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When science and religion clash in this country, it doesn’t take a huge mental effort to guess which side will win. This clash, in Gautam Raja’s play “The Invisible River” staged at Ranga Shankara last week, appeared to end in a draw. But there were ominous signs of a second bout that would end in a bloody victory for the reigning champion, and a barely perceptible suggestion that science harnessed for commercial gain would win over science used for the benefit of the poor.

A young boy in Allahabad whose mother drags him off for daily dips in the Ganges is disgusted by the filth. He grows up to be a government doctor dedicated to fighting disease and campaigning to clean up the river that causes so many slum-dwellers to die of cholera. A scientist arrives to investigate the presence of bacteriophages (bacteria-eating viruses) in the river - a finding that, because of its potential for disease eradication, could attract massive corporate funds. Her finding is of great interest to a local sadhvi-turned-politician who uses it to further her career. The tension between science and faith is highlighted by the doctor’s personal struggle: His ailing, deeply religious mother naturally wants her body to be cremated on the banks of the Ganga but such an action would not only contravene his scientific credo but also undo his life’s work, which has been to convince people that the river is full of impurities from chemical toxins and half-burnt corpses.

The playwright has constructed a powerful and awe-inspiring character in Dr Thyagu. He reminds one of those rare heroes of rural India, the true sons and daughters of Hippocrates who derive satisfaction from fighting disease and poverty. Thyagu is an unlikely Superman with his spectacles, slight build and distracted air, but his fiery conviction, his spirit of sacrifice and his tireless work qualify him as a true karmayogi - a title he would not approve of, by the way, since he rejects anything that smacks of religion. His rationalism comes off as unimaginative and prone to clichés. If only it had found a counterpoint in the richness of non-mainstream cultural imagery, if only science had been pitted against spirituality and not organised religion, this would have been a great play instead of merely a good one.

Raja gives Thyagu the most acidic, witty, honest and passionate lines. He does not have a worthy opponent in his mother, though. A nameless stereotype (she is referred to only as Ma), she epitomises rigidity, empty ritual (pooja, river worship, making tea), and pointless suffering. Jayant the pujari and childhood friend is also no match for Thyagu, while Uma is only a mediator in the tussle. Science is an articulate debator and religion cannot come up with a strong enough repartee. This is why the volte-face makes one feel cheated. One expects the two sides to slug it out for several rounds but instead religion sneaks up on science from behind and delivers an unfair blow. It might be the playwright’s (and the audience’s) fervent wish that “science and religion shake hands” but it has to be done convincingly. It is a bit too pat to have the bacteriophages being most active where there is most pollution, the conclusion being that the more faith one has in the river, the purer it becomes. Thyagu can conveniently and guiltlessly immerse his mother’s ashes in the river, ashes that presumably came from the electric crematorium where she, out of love for her son, had arranged for her body to be sent.

On the face of it the invisible river refers to the mythical Saraswathi. Young Thyagu imagines that the Saraswathi is the cleanest of all rivers because it is invisible. But of course the invisible river is also the Ganga, the Ganga that flows pure because its purity is only a concept. Science, which can spot bacteria under a microscope, has no room for the invisible, for symbolic meaning.

The two-hour play had a sturdy framework. The script could not have been tighter; dialogue has been one of Raja’s strengths since his earliest days. Pritham Kumar, having found a character he could sink his teeth into, lost no time in being Thyagu. Sukhita Aiyar was less fortunate and director Ruchika Chanana should have helped her find the character of Ma. She sounded flat and colourless unlike when she played the health minister, a role in which she was breathtaking and which was aided by superb scripting. Harish Seshadri was his usual exuberant self as the jolly Jayant while Veena Appiah carried off Uma smoothly. Chanana ably directed young Joshua Saldanha particularly in his role as the urchin Anwar.

A faded, thick cotton bedspread spoke volumes about Thyagu’s and his mother’s background. The river was evoked by two water-effects lights placed on either side of the stage and muted sound effects and just as I was thinking to myself how gratuitous any fancy visual effects would have been, I was told that because of a technical fault on the day I watched the play, movie images of the Ganga could not be projected. Frankly, it was no loss.

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