The Life in Drama

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you stab us do we not die?

I cry out in pain, despair and anger, every nerve of my upper torso tensed up. The flood lights trip. The spotlight - amidst the darkness - illuminates my presence as Shylock, in The Merchant of Venice.

This is the most enthralling memory of mine, the zenith, up to now, of my life in drama.

Ironically, the first time I stepped onto a stage in a long, unkempt lion costume, I ran. No, I sprinted like a madman from one wing to another. All that was needed was a walk to the center stage, a roar and a bow. I ruined the entire show, made a laughing stock of myself and embarrassed my mother. Not being able to take the disappointment set in her face, I signed up for as many plays, musicals and school productions as possible. After successive failures, I got a part, notwithstanding that everybody got a part. I played a tree in Little Red Riding Hood: nothing to say, just standing resolute in front of an audience. The performance changed everything. The transformation began from a tree swaying in the breeze (unrecognizable to the searching eyes of my parents) to a wall, a monkey, and batman. The Fright took flight!

Soon, passion took center stage. The cub began to roar. I spent hours of practice in front of mirrors, modulating voices, gulping coffee with friends, suffering sore throats. I felt the freedom from the confines of my own self – I was gifted with the ability to break free, to be someone else. It was a world that brought together the rhythm of the trombone, the vibrancy of the floor, the poetic flow of words, the wave of emotions, crescendo and the ebb, the unity of action and the spectrum of colorful costumes. It was the world of Akbar, Robin Hood, Alibaba, and Sinbad.

Enlightenment dawned. I emerged as a man. More confident of my walk, absorbing with aplomb the appreciation for my performance. The stage became bigger. It was sublime. A legion of characters passed through my being – Paul Coelho’s Alchemist, Tennessee William’s Stanley, Henrik Ibsen’s Torvald. I was living somebody else’s life. I was and still am multitudes. I am creating and I am enjoying it, even out of classrooms and school auditoriums, into the world of perennial action. On the streets, at the corner, in the courtyard of old age homes. I am scripting my own social messages, teasing the audience, provoking them on moral dilemmas and political issues, and building bridges with strangers. Satires, my favorite genre, are after all used in depth to condemn corruption, ridicule the bullies, and prompt social change.

As I journey to a larger stage, my drama lessons will hold me good. The act will continue, every action will be seen and judged, and I will outperform.