Intermittent Spasms of luck

 
I limped through the backstage, seconds after the curtain calls. Swamped with people, I hurried to get rid of the Devil’s makeup, and an aching pair of stilettos. Giggling kids pointed at the red horns on my head. Teenagers showed me the “YO” sign, and elders hugged me. I felt humble with their love, affection and admiration.

A barrage of questions followed, “How do you manage to do it every time?”

My mother was quizzical; “Did you composed the dance on stage?”

“That was impromptu.” Dada, our director smiled.

I writhed under the public admiration. Praise always made me jittery and speechless.

 I felt like telling them, ‘I don’t know what happens to me when I am on stage… I can’t tell you exactly what I feel. I don’t remain myself any more. The world beyond the stage lights and the wings don’t exist for me… everything there is—is within the wings and the lights… all else is a blur.’

People who’ve seen me acting hold an opinion that I am a phenomenon. But the truth is I wasn’t like this. I was never on front stage. I was always pushed back between the back curtains and wings, trying not to merge into the darkness. Dreaming to get a foothold under the arc lights. Never wanting to leave the warm smelling, smooth and cool, wooden floor of the stage.

The journey from the local Durga Puja stage to the Nehru Centre, Mumbai was a long and arduous journey. It began at three, when my mother pushed me up the stage of our Defence club. I danced to music, recited and sang, but nothing so significant to earn myself a star. I was an outstanding dramatis persona at home. My over zealous imagination streamed out as verbal epics, filling up many spools of tape at home. At school I often enrolled for plays only to get the most miniscule role and the most insignificant dialogues.

Unhappy with my trials at the plays I chose the dance dramas. I imagined it’s where all my desires for grease paint, costumes, dance and drama will be satiated.

The dance teacher pondered…. “hmmm you are too lanky, and too tall. Go at the end of the row.”

So I ended up as one of the numerous sakhis behind Radhika or Shyama. I convinced myself, that to be on front stage I needed to be outstandingly pretty and talented in dancing…. Beauty couldn’t improve in this birth - and dancing happened at a very late age.  I gave up all hope to be in the lead roles… nevertheless I took up small roles in the background.

Then one evening in our Local Durga Puja, mom enrolled me in a play, “Tasher Desh” (the kingdom of cards). Assuming that I would be one of the cards in the pack, I reluctantly agreed. The director took a long look at me… “I think she could make a good king”. Since pretty girls played the two lead roles of the queen and the prince, and I was taller than both of them and was as lanky, gawky and tomboyish as required, I was made the king. I wasn’t thrilled but didn’t mind it as long as I was in limelight.

Regularly reprimanded by the director, as she found my acting skills too dull, I lost interest soon and almost decided to quit. By then I was an emotional and touchy teenager fully given to melodrama. I created a scene every evening to make it even more difficult for my director to praise me. I was a mistress of reverse psychology by then, but my mother was my mother after all. According to her, a commitment is a commitment and I had to honour it at any cost.

Minutes before the play, my mother just said, “Don’t forget your lines and give your best shot.”

I went up, fully expecting to forget everything, on seeing the gleeful audience in front of me. For the first time I was wearing a moustache and was within the first few feet of the stage lights. The Puja stages was made with wooden tables, carpets and there were several tales of collapsing plays… literally. I measured my steps towards the front of the wobbly stage.

Unaware that I had a key role to play I soaked in the spot light. Looking out in the dark I saw nobody. No Audience, only a smoky blur and at a distance in the austere blur was a huge spot light on Ma Durga, and her beautiful eyes shining at me. For a split second the face of Ma Durga morphed into the face of my mom. I said my dialogues, the play ended and I came down. It all happened very smoothly amidst loud applause and I walked out like a zombie. My first big role ended too quickly to feel anything. I had several dialogues but the last one remained etched in my memory. “Tahole Amar ki hobe Rani”… (What will happen to me o queen or Mera kya hoga Rani?”) I had heard a roar of laughter from the audience.

The director and the cast and crew had swarmed around the Queen and the prince. I saw my mother waiting with a big smile on her face. I walked out of the greenroom to join my dad and kid sister and was thronged with a mass of public, “Where is the king, Raja kothay, Raja kidhar hai, arey ei to Raja, here he is.”

My moustache was still on so my mother had to correct them, “This is my daughter.”

In the next half an hours of pats, handshakes, smiles and good wishes, all I remembered was the face of Ma Durga and my mom. After that I never got a main role. My brief stint in the warmth of the arc lights was really brief. I assigned that night into “small miracles” section of my life and memory and moved on.

My melodrama at home never ceased and finally I reached the most talked about college in Delhi. For some reason all my auditions for the dramatics society failed to see me through. That year we moved to the farthest corner of town. Living so deep in east Delhi left me no options to pursue extra-curricular activities after college hours. But the dream never stopped and the hope never died down. The same year we started the Durga Puja in our society with about 100 residents.

Our guest director selected a play based on 6 ghosts. He needed a Bengali speaking cast and there very few available. I dreaded to be cast in a ghost’s role. By then with the experiences of my life, I had acquired a good sense of humour to counteract whatever life dished out to me. I expected nothing and always got better than my expectations.

Luckily I was chosen for the more important role of the “Sutradhar”. We worked for days and nights on our dialogues, costumes and props. The play was a hit, and once again very briefly my dream was fulfilled. My luck was short-lived as our director, got a job and went away. I moved on to become a choreographer of sorts and started directing folk dances. I got to work on the stage, music, arc lights and spots, but it was not what I had in mind. In a few years I covered almost all famous dances of India.

I was running short of dance ideas and was totally wary of moving into film music when a new neighbour joined our Puja as the cultural secretary. His ideas often stirred the hornets’ nest, shocking many traditional elders. But he was undaunted in his spirit of creativity and being a rebellious artist, I became a one of his brand ambassadors.

One day he suggested, “Let’s do an English one act comedy.”…

So far he had fought many a creative battles. But English play at a Puja stage? It was blasphemous. I wasn’t sure of the outcome, but was certain to fight if needed. Luckily there was no objection and the play was chosen from an English textbook, which I had saved up from my school days. The cast was decided and I was given the lead role. Dada, a veteran theatre artiste himself, had a lot of faith in me. I was overwhelmed, first by the happy feeling of being in the spot light and secondly with the fear of the related responsibility. The gruelling trainings began. It was a comedy play with lot of activity, action and required a lot of practice.

But life is hard. With only a week left for the D-day, I fell down from my bed and broke my left foot. How it all happened is yet another comic story. I was so unaware of the pain that I tied a crepe bandage around my ankle thinking it was a regular sprain and continued to go to work and rehearsals, feeling quiet upbeat. Eventually I succumbed to the pain and was shocked when the doctor told me I had a broken bone. I pleaded, “Please doctor, a week later I have my play. It is my big day. I can’t go up on stage with a cast. Please tie a bandage and put on the cast after the play”.

The bone had broken in two and if I didn’t treat it soon enough my doctor threatened me to cut my foot. I cried buckets as the orthopaedic asked me to choose the colour of the neon bandage for the cast.

“Put a black one if you have….”, I cried.

I came home sullen and fearful of Dada and extremely guilty of putting my entire cast and crew into jeopardy. But I was determined that I will do the play… come what may… I will not get bogged down… this is going to be my third “small miracle”. I started preparing and sat down to sew a long skirt --- a very long skirt that could hide my obnoxious cast. I practiced my dialogue and stitched my resolve in each pleat of my red skirt.

The team came over to cheer me up. Dada was glum but calmly accepted tearful apologies.

“Now what?” he asked.

 “I will act”, I announced. He nodded,

“Will you be fine? You have a lot of running around on the stage.”

“I will do it”, I told him and my friends supported me; “take it easy, and we will be there”. We got together to make the props and practice with my ‘inbuilt prop’.

I walked up on the stage… Once again in the lead role… this time the stage wasn’t wobbly, but my feet were. I forgot the pain and the appendage on my left foot when I saw the smoky blur in front of me. My mother was sitting in the front row. I couldn’t see Ma Durga but I saw the glow from the Puja mandap on the audience. I stared through the void above the heads of the audience into those rays of light and started the play. My opening scene was a fight with my boyfriend whom I had spotted with another girl, while standing at the church steps. My co-starts changed a bit of the dialogues to add the cast as a genuine part of the play.

So it went, “I fell down from the steps and look what has happened.”

I did the entire play and ran about as much as I would have with a healthy foot.

The play was a hit and ensured much laughter and entertainment for all.

Next day a lady came up to me, “Excuse me, are you going to a repeat show?”

“No, did you miss it?”

“No, I was just curious that you still have your make up on,” she said, pointing at the cast.

I smiled, “Aunty ‘that’ is going to stay on for another couple of months. It’s a real cast. I broke my leg just a week before the play.”

Maybe it was a stunning moment for many. But for me it was just the way I wanted it. A challenge to my creativity, thrown by circumstances, fought with determination and perseverance. With the success of our debut venture the English one-act comedy went on to be a regular feature in our Durga Puja functions. Dada’s dream of direction and my thirst for acting resulted in a series of memorable plays.

Promptly I enrolled for a theatre workshop. Finally I had enough faith in myself, that I could hold the spot over me and maintain the standards. As a part of an active theatre group involved in serious socially relevant plays, I did the lead roles in several noteworthy produtions. I travelled to Mumbai and Patna theatre festival and performed in front of stalwarts from the theatre and film industry. My dream hiccupped on to this fulfilment.

In between writing plays for children I am still waiting for more ‘small miracles’. Who knows where they will take me next.