Friday, May 14, 2010


I am an actor. Very limited my abilities are. Long ago I left my home in the name of further studies. I know, most of you have the same story. But as an actor I dwell in this particular body. This body of mine is my house. Wherever I go, I carry this house with me. Or, say, this mobile house brings me within it.

I cannot go out of this house. If I do, I’m no more an actor. Sometimes I feel neither can I enter in this house of mine. It seems to be ridiculous, but, such thoughts come to my mind most often.

If acting is an art, I transform this very body to an art object, and present it in front of you. Dear audience, see, look at me, I am doing the same at this particular moment. This time I cannot go out of this space and take a nap. I cannot have a cup of coffee.

Sometimes I wish if I could cut your hair and make money.
I know very little things, very little things I can do
I can’t fly a kite properly; I don’t know how to drive a car
Neither do I know how to play the dotara

It was better if I were a farmer. A cloth marchant.
To sale my goods and make money.

Buy me. Purchase me.
It was better if I were a painter. I would have made a painting and sale it and make money.
But I’m a performer.
I turn my body to an art work. Buy me. I want to make money.
I don’t have a house to sale out and to make money.
I cannot rent a house to dwell in.
I carry on a house all the times

I am an actor.
Before and after being an actor, I am a spectator. I see things. I can see things.
I have to see things. I have to see other people seeing me.
So, if I am an actor, there are many spectators inside me, inside my house.
As a result I get confused, how many people reside inside my house.
I lose myself, inside my house. As my house is overcrowded I cannot enter in the house.

I remember Lalon Fakir, the mediaeval poet. I remember Kabir.

There is somebody else dwelling inside my house.
Neither I can see nor can I touch, beyond of my knowledge.
Though I hardly know his name, I can feel his grief.
We’re in the same house, yet an impassable chasm between us.

No postman ever came, in search of him.
The telephone never rang for him.
I mostly buy vegetables for him as well
When I do it for me, I care for him.

He never comes out of the house, and for that
I cannot put a lock at my door when I go to the office.
(As if suffering from asthma trouble) he does not sleep at night.
Mostly I also spend a sleepless night, listening to the mice.

I play the ektaara, and you pick up the percussion
But who spoils the rhythm, I can’t guess.
You prepare the color and I paint the canvas with passion
But who is there to make it a mess?

In search of him again and again I enter in and I come out
I enter in the house and come out of the house and in and out…
And thus at a time I get confused, I’m in or actually I’m out.
I enter out me exit in, I exit in I enter out…

Amongst the crowd I do search for you.
There is a house inside the house
And inside the house inside the house there is another house
And inside the house inside the house inside the house there is another one
And inside the house inside the house inside the house there is another one
Which is inside the house, and…
then another house inside the…

I don’t know inside which one you live.
I enter here in search of you, and you go to the other.
If I go there, you simply move to another one.

My days are passing just like that only.
For long days
I’m neither inside the house, nor outside actually

I don’t know how many houses are there
Inside my house
Neither I know who the rascal built it
One thing I know only is, you are there somewhere

You are there.
With a constant stare.

A Disposable Theatre Text by
Samudra Kajal Saikia

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