Fun and games

More of a diary entry on this occasion, with forays into all three of the blogsite’s Lucknow categories: Life, Project, and Aesop.  But fun and games throughout.

This was my final day at RJPM1 with the mixed class of students and teachers, whom I have, of course, come to love (I fall in love with virtually every class I work with nowadays, going all the way back to Lesbos.)  We reprised some old favourites: zip zap boing (which continues to be ridiculously popular with everyone), the daffodil song (ripped off from Wild Goose theatre)…  And then we moved on to what I always consider (and always have) to be the true epitome of Drama: spontaneous improvisation.

I started by telling (again) the story of what first excited me about Drama, Tony Butterfield and Culham College and all.  And straight into Crossing the circle, the improv exercise Tony introduced us to during that very first lesson in Drama as a part of education, a subsidiary course I took there.  In 1973.  And which I still teach today.  Nowadays I tend to tell the students that it is a game I have never lost, despite playing it thousands of times.  And might even be true, since the definition of winning can change from one game to the next.  At my whim.

On this occasion, the student I paired myself against pretended to be deaf and dumb (and blind too perhaps; he certainly never reacted to anything I said to try and stop him.)  And I declared that to be cheating, since if you refuse to engage with your opponent you aren’t playing the game.

The presentation of certificates (a big pile of which I was required to sign at very nearly the end of the lesson; luckily they just carried on without me) was both tedious (sixty certificates to hand out, and a separate photo to commemorate each one, like a sort of graduation ceremony, followed by group photos, and a big certificate given to me) and wonderfully heart-warming.  At events like this, after the ceremonial bit, students here (and in Nepal too, last year) are invited to say something.  There does not appear to be any filtering, anyone can, and plenty do, just step forward and express their thoughts, observations, thanks, whatever.  It can sometimes be excruciating, and just go on and on (like today).And no-one is ever going to say anything negative.  Even so, there did seem to be some genuine emotion.   The comment that drew an audible “aaah” from many came from the boy who said that, over the past week, he had grown not just as an actor but as a human being.  Gulp.

I was meant to meet Mohit later that afternoon to take a look at the stage lights in the auditorium, to see if they could do the same things the ones at GN1 do, as we are moving from one venue to the other with just one day to re-set.  But he messaged to say he could not make it after all, but that we would meet the following day, when the rep from the lighting hire company would also be there (in neither venue are the lights set up for my concept, which extends the acting area into the auditorium.)

The next day, I left early for school, in order to have enough time to visit a barber’s shop on the way.  More fun and games there, with him seeming to understand the pretty straightforward instructions that I needed a Grade 3 all over, but then re-interpreting this to mean just the back and sides, with it left longer on top.  He was just attempting to comb this latter in to some sort of style, when I demonstrated what I did with my hair each morning – ruffling it roughly.  Even then, it took firm instructions – “Grade 3 – all over” and he somewhat reluctantly complied (to the enjoyment of the other barbers, a customer or two,  Hemanshi…) though I refused all attempts to put “product” on what was left.  As much to placate him as anything else, I then allowed him to give me a head massage, enduring it without complaint.

I arrived at RJPM1 in plenty of time, and asked to go to the auditorium.  Which caused a certain amount of concern and confusion.  However, as usual, I was shown into the Principal’s office.  I blithely twiddled my thumbs for about ten minutes, unaware of the mayhem I was undoubtedly causing just outside.  Eventually, I emerged from the office, to ask what was going on, to be informed that the site supervisor was at GN1.  I was a little exasperated – it would have been good to consult with him, but could not go there as first it was on the other side of Lucknow, and second I had to be here to meet up with Mohit and the lighting rep.  I then checked my phone… and realised my big mistake.

I had made the not unreasonable assumption that, in postponing our meeting, Mohit had simply moved it in time.  But it was clear, we would be meeting the rep at GN1.  Which was where everyone was, it seemed, except me. I rejected the proffered tea and biscuits, summoned Himanshu, and we were speeding across Lucknow (like I said, it’s a long way.)

Himanshu drives fast anyway, under or overtaking everything in front of him, palm pretty constantly on the horn, but he felt the pressure, and we went even faster.  And arrived more or less at the same time as Mohit.  So no harm done, except to my nerves.  And Saba found it hilarious.  As, in very short time, did I.

The meeting, with Mohit, the lighting rep, the guys at GN1, as well as Asad and his colleague from RJPM1, went very well, in that I got pretty much all that I wanted, while making sensible, cost-cutting compromises.  Asad assured me that I could have the semi-circular curtain, enclosing the back of the acting area, if I wanted.  But how high did it need to be?  Of course, I could have whatever height I wanted, but ten feet high would be extremely expensive.  Would eight feet serve?  Of course.

But might a solid wall of flats, of course arranged in a circle, not do the same job.  This would save the expense of making and erecting a circular track, as they would be free-standing.  But how would they stand up?  I envisaged a whole mass of trip hazard braces, making for a lethal backstage.  No problem, he assured me, no braces.  None?  Well, just two. Or three.  But it would be a circle.  I ribbed him that, unless he was going to make each flat form a gentle curve, that was impossible.  He recognised I was joking.  And it was agreed.  (I had already been having doubts about the effort and expense of the curtain and track.)  Mohit was a little disappointed, as apparently solid flats would not take light so well, but I told him to get over it.

The lighting too was pretty straightforward, except for the issue of marrying the auditorium lights with the hired ones, which would either require a disciplined and attentive technician backstage, in touch with Mohit on the board (impossible, we both agreed) or, as the lighting rep suggested, hiring a professional lighting designer and operator.  Which I ruled out immediately, for all sorts of reasons.  It seemed there might be another way, too complicated for me to understand or explain here, and we were done.

Mohit and I celebrated with coffee and conversation at a pretty cool place, our conversation flowing easily over all sorts of subjects: individuals at CMS, Indian language and culture, English same… There was much intelligent discussion, and much laughter.  At one point, talk switched to my avoidance of little yellow men in messaging.  Did I not use emojis, he asked.  Only a couple, but especially the praying hands, which I love.  Cultural appropriation, he suggested.  “It’s a f***ing emoji!” I countered.

Fun and games.