What is worth preserving? This is the question asked by the play Pickle‚ performed at The Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh, Scotland by the New Zealand theatre company Indian Ink, an affectionately told tale of love, death and immigration.

Written by Justin Lewis and Jacob Rajan, it is set in the Empire Hotel, once the finest hotel in town but now filled only with hopes as faded as the last days of the Raj itself. Three Indian immigrants explore classic themes within a deliberately modern context in Wellington, New Zealand.

Ammachy, superbly played by Jacob Rajan, complete with sponge sandals, runs the hotel with an iron fist helped by her niece, Sasha (Ansuya Nathan), who she fears will never be married because she is nearly blind. Jojo (Rajan), a heart-surgeon, works as the bell-boy who lives in a broom cupboard. The trio live in a characteristic acceptance of an obstinate situation: dreaming of a way out which refuses to open its doors to them.

Until Mr G. Reaper (Nick Blake) walks in through the door. An old English owner of a chemical company, he checks in and proceeds to fall in love with Sasha. He manages to win over the stubborn Ammachy who accepts his proposal for her niece. Jojo's heart is broken.

But as the tale unravels, the audience learns that Mr Reaper was responsible for the chemical disaster that killed Sasha's late husband and left her blind.

A climactic scene on the roof of the hotel sees Sasha about to end her life, where the audience becomes afraid of how little there is holding her back, metaphorically as well as physically. But Jojo manages to save the day.

A not-so-fairytale ending follows: Jojo wins back the heart of his beloved Sasha and the three continue to work in the hotel.

Hailed by UK critics as another offering from the recent East-meets-West tradition, Pickle, fortunately, couldn't be further from it. We are spared the usual tedious stereotypes of a girl with two plaits being called names and spat at in the playground, or scenes of the second-generation children hiding their pork sausages before their brutal Asian father comes back with a partner for their forced marriage‚.

Pickle is beyond comparison with such a simplistic tradition; its energy is entirely different. At last a UK audience is presented with a play about immigration that would look out of place on the BBC or Channel 4. The characters are heart-warming and funny. Jojo's one-liners verge on satire without becoming officious: "I was told I would be valuable to New Zealand as a doctor, but the New Zealand medical council think they themselves invented medicine!"

The audience is made painfully aware of Western suspicions of non-Western qualifications by laughing, but without resorting to stereotyping:

"You know Giorgio? Well, he is an engineer. Here he works in a sandwich shop", says Jojo. "And Raoul is a lawyer in his country, but here he works as a cleaner. Tamaki is bus driver."

Sasha replies: "Don't tell me, in Japan he is a nu-ki-lar phycisist."

"No," Jojo says, "he was a bus driver. He has always wanted to be a bus driver. He is very happy he has made his dream at last, as a bus driver, playing golf at the weekends."

A subtle yet powerful symbolism haunts the entire play. The chemical disaster is reminiscent of Bhopal. Jojo carries around a pig's heart with him at all times as a reminder of his profession, close to his own heart, but made redundant.

Stylistically, the play is enchanting. An elegant magical realist jack-in-the-box set is completed with face masks; the main characters‚

noses are tied around the head with the string, emphasising the odorous elements of the story. Sasha continually remarks upon a strange smell around Mr Reaper, who is later revealed as Death. And the sense of smell is an important one in sub-continental cultures, from the aromas associated with spices in food to the use of incense in religious rituals.

The characters are strongly grounded: they are not loaded by issues of belonging or acceptance. Rather, the issue is how the characters, having been through so much, are now obstructed by New Zealand authorities. Jojo, thinking of his wife back home, says: "I have come this far, I can't go back now. But it's not home here."

At the same time, it is never a two-dimensional scenario of Indian equals good‚ or English equals bad‚. Whilst Mr Reaper is indeed Death, and is responsible for Sasha's tragic past, he is also a funny character. When trying to win over Ammachy, his Orientalist stance is made so obvious that it becomes farcical: "Ammachy, with your Persian fair skin, those eastern, almond eyes"

--and Ammachy takes the bait, making the situation entirely laughable.

It is scenes like this that allow Pickle to become provocative without assuming any moral high ground. The audience is never subjected to tones of moral superiority because the characters can also laugh at themselves. Ammachy tells Sasha: "Of course you are free! You are free to love whoever I choose!"

It is a play that lives up to its responsibilities within an explosive political climate. The portrayal of a family of Indian descent is genuine, focussing on the histories of the characters rather than their skin colour as a point of departure. Which is why it is much needed: immigrant bashing, which has become so popular in Western societies, neglects the history of the migrant, it refuses to look at what the migrant has left behind and for what reasons. Rather, immigration in the UK is seen only in terms of how cultural differences in the present upset fine balances within the host nation.

But most of all, it works because Pickle tells a story in the old-fashioned way. Writers Jacob Rajan and Justin Lewis remain true to their promise: "We marinate western theatrical traditions in Indian flavours but above all we seek to tell good stories that touch people of all cultures." The plot is ingenious. The characters are likely to be among the most memorable you come across. The writing is impeccable, mastering the gargantuan task of balancing pathos with humour. And, staying true to its name, it's refreshing, leaving you with a sweet and a sour taste, always wanting more.

Fariha Karim studies journalism in Edinburgh and is a well-wisher of The Daily Star literature page.