I don’t remember the last time I rested in the narcotic scent of this bidi . This very indian thing has helped me survive the agony that age brings . With it , the truths become a little milder and the very thin line between acceptance and denial disappears. Sometimes age brings you to the brink of being broken . Crooked nose and shaky legs, the very own agile body hurts and causes pain from within. The turbulence of age is chained in a life span and released only by death . All I could ask is , when will my time come Allah. Is the moment of my salvation near ? My story is different. I was a so called era . My name is Amjad.
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Amjad Ali Khan was a dancer. Like your hands melt while you touch velvet , in the same way the music melted when it touched him. I am Rehan and I am assigned to cover his last performance. They say he will no longer perform now and will pass the legacy of his dancing empire to his sons . His sons do not match the grandeur he had in his shows . One of them is rumoured to run after young women and the other is an alcohol addict . But that cannot be the basis of judgment of who is right and who is wrong. After all in a democracy , they can do what they feel like. Nevertheless today it’s not about page 3 stories , it is about an era that will recur and pass . Amjad’s era. His dance is like river . He touches lives , pours emotions and washes the audience of its dirt. For he has been blessed to emote very well. The fact that he does it in a very simple way is astonishing ; as simple is hardly found in this fake world. A world that revives in thunder of claps and shatters your confidence at every fall. It is not the world that we were supposed to live in , where moments are at war and conscience is constantly stirred. I am here to respect this artist who faced the world with childlike ignorance. He had no qualms about the clamour that exists , but was immune , innocent and untouched. It all reflected in his dance.
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I stand masked at the centre of the stage. The stage that has treated me with all its love. It has consumed me in bits and in my entirety . Silence surrounds just before the moment the spotlight is intended to fall. The audience, like the performers, is punctual. As the dim spotlight falls over me I feel young again. As it grows bright , I command my limbs to respond and they happily do so. The music takes over and we, me and my weak limbs, connect again. The agony is released , without the arrival of death , and I feel free again. I hear applause from all over the places : left , right , corners and the balcony. It is after all my last show. Will they accept , will they understand ? Will I be judged , like I was when I first performed on stage? Is this the way an artist has to leave? I tip-toe , emote and allow more performers to take the stage. The stage is now full , like my life. I have been in the place of every performer. The ones at the corners wish to be at the center , the ones in the center are haughty and egoistic of where they are placed (more because of why they are placed). So I understand the cold war on stage , it is much like life again.
My pain abandons me and I continue to dance in grace. As my lungs hunger for some air , I decide to make a precise exit out of stage , it is about time I retreat to make place for new ones.
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He dances like smoke. Omnipresent in it’s aura. His smoothness charms me . Even at this age he is looked upto . No one asked him to retire , but it was his choice. Amidst all this he was calm, composed , aware of this world; still ignorant of its nuances. He never finds it hard to shift from one corner of the stage to another. As I write about Amjad , I feel he is like a skyline, which disappears from one place to occur at another. Such is his impact. You cannot really point out if he did his moves right or wrong , for you are always in his awe. He is respected for his endless search of the reality of excelling at stage and making an impact, without knowing he has it all. But that’s his best point - that he has been a learner throughout. I occupy the green room as I notice him bidding good bye to the stage. He offers me a seat while he attempts finding water. I had a bottle in my bag which I gave him, he obliged. There was only one question I wished to ask him, how does he expect people to respond when he retires today.
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I thought for a moment this guy Rehan read my mind. May be my agony reached out to him while the lights were dim at the stage . I lit up my bidi to hide that I am unnerved by his act of judgement. But I chose to answer this one. It was the most important question of my life. Rehan Sahib , I wish to retire without being judged. Without people calling this a gimmick to promote my in-house academy , without any discussions about whether my choice of retirement is good enough or not. We are all made of clay and we melt like sunlight when the sun of love rises . I am no different. Entire life an artist or a celebrity is judged by every move , as if he is God, or maybe even more perfect than him. I am not God. I am mortal , old and death nears me more with these random judgements around. I want people to know that my art is more to me than any Page3 news. It is my second wife , my first child and my cradle of memories . I chose it for a lifetime. And everyone here knows how close things are , which are chosen for a lifetime. I have been judged and praised a lot , all because of the gift of God in the form of dance and theatre. But I wish to retire like this summer, casually, without making much noise.
Like nothing but a season , not an era . This is what I wish for. Possible ?
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