Scene and Heard: Ghungroo

6:23 p.m. I arrive at the Agassiz Theater and make my way to the main foyer, knowing that the show won’t start for another 40 minutes. A couple of parents stand eagerly at the front of a four-person “line” and point me towards the back. They tell an alum they’ve come from Southern California to watch their daughter, a senior, perform.

6:27 p.m. Red-cheeked performers push their way past the growing mass of will-callers and scalpers.

6:32 p.m. My entryway mate, who’s in the show, comes through the hallway, sees the ticket line, and breathes, “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” A girl in a blue and gold sari follows. Another student next to her holds what appears to be a silver-sequined crop top in his hand.

6:51 p.m. In the theater, I snag a seat as close to front and center as possible and head to the bathroom. Six performers are crowded around the sinks, putting on eyeliner and fixing their hair. One girl has on the sequined crop top I saw earlier. The others, in saris, appear as streaks of pink, gold, and green in the mirror.

7:15 p.m. The doors of the at-capacity theater close. The lights dim, and a bright, big projection of a cursive “Ghungroo” flashes on the curtains.

This is Ghungroo 2014, the South Asian Association’s 25th annual cultural production. It’s never been bigger—more than 400 students are involved. Ghungroo is in a class all of its own.

The ensuing three hours can only be described as wildly colorful. The show features the brightest visual display I’ve ever laid my eyes on: a vivid street backdrop, with orange and purple stores labeled “Bombay Sweets” and “Deepika’s Dhaba.” There are saris and tunics in every color imaginable, many adorned with silver or gold stitching. The dance pieces are enormous, the skits are silly and provocative, and the music is loud, with beats that make me want to get up on stage.

Yes, the show is cultural; the performers wear costumes, sing in Hindi, and employ traditional dance moves. But it’s more a marriage of East and West, an attention-grabbing spectacle that melds tradition and modernity. Ghungroo is what the narrator describes as “chicken tikka masala—not quite purely found in South Asia, but a sumptuous meal that leaves you ready for more.”

Number after number, hordes of smiling students run on and off the stage, fusing classic Indian dance moves with stuff you’d see in a Robin Thicke music video (hip thrusts and “roll the dice” hand motions). Interspersed are showcases of musical talent (a capella, rap, and indie-type acoustic, all weaving in some Hindi) and skits that poke fun at Indian stereotypes. One scene is reminiscent of “Mean Girls,” another of “Meet the Parents.”

Several minutes in, I realize that we—the audience members—are an integral, energetic element of the performance. People start imitating the “click” sound that occurs every time the narrator turns off her microphone, and someone shouts, “That’s my blockmate!” during a dance. I’m not South Asian, and I only know a few of the performers and audience members, but I’ve soon become part of this terrifically genial community.

I should’ve guessed that the show would be big, loud, and interactive with all the family members and alumni in the audience. But did I expect to laugh out loud? Squirm in my seat? Catcall the dancers? Who could have anticipated that the line “Do you have a favorite type of curry?” would be so funny? Or that students would Beyoncé booty-shake to Indian pop? Prior to 7:15 p.m., I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But I’m glad I was part of it.

The last number, the notorious senior dance, spans something like 15 minutes. Students appear in an endless stream from backstage. I vaguely wonder how they fit that many people behind the Mumbai backdrop, but I let the shiny rainbow of dancing bodies distract me. The audience shouts out names and claps for the entire performance.

10:10 p.m. The curtain finally closes, but the cast is still dancing on stage.

10:15 p.m. I’m back in the Agassiz hallway, which is buzzing with energy. Some of the performers have already made it to their respective audience members. All of them—dancers, singers, mothers, fathers, friends, and blockmates—are beaming.