The air is taut and swollen.
Stacking itself heavily in corners, oozing claustrophobia;
Its tentacles of hot moisture snaking around the room
And around necks and bare arms.
Inside, the overture is tense — no melody, no rhythm
Connecting the seven-personed table but tight, brittle glances.
Some of the tension has dripped to the floor
Under the guise of orange chutney.
My uncertainty sharpens to dread; but is it my cue to speak?
Neither my apprehensions nor I have made the cut it seems,
As the dramatis personae, in unison, avert their eyes.
I must be the audience then.
The chutney takes centre stage as if propelled by some unseen hand —
It is gestured at, pointed at; but no one attempts to touch it,
Its stark, cheerful colour is at odds with the atmosphere.
The duo opens — their voices, the swords- striking, parrying and whipping back.
Then like untrained cymbal players
Peak to a dissonant crescendo and fall immediately silent,
Waiting. As if for a prompter’s whisper.
The others stir uneasily, still gazing downwards at their plates;
The duo, remembering their lines, hurtles towards the crisis —
A gesture, a rebuke, a grumble, an answering hiss —
And the bowl of orange chutney crashes to the floor.
The final act opens with thunder, right on cue,
Followed by ill-rehearsed and precipitous rain. A second too late.
I can almost hear the prompter’s suppressed frustration.
I rise for the dénouement, but the curtains have already fallen,
And the performers have retreated.
So I watch the rivulets of rain navigate the fallen ceramic shards
And assimilate with the slugs of orange chutney as backstage,
Costumes are swiftly altered, masks are lifted-
The room too switches settings, for the next show of the night.
Fin
Navya Iyer Kannan is an aspiring educator who enjoys reading and writing.
Featured image: Pexels