It was August of 1985 and Adja has just turned 40. “I am home,” she sighed. Her bed gave her the same comfort, like it did 20 years back. The early morning sun streamed in through the large window of her room, highlighting the damp spots and chipped paint of the worn out walls. She let the warm sunrays bathe her, while she sat up on her white sheets, her mind drifting to the time she had spent away from her room in Izmit.
Thump thump thump. That dull beating on the door again. “Adja, Adja, hurry up. The curtains are going up,” screamed her manager. He shouted the same warning to the next door, only the name had changed. With a last swish of her head and the red plume that adorned it, she stepped out. Rrrrrring. The stage bell went off. Her heart pumped a little hard. After all these years she still felt the excitement of being a showgirl.
“One two three, one two three…” her mind kept telling her as she moved her body to the music on stage. The audience roared its approval. Then came the difficult part, her moment of glory as a trapeze artist. “Insha’ Allah,” she said to herself like always as she swished across the stage at a height of 15 feet. ‘Swish, swish’ she kept going, her red costume in tow with the red plume on her head following the course, bending and twisting to the force of the air.
“One, two, three…” she said to her herself and somersaulted in the air. Applause followed. She reached out her hand towards the partner. She would be picked up from mid air to safety, while the song and dance continued on the stage below. Adja’s fingers touched her partner’s hand briefly, too short a time to form into a grasp. She had missed a beat in mid-air. As she madly groped for a support in mid air, Adja felt herself giving in to gravity. Thud, she fell on to the stage set, amidst a gasp from the auditorium. Her mind went blank, more from the shame than the pain.
She came to her senses in the dressing room. Her images from the mirrors around seemed to taunt her. “Adja are you okay?” asked the manager. Yes she was okay. No visible scars or twisted bones. But her confidence to perform lay in tatters on the floor. “I can’t forgive myself for this mistake on stage,” she whispered to herself.
“I think you should retire now,” suggested her manager.
She drifted back to the sun-filled room. It felt familiar but empty. Time stretched languorously before her. “Will my heart pump with adrenaline ever? What will I do now?” she asked herself. The thought of a life without a purpose, without the spotlights and without her art scared her. She looked out of the window into the sky for answers. But nothing came to her, except a quiet acceptance of her fate.
“Adja, Adja,” her mother called out to her. “Yes coming,” she answered her. She had the luxury of time now. She didn’t have to hurry. The show was over. The curtain call was done.
Thump thump thump. That dull beating on the door again. “Adja, Adja, hurry up. The curtains are going up,” screamed her manager. He shouted the same warning to the next door, only the name had changed. With a last swish of her head and the red plume that adorned it, she stepped out. Rrrrrring. The stage bell went off. Her heart pumped a little hard. After all these years she still felt the excitement of being a showgirl.
“One two three, one two three…” her mind kept telling her as she moved her body to the music on stage. The audience roared its approval. Then came the difficult part, her moment of glory as a trapeze artist. “Insha’ Allah,” she said to herself like always as she swished across the stage at a height of 15 feet. ‘Swish, swish’ she kept going, her red costume in tow with the red plume on her head following the course, bending and twisting to the force of the air.
“One, two, three…” she said to her herself and somersaulted in the air. Applause followed. She reached out her hand towards the partner. She would be picked up from mid air to safety, while the song and dance continued on the stage below. Adja’s fingers touched her partner’s hand briefly, too short a time to form into a grasp. She had missed a beat in mid-air. As she madly groped for a support in mid air, Adja felt herself giving in to gravity. Thud, she fell on to the stage set, amidst a gasp from the auditorium. Her mind went blank, more from the shame than the pain.
She came to her senses in the dressing room. Her images from the mirrors around seemed to taunt her. “Adja are you okay?” asked the manager. Yes she was okay. No visible scars or twisted bones. But her confidence to perform lay in tatters on the floor. “I can’t forgive myself for this mistake on stage,” she whispered to herself.
“I think you should retire now,” suggested her manager.
She drifted back to the sun-filled room. It felt familiar but empty. Time stretched languorously before her. “Will my heart pump with adrenaline ever? What will I do now?” she asked herself. The thought of a life without a purpose, without the spotlights and without her art scared her. She looked out of the window into the sky for answers. But nothing came to her, except a quiet acceptance of her fate.
“Adja, Adja,” her mother called out to her. “Yes coming,” she answered her. She had the luxury of time now. She didn’t have to hurry. The show was over. The curtain call was done.
This piece is based on the painting Morning Sun by American artist Edward Hopper.
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