Heaven''. He then pulls a knife and aims it at his throat. Suddenly the two women are galvanized into action. The knife is snatched away. A chance wound bandaged and the man plied with wine. ``It is traditional,'' says the Italian Woman, as if the incident were part of a ritual celebration. Which it becomes as the three get tipsy.

`Underdogs', part of the ongoing Prithvi Festival, emerged through a series of improvisation. The script, the action, the characters were devised by actors over three weeks. Each actor brought to the rehearsal -- a broom, a metal bowl, a love letter, binoculars, boots, a yellow table-cloth, a piece of music. And they brought small stories and anecdotes. Stories of lost love, wasted dreams and great grief. The things and the thoughts in interaction with the emotions they inspired, became theatre, a theatre that sprang from the innermost depths of the being, investing each movement and word with that indescribable quality that only truth can inspire.

There was another kind of charge that emanated from Suhel Seth's performance as Mark in Yasmin Reza's celebrated play `ART', about the souring of a friendship between three men when one of them buys a white paintings for an outrageous sum of money, and that without consulting the other two. The quiet intensity that Suhel bought to the role was in deep contrast to what Rahul Bose had done in an earlier version. It resonated with an energy that dug deep.

Treading the boards after several years in a play called `Kissi Shaam Yun Hi', I felt the same magic grip me in the third show at the Habitat Centre. This play of confessions, accusations, of betrayals and recriminations, of the mundane and the spiritual journey in the life of a couple in their fifties, written by Sanjay Chouhan and enacted by Vinod Nagpal and I with Anamika Haksar directing, came together in an electric manner that evening. The magic was in the air when suddenly each ray of light, each sound, movement and gesture and word resonated with the quality of truth. I could feel the magnetic flow between the spectator and the performance. One illuminated the other. This what makes for the sanctity of theatre.