On Drama

To be or not to be…somebody else…To breathe move and behave like another…To speak as does another. Drama is to let go and indulge one’s senses in the process of becoming another. The soul plays a central role.

Drama is an opening, a vent for the soul, the dramatist to use his body emotions and feelings to the optimum. Drama helps obtain a kind of solace. Forgetting the self in the in-depth exploration of another’s being.

Drama is the height of energy. It is to suck power indefinitely from one powerful happy memory. The dramatist is at ease with himself and the world. The senses have merged with those of his surroundings in developing a high sensitivity to the vibes of nature.  To act is to emphasize the emotion and exaggerate the expression. It is to radiate a sense of contentment and in return receive a reciprocation of the same from an audience. In doing justice to the act is to show the viewer’s how to feel with the character. Drama is concentration, to revel in attention and the sacred space that is the stage. This is how I now perceive drama.

When darkness preys- Goth tale

The carriage was moving at full pace now. The streets were dimly lit by light from the lamp posts; the night was a pitch darkness that was creeping fast behind them. A young woman was the sole occupant, a fine figure of English aristocracy. Miss Eliza sensed she was being followed but by who or what remained unclear. The driver Mr Beatle, it seemed was unusually quiet. The clock struck twelve adding to the eeriness of the atmosphere. Her heart began to race as she clutched the piece of paper in her hand, as if for dear life.

Miss Eliza awoke early that morning only to find her new husband limp and lifeless in bed. It was then that she knew what she must do. The prophecy, they were after it…and now that her husband was dead, she must guard it with her being.

She stirred where she sat on the velvet sheets as if waking from a deep trance. The last of the clock’s chimes died down as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. A tight fear gripped her being. She found herself looking back, her face white with panic. She opened the door and stepping out, saw Mr Beatle a hundred years old, his skin paler than snow. His face contorting as if in pain, he limped aimlessly around what appeared to be tombs. A graveyard…Suddenly she knew what had happened; he was now their victim as she would soon be if she didn't get to the cathedral and hide there until daylight.

A forgotten friend

I remember the very first time I set my eyes on an envelope…

Bundles of them could be found in the mailbox at the gate outside my house. As a child I had always been curious about the contents of these envelopes that came ever so often. They were in all sizes, packages large and small, thick and thin. They came in different colours some orange some yellow some blue and still others white. Few would have the words “CONFIDENTIAL” written across them. I used to imagine they might contain maps to a secret treasure island on uncharted seas.

 But the most exciting part of the envelopes was the stamps that were attached on their top right hand corners. The stamps spoke so much about their respective senders. Exotic stamps would come from different parts of the world. 
Then there were the not so exiting inland letters. These contained nothing per se. But one could save paper and money which would otherwise have gone into buying stamps and paper to write on. Then there were the postcards sent by relatives and friends on vacation. Whenever I found a postcard I would look at the picture (usually a breath-taking one) with envy and close my eyes hoping that by some magical force my whole being could be transported there. I have never failed to send postcards on any of my vacations since.

I did not receive envelops containing letters from anyone until I was 12. However, the memory is still fresh of the very first time I did. 
My name and address were scribed on its top. I felt its smooth edges and then, I couldn't help but take one quick sniff of it. The paper was so crisp. I didn’t want to crumple it let alone tear it in the process of unravelling its mysteries. My first letter came from a total stranger. Someone who had read something I’d written for “Tinkle” a children’s comic book  I used to subscribe to.

In today’s times with the advent of email, Facebook (an entity in itself), telephones, Skype, etc. the letter remains a forgotten friend. The joy of a letter’s tangibility…To know perhaps that a loved one’s hand moved across the smoothness of the paper, the ink so fresh even a smudge can be found somewhere between the margin. To know that all their thoughts were, during the span of writing the letter, directed at you and you alone makes it ever so much special. Long after a persons dies; the letter remains and the memory of the person’s feelings are thus preserved.

I still insist on letter writing as nothing can be compared to the joys of reading what is written by our own hand. It does take extra effort to buy envelops or stamps and take a pen out to write, but the person at the receiving end is left feeling tantalized. So I encourage you all to take a break from typing out short emails but instead take some paper. Write something inspirational, funny, or a few words of wisdom. The recipient can in this way keep going back to your letters whenever they feel like.

The letter contains a part of one's memory. A piece of his soul... Writing only acts as a medium to convey those thoughts in the most comprehensive way that ultimately aims to appeal to the emotions.