The Machine
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The Machine
Once, in a prison far away, there was the condemned laid out under the machine. The prison warden, who took great pride in the machine and was fond of showing the condemned off as Tradition, built a museum around her with money saved from the railroad business.
There, a number of visitors saw the condemned.
The first to visit was a man in a pinstripe suit and frameless glasses, who, having looked at the condemned and the machine, and astutely recognized the distinct absence of the USSR, declared, delightedly, that it proved, once and for all, that History had, indeed, ended.
The second, a woman in a sari, looked intently at the body of the condemned where the machine left deep grooves, and pronounced flatly that one could not hope to understand this suffering. Drowning out the garbled moans emanating from the machine, she repeated insistently that we listen instead, and finally, surveying the scene with some satisfaction, nodded, and left without another look at the condemned.
The third, a man in a crumpled white kurta, with thick black frames, smoking a beedi, and wearing the scent of a bygone era, had arrived on a break from his evening ritual at the Colonial Hangover Club. He declared that suffering was a consequence of Capital, and that When the Revolution Comes, the petit bourgeoisie who handcrafted the small parts of the machine would either be beheaded or made to sit through one of his lectures, knowing full well what any sane person would choose. He then shouted slogans and congratulated the condemned for having realized that the Road to Revolution was Filled with Suffering and returned to the Colonial Hangover Club, where he was in time for the third round.
The next was a young woman, in a green turtleneck with a turtle tattoo on her neck, and a mohawk, wearing red glasses, a peering gaze and intent earnestness and an overall air of radicalism. The condemned, if she had not lost so much blood, would certainly have felt some excitement. Looking intently at the machine, the scholar concluded that the condemned was instead finding herself through suffering. That the condemned could even be said to be enjoying the time in the machine. The condemned had, wait, what was it – ah yes! Fishing into a purple handbag, the scholar brought out a badge and left it near the condemned. It read: “Agency, Inc.”
A pair arrived next: a woman in a blazer with a small notepad and a man wielding a camera the size of a lawn mower. “The prison warden,” began the woman, “advocates a humane approach to...,” while the man's camera mowed away at the condemned.
The last visitor was a woman with a tired look. Her eyes had black circles beneath as if they had been singed by gazing upon the wickedness of the world. She went up and knelt near the condemned. She first shed tears, looking at the condemned's face, then arms, then her bleeding back, and kissed each in turn, washing them with tears.
The condemned stared at her, wideyed, dryeyed.
She then looked at the machine, walked around and studied it from all angles. Returning, she knelt again and whispered in the ears of the condemned.
The condemned stared at her, wideyed, dryeyed.
The condemned beckoned to her, and the woman knelt. Listening carefully, she nodded, then stood up, and went to look where the machine engraved upon the condemned's back. Studying it carefully, she took notes and went back to the condemned. They conferred for long, in excited whispers that sounded like birds at dawn. The woman stood back and held her breath. With one last glance at the woman, the condemned shook her back.
Nothing happened.
They whispered again. More study. More excited whispers. More birds at dawn.
She gave the condemned a sip of water, and shed some more tears. Then the condemned drew upon every last ounce of strength left in her body and screamed, and the scream turned into song, which erupted into birds of every hue that poked out the warden's eyes.
The woman wept and wept, as the birds fluttered around her and nuzzled her soft underchin lovingly.
The condemned stood up and, grabbing the prison warden's bludgeon, introduced him to a new, and considerably more agreeable, Tradition.
She turned to the woman and they looked into each other's eyes and for a long time they simply stood. Then, with the birds buzzing overhead as a roving canopy that was a benediction, they walked out of prison, hand in hand.
Outside, a whole condemned world awaited them, in other prisons, under other machines.
Stolen Fire
Ask not
whether Prometheus was right
to steal fire from the gods
Ask not
whether the stolen fire
belonged to the gods,
or to Prometheus
Ask not
whether humans
needed fire at all
Ask, instead,
first, whether Prometheus stole fire from the gods
Then, ask
what made him do it
how he fashioned his stalks of fennel
and where he hid the stolen fire
And ask, most importantly, what
wondrous tools and splendid dwellings and formidable weapons,
things of marvel and beauty and terrible power,
the humans fashioned out of stolen fire
Ask, instead, what the stolen fire meant to the humans.
Forget the gods.
Forget Prometheus.
Forget even the act of stealing.
Remember what the humans did with their
stolen fire
Performance
In the town of Performance, there lived many men, women, and children: rough, unlettered, and wholehearted. It had been, they say, a slave town; its thoroughfares had once been markets and people still swapped stories of slavers in the streets but its town records had been burnt down by the cousins of slavers.
But, Performance had its ways of remembering:
On the 9th birthday of every child, parents “sold” them to godparents standing in as slavers.
Newlyweds would till the earth together before they kissed.
And all guests got a piece of stale bread at feasts.
A dying elder would sit at the town square, and all working men and women would come sit with the dying elder.
So, Performance got by, making memory where there was no history.
Here, into the heart of this town of the rough, unlettered, and wholehearted, came a cafe.
It had large aluminum tubing on the ceiling that served as decor which, its designer hoped, would be attractive to deranged python-lovers. It had glass walls and tables made of wood from the Ikea tree. On the whole, its effect was to set itself apart from the rest of Performance.
Once the fluorescent lights were ready, and the people of Performance could appreciate how different from them the cafe was, a board went up over the front door:
Cafe Theory.
Cafe Theory was run by baristas who represented it and spread the word.
The first barista of Cafe Theory was charming and full of himself. He gave out free coffee every Friday and went around telling Performance it needed Theory.
At first, the people of Performance were amused and liked his persistence. (They too were, after all, a people who had persisted.)
If the first barista had been in the church, he would have been an evangelist: tireless and friendly, he made himself popular (most of all on Fridays when he poured out the free coffee and a little on Saturdays when he taught the unlettered to read and write).
By the time the second barista took over, Cafe Theory had become a franchise of Non-Grand Frameworks, Inc.
There was no more free coffee since Performance people were hooked, but the second barista was popular too: she needed an army of cleaners and waiters, and who better than the rough, unlettered and wholehearted people of Performance?
The second barista was like an evangelist who got accredited to the church—like a Jesuit, maybe. She was fun and approachable, but behind her stood a behemoth corporation that could bring down the wrath of god.
Now the third barista was plain scary: she was fierce and glared at everyone, and laughed only at her own jokes, and cut salaries for cleaners. If the first was an evangelist, the second, a Jesuit, the third was—poor Performance—an exorcist! She carried with her an air of death, and could terrify the spirit, and spoke in tongues on bad days and on good days in Latin (not that the people of Performance could tell the difference).
With the baristorcist came destruction: armies marched in, and worse—real estate agents!
Everywhere the people of Performance were moving out. They could no longer work here (the baristorcist had scared them away by speaking in tongues), and there were no thoroughfares for their elderly to bid farewell (all that was common was now owned by Non-Grand Frameworks, Inc.), and there was no dirt to dig before weddings (for Theory had poured concrete over the fertile soil of Performance). Cafe Theory did, however, still sell bread, only the stale ones cost more (Tradition Tax, they called it). Though rough and unlettered, the people could read the signs: they were no longer welcome in Performance.
The cafe owners were sharp: they did not do nothing. As the people left, and yuppies moved in with their yoga mats, fruit cleanses, and pilates studios, the cafe owners renamed their establishment to indicate a welcome to natives long-gone: Cafe Performance Theory.
On its walls, they memorialized the people they had driven out, and preserved cultures they had extinguished.
Non-Grand Frameworks, Inc. had by now taken over the once-bustling city of Performance. Theory had driven out the rough, unlettered, and wholehearted people of Performance, and put up iron gates to protect what they had razed.
At long last, Performance now had a history worth recording. They were, it is said these days, making history over at Cafe Performance Theory.
Once, in a prison far away, there was the condemned laid out under the machine. The prison warden, who took great pride in the machine and was fond of showing the condemned off as Tradition, built a museum around her with money saved from the railroad business.
There, a number of visitors saw the condemned.
The first to visit was a man in a pinstripe suit and frameless glasses, who, having looked at the condemned and the machine, and astutely recognized the distinct absence of the USSR, declared, delightedly, that it proved, once and for all, that History had, indeed, ended.
The second, a woman in a sari, looked intently at the body of the condemned where the machine left deep grooves, and pronounced flatly that one could not hope to understand this suffering. Drowning out the garbled moans emanating from the machine, she repeated insistently that we listen instead, and finally, surveying the scene with some satisfaction, nodded, and left without another look at the condemned.
The third, a man in a crumpled white kurta, with thick black frames, smoking a beedi, and wearing the scent of a bygone era, had arrived on a break from his evening ritual at the Colonial Hangover Club. He declared that suffering was a consequence of Capital, and that When the Revolution Comes, the petit bourgeoisie who handcrafted the small parts of the machine would either be beheaded or made to sit through one of his lectures, knowing full well what any sane person would choose. He then shouted slogans and congratulated the condemned for having realized that the Road to Revolution was Filled with Suffering and returned to the Colonial Hangover Club, where he was in time for the third round.
The next was a young woman, in a green turtleneck with a turtle tattoo on her neck, and a mohawk, wearing red glasses, a peering gaze and intent earnestness and an overall air of radicalism. The condemned, if she had not lost so much blood, would certainly have felt some excitement. Looking intently at the machine, the scholar concluded that the condemned was instead finding herself through suffering. That the condemned could even be said to be enjoying the time in the machine. The condemned had, wait, what was it – ah yes! Fishing into a purple handbag, the scholar brought out a badge and left it near the condemned. It read: “Agency, Inc.”
A pair arrived next: a woman in a blazer with a small notepad and a man wielding a camera the size of a lawn mower. “The prison warden,” began the woman, “advocates a humane approach to...,” while the man's camera mowed away at the condemned.
The last visitor was a woman with a tired look. Her eyes had black circles beneath as if they had been singed by gazing upon the wickedness of the world. She went up and knelt near the condemned. She first shed tears, looking at the condemned's face, then arms, then her bleeding back, and kissed each in turn, washing them with tears.
The condemned stared at her, wideyed, dryeyed.
She then looked at the machine, walked around and studied it from all angles. Returning, she knelt again and whispered in the ears of the condemned.
The condemned stared at her, wideyed, dryeyed.
The condemned beckoned to her, and the woman knelt. Listening carefully, she nodded, then stood up, and went to look where the machine engraved upon the condemned's back. Studying it carefully, she took notes and went back to the condemned. They conferred for long, in excited whispers that sounded like birds at dawn. The woman stood back and held her breath. With one last glance at the woman, the condemned shook her back.
Nothing happened.
They whispered again. More study. More excited whispers. More birds at dawn.
She gave the condemned a sip of water, and shed some more tears. Then the condemned drew upon every last ounce of strength left in her body and screamed, and the scream turned into song, which erupted into birds of every hue that poked out the warden's eyes.
The woman wept and wept, as the birds fluttered around her and nuzzled her soft underchin lovingly.
The condemned stood up and, grabbing the prison warden's bludgeon, introduced him to a new, and considerably more agreeable, Tradition.
She turned to the woman and they looked into each other's eyes and for a long time they simply stood. Then, with the birds buzzing overhead as a roving canopy that was a benediction, they walked out of prison, hand in hand.
Outside, a whole condemned world awaited them, in other prisons, under other machines.
Stolen Fire
Ask not
whether Prometheus was right
to steal fire from the gods
Ask not
whether the stolen fire
belonged to the gods,
or to Prometheus
Ask not
whether humans
needed fire at all
Ask, instead,
first, whether Prometheus stole fire from the gods
Then, ask
what made him do it
how he fashioned his stalks of fennel
and where he hid the stolen fire
And ask, most importantly, what
wondrous tools and splendid dwellings and formidable weapons,
things of marvel and beauty and terrible power,
the humans fashioned out of stolen fire
Ask, instead, what the stolen fire meant to the humans.
Forget the gods.
Forget Prometheus.
Forget even the act of stealing.
Remember what the humans did with their
stolen fire
Performance
In the town of Performance, there lived many men, women, and children: rough, unlettered, and wholehearted. It had been, they say, a slave town; its thoroughfares had once been markets and people still swapped stories of slavers in the streets but its town records had been burnt down by the cousins of slavers.
But, Performance had its ways of remembering:
On the 9th birthday of every child, parents “sold” them to godparents standing in as slavers.
Newlyweds would till the earth together before they kissed.
And all guests got a piece of stale bread at feasts.
A dying elder would sit at the town square, and all working men and women would come sit with the dying elder.
So, Performance got by, making memory where there was no history.
Here, into the heart of this town of the rough, unlettered, and wholehearted, came a cafe.
It had large aluminum tubing on the ceiling that served as decor which, its designer hoped, would be attractive to deranged python-lovers. It had glass walls and tables made of wood from the Ikea tree. On the whole, its effect was to set itself apart from the rest of Performance.
Once the fluorescent lights were ready, and the people of Performance could appreciate how different from them the cafe was, a board went up over the front door:
Cafe Theory.
Cafe Theory was run by baristas who represented it and spread the word.
The first barista of Cafe Theory was charming and full of himself. He gave out free coffee every Friday and went around telling Performance it needed Theory.
At first, the people of Performance were amused and liked his persistence. (They too were, after all, a people who had persisted.)
If the first barista had been in the church, he would have been an evangelist: tireless and friendly, he made himself popular (most of all on Fridays when he poured out the free coffee and a little on Saturdays when he taught the unlettered to read and write).
By the time the second barista took over, Cafe Theory had become a franchise of Non-Grand Frameworks, Inc.
There was no more free coffee since Performance people were hooked, but the second barista was popular too: she needed an army of cleaners and waiters, and who better than the rough, unlettered and wholehearted people of Performance?
The second barista was like an evangelist who got accredited to the church—like a Jesuit, maybe. She was fun and approachable, but behind her stood a behemoth corporation that could bring down the wrath of god.
Now the third barista was plain scary: she was fierce and glared at everyone, and laughed only at her own jokes, and cut salaries for cleaners. If the first was an evangelist, the second, a Jesuit, the third was—poor Performance—an exorcist! She carried with her an air of death, and could terrify the spirit, and spoke in tongues on bad days and on good days in Latin (not that the people of Performance could tell the difference).
With the baristorcist came destruction: armies marched in, and worse—real estate agents!
Everywhere the people of Performance were moving out. They could no longer work here (the baristorcist had scared them away by speaking in tongues), and there were no thoroughfares for their elderly to bid farewell (all that was common was now owned by Non-Grand Frameworks, Inc.), and there was no dirt to dig before weddings (for Theory had poured concrete over the fertile soil of Performance). Cafe Theory did, however, still sell bread, only the stale ones cost more (Tradition Tax, they called it). Though rough and unlettered, the people could read the signs: they were no longer welcome in Performance.
The cafe owners were sharp: they did not do nothing. As the people left, and yuppies moved in with their yoga mats, fruit cleanses, and pilates studios, the cafe owners renamed their establishment to indicate a welcome to natives long-gone: Cafe Performance Theory.
On its walls, they memorialized the people they had driven out, and preserved cultures they had extinguished.
Non-Grand Frameworks, Inc. had by now taken over the once-bustling city of Performance. Theory had driven out the rough, unlettered, and wholehearted people of Performance, and put up iron gates to protect what they had razed.
At long last, Performance now had a history worth recording. They were, it is said these days, making history over at Cafe Performance Theory.
Vivek V. Narayan is a writer, performance-maker, and performance scholar, whose research is on caste and anti-caste politics in south India. He is Assistant Professor in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India. He recently graduated from Stanford University with a PhD in Theater and Performance Studies, and a PhD Minor in Anthropology. He is an alumnus of Royal Holloway, University of London, where he completed MA Theatre (Directing) on a Charles Wallace India Trust Award, and St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai, from which he graduated with a BA in English Literature. His writing has appeared in AZURE, The Caravan, The Hindu, and Fountain Ink, while his theatre work has been staged in India, the UK, and the US. Directorial credits include Ends and Beginnings (2007-08), based on Samuel Beckett’s Endgame, Girish Karnad’s The Fire and the Rain (2004), and Caryl Churchill’s Far Away (2015) as well as the new plays An Arrangements of Shoes (2011) by Abhishek Majumdar, and A Flame in Hero's Tower by Andy Dickinson (2009). Writing credits include Pestilences (2012), a multilingual production he wrote and directed for Theatre Counteract inspired by Albert Camus's The Plague, and Walking to the Sun (2010) directed by Sunil Shanbag for Theatre Arpana.