The Performance

The little girl in red. She climbed up the bamboo poles, one step at a time. She looked down, behind her as she climbed higher, her feet trembled, her body clutched tightly to the poles. To the crowd looking at the act, it seemed just a few minutes before she was standing there, ready to walk on the tight rope that connected the 2 poles. But with every step that she climbed, she mumbled a small prayer. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath-her feet had not given way. She had reached the top of the pole. She looked down- her mother wondering, ‘Would this act earn us enough for 2 meals?’, her younger sister running around, exited- little did she know that the same fate awaits her a few years later.

Acts like these don’t entice us anymore. We give a mere glance at them and run along to our menial routine. But there was something in that little girl that day that made us wait and watch her act till the end. Was it her determined face that reminded us how somewhere, in our daily drudgery we had lost that determination that had brought us this far? Or was it the faith that she had in herself that took us back to those days when we had the hope that kept us going? Or was it simply, the anger that she had within her- to be the bread-earner, to support a family when the only responsibility kids her age had was to complete their homework? Did we have the same anger within us that made it so relatable? The anger to obey, the anger to behave exactly how society expected us to;  The anger to accede to unreasonable demands, the anger to accept the future rather than paint it ourselves.

The sound of the drums got louder, bringing me back to the scene- the girl now walking on the tight rope- her feet holding it firm, a bamboo stick in her hand, a tower of steel glasses balanced on her head and a zillion thoughts running in her mind- what if I fall? What if I don’t earn enough? What if my mother beats me today for not giving my best? What if my sister sleeps hungry again today? An infinite series of ‘what if’s’ and the bamboo pole to reach at the far end. She walked- body firm, head held high, and a staring crowd. ‘You could have paid her instead of having a cigarette today’, I overheard a discussion and a chuckle that followed later. ‘Oh this is India, Sir. You find this pretty often. Nothing to worry about’, a secretary reassured her worried American boss.  ‘Would you like to take a video to show your family back home?’, asked a man to his British colleague. They all looked in awe, but not one applauded her, not one came forward to pay her for the act. She reached the end, sat for a while, relieved that she made it through, and looked around- nobody came forward. She sighed, stood up and walked again, back to the start.

Thoughts raced my mind once again. While on one hand, I was grateful for leading a life much better than hers; on the other I found it no different- just like her, we have forgotten to laugh. There were times when just a word left everybody around in splits, when mere exchange of a glance would suffice for days of laughter. Just like her, we have got accustomed to moving with the flow, letting time take its course that there is not much left to laugh over, to talk about, to discuss, to contemplate, to ponder. We have got so accustomed to the life that we lead that somewhere, deep within us, we have lost that little spark- the spark that ignited our creativity, the spark that spread cheer all around, the spark that made our presence felt. Have we ceased to ignite that spark? Have we forgotten to dream? She longed for some company to play with her, to laugh with her, to talk to her; we long for it too. We plan, go on outings to bring back those memories, try to remember the old days and our old friends, long to talk to them, try to remember our carefree childhood days, try to show the world how happy we are. But somewhere, deep within, we know this is just a façade. And no matter how hard we try, no matter how much we long to be the way we were, it can never be the same. Would we want to go back? Maybe we do- to those carefree school days, to the college days where we moulded ourselves to what we are today, to the beginning of our career when we always planned for a brighter future. Would we want to go back? To those tensed days when we were uncertain about our career, to those late nights when we crammed for an exam, to those sleepless nights when we didn’t know what lay ahead. Maybe we don’t want to go back. We want to move ahead, to let time take its course- but is time always to be blamed? For the family we don’t spend as much time with anymore, for the friends that have lost touch, for the promises we failed to keep, for the mask that we wear - is time to be blamed?

Another loud beat of the drums. The girl was now walking on the rope with her chappals, tougher than before, more determined than before, and probably, a little more scared than her earlier round. She completed this round just as the one before-very easy for a passerby to see, but not so for the girl up there. As she crossed and reached the other side, she threw down her chappals. The way back seemed so easy now-for her, for us as well. It only reminded me of the saying, ‘ It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare, it is because we do not dare that they are difficult.’ We thought the act was over. And as we turned to go back to our routine, she started another round- this time standing on a plate. Much slower than before, much tougher than before but the only thought in her mind was to reach the other end- it might just fetch me some extra money, it might just help my mother a little. Her sister ran from one person to another begging for money. This act might just replace the begging bowl in my sister’s hand with a beautiful doll. Don’t we do this all the time? Work an extra hour for a faster promotion? Spend lesser time with family and friends to earn an extra bonus? Talk less, work more and then complain about the drudgery that life has become? Can we change ourselves? Can we be the way we were before? I’m not sure if we can. I’m not sure of we would want to.

She reached the other end, ran back to the start and climbed down. She jumped into her mother’s arms, clutched her tight for a while, ‘Don’t send me up there again, Maa. Let me run and play. Don’t let my sister beg, Maa. Don’t take her childhood away.’

I didn’t have money to give her that day. It would be so meager. All I had was a proud applause, an admiration, an inspiration, a blog post after 6 months and a prayer: ‘I ask not for a lighter burden. But for broader shoulders.’