The stage is set, the spectators gather, and the thrill of performance is ever the same. The lights shine bright, the eyes of the audience fixated on me, the hooting and applause echoing in the air—this too, remains unchanged. I, the performer, remain anonymous, my identity swallowed by the name of the performance. I am just a person, paid to entertain, to bring excitement and distraction, yet lost in the process.
Behind the bright lights and in the deafening silence of the backstage, the true person—my true self—fades away. My feelings are forgotten, relegated to the shadows of the dark domain. I am but an amalgamation of body and creativity, a fleeting moment of enthusiasm in a sea of endless performances. For a few brief moments, I am alive, but they are nothing more than temporary flashes of energy.
I am Performer number 2, a name that carries with it only disdain. My body, once free, is now entangled in fake chains, bound by the expectations of the role I must play. Truth surrenders to the fabricated lies of entertainment, and these lies reign over my soul. With the sound of trumpets, I am welcomed as this “sensual diva,” but the enthusiasm I must sustain is a façade. The joy they expect of me is an illusion, a mask I wear for a price—a few thousand rupees, the cost of my soul’s authenticity.
And yet, if I do not do this, if I do not fulfill these expectations, what else is there? What else remains but emptiness? A question burns in my soul, yet the answer always eludes me, detained in the tangled thoughts I cannot escape.
If I am the hallmark of disgrace and shame, a mere object for the amusement of others, then what does that make you, the spectators? Are you not also deranged in your consumption of this? Society needs me, and yet, it disclaims me as nothing more than a tool for its own pleasure, a vessel for its fleeting desires.
In every verse of the saints, in every social claim made by this world, I am meant to fulfill their desires. And yet, here I stand—imprisoned in this lustrous frame, ignited by a cruel, consuming flame that burns my very soul. It is this flame that twists and cruxes me with pain and anguish.
And still, you, the spectators, you remain unchanged. You are the same as the role I am given—the role I play. You, too, are deranged in your expectations, lost in the same cycle I am condemned to perform.