An experience that tried my soul occurred on the day of the cultural meet during the celebration of Durga Puja, the much-revered festival of my community. I was all of a twitter, plagued by the kind of anxieties that Gussie Fink-Nottle had felt in Right Ho, Jeeves when he was asked to deliver a speech at the Market Snodsbury Grammar School. In the absence of a jugful of orange juice, duly laced with a tissue restorative liberally added by such well-wishers as Reginald Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, dreadful thoughts consumed me. The brow was furrowed. The grey cells were abuzz with worries regarding the potential mishaps that could ruin not only my own performance but also the efforts of my fellow thespians while staging a play named Dampoti (Eng. Couple).
A Trauma of Titanic Proportions
It all began a few moons prior when I was somehow persuaded, against my better judgement, into playing a befuddled middle-aged man who strays from the straight and narrow path of a matrimonial alliance for a romantic tryst with his ex-girlfriend. Without question, this character could proudly proclaim to possess an impressive degree of superiority over many others from the tribe of the homo sapiens in matters of courage. All of us are aware that pulling off a feat of this nature needs not only nerves of chilled steel but also fortitude, aptitude, and an unwavering composure. For someone like me who has a strict moral code and is configured along the lines of a docile male rabbit, playing a role of the kind on offer was indeed an experience which left me shuddering from the base of my feet to the top of my head. My experience was akin to that of Bertie Wooster when Aunt Agatha was about to descend on his flat to retrieve her dog Bartholomew who had just been ‘gifted’ by Roberta Wickham to Kid Blumenfeld.
Picture further, if you will, the quagmire of complications that are bound to ensue when the said character finds himself caught by his on-stage-wife, red-handed, whilst basking in the sunlight on some picturesque sea beach with his ex., all the while blissfully unaware of his wife’s covert surveillance, duly facilitated by means of a pair of binoculars! The intense feelings of acute embarrassment, distress, shock and surprise this character would have felt in a situation like this would generate the kind of heat which would be sufficient to melt any nerves of chilled steel he might have boasted of. To someone like me whose nerves are merely made of wax, playing out a scene of that kind was bound to send a shiver down my spine of cottage cheese, inducing a veritable cascade of goose bumps upon my person.
An empathic reader would undoubtedly comprehend the titanic predicament I faced in enacting a role of this nature in the said play. Quite a tricky (if that is the term I am looking for) situation for the guy indeed! Initially, I did have reservations. But with no escape route in sight, I had little choice but to say ‘yes’ and embark upon tireless rehearsals to bolster my confidence for the impending performance.
The Challenge of Casting Romantic Glances
As things transpired on the dreaded “D-Day,” a snag emerged. Together with our director, we, the cast, conducted an extensive review of our rehearsals so far and surmised that a romantic exchange of glances between myself and my on-stage wife was conspicuous by its singular absence!
Now my dear chaps, those privy to my rather perplexing quirks and eccentricities would be acutely aware of the uneasiness that a person like me would feel when I come face to face with the daunting task of making eye contact with a lady with whom I am neither married nor romantically involved. We, the Dattas, are a chivalrous lot, you see. We have a code. Of course, like many of those who belong to the tribe of the so-called sterner sex, one is not averse to casting a surreptitious sideways glance or two at the curvaceous profile of a lady passing by. However, the prospect of making eye contact leaves one rather baffled, bewildered, confused, disoriented, fogged, flummoxed, mystified, nonplussed, perplexed, and puzzled.
The situation was further compounded by the presence of my better half and my on-stage-wife’s bitter half, both frolicking about in the same production. It was a predicament akin to the one faced by Aunt Dahlia when she was camping at Totleigh Towers. Either she could continue to avail the services of Anatole, God’s gift to our gastric juices, thereby keeping the lining of Uncle Tom’s intestines in the pink of health, or willy-nilly consent to a 30-days-without-the-option jail term for her nephew Bertie Wooster. A Hobson’s choice, indeed.
Regrettably, I had no recourse but to seriously ponder on the directorial demands of generating an ‘on stage chemistry’ with my on-stage-spouse, for it was much too late to summon a substitute.
So folks, this was the concatenation of circumstances leading to my real-life undertaking of a Gussie-like role, mired in trepidation and consternation. One of Jeeves’ trademark pick-me-ups might have been of some assistance, but alas, the opportunity never presented itself. What my ailing disposition also craved for was at least a few drops of Mulliner’s Buck-Uppo, which would have ensured my facing the impending doom with a jaunty sang froid. But an opportune moment for such indulgence never presented itself! Somehow, merely a couple of drops of a fruit-laden elixir found their way to my parched lips, though these did little to soothe my frayed nerves.
The Curtain Goes Up
Eventually, the gong was sounded, the curtain went up, and the show commenced. I set my foot on the stage with the eternal Shakespearean dilemma: ‘To be or not to be’ there. The prospect of rotten eggs and tomatoes being hurled at me by some familiar faces (I knew close to 80% of the audience which was from my own community) left me shuddering uncontrollably.
The parts that I knew well sprung forth from my person like cheese and coriander chutney from a sandwich, but the decisive moment rapidly approached, threatening to expose my inadequacies. My co-actor excelled with aplomb, executing her part with finesse, even dealing with the minor mishaps that normally accompany any live performance. However, the intriguing question of how to convey a romantic gaze still befuddled me. Of course, as a conscientious well-meaning person, I had made appropriate preparations after listening to my director’s demands (the reader might recollect that the issue was identified on the D-day itself). In the interim, I had practiced a number of facial manoeuvres before the mirror in my bedroom.
But my attempts at perfecting “love at first sight” were woefully inadequate. You know the lot — dreamy eyes, faint smiles, even excited hand-waving, et al. The harsh reality of being on stage ended up evaporating whatever self-confidence I had built up till then. My quest to develop a romantic connection (through glances) with someone of the opposite sex on stage seemed as challenging as learning a completely foreign language. Despite my fervent efforts, I found myself continuously circling around the idea of radiating the ‘perfect glance’, often getting reminded of a phrase from the ‘Holy Bible’:
Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.
Indeed, I must confess that I was badly in search of a George Bevan (Damsel in Distress) or Arthur Mifflin (A Gentleman of Leisure) to play the role of The Buddha who can show me the path to ‘enlightenment’ (if that is indeed the right term I am using here). In short, what I faced was a Himalayan challenge, that too in full view of the assembled patrons, scrutinizing my every single move with wide eyes.
But my Guardian Angels appeared to be in a benign mood. As the final act started playing out, my co-actor bestowed upon me a magnificent, scene-stealing ‘gesture’ that I yearned to applaud as a maestro would a stunning grand performance. This bolstered my confidence no end, and I was left with no option but to reciprocate the gesture in a similar vein. I felt like Esmond Haddock, who could eventually find the courage to stand up to his five overbearing aunts. Just as I was teetering on the brink of my ignominious debut as an untalented thespian, a startling revelation dawned upon me: I realized that my nerves, which were hitherto behaving as if made of wax, suddenly metamorphosed into the kind which comprise chilled steel instead. Galvanized by this newfound understanding, I swiftly took action to restore the esteemed reputation of the illustrious ‘Datta’ clan. Summoning all the courage of my illustrious ancestors, I let out a timely exhalation that could perhaps be described as a well-placed-sigh in response to the boiling anger and huffy demeanor of my on-stage-better-half. Apparently, this resonated most ardently with our esteemed spectators, particularly those of the masculine persuasion, who found solace in witnessing the so-called “most romantic” retort to a wrathful wife. The rest of the performance went along like a song rendered with effortless gusto and we succeeded in holding the audience spellbound till the time the curtain slowly descended.
A Lesson Learnt the Hard Way
The audience reaction was positively spiffing, though it was not the only reason for my uplifted spirits. All said and done, I had managed to pull off another remarkable feat. I had managed not to ruffle the feathers of two most influential stakeholders in this production – my wife and my co-actor’s husband. Surely, a consummation devoutly to be wished for.
Had you been present on the occasion, you might have noticed my humming a tune from the Bollywood film Jugnu:
A song sung to define the fact that a cluster of innocent children far surpasses the transient beauty of Diwali’s flickering lights. For a while, the latter may shimmer and shine, but the radiance is momentary, whereas the former’s charm lingers on – a melody that tugs at the heartstrings and evokes an enduring joy.
Likewise, theatre, a fleeting flicker in the grand performance called life! Like the ephemeral glow of festive crackers on a joyous occasion, these performances lit up the stage with brilliance. And when executed with precision, they etch indelible memories in our hearts, as everlasting as the laughter of children. In the words of Khushwant Singh, ‘Theatre is life; cinema is art; television is furniture.’ So let us relish the transient magic of theatre, for it brings us joy and keeps our sofas from feeling neglected!
All is well that ends well. It turned out to be a jolly good show, and I could not have pulled it off without my fellow actors and the entire team backing us up.
Many of us may deride and ridicule Bertie for his pumpkin-headedness. Jeeves may hold him to be someone of negligible intelligence. But there are indeed times when what he says turns out to be a precious lesson for life. Consider this:
A short while ago, the air was congested with V-shaped depressions, but now one looks north, south, east, and west and discovers not a single cloud on the horizon…Well, this should certainly teach us, should it not, never to repine, never to despair, never to allow the upper lip to unstiffen, but always to remember that, no matter how dark the skies may be, the sun is shining somewhere and will eventually come smiling through.
Notes:
- Pictures courtesy Ankan Chakraborty.
- Reviewed and somewhat spruced up by yours truly.
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