If you prick us do we not bleed? If you stab us do we not die?
I cry out in pain, despair and anger, every nerve of my upper torso tensed up. The flood lights trip. The spotlight – amidst the darkness – illuminates my presence as Shylock, in The Merchant of Venice.
This is the most enthralling memory of mine, the zenith, up to now, of my life in drama.
Ironically, the first time I stepped onto a stage in a long, unkempt lion costume, I ran. No, I sprinted like a madman from one wing to another. All that was needed was a walk to the center stage, a roar and a bow. I ruined the entire show, made a laughing stock of myself and embarrassed my mother. Not being able to take the disappointment set in her face, I signed up for as many plays, musicals and school productions as possible. After successive failures, I got a part, notwithstanding that everybody got a part. I played a tree in Little Red Riding Hood: nothing to say, just standing resolute in front of an audience. The performance changed everything. The transformation began from a tree swaying in the breeze (unrecognizable to the searching eyes of my parents) to a wall, a monkey, and batman. The Fright took flight!
Soon, passion took center stage. The cub began to roar. I…
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