Roshan Mathew’s Bye Bye Bypass: A play about what remains when the map is redrawn

The first time Roshan Mathew narrated the tale of Alummoottil was in a video recorded years ago at Spoken Fest, Mumbai. His voice alone was enough to summon the scenes. It was like this: a young boy perched on the “firm yet round belly” of his Achachan. Then came the sudden panic that swept through the household when the PWD notice arrived to announce that their home stood in the path of a new bypass between Kottayam and Thiruvalla. What was unexpected, five years later, as The Purple Crayons staged ‘Bye Bye Bypass’ in Kottayam, was the sheer force with which those memories returned, rearranged and sharpened by theatre.

The timing feels eerily apt. With Kerala now living through the churn of two major road projects (the Coastal Highway and the widening of NH 66), the play’s nostalgia acquires a quiet political edge. What begins as a gently drawn slice of family life becomes an invitation to slow down and notice what disappears. 

On stage, Roshan adopts a flexible theatre form to narrate the story of the Athimoottil House with disarming clarity. Live music, clean lighting cues, and a cast that slips easily through the fourth wall keep the momentum brisk. Yet, the play’s most persuasive moments come from its visual playfulness like the rediscovery of old photographs or cousins staging a backyard cricket match. The first scene, built with a single white cloth and sharply cut lighting, casts a quiet spell. The second is a three way movement piece and carries the mischievous pulse of holiday cricket at a grandparent’s home.

As Thumbi (Darshana Rajendran), Innachi (Aswathy Manoharan), and Kunjeli (Sanjay Menon) take the field, the yard grows around them in the mind’s eye. One can almost feel an imagined itch on the ankles, see the invisible boundary walls, know precisely where the sewage flows and which shot counts as an automatic “out.” And Nandu (Syamaprakash MS) trudges into the muck to retrieve the ball just to secure his place in the team.

Symbolism courses through the production. The opening moment where Achachan (Vaisakh Shankar) mimes the felling of a tree sets the tone. His movements are so precise you almost hear the trunk yield. The illusion briefly falters when the imagined debris does not fly back at him. But this is the nature of live performance, the fragile beauty of a moment that is never repeated in quite the same way.

Roshan structures the play in a rhythm that loops between humour and ache. Just when the levity settles, a swell of feeling rises, crests, and recedes. This echoes perhaps his Achachan’s own art of storytelling.