Scripted Spontaneity: The India Chronicles: The Wizard of Aurangabad; Letter #10

My desperate desire was to do something of value, something that only I could have brought, something utilizing my skill set and passion that would be worthwhile to give.

So I wrote a show. Because it’s the only thing I know how to do. I didn’t know if it actually would be worthwhile to give, but it was at least an idea.

Now, my heart is so full. This week has been an incredible way to end a trip to India.

If you read my last blog post, last Tuesday we got rained out. We were going away for the weekend to visit the home of one of our partner’s sister’s house. A nine-hour train ride to Aurungabad where we were going to see the historical caves and forts with her family. (which were incredible. pics below)

Because I wrote it with the whole team in mind, we needed the whole team there to do it, and the subtle lack of enthusiasm/general skepticism about the success from them was less than encouraging. So because of the trip, I thought if we didn’t do the show on Tuesday, it would never be performed. And when the hour-late train (and later the torrential downpour of rain) caused the show to be cancelled, I had resigned myself to defeat. This country had defeated me. I was to go home, having learned a bucket-load of patience, and accomplished nothing.

But then Dr. Meera (our partner here) asked us to do something for the school we’re visiting in Aurungabad—her sister’s school—present something or just say hello. We asked if we could do our presentation about substance abuse and our short skit about getting to college. She said, “ok” with the Indian head bobble.

When we arrived at the school, they treated us like Ambassadors. An army of children—literally marching in lines—shouted their national anthem with gusto—came down the stairs seated boys on one side and girls on the other. A few select children introduced us and one by one hung beautiful floral lays around our heads. We shook a lot of hands of administrators and local newsmen. All before we even said anything.

(Side note: the undeserved celebrity here is ridiculous. It is cultural to treat your guests like gods, they are such gracious hosts, so we always feel slightly uncomfortable at being waited on. And our white faces make us someone really interesting, though I’ve done nothing in my life to deserve their attention. I figure if posing for this picture with this person handing me a pamphlet I can’t read cause it’s in some local tribal language, gets them donors because they have support of an International NGO, or whatever, it’s maybe not a terrible thing. Leverage my white face for some sort of good—even if it’s just to smile at a little girl who’s star struck and try and make her day.)

After the crazy welcome, we gave our presentation: Anti-drug and alcohol/goal setting/helping your friends avoid substances. Then we awkwardly, hastily set up for the show. We were expecting about 100 kids, and over 500 were there. So we had to re-arrange a little bit.

Then we did the show. It was messy and disjointed. Music cues were difficult to hear. Remembering where we stand, and what lines we added only the night before were forgotten or stumbled through. Our costumes were minimal and silly—the scarecrow was wearing an old curtain, for example—and the parts I had scripted in to be interactive were sort of lost in translation. But they LOVED it.

Dr. Meera loved it. She told us that the teachers loved it, and the school children loved it. They were absolutely enraptured. She told us they recorded it so they could reproduce it for the younger kids who couldn’t come. That made my heart smile.

In India, creativity is not particularly encouraged in their schools. It’s not discouraged; it’s just not cultivated. If a child draws a picture, he or she often grabs another picture to copy. They don’t know many songs besides the national anthem. I wanted to show them that if they can hold up their hands, with imagination they can be a field of poppy flowers. Or if they moved their arms in a monkey-like dance, they had the capability to be become for the moment mischievous monkeys. My hope was to give them a small sense of wonder, a small spark of the magic in creativity, and it felt like a success. Who knows if it actually was, but it felt like one. I could not have paid for a better reception.

In our version, the Wicked Witch is not actually wicked, she’s just lonely. Laxmi (Dorothy)(me) helps the Witch find her lost friends, her only friends, the monkeys (the audience), and Laxmi reaches out in friendship, the Witch becomes nice. Cheesy? Absolutely. Ridiculous? Certainly. But for this arts-deprived community, Dr. Meera claimed it was brilliance.

My best friend, Ann, both in the show and in India. Wicked Witch and Laxmi!

Some of the feedback we received included a teacher saying that she now had the courage to confront her husband about his alcohol abuse. Another teacher said that sometimes we view those who use tobacco and alcohol as below us, but learning from the Wicked Witch’s story, He said that we are all the same and you can only change people with love. That was really neat moment, hearing that he got that out of our show.

When we did the show back in Hyderabad the next week, a little boy not more than 3 feet tall said, “I learned that we should try to be friends with our enemies, and what it takes is understanding. Sometimes enemies are friends.” Another little boy said, “We need to share what god has given you. Use each other’s talents to reach your goals. And find the self-confidence to share that.” Maybe they are just really well trained to say the right things, but it felt like they really gleaned something beautiful and important, even though it was just a silly little show. The whole experience has renewed my faith in the arts, especially theater, as a tool for teaching.

We gave to our incredibly gracious host (and principle of the school) our face paint crayons, in case they did end up reproducing the show. Or if the kids just wanted to play with them. She was choking back tears when she said, “You are so kind.” Truly she had been so kind to us, it was even another moment of gratitude wherein we were able to give her something so simple but meant so much to her.

Sometimes you just need to start. You need to have courage and faith in your own idea and abilities. Sometimes you don’t produce something in order to fill a need, but a need is filled after you produce something that you didn’t know existed. Create even through the noise of things telling you not to. You need to be able to take the adversity that you will no-doubt face; even if that adversity is simply apathy from others. Apathy can produce doubt as quickly as antagonism, maybe even quicker.

When we got back to Hyderabad, we had another meeting with Dr. Meera about all of our projects, and she again cooed about how wonderful the show was—how coupled with the substance abuse class, it inspired ambition, courage, and friendship. She wanted to do it at every possible venue she could fit it into. She wanted to talk to as many schools as would have us. Dr. Meera is one of the most incredible woman I’ve ever met in my life; she’s dedicated her life to hard development, and brought thousands of people out of the depths of abject poverty, and here she was, so passionate and excited about a silly little show I wrote.

Total, we did the show four times in three days, for approximately 860 students. It was a thrill to be so positively validated and encouraged to do something that I love so much. And it was an incredible privilege to (hopefully) bring a little bit of magic or wonder into these children's lives.