I was late for the show again. Not that it mattered, as without invitation, I was not very keen.
My neighbor had sought me out. Handed me the card and asked me to keep the date in the evening. She was convinced that I would like it.
It was one of those melodramas, which was prevalent widely, and made little sense to me. But the protagonist had been a rising star. And what I knew of her, was enough for me, to honor the word.
I took the seat.
The curtains were drawn, amidst a round of applause. I followed the story as it progressed, and soon, was lost in a conflict.
If it was about a sprightly young girl, I was seeing shades of an old, broken woman- surrounded by people who lay big claims on her – by birth or of love, but had done a mere lip-service to its meaning. People who knew to sit and talk and mourn and sing and rule and do nothing. And she – ever adventurous – had taken many leaps of faith, for one or the other! Disappointed, but ready for the next.
For the first time, I knew what it was to have a mother’s heart, without being one. With every turn of the event, something made me say – ‘Strength to you, my little one!’
It was queer to forge such an association.
This scene had begun with her standing on the mountain top.
Has she broken the shackles or would she nosedive into oblivion?
I couldn’t take it anymore. I like happy endings. She would rise for her much forsaken self, I believe, and I leave for the exit – ‘Brilliant Performance!’
Write this after some deliberation with myself. This much for my creative freedom.I would wish this to be perhaps my last post on a certain theme. And yes, I know I’m talking to myself!
Inspired by Picture it and Write