Theatre. Why does one do theatre? Why do we tell a story? What’s the need? Why this itch in the bone to spit something out? As a stepping fucking stone to Bollywood? To offer a deity masses from rural land can masturbate to?

Or to say something of relevance? So then what stories have I been part of?

In my last two ventures I was the girlfriend. All smiles and giggles and everything nice, vacuous, vain and empty. Is this why I do theatre?

Tucked away in the hollowness of my office cubicle while labouring over brand copy, I always dreamt of a time when I would tell stories to express what’s underneath. When my soul would find a friend and not be afraid to say what it wants to say. Say whatever. Be whoever. Give life to kids stuck alone in a party/bedroom/pantry looking outside the window with warm water in their eyes and searching for answers from the stars and moon above perhaps. Gift them a friend. Be their voice. Their strength. Courage. Victory. Just like books and music and movies.

But, here I am. Stuck for a while. Being told that I have to be a Bollywood star. I have to be part of the soulless nexus of this soulless world. Pepper up and be pretty to be another bimbette in the wall.

Here every play is a career move. An opportunity for networking. You meet important people for important opportunities to get that fucking break in Bollywood. Everyone wants to be famous. Rich and famous. Sucking up and faking it all the time. Public relations and marketing. Being sold like a toothpaste brand. Being looked at like a frying pan. I am all skin and bones and no heart. Nobody looks at me like I am human. I am human at the service of other humans. Female body for their pleasure. Their eyesight. So pretty pretty. Full of sun and sparkle. I breathe.

I do not exist. I do not exist. I do not exist. I am just another piece to be flaunted or looked at. I am sick. Extremely sick. Why am I here? Why am I here?

Why do I do theatre? Why am I doing theatre? Who am I fooling?

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