Play.

about yourself.

– Like what?

– Like your theatre experience. Directors you’ve worked with.

– Directors?

– No forget it. Just tell me the plays you done.

– Actually I am not an actor. So.
What do I say?
There's nothing to tell.

– You haven't worked before?

– I have. But not acting.

– What work?

– Not acting.

– But what work?

– No theatre work.
Sometimes I write... but nothing complete.
You know –

– Still.

– I work.
I've worked.
I was an English teacher in a school.

– Which school?

– It’s in East Delhi – er – Kondli. You heard of Kondli?

– No.

– You wouldn’t know. It's a village.

– Oh. Wow!

– You want to know such stuff?
That way, I’ve also worked in a shop.

– That’s interesting.

– I was a receptionist too, for some time.

– And now?

– Sales mostly.

– You’re a salesman now?

– Yeah.

– Tough job!

– Actually it's easy. And then, there’s enough time to do...
to...
to do my work.

– What do you sell?

– Many things.

– Like what?

– Like watches. Books.
Aluminium foil, noodles. Handkerchief, mats, carpets.
What else? Lemme see –
mmmm ... gas lighters ... pencil cells, ball-point pen.

– Hmmm. Lot’s!
How long’s it been?

– Eight years. Maybe nine.
I am a very good salesman. Everyone like me. Know what I mean?

– Hmmm. What's it like? Door-to-door?

Stop. Forward.

Stop. Play.

– ... they don't know who's outside the door. Obviously! And I am never sure who’ll step out when it opens. I just press the bell and think - I hope I just hope it’s

Stop. Forward.

said I was like her son. I kept unrolling the carpets really fast, one after the other. Good carpets you know. I hoped she'll notice.
Buy it. Buy it. Buy it. I kept willing.

– Sir time up. Next ko bhejun?
– Nahin. Baad mein.
‘Like her son’...uh? Kind woman.

– I think she was bitter.
Still, she did run her hands through my hair.
She also kept touching...er... her breasts.

– Yeah? Must ha’been oversexed!

– She was about sixty five! Could be seventy. She kept talking. All the time.

– Haggling?

– No. About herself. Strange.
Most people just chase you away, but she went on and on. Lots of private stuff. About herself, her family. About when she was young in Lahore. How she got here.
Kind of sad too.
She said she takes a bus every morning to really far-off places.
Everyday.
For satsang and katha.

– Oh wow! Alone uh?

– Yes. I badly wanted her to buy a piece. But she began to sing! Then she spoke more about herself. Then she sang another song. And she kept making up the song as she sang, you know. I could make out.
And she went on speaking too. I was tired, but she wouldn't let me go till she was finished.
“Betta paap lagega. Katha nu adhi na chhor.”
She kept grinning at me as she sang.

– What did she sing?

– She was complaining to god. And then she began to cry and feel herself. All over. I think she was in love. I think...
I think she wanted god.

– Really?
What did she look like?

– Very ugly. And fat. I don’t mind that. She did offer me tea. Like I was a visitor.
But she didn't buy the carpet.

– So you’re not such a good salesman, no?

– Maybe not. She looked rich and it was a big house; I hoped I’d sell something.
But she said she had no money. She said that her son was a miser, that he only cared for his wife. That sort of stuff. You know she said she often borrows money from her granddaughter. For chocolates.
She said she loved chocolates.
I was tired, and it was kind of sad. She disturbed me.

– Do you meet many such people? How do you deal with it?

– It happens sometimes. Sometimes you meet them. I don’t mind it. I just go back to my room, shut the windows and doors and go to sleep.
Eventually everything settles down.

Stop. Rewind

made you come to Delhi?

- I had to come. No choice. Everyone comes to Delhi.

- For work?

- No.

- Why’ve you come for the audition?

- The ad said I’ll get 2000 rupees. If I am selected. Right?

- Yeah, but only if you get selected.

– Sir Mohiniji aa gai.Driver ko rokoon kya?
– Nahin. Jaaney do.
Frankly, you shouldn’t have come here. Delhi is not right for you. It will kill you.

- Mrs Copperfield said you have to go to a real city if

Stop. Forward

right look. You might need to change it in a few months if you're selected. OK?

- Sure.

- But why did you shave your hair? Style?

- No. My uncle - well, my uncle died recently.

- Oh, I am so sorry. When did this happen?

- Yesterday. Actually last night.

- Really sorry. Would you like to take the audition tomorrow? Maybe you'd be in a better state?

- No. It's OK.

- Are you sure?

- I've got over it now.
Unbelievable.
Till morning I was upset. Then I looked for socks, ironed my shirt, waited for the bus – prepared for the audition. It just went away. One forgets such stuff.

Stop. Rewind

- Ma didn't want me to leave home.
But then my father died.

- How old were you?

- Nine.

- Then?

- The usual story. Left my village. My uncle came with me.

- The one who...

- Yeah. The one who died yesterday. He was home, on leave.

- Then?

- He took me to a cousin's house in Nainital. Used to be a twelve hour walk those days. Now you can take a bus.
Things change.

- Hmm.

- I shared a room with my cousin's family. Him, his wife, four children.
Funny, later they got jealous of me.

- Why?

- Well, I was learning English at Mrs Copperfield's place. And they thought I was trying to show-off. That it was my way of staying aloof because my family was rich and above them.
They didn’t know things were not so good back in the village.

- How did you meet the English lady?

- Mrs Copperfield? Oh we’d all heard of the mem with six dogs. People said she fed them kheer.
I was never shy. I just walked up to her house one evening. In my school uniform. It was tea time. I’ll never forget that day. Her daughter was playing the piano – she taught music in a missionary school. I went up to Mrs Copperfield. She looked like a child in her rocking-chair. I told her that...that I wanted to learn English so I could be a big-man in the city. Join the navy like my uncle.
She was kind. Spoke Hindi beautifully.
She must have been lonely I think. You know, a foreigner in a small hill town, far from her own country.

- She must have been amused.

- I don’t know. She asked me to sit. Offered me tea. And cake. For some reason her daughter didn't like me.

- The regular dingo, I suppose?

- Perhaps.

- So did you pay her for the tuitions?

- No. Who had the money?
I just went to her place everyday. We would sit, she’d talk. She'd do most of the talking. At first I couldn't understand much. I grinned when she smiled, and laughed when she chuckled.
Slowly I picked up. She's a good teacher.
You know, she said I could call her granny, and I did. Always.

- You still in touch with her?

- Yeah. Last year I took her home to meet my mother.
She liked my village.

- So, what made you come to Delhi?

Stop. Rewind

... East Gorakh Park.

- Where's that? Hope it isn't too far? Might be a problem for you because we rehearse till late.

- It's in Shahdara. East Delhi.

- Oh Shadra! That's far.

- Yes. But I can manage.

- We’ll see. First let’s check out how good you are.
Spot light!
Shekhar! Detailing test hoga.
Ruchi! Get the new kids in to see.

OK.
You ready?

- I guess.

- Imagine the spotlight around you is your zone. Would be a good idea to imagine it’s the place you live. Right?

- Hmm.

- Now, focus only on your zone and answer me. It's just an elementary exercise. Take your time. Don’t answer in monosyllables please. I need to test your detailing powers. OK?

- Yeah.

- Take your time.
Where are you?

- I am in my room.

- Do you hear anything?

- The landlord's wife.

- What do you hear?

- She’s washing clothes upstairs. I can hear the generator next door.

- Not bad...

- A motorbike on the street outside.

- Look outside your window.

- Hmmm.

- What do you see?

- Nothing.
Walls, houses, the street.
Flies.
Millions buzzing in the drain.

- What drain? Where's the drain?

- Runs along the street.

- And what are you thinking? What does it make you think of? Home? The corporation? Disease?

- My history book. Class eight. Covered drains of Harappa. Neat lines of its streets.

- ...and?

- Of the place where my street ends. Where it meets the main road. The market place.
Paan shop. Morning. Men smoking. A blue board.
East Gorakh Park Comma Shahdara.

- ...and?

- ... and that the people always call it Shadra.
And what does the name mean?
Shadra.
Could it actually be Shah Dara?
And what does that mean?
Does it mean what I think?
So...once it must have meant something different.
Like wonder?
Shah Dara.
Poet.
Persian and Sanskrit.
Shah Dara...mmm... Murder.
Is it murder or condemned to death?
Shahdara is the opposite of Aurangabad. Survived.
So... who was the first man to forget the name? Why do I want to remember it?

- ...good, good. But what else? Is that all? What else?

- Mmmm...no. Lost it now.

Stop. Forward

get him to do it soon.

- I’ve told him he’s got to be ready in ten minutes.

- What's he doing?

- A period piece.

- God! I should have specified the piece. Anyway by whom?

- He says it’s from something he’s writing.

- Oh. OK.
What's it called?

- Eleven doors and the visitors.

- God no. I can’t bear mystical bull.

- Don’t worry, there are just two characters. He’s playing both.

- OK. Is it very long?

- Don't know that.

- OK.
Silence!

Stop. Forward.

- Who are you?

- Nachiketa. And you?

- I am Yama.

- Good. I am at the right place then.

- Not exactly; you shouldn’t be here.

- I am a gift to you.

- Ho! Indeed! The gift-guest.
ta-ra ra-ra ta-rarirari-ra
I thought I... was the most unusual guest. And now I have competition.
Stranger than me, but a little sickly.
Definitely prettier, but less welcomed than I am.
ta-rarirari, this has got to be a trick.
The visitor is paid a visit.
Huva huva huva. Hmmm.
Sorry, but you got to leave.

- I have waited three nights.

- There are no nights here.
Leave. And do not come.

- But, I have waited three nights.
And I am hungry Yama. And I want some water too.

- Ho? Have I been rude to you? Have I?
A sickly pretty thing at my door. Hungry and wants some water too, and I asked him to leave!
Does that mean I have sinned? Does it?
ta-rarirari! I’ve got a feeling I’ve just been tricked into committing a sin.
Tell me whose been writing this story?

- My father has given me to you Yama.

- Yes, of course! But that’s incidental.
I simply missed the plot! I just got tricked into sin.
And now I am stuck with you.
I could send you away, but then the rules must be followed. At all cost.
There is no escaping it.
I ... tell me, Nachiketa, is this a story?

- Yes Yama, and no Yama.

- Ho! ta-rarirari! I see they teach you boys well.
I’ve got to grant you this one, but if you explain, you just might get some bonus points.

- It is a story when I remember it Yama. But it is a riddle when I see it.

- You know you’re very good at quizzes! Especially, when I think how tired you are with all the waiting and walking. Anyway, let’s get back to the show. So it is a story and it is a riddle, is it?
Let me see... there might be a way out of this mess for me.
Hmmm...
Let me be plain with you.
I have sinned by making you wait and I must make up for it because that’s the rule.
And since we are in a story, I must do the usual thing and give you three boons.
How-ever, since it is a riddle too, I must grant the boons as riddles.
ta-ra ra-ra ta-rarirari-ra, yes?

- I understand Yama.

- Good. So, ask. Remember you got only three boons.

- First forgive my father.

- Done. Next.

- Let my father's name never die out.

- Done, next – but wait. What did you say?

- Let my father's name never die out.

- Cle-ver! They teach you well. I see that. So, you’re safe now. You’ll walk back in your sickly body, smirking.
I knew it. It is a trick.
But again, I have given my word. So, it shall be.
Come on next. Hurry.

- Let me think Yama.

- Let me help Nachiketa, might get difficult for you. The world has much to offer.
Women, though you are too young for that.
Wealth – that will help.
Kingdom! There is nothing like a kingdom! Is there?
But you will not ask for that.
This is a story. And you will not ask for that.
There are rules. You must ask for the impossible. Right?

- Yes Yama.

- So? What’s it going to be?

- Tell me what it is that makes this story? Where does it begin? Where does it end? What shapes its telling? I wish to know that. Nothing else.

- I cannot tell it like a story.

- Why?

- It can only be told as it is felt. Only as a riddle. Ok with you?

- So be it Yama.

- Listen then Nachiketa.
It is made in a city that lives like you,
that breathes like you, that grows young like you will,
that has hands like your hands, eye like your eyes.
The city feels.
It appears happy and sad.
There the story begins and ends.
The city sees the morning as you see the morning, coming from the east. It is the giver and the receiver, and it is always with men.

It comes unannounced, the visitor of the odd hour. He who shapes the telling.
And it is a strange city, this with eleven doors Nachiketa.

And though it lives with you, it feels no sadness.
It always seeks new life.
It stirs as desire stirs when you sleep.
And it's nature is the nature of a song. It comes again
like again comes. And it returns like the beginning of a song.
And it is a strange city, this with eleven doors
Nachiketa.

Stop.