The Critic

The Critic

sketch


The auditorium was already darkened but the footlights were still on. Some of the audience was straggling in as the bells rang in the corridor and lobby. We were sat down and watching the late arrivals, the fat, the thin, the pretty and ugly, the purposeful and aimless, the airy-fairies, sandal-clad jholawalas with no deodorant smelling pretty aggressive, some still talking on their mobile phones. Clearly there were people who lived lives much busier than ours.

That’s when the critic arrived, excusing himself loudly, bumping into knees, bustling in without embarrassment. He had one of those voices. I had to turn around to look even as he settled just behind us. But as soon as the scuffling stopped because it took him a manoeuvre or two, no more, to sit down properly; he was talking again: “Why come to such a third class show? Local production. Local. Airtel sponsored. Rubbish. Should have stayed back and had a drink Tscha”.

And as the curtain went up he said “Why don’t they off the footlights. Footlights. Arre Lights. Where is the lightwala?” He was just broadcasting because the commentary wasn’t directed at a companion. He thought it best to interpret things for us all within earshot. But nobody took his bait.

Instead, we looked at each other and sighed. Why has this man come to a Shakespeare play? Did he know what he was letting himself in for?

We didn’t have to wonder long because he was soon off again: “Didn’t even do the make-up properly. Look at those pouches under his eyes. Damn debauch fellow but why not cover up? The Moor is not a drunk. Meant to be tough guy. Warrior fellow Tscha! Who did the casting? Just see. Look at him. So weak. Half dead like. Might fall right now. So what to do with a young wife? And ….Iago that is? Arre Baa!He is keeping so serious? No laughing, leering, nothing. What kind of Iago is this? No good villain. Fail ho gaya. Cannot believe. Stamping foot like girl. Tscha…Who is directing this? Fellow looks like medical orderly. For cleaning bed pans….bas. Arre see that! Is that Desdemona or Madonna? Maybe Mona darling I think so. What bra lifting!Conical. Excuse please. But pointing! Merciless! O heaven Ma God!”.

Maybe I should have been watching the play instead of listening to him but it was too late now. I found myself waiting for his next comment or for a scene to erupt. A fight maybe and the critic being thrown out. So who can watch the play like this?

But nothing happened. Perhaps the critic had done this loud number before and knew how to walk a fine line. Or maybe he had begun to genuinely watch the play. Because though nobody shut him up, no one encouraged him either.

No lift for the critic. One might say that and so he said nothing more. Not even during the big scene- Othello strangling Desdemona. And considering the critic thought Othello weak, about to drop dead, the man with the pouches under his eyes did pretty well and yelled and shouted about his anguish without discernible health problems.

When the lights came up at the end there he was again, off clapping louder than all of us and letting out the odd piercing whistle - particularly when Desdemona came out to take her bow. He really liked her heaving chest and that uplift bra. Maybe it made it, the whole play, right for him.

And then he was off, determined to get out first and go to the toilet or into the parking lot before everyone else. And before the ovation had properly subsided. Oblivious as a minister he went, down the row, crushing feet in his way, deaf to all the cringing protestations. He wasn’t looking where he was going anyway. No, he was watching the stage over his shoulder yelling “more” as if it was a mujra he'd just been to. And what is a mujra without a heaving chest or two meri jaan?

(675 words)

Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright, Gautam Mukherjee 2009