Stage performances

I have a truck load of stories on this topic i.e. my performances on stage. None of them are about me proudly walking up on stage to receive an award or a certificate of appreciation or the audience clapping wildly for me.
They are about my undying interest in the performing arts and how these performances have now become funny anecdotes that I narrate often to people who, I hope, listen to the stories without being judgmental.
Thanks to a dear friend who reminded me of one such incident, I am tempted to narrate a few of my favourite funny moments. But, will restrict myself to a couple of stories for now. More will come soon.
Each time I hear a celebrity say, oh I started acting at the age of 7 or 9, I mutter to myself… yeah sure, who is to check, baby. Its not sour grapes but my skepticism finds its roots in my horrendous stage debut that I made when I was in class IV.
On a freezing cold Doon morning, a couple of senior girls walked inside our classroom, had a hushed conversation with the class-teacher, following which they sized up all the children in the class. Then, one of them asked, “Who wants to act in a senior school play?” Me, the enthusiast, raised my hand, jumping a bit to catch their attention. I succeeded. I was chosen. Acting in a senior school play was no joke and I would proudly walk out of the classroom acting all-important every morning for rehearsals, the class teacher nodding in approval.
I was so excited about the play, that a few `minor’ details skipped me. Like, I was given no dialogues, I had no idea when my part started or ended during the rehearsals. I was too busy imagining my jealous classmates watching me act in a senior school play. To add to their jealousy, I would discuss the fancy clothes that I might be asked to wear for the play.
I never told them I had been asked to wear the oldest or the most worn out frock I had.
Well, the D-day arrived and I was all excited about my debut. My classmates too were excited, at least they told me so. Anyway, the play started and my friends waited for my part eagerly. I was standing backstage waiting for the prompter to signal my entry. When she did, I entered the stage, a girl dressed like a nun came and hugged me and took me to the other end of the stage, left me there and walked back to deliver some dialogues on the stage. Yes, my part was over. I just had to walk from one of the stage to another. I was told later I was a destitute child who was given shelter by Claudine Thevenet.
It was then I realized why they chose me for the part. I was a skinny scrawny girl who was almost always assumed to be malnourished (those who know me well, stop laughing a this line!).
I was predictably ragged after the play. “Hey, why did you have to go for rehearsals,” asked one `friend’ while another said, “were you there at all?”. Huh.
I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. I still thought my classmates were jealous of me as I could officially bunk class for a good one month. :)

My next stage debut was no better, perhaps worse.
My mom, yes, my mom was directing a play for a summer vacations cultural fest in Ashirwad Enclave, a nice peaceful residential area in Dehra Dun. Children from the entire colony were participating in some event or the other. Some were dancing, others singing. I was in Class VIII and was neither fitting among the kids nor the adults. There was just one more girl my age who did not wish to put any performance.
So, I was waiting to be included somewhere, anywhere. And I was given a role in the play my mom was directing. Some kids were made lawyers, another a judge, two of them witnesses… my mom was unable to find a `darban’ for the play__ a court sequence__ who had to announce the next witness. Since I was the only jobless one around, I was told to become the darban. All I had to do in the play was stand straight, wearing a red blazer in that heat, and call out names of witnesses followed by `haazir ho’.
And I did that staring at some of my friends in the audience who giggled through the play. It was funny for me too as I stood at the corner of the stage, wearing a moustache, a pagdi, holding a wooden shaft and looking bored, waiting to call out `haazir ho’ to a witness.