Page 2 of 12 Years
‘There are only two or three plays that are performed in our schools every year. One is the Independence Day type of play. There’s always one fixed Gandhiji—the same poor kid who’s chosen every year. Someone thin and scrawny, with a bald wig pulled over his head. He has to bend and walk and recite the same dialogues year after year: “Ahimsa is the best way. Non-violence is the right path.” They play patriotic music in the background—“Vande Mataram” mostly. It’s all awesome, India is achieving freedom, and it’s all happening on stage. But bro, behind the stage there is pandemonium. Ateacher is going crazy. She has lost her freedom. She’s trying to coordinate all the kids and time their entry on stage. She’s screaming. I remember our dramatics teacher, Mrs Dutta, shouting, “Oye, Gandhiji kahan hai? Bathroom? Yeh time hai bathroom jaane ka?”’
Laughter in the audience. Phew.
‘Gandhiji arrives, Class III-B student Manish Verma, tackling a dhoti he’s clearly not comfortable with. Mrs Dutta pulls his ear. Slaps him. “Where did you vanish? Now go on stage or you’ll get one more thappad.”’
More laughter.
‘Clearly, nobody backstage cares about ahimsa or non-violence. Gandhiji, scared of Mrs Dutta, runs out onto the stage to show his fearlessness against the British. “Now where is Subhas Chandra Bose?” Mrs Dutta screams behind the curtains. “Arrey, button up your shirt quickly and wear your cap. And go.”’
And there it is, my first full-blown audience-bursting-into-laughter moment. Roll with it, Saket.
‘The other play we often did was the Mahabharata. And, like I said earlier, there’s that one giant kid in every grade’—I held the mic in one hand and, rolling up the sleeve of my T-shirt, flexed my biceps—‘who’s perfect for one and only one part: Bheem. That’s me, people. I am Bheem.’
Ha ha ha. Some of the laughs were louder than the rest.
‘You just know the batch Bheem. He’s an outlier in height and weight. Big and born for the role. No matter how sensitive he is, how funny he is, or how deep and emotional he is. Nobody cares about his acting skills. Nobody even cares if he wants to do the part in the first place—he simply has to do it. Because given his frame, he is Bheem. This year, nextyear and every other year until he leaves school. I was Bheem
for six years. It was my entire childhood. This one time, I went up to Mrs Dutta and said, “Ma’am, next year we’re doingCinderella. May I take part in it?” And Mrs Dutta was like, “As what? The prince? Have you gone mad? You are Bheem. There’s no Bheem inCinderella. Saket, you can take part in any play as long as you do the role of Bheem.” I protested. I yelled. I fought. But like all Bheems when upset, I was handed this universal line: “Shaant, gadadhaari Bheem, shaant.”’
The audience burst into laughter again. I had momentum now. I shifted acts.
‘You guys take flights, right?’
Many in the audience nodded and said yes.
‘Which class? Business or economy?’ I said.
‘Economy,’ most of the audience said in unison.
‘Business,’ a female voice came from somewhere in the first row.
‘Wow, who’s this rich princess over here?’ I said, my eyes searching for her in the dim light.
Giggles from the audience.
She sat in the front row, fourth seat from the left. A young, attractive woman in her early twenties. Long hair, glowing complexion and deep-brown eyes that gleamed even in the low light. Her beauty distracted me.
Crowd-work time. Focus, Saket.
‘So, madam, you travel business class?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said.
‘You’re a princess then. Let me guess, daddy’s princess? Papa ki pari?’
Everyone laughed, except her. She looked annoyed.
‘No, I travel business class for work,’ she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Oh, work. Okay, well, someone has a real job here. What work do you do, young lady?’
‘I’m in private equity,’ she said.
Collective sighs of admiration.
‘What?’ I laughed. ‘I used to work in private equity earlier. I ran away to do comedy to avoid meeting private-equity people. And here we go.’
The sweet sound of laughter from the crowd.
