Essay:
Momila
Agonies inside Bracket and Footnotes
Dear Sensibility!
In the permanent addressless theatrical context of life, from the agonies of the protagonist inside bracket we can infer that onlookers since ages back are unknown and will remain unknown without any query of time.
At this particular moment, the curtain of drama has already fallen; complete midnight has enveloped the glamour of the stage. All the spectators after enjoying drama have left for their destination carrying their purgated heart. Rests of the actors, campaigners and co-journeyers have moved away, too. Nothing is left over yonder things like merry-making, light, music, role of affinity and relative-like people of sometime back. At this moment, the people who played the role of close relatives like that of parents, husband and son, perhaps are in special atmosphere with their family at their home. Lover in frustrated mood might be seeking his existence in some dilapidation. Here prevails just darkness. Desolation! Forlornness! Silence! The place looks something like a grass-grown old forlorn graveyard. Where did vanish the watchman of this theater? Eventually, the real journey is lonely. Along with emptiness, solitude and forlornness, me, a heroine of sometime back, standing like the murky figure of a dry tree on the desert far away I am languishing on this empty stage nonplussed and heartily I would like to share certain things from inside the bracket that remained unexpressed till today.
Dear Address! Look at here! The director of the drama from the beginning of the performance after presenting some clues is out of contact. Is there anyone behind the stage? No sound at all. No idea about the dramatist's whereabouts - either he is thinking about a new drama's plot or thinking a drama's role distribution or he is playing role in his personal life. Perhaps leaving me alone on the island of my own role may be he is drinking appreciation along with coffee at some spectator's home or he is probably enjoying bribe at an actor's residence in the condition to change his role. In my case, without any bribe I honestly carried out the role prescribed by the dramatist and assigned by the director. Albeit I just followed their instruction verbatim, ironically I am marginalized within the same boundary as though the possibility to get freedom from the transit of life is ruled out. Does it mean that is my whole identity? Don’t I have any existence? Not any remarkable authority? Where is my freedom of my own formation? Where is the voice of my heart that I am hearing and why is not its essence represented in drama? Why is the dramatist much prejudiced? Suppose I forgot all the dialogues of the drama. What can I do if I am not the being to which character I gave my life, in which character I did breathe? How can I live? How about my real identity? How about my address? In fact, I should have got the role apt to me. Or you had to make me exactly like the role I played so that I shouldn’t play acting within myself even after the dramatic performance is over. Or I shouldn’t have taken part in the drama. At least, I wouldn’t be suffocating this way inside the brackets.
Well, now I am thinking of writing another play including my role fitting to me. Can't I be a dramatist myself? Can't I change my role myself? Immediately I want to find out my real address that my heart is time and again pleading. Oh Writer of my life! Oh my Director! Oh my God! Today I want to change the predicament of my life. Is there any problem to you?
Dear Sensibility! Probably you understood my interrogative agonies inside the brackets. You are the only and ultimate company of mine in this regard. Only you who will burn in the funeral pyre with me and for the role of other characters in drama you will openly leave in reminiscence our questions and agonies from inside the brackets. Perhaps the actors of another drama, to be performed on the same stage that we have left will rote those questions and agonies in the form of dialogue. Let Nagarkoti, a carefree writer of my time, sometimes, prefer footnotes to the main text of the writing. But commonly, like Gel Hern, we don’t like to be a footnote of somebody's biography. Eventually, we will be written on the footnotes of some other drama. Perhaps our existence! Sorry to say, parents, in course of time, turn to be their offsprings' footnotes.
Translation: Suresh Hachekali
