Green Room

By Niladri Hore (MBA 21-23)

“You know the best part of today, I will witness some ordinary becoming the stars,” – one of my friends told me before my first short film screening.

Did I become a star that night? Did any of us? I don’t know. All I remembered was the sparkle of light in my eyes, the spree of winning in my mind, and the heavy heartbeats indicating taking a step forward.

“Artists are usually emotional. Are you one of them?” – One of the questions from a Prominent B-School’s Interviewer during my selection process for an MBA took me somewhere I could rejuvenate so that I was not in the wrong place.

“We all are emotional, Sir! The only difference is that artists express it.”

What is art? Who is an artist?

When traveling from Jalpaiguri to Siliguri during undergrad, I always took the Kamrup Express at around 3.30 PM at the Jalpaiguri Road Station. There was a Didi, used to roam in the last few general coaches, used to carry a tambourine that was perfectly in rhythm with her “Pardesi Pardesi! Jana nahi, Mujhe chhodr ke…!”

Those thirty minutes of all my four years were dedicated to her. Was she that good? Maybe not! But she knew, indeed, how to express herself.

“Hey! Can you please write a poem for my boyfriend? He loves reading!” – I often heard it when I was a regular writer for little magazines and event promotions. I believe the poet zone is quite underrated, unlike the friend zone or bro zone, and we should talk more about it.

That day I had the taste of how to drape a saree and what is the sound of bangles. I learned how a woman’s heart beats. All her emotions harmonized in my mind and created the utopia one always dreamt of,

“In the woods, along the river, once you return from the war, With eyes full of kohl and a heart full of thirst, my man, I’ll be there.”

That day I realized one thing. Art is not gender bound.

“Your recitation has some vulgar elements, sorry! We cannot allow it! There would be professors and other delegates.”

Well! That was the poem I had recited in Ramakrishna Mission, my alma mater. And when did love and affection start becoming vulgar?

I was asked to move into some other day, some different slot. All other slots were filled. The only way to perform was to change my piece overnight. Sometimes a night is enough, just like the one before an exam.

So, I did it. Audience applauded. That day, the sound was a bit different. And I discovered the most crucial part;

“Artists are usually emotional. Are you one of them?”

“Yes, Sir! I am. But there’s a long journey between the green room and the main stage. We leave all our emotions on the way and wear our destined characters. It chooses its emotion.”

That was a cozy evening in Bangalore. It took me four hours to wear those 10 kgs of costumes and have that heavy make-up. It was someone in the mirror, not me, dressed for Yakshagana for the first time in my life.

The show was yet to begin. I started taking small steps, the fastest I could with those costumes. And I was accompanied by that friend in the short film screening, the interviewer in the MBA selection, that Didi in the Kamrup Express, my childhood crush who had poet-zoned me, and the organizers who had called my recitation gross. A few were carrying candles in their hands, and the rest were trying to blow. Who won finally? I didn’t know.

All I could sense was, it was the darkest at the end, where we had the entrance to the stage.

Once you hit the stage, there is only light, and with the first ray falling straight to the eye, you can see none, if they are sitting on the first row or the last, or if they have shown up at all! Are they shouting, cheering, clapping, or planning to take you down? You won’t know!

Once you are the light, the rest of the world is dark.

Once you are on stage, the green room shatters.