Totto-chan in a Universe of One

In a dimly lit black box theatre in Pune, Parna Pethe walked onto an empty stage — and for the next ninety minutes, built a world out of air.

Her solo performance, Totto-chan, adapted from Tetsuko Kuroyanagi’s beloved Japanese memoir, transforms the classic into something unmistakably Marathi — tender, self-assured, and luminous. Directed with restraint and empathy, the play asks: What if a child’s imagination could fill an entire world by itself?

No sets. No visible co-actors. Only Parna — and a handful of disembodied voices floating in and out like memories. Her companions: Radio Nippon, her dog Rocky, and a classroom of invisible friends at Tomoe Gakuen.

At first, the stage seemed empty. But within minutes, Parna’s Totto-chan filled it with such energy, such earnest delight, that the emptiness itself began to breathe. She spoke to walls, laughed with thin air, listened to silence — and somehow, we saw them all.

There’s a rare courage in performing solitude so joyfully. Parna’s Totto-chan doesn’t pretend she’s surrounded; she creates company from absence. The theatre becomes an act of faith — a child’s belief so pure that we, too, begin to see what she sees.

And then came the tree-climbing scene — the moment that stilled the room.

“Come on, Yasuaki-chan,” she whispered, turning to an invisible boy. “Today we’ll climb a tree.”

Her hands gripped air. Her voice softened: “Here, I’ll help you.” Then, with wonder — “There… see? You did it.”

A beat of silence. “From here you can see the whole world.”

And somehow, we could. Through her faith, an invisible tree appeared; through her empathy, a boy who couldn’t walk found freedom. It was theatre stripped to its essence — imagination healing what reality cannot.

When the lights dimmed again and Radio Nippon’s faint hum returned, it became clear: this wasn’t just a children’s story. It was a meditation on solitude — not as sadness, but as the fertile ground of imagination.

Parna’s Totto-chan isn’t lonely. She’s radiant in her aloneness. She reminds us that silence can be dialogue, absence can be friendship, and imagination — the truest form of resilience.

Walking out into the cool Pune night, I felt something deeper than admiration — a wave of nostalgia and gratitude. Gratitude for a city that still makes room for such performances. A city that listens. That values art not as display, but as dialogue.

There’s a word for that in Marathi — anand. Not happiness, not joy — but that luminous calm that fills you when you witness something honest, tender, and true.

And it struck me that Totto-chan in Marathi isn’t a borrowed story. It’s a reflection of Pune’s own cultural confidence — a city so comfortable in its skin that it can take a Japanese classic and make it feel entirely its own.

That night, I felt anand — for Totto-chan, for Parna Pethe, and for Pune — a city that still believes in imagination.