REHEARSAL

‘Tycho gave me no opportunity to share in his experiences. He would only, in the course of a meal and, in between other matters, mention, as if in passing, today the figure of the apogee of one planet, tomorrow the nodes of another….Tycho possesses the best observations….He also has collaborators. He lacks only the architect who would put all this to use’, expressed Kepler irritably. I looked down on the actor playing Kepler’s role, holding tightly onto the rope controlling the fly system. I looked down on Kepler and understood that his dreams would simply die if I didn’t hold fast. Broken wings, broken skies and broken lights. Such is the fickle nature of audience that it never follows the eyes of the actor and misses out on the real sky held by mortals. They never see the strings holding the stars, the planets and the little asteroids when Kepler looks up and tries to corroborate his calculations. I looked at my wristwatch and it posited exactly 9:30 pm. I could feel little drops of sweat dripping from my forehead to my nose and below. My palms had become sweaty and the rope that I was holding onto was starting to showcase its weight. I was in the props shift crew but I had to fill in for Brian today as he was carrying a slight fever. Fever, such a convenient disease. A slight rise in mercury, a little cough in the throat and someone else has to take control of your reins.

It was 10:45 pm and finally the play had concluded. Kepler’s troubled and yet immensely successful scientific relationship with Brahe had left the audiences with a bittersweet taste. I had heard a few loud claps and cheers but mostly diluted by the monotonous, stolid and time bound faces. I was called immediately downstairs after the show to help with the removal and cleaning of the scene. Frustrated, irritated, tired and clothes stinking of sweat, I groggily agreed to the prop master’s instructions. This was my actual job. Setting up the stage, arranging the props in the appropriate slots, moving furniture, setting a lamp, painting the set and also cleaning dishes. I went down and looked at the inventory of the things that I had to move and clean before they could be transported to another theater. I went up on the stage and saw the lights above me. I went to the little cross which usually marked an actor’s place on the stage for a huge, tepid monologue. From there I could see, a huge swarm of seats. One, two ,three, four, five, six, seven……….my fingers weren’t as efficient as my eyes which had scanned the vastness of audience these seats could fit. Yes, it was strange to stand there when I was up there controlling the lights and paraphernalia a few minutes ago. Such an incongruous world this little stage is. A little wooden podium carrying a few real men, controlled by a few real men too yet outside the clutch of human jurisdiction, exempt from punishment. I heard the actors reminiscing about their experiences on stage, ranging from horrible blunders to absolute transcendence from the physical realm. The eye contact with the audience, the slow tantalizing dance of words accompanied by nonchalant music in the background and the semi conscious, half drunk flapping of the human blubber. But honestly, this low lighted, after show wrap up was the best moment for me. When the eyes of people like us are a bit dull, when the prop master’s counting things and the director’s biting his nails for the upcoming review was what satisfied me. Just as I was about to fall in some weird fantasy of my own creation, I got a tap on the shoulder from a crew member, ‘Michael, to contemplate about life and soul stuff isn’t part of our job description, leave that shit to people who pay for these huge ass tickets!.’ With heavy steps, I trudged towards the chair in the corner. The wood was cheap and it was sprayed. It was a simple design, easily accepted by the audience with a yellowish brown cushion which was quite worn and tatty. On the seat was marked number 234, which signified its position and store. I sat on the chair looking at the blackboard which had been prepared with the help of a mathematician. I looked at the equations and could only think of one thing. I was hungry. I was tired. I was sleepy. Yeah, maybe three things. I wasn’t interested in plays. I wasn’t interested in reading newspapers about how theater had huge ramifications on society. I just wanted to go home, make food, no, probably buy food and watch TV. Not only do Romeo and Juliet die singing but the people behind also end up famished.

After wrapping up my work for the day, I finally left the theater. It was September and it was getting chilly at night. I took out my jacket and plugged in my earphones. I stepped out of the door to feel the chilly air striking my face, numbing it instantly but I was enjoying it somehow after getting baked from work. The lights around the theater had dimmed except the sign “SILVERLIGHT THEATER” which kept on having its own exodus from the mass boycott of lights in the neighborhood. I took out my phone and checked the screen for notifications. 5 calls from other production companies for prop crew jobs, 10 messages from telephone, WiFi and cable rental companies, 17 messages from friends discussing Rafa vs Federer and laughing over a meme. I opened Lisa’s chat box and texted her if she was free tonight for a drink. I called her too but she didn’t pick up the phone. I guess she was busy with her shift too. As I walked through the streets scrolling through my phone’s playlist, I gazed at the closed shops lined up side by side. Steel, the most versatile material made by man, corrugated on these shutters, reflecting most of the light they could from the street lamps. There’s power pervading the world right now. Protests all over these streets, fighting in the morning, scraping for food at night. I see people in the morning walking with me, entering their little dens to work and I see them surviving. But I wondered, where do they disappear at night? I saw someone standing on a rooftop, screaming abuses with arms outstretched. These little stories keep creeping up to at night, tugging and pulling me to join the frenzy of these streets. I again checked Lisa’s chat box to see if she had read the message but the blue tick was missing. How my world revolved around those ticks. Ticks on the reports, ticks in conversations, ticks in career reviews and ticks on my clock. But there was a special creature wandering these streets, multiplying profusely and which gave me company most of these long nights. They heard never before heard sounds, they went to never before seen places, they smelt never smelt odors, they were the memory of this ethereal place. To be the eyes of the mess, to be the scavengers of this debris and to be the vectors of potent diseases, they were the insignificant pedestrians giving me company. Rats, the ubiquity, the plague and the perfect partner to squeak and screech. Just as the song changed to Bruno Mar’s Liquor Store Blues, I realized that I had pick up some food so I didn’t have to cook at home.

After picking up a pizza on the way to home, I reached my apartment. Climbing the stairs, I checked my phone again to see if Lisa had replied. She had become quite a difficult person to talk with since the last few weeks. So I just texted her again asking her that if she could hang out at my place after work. I saw a few mails lying by the door. Leaning my head against the door, I unlocked the door. I threw my bag on the couch and also threw myself down on the floor. Removing my sneakers, jacket and socks, I quickly opened the pizza box. As soon as the cheese touched my lips, I could feel myself getting dissolved in the crust of that pizza. I wasn’t old, I wasn’t ill but I was tired. I felt that the ropes which held the batten during the play were also stretching my life. I felt that a smooth, broad knife had smeared me all over the bread like soft butter. I felt my eyes had gone deeper into my skin leaving huge dark circles, I felt my hair had become loosely out of control and I was riding a certain bull with no leash. I liked socializing, I liked talking my heart out, I liked drinking with friends, I liked all those things. I still do. I don’t need mortal silences, I don’t need people constantly busy but the world has its own strange devices. After eating a couple of slices of pizza, I stood up to stretch myself. I needed my hand eye coordination to get better because I was going to thrash people all night in the game of FIFA. I started exercising my hands and fingers to get the blood going. Even though it was a digital game, I had to be at my best and knock out a few people. Knock out my anger, my frustration on the green colored pitch. A couple of slices down my neck and I felt ready to conquer the world of football. It was the time to be alive. I have heard my parents saying that to strip off the weariness, to get rid of the smell, to get over a day’s work, one should shower. My father always used to make a drink after he came home from work and sit in one corner of the room gazing at the walls. But I wasn’t going to shower or have a drink. So before I could play the game, I had to do one job. One daily job, one thing I cared about the most in these four walls. I went to the table near the window and looked at Rodgers. He was serene, fertile and how I wished pythons slithered and jaguars loped on it. I dusted my hands off the pizza crust and moved my fingers between the intertwining leaves of Rodgers. How tender he felt, how easy it was to take care of him. No sunlight ever burnt him, no amount of water inundated him and no parasite ever leeched the life out of him. I bent down and smelled the light green leaves which had started growing on one of its branches. As I was getting intimate with him, I whispered, ‘Oh little Rodgers! Your time will come too. I know I only give you a glass of water everyday, let a little sunlight through that window and make you hear a little music but you are young. You aren’t savage, you aren’t cunning like those equatorial forests who usurp every bit of that yellow sunlight and you are still very young.’ Resting in that room, there was nothing wimpy or fainthearted about little Rodgers. Just then I heard a knock on the door. I quickly gathered myself and went to the door. I peeked through the eye hole and I could see it was Lisa at the door. I placed my palms on the door and closed my eyes. She was knocking gently. I took a deep breath. She didn’t seem in a hurry and I felt this could be the night when we could drink. The night we could get lousy and scrape through the good times. She kept knocking gently but I kept my palms on the door breathing heavily. I was lining myself up, arranging my thoughts and probably trying to wear her down from knocking. But I was too tired to think so I just decided to open the door.

He was a prick. I stood there for five minutes knocking like a gentleman while I didn’t know what was he up to. The man had a smooth voice, he was extremely narcissistic and always either texted me or called me at odd hours. I didn’t know what he complained about me to other people but his texts were extremely weird and irritating. “Lisa! I need to meet you.” “Lisa, why aren’t u replying me?” “Stop ignoring me!!! I am tired of dis behaviour!!” “I feel lonely, I feel tired. I need you.” “Sometimes I see u, I feel a sudden urge to hug u and never let go of u.” “Lisa, you are a bitch! You are insensitive and a bloody whore! I saw you hangin out with Steve!” “I am waiting downstairs, pls pick up my phone.” “I m so sorry for what I said last night.” “You think u can hide from me, I know u were online last night and still didn’t reply to my text!” “Sometimes I wish I could come down and teach you some manners.” “Girl, we need to talk.” ” I have bought a bottle of wine. Its ur fav!!” “STOP BEING SO RUDE!!” “I’d rather kill myself someday cuz of people like you.” “Lis, I am extremely sorry but just talk with me.” So I had decided to meet him tonight and finally sort things out. As soon as he opened the door, I looked straight into his eyes. I wasn’t able to stomach his pain. I could not even comprehend his loneliness or craziness. He hugged me tightly and I could smell how dirty he had been. He reeked of sweat, dirt and there was pizza on his t shirt. He stuttered, ‘Li..Li..Lisa, thank, thank you for coming today. I was just going to play FIFA. I missed you so much. So much. Lis, you you loo look so so good.’ He was trembling with anticipation and I thought my arrival had disconnected him. I smiled at him and didn’t know what to say to him. He started arranging things on the couch. He kept his bag in the corner, kept his shoes in the corner and kept the pizza box on table. He asked,’ Lisa, so how was your day? It must have been hectic cause you didn’t pick up my call. Oh oh oh, I completely forgot to give little Rodgers water as you knocked the door.’ There were no signs of a pet in the room. As I was searching for signs of pet in the room, I saw him walking towards the window and pamper that little pot of green. I chuckled and thought of this completely senseless man. I checked my phone and it was already two past midnight. Messages, such a trivial form of expression, reds against a white background. I had around 400 messages to be read and 40 missed calls to answer. It was such a load for me to scroll through these little messages and filter out which one to reply and which one to ignore. I went near the window to get some fresh air and see what Michael was doing with the plant. I knew that Michael was working with the theater and he had some knowledge about how the audience looked at the actors. But I had played this scene in my mind a thousand times and I knew there was no other variant. I came closer to him and said, ‘Michael, Si tu n’étais pas la
Comment pourrais-je vivre
Je ne connaîtrais pas
Ce bonheur qui m’enivre
Quand je suis dans tes bras
Mon coeur joyeux se livre
Comment pourrais-je vivre
Si tu n’étais pas là ‘ He didn’t know what I was singing but he was smiling. The exhilarating happiness he didn’t know, the mirth to be in one’s arm, he didn’t know and the surrender of heart, he didn’t know. If he wasn’t there, he didn’t know. He was ignorant, he was lonely. He didn’t even know the smack of little Rodgers on his temple. He didn’t know the multiple times Rodgers pummeled down on him. He wasn’t there anymore.

I jumped on the couch after throwing that little pot of green out of the window. It was blood stained and maybe a piece of Michael’s head had stuck to it. But I didn’t care. I wiped my hands with the tissues he had carried with the pizza. Grabbing on a slice of pizza, I switched on the TV. Turning up the volume, I deafened out any last drops of regret or guilt out of the room. I removed my pants and sat there with my underwear on. It was so free, it was so breezy after I had killed him. But I wondered what would people think. After this heartbreaking, gut wrenching act, how many people would get affected by this? After months of putting up with his depressed personality, I had to give myself a proper rest. Would I be judged? I didn’t want the hostile crowd out there to solve this murder mystery. Thinking about all those beyond-the-control-definitely-solved-crime-case, I started scampering around the house for food. I went to the kitchen and stood near the wash basin. As I started to think about all his text messages which had harassed me for months, I opened the tap to let the water run. I was tired of being said as a poem, I was tired of someone pushing me aside because I wasn’t available for them. I wasn’t gifted flowers or cards every morning by someone and I wasn’t going to fill up a negative void in someone’s life. I was tired and worn out. My eyes didn’t inspire me let alone anyone. My voice had become raspy and unhealthy. I could see my skin wrinkling and shedding like a snake. After weeks of drinking every night, I had become empty and weary. I threw a dish out of my sight in a fist of anger and cursed that Michael for utter hope in me. I was full of alcohol and all I needed sometimes, wasn’t love. It was potato chips. I don’t know what it was, either the erotic combination of salt and potato or the very cacophonous crackle of the packet. People years ago, had mastered the art of ratios and this golden ratio of salt and fat was killing me. I scuttled through his kitchen to look for that orange coloured wafer packet. Throwing plates, cups and knives around, I finally found that unremarkable piece of fat. Every potato chip has a distinct flavour and it has a distinct picture to it. My only fantasy at that moment was to savor it. Why was orange always compared to beautiful sunset? The doldrums of life with a brilliant star setting into its night waters. I could never find the meaning of orange. The bright orange on the packet was muted. It was definitely more courageous. I closed my eyes, with water running in the background, TV proclaiming some wild protest and snapped my fingers. The air was crisp, just like my chips and I could see my parents running in a lush green field with autumnal colors dissolving through my packet of fantasy.

I think I had passed that time of battle fatigue and could leave the apartment peacefully. I checked the clock on Michael’s arm which was limp and dead. It stated 6 am. I wore my pants and waved goodbye to Michael’s dead body. I found his earphones on the couch and picked them up. Now I knew it was impossible to live without regrets and I just had to live with it. I didn’t know about my future but surely I was bound to mess up again. I walked out of his apartment and decided to go home. It was time to sleep. I whistled and hummed a tune as I descended the stairs. It was surely going to be a day where I would stay away from alcohol, stay away from negative influences and definitely not end up killing someone. As soon as I reached the end of the stairs, I saw a green colored men’s overcoat lying on the floor. I looked around to see if anyone was searching for their coat but I couldn’t find anyone. After waiting for few seconds, I bent down to pick up this beautiful green colored overcoat. I felt the texture of the coat and it instantly transported me back to a different time. My father, a school teacher from Charlottesville, teaching my sister and I, the basics of fractions. That sensual tapestry, the very togetherness of the holes and buttons on that coat and my father drawing long lines between numerator and denominator. The more I tried to embrace the fragility of that thought in my mind, the more I suffered losing it. My parents had sorted me. They had weaved me in the most perfect manner and yet I felt more boundaries closing in on me, not allowing the light to pour in. I wasn’t born as a poem and I was fine with that. My shoulders had grown tired of ripping up amazing fabrics and my thumb was getting sore. I looked down and thought of that green field in Charlottesville. Bam!!!! Fuck!!!!! Ouch!!!! The coat fell down from my hands, bringing an end to all the light that that morning could ever produce.

‘Who was dat lady holdin a green somethin standin in my way?’, I exclaimed after shooting her straight in the head. I had to run from the marauding mob that had engulfed the city so suddenly. I looked around to see if anyone had seen my act of random killing. I bent down and caressed her hair. Blood was profusely flowing out of the hole that my bullet had made in her head. ‘What do you want me to say? Do I apologize for my wanton act? Do you want me to say that I was tied up in a dark, moist underground cellar? Do you want me to say that I had to drink rotten water for days due to the old pipes? Do you want me to explain how I wake up terrorized every morning?, I shouted at the dead body. My hands had started trembling and I dropped my gun beside her body. Shaking uncontrollably, with beads of sweat pouring down my neck like hot embers stuck below my throat and my head swirling like a mad fidget spinner. I didn’t understand whether the bullet had pierced her head or mine. My mouth dried up instantly and my body could not stop shaking. My body felt like it was shutting down and I did not have any control over it. All over America there were cries for gun control and this was the precise reason for it. I had killed someone. I had killed someone. I had killed someone. I banged my hands on the floor and started crying. I was feeling nauseous and I could not sit beside her anymore. I stood up almost using all of my residual energy. My legs could barely move and I struggled to reach outside the apartment area. I looked up and the sky was blue. I was born disordered, short of a finger in my left hand and I edited by birth. I looked up to sky, praying for the mob to not find me. I wasn’t very successful and I had somehow managed to find work in dirty places for dirty people. I had seen people around me composing symphonies, achieving greater things in life but I was just an audio take. I sang too much to too many people and they used that with all their plug-ins and EQs. Made me a song which was malicious. Made me brutal but crippling from within. There was too much power flowing around but my ass was sold down the river. I saw the mob approaching me. I saw them zooming in pretty fast. There is a feeling that engulfs you from every direction. There’s disbelief, there’s chaos and there’s extreme pain through your bones and flesh. I just went through the motions with the mob pulling me, tearing me apart. I did what I was supposed to do, but in fact I wasn’t there at all. The mob was fuzzy. It distorted me. The larger powers were into focus and all other things with my breath vanished into thin air.

‘We didn’t have properties. We didn’t have jewels. We didn’t have cars. We didn’t have antiques’, we declared. We babbled hysterically. We killed the cocksuckers! We cut off their organs and stuck in their mouths. We only wanted numbers in life. We missed out on little things such as raising a baby, a car speeding past us, people ignorant of us and farmers growing crops. When we ran blazing cities and killing innocent lives, we always looked at the front lines. They kept on running, they kept on killing. We put blind faith in them. Some of us were fickle, most of us flawed, yet in unison, we projected reason. We towered ourselves above the personal iniquities and took pride in the marks we left on the skins of necks of people. The streets were teeming with mobs carrying torches, guns and sticks. We get confused at times to join those other mobs in their march and that’s why sometimes we carry flags with us. We have understood that we are a super organism breathing heavily down people’s neck. We can pilfer, kill and wreak havoc in the magnitudes unimaginable. At times, we felt we were just hands, legs and spit, some blind, some wounded and some limped but these flags we carried gave us importance. The narrow vision of human nature succumbed to our insignia and that’s how we rolled. Mobs don’t walk, they roll, trampling ideas and growth. We soiled a million dreams, soiled a million futures and browned our way through the muck. The world was our curry and we always liked to believe the ladle’s in our hands. Mixing, stirring, shuffling. We made this earth brown with our soil and our feet trampled through that soil.

‘Sir, the mob has been neutralized. We have put them back where they belong, those little metal cages’, said one of my men on duty today. I sat on the chair marked 234 with its tattered fabric. As my workforce moved to terraform the planet, I sipped on the whisky. I smiled and looked up to see the table which was lit with phones ringing. They wanted to be architects. They, like Johannes Kepler, wanted all the tools available to conduct their life. They thought they were free, they thought that they acted on their reason and logic and they were unarmed. Tycho would have been proud of me. I conduct their lives. I conduct their worlds through my fingers. Poor, Michael, always worked on that stage, at times shifting my furniture, at times shifting ropes but always in awe of the acting prowess at display there. Poor, foolish, heavily medicated Michael, living under a false perception of loneliness and lack of dopamine. He always saw the drama but never the audience. And I controlled the audience. I trained them to watch, I trained them to stay in those seats with their legs tied and mouths controlled. The mob was trained there, their minds supplanted in those large theater halls. So easy! Lisa, oh my girl! You were disciplined, you could see Michael blind to the world I was building but you too were just another one of my infantrymen. Killed Michael and yet you didn’t deserve my recognition. The gun has no moral stature, it only has a bullet and a trigger. So for my safety and interest, you too were exterminated. And how I could forget that half baked, disfigured Smith with a finger missing! Your job had always been to run, get captured, get tortured, get indoctrinated and get ready to run again. But once again, I had to unleash one of my bigger weapons to get rid of parasites like him. Mobs, the creative device and the wrecking ball of the future. All part of my plan, all very well digested. This simple production has taken me this far and yet I am not known. I hide behind those theater curtains, I hide behind audience whispering words of wisdom and I control the men arranging this symphony. Would there ever be public drama, hair raising speeches, epic face offs or attempts at sabotage? I just smiled and took another sip of whisky. I closed my eyes and listened to the music being played before the play started. Murders, mayhem, political intrigue, business, assassinations and of course, rehearsals.