Where did Scheherazade get the stories of 1,001 Nights? There is a neat theatrical logic to the idea that they came from other women, some of whom must have been fearfully awaiting their fate, should her stock run dry and the king start looking for another bride. In this co-production between the Globe and Tamasha, writer Hannah Khalil and director Pooja Ghai conjure up five of them who lounge around in a candle-lit ante-chamber, consoling each other with ever more fanciful yarns, which they smuggle out to her through the hatch that delivers their food.
Three musicians play in a gallery above, as the five archetypal characters – a dancer, a warrior, a writer, an ingenue and a sage – pass the candle of narrative between them. Their selection concentrates not on the derring-do of men, but on the rivalries, frustrations, passions and ingenuities of their own restricted lives. Word comes back that their bawdy tales are not the sort of fare that will continue to catch the imagination of the king – “he’s not just a cock,” scolds Scheherazade, who is apparently suffering from Stockholm syndrome – but what can they do except continue to embroider what they know?
