Laugh lines

8220;That must be some fun,8221; one of my colleagues said excitedly. Please God, rather Boss, I can live without that kind of fun. Anyway, I have the weekend to agonise over my assignment and I will rest all my fears till I get back to work, I thought. But the weekend was over and there I was, back at work, trying to work out the details.

Aanchal, my colleague, helpfully suggested that I speak to Brahmji, from the Sri Dharmik Leela Committee, to figure out my role. But Brahmji insisted that the role would be assigned on the spot. So around 4 pm, I landed at the Parade Grounds. This is where Delhi8217;s biggest Ram Leelas are staged during Dussehra. As I made my way past the giant proscenium, I thought: after all, all the world8217;s a stage8230; didn8217;t the Bard say something to that effect? In a rare show of poise, I asked for the green room. I stepped in and recoiled from the gaudy faces painted in red, blue and golden. I am not doing that to my face, I told myself8212;not that anyone cared to ask. Half-dressed men, women and children walked about while large tin boxes brimmed over with costumes and jewellery.

Brahmji soon walked up to me and showed me to the edge of a sofa, on which a man lay. I had barely rested my back when this man woke up with a start. 8220;What time is it?8221; He wore an impossibly thick moustache, red lipstick and layers of talcum powder. As he rose, he said, 8220;I8217;m Ravana.8221; 8220;I8217;m8230;8221; I began but Ravana was off to rehearse his lines. Brahmji came up to me again and said I would play one of Sita8217;s friends in an episode where Sita is to wed Lord Ram. The brief was simple: sit close to Sita and laugh in bursts. That8217;s easy, I thought. But Brahmji wasn8217;t finished yet: the scene closes with Sita8217;s friends dancing in a huddle after Sita garlands Ram. 8220;What? Dance? nbsp; For how long,8221; I panicked. 8220;And, how?8217;8217; The bunch of teenagers I had to dance with broke into peals of laughter. Oh, so they have rehearsed those giggles, I thought enviously. I bet they have rehearsed their dance steps too. One of them nudged me: 8220;We don8217;t know how we are going to dance. Just do it whichever way you know.8217;8217; 8220;But8230; I really can8217;t dance,8217;8217; I tried reasoning.

I took three hours to dress up8212;wearing the lehanga was easy but I had to drape my chunni precariously over my head. The chunky jewels came next and soon, I was ready. Not bad, I thought, as I jostled to catch a glance in the mirror.

And then, the trumpets began to blow and we were ushered on to the stage. I was soon among dancers, kings and an angry-looking Ravana.

My eyes quickly scanned the audience: 8220;Is Boss there?8221; Thankfully, she wasn8217;t. Someone backstage chanted: 8216;Jai Shri Ram!8217; and the actors swelled with pride. The play began. The princes had to break Shiva8217;s bow to get Sita8217;s hand in marriage. Predictably, they all failed and we all laughed as part of our brief. Actors lip-synced to dialogues read out by two men off stage and rolled on the floor when the script got funny.

I was beginning to enjoy my laughter fit when one of the girls warned: 8220;Didi, don8217;t laugh now.8217;8217; It was Rama8217;s turn to break the bow and as he did that, the girls got up to swing to a burst of folk music. That8217;s the moment that will stay with me forever: I kept going round and round, as if in a trance, threw my arms up in a fit and jumped to match steps. My lehenga threatened to slip but the song was too heady for me to stop. nbsp;

Was it bhangra, folk dance, or simply obscene moves? I have no clue. Perhaps, Boss she turned up just in time to catch my dervish twirl and my two colleagues could tell. But the audience didn8217;t seem to mind the misadventure.
Pallavi is a senior reporter with Delhi Newsline