Two Theatre Kids Walk Into a Love Triangle (And It’s Not What You Think)

I was four when I started theatre school. I don’t remember much from that first class—just that the floors were always dusty, the warmups were far too earnest, and I felt completely, deliriously at home. I’ve done Thespo (a youth theatre festival) too, like many in our community. That strange little microcosm where you’d cry backstage during tech and fall in love with someone while rehearsing their cues.

So when I heard that Cock, the 2009 play by Mike Bartlett about sexual fluidity and identity, was being revived—and that Shweta Tripathi was at the helm—it felt like one of those full-circle, cosmic theatre kid moments. She did the lights for the play 15 years ago. And now, she’s producing it under her banner, AllMyTea, and pouring every last ounce of herself into bringing it back. Lights, lines, logistics, and all.

We started chatting not as interviewer and subject, but like two people who know what the inside of a green room smells like. “I feel this is what people need to know about other people—as artists, or as creators, or as storytellers,” she said. “It’s the early stages of theatre that I saw in my life… that magical world where stories were told with or without props, with or without sets. That is the magic of theatre.”

Shweta Enters, Stage Left

Her parents were culturally inclined, she tells me, and that meant she grew up watching dance performances at City Fort, plays at Kamani and Sriram Centre, soaking in the energy of live storytelling.
“I once played a cloud,” she says, laughing. “I wasn’t the protagonist—I didn’t even know what that meant—but I was so happy just being part of that world.”

She never really left it. Even when she didn’t know she’d become a full-time actor, the stage was the throughline, from school to school, city to city. “It wasn’t about what others thought,” she says. “I liked how I felt when I was doing it.”

Why Theatre Still Holds Us

There’s something about theatre that never quite lets go of you. For Shweta, that’s especially true now.
“On stage, you have to be very, very active. If anything happens—if there’s a cramp, or your co-actor misses a cue—there’s no cut. You’re just on your own.”

She doesn’t say that with fear. She says it with reverence, “You can’t be thinking about what people are eating for dinner,” she laughs. “You have to be so present. And that’s beautiful.”

She contrasts it with screen work, where the rehearsal process is often skipped. “In theatre, you rehearse, you trust. There’s a community. I know if I forget a line, someone will catch me. There’s so much love.”

The Queerness of Ambiguity

That idea of presence—emotional, romantic, human—is at the heart of Cock. The play tells the story of a man in a same-sex relationship who unexpectedly falls for a woman. But it’s not just about orientation. It’s about choice, fluidity, and the freedom to shift without shame.

“There’s an M, a John, a W, and an F in all of us,” she says, referencing the play’s characters. The main characters are John, M (his boyfriend), and W (a woman he meets while on a break from M). There is also John's father, referred to as F. “It talks about identity, yes—but also about desire. Is it okay to change your mind? What is power? What is joy? Why do we keep coming back to certain relationships?”

She didn’t act in the first version of Cock 15 years ago. She worked the lights. “I was there through all the rehearsals. I wasn’t saying the dialogues, but I was listening. And that’s given me more josh—more fire, more energy—to tell stories that raise the bar of human emotion.”

This time, she’s not just telling the story. She’s living every second of its creation.

Running the Show, Onstage and Off

Offstage, she’s the producer, the stage mom, the emotional architect. “Emotions are fragile,” she says. “I want to make my actors comfortable—even if it means finding a better rehearsal space, or making sure they’re not feeling gassy before a show. Literally, my motherhood has come out in being off stage.”

She’s doing the lights again, along with the seating, the costumes, and the food. “My skills have really gone up,” she says. “It’s been tough, but I’ve learned so much. I can do better. And I will.”

Watching audiences respond to the play is what makes it worth it. “In Delhi, people had tears in their eyes. In Bombay, they came up to us and said, ‘This is our story.’ Some were just shaking. And that’s exactly what I want.”

The Family You Find Backstage

What really moved me, though, was how much she kept circling back to the people who made this possible—the collaborators, the theatre fam.

“I couldn’t have done this without Sakshi from Gaysi Family. Or Dion, who’s doing BTS and giving feedback like a pro.” She pauses, then adds: “Fifteen years ago, I was a different person. Even understanding people from the community has evolved. I have so many friends who are gay, and I love them. I think we’re all evolving because of conversations like this. Because of plays like this.”

No Rewind, No Fast Forward

The beauty of theatre is that you can’t scroll past it. “For seventy-something minutes, plus an interval, people are together. Watching something. Sharing something,” she says. “And thank God for that.”

It’s not just about being seen. It’s about seeing each other—without judgment, without interruption, without filters. “There’s a whole palette to be explored,” she says near the end of her message. “Not just black and white. Life is colourful. All of us are colourful.”

And I think that’s why we keep coming back. To be reminded, on stage and off, that presence is still the most radical act of all.