When I was SULTAN..!!

“Every day I get to hear some or the other forts falling into his hands. I don’t care what you do, Afzal Khan, my friend, I want him dead.” I said with an angry face, loud voice and a wicked smile.

I was in class 5 when it struck to my parents that they needed to make me Mr. Nice Boy. My mom turned to her colleagues, her Google search, for suggestions. It wouldn’t ‘shock’ me if I’d kissed an electric pole, but it certainly would if her colleagues didn’t have a suggestion to offer or an opinion to share. So, as expected, they sprung into action and suggested a ‘Personality Development’ camp which was to be held far outside the city. Talking about those colleagues, someday I will shoot them and go to jail surely. Anyway, about the camp; we had to camp in for 10 days; we would be woken up at 4 and made to lift our hands and legs; I mean, we were taught yoga. A little of cleaning, praying, eating, sleeping, bhajan-ing fabricated the rest of the day. It was after dinner (at 6.45 pm) that the actual fun began; things like plays and dances. We were split into groups and I fell into a group called ‘Shivaji’. Our group had four guys (including me) and three girls, one of which I would name Miss. Stare, would stare at me at a rate of 30 glances per minute. I didn’t like her.

“I will bring him dead in 24 hours, Sultan” Afzal Khan, who resembled a skeleton promised, bowing down. “I’ll look forward to it my friend” I patted on his cane-like back and let out an evil look. Miss Stare made a signal to me that I had to leave the stage for Chatrapathi Shivaji to enter. I didn’t like her at all.

“I wand you to read this book gombletely today” our group’s new instructor announced in a Mallu accent and handed over the mini-sized book on Shivaji. We gombletely read the book and waited for him the next day. He examined each of us top to bottom; shameless I say. It took him 2.6 seconds to decide that I should be the villain, The Sultan Of Bijapur. The skeleton guy became Afzal Khan and the other became Shivaji. I objected- “Sir, this Shivaji is just half of me.” He showed us that he had a smile and said- “ You dond worry. Shivaji should be simble.” Miss Stare giggled at me until she learned about her part in the play; she along with another girl had to escort the Sultan of Bijapur ( that’s me) to my chair. I explored options as to how best I could piss her off, but ultimately satisfied myself with a teeth-exhibiting smile. This girl gets on my nerves. Anyway, the practice began in full swing. I practiced my dialogues and evil looks outside kitchens, outside toilets, everywhere. Shivaji practiced killing while I and Dr. Skeleton practiced dying.

“Not with me Afzal Khan” Shivaji punctured Afzal’s chest with his cardboard knife, and headed straight to the Sultan Of Bijapur, who was rejoicing with his girls.

The day had come and it was time for me to enter the dais. I wore someone’s churidhar, had a yellow colored half-moon painted on my forehead, tied a cloth around my waist, pushed my wooden sword through it and walked to my chair with the two girls escorting me. I had to walk like a chess champion, as though I had to think deep about my next step. Doing so, I reached the big chair and sat but immediately jumped out like a spring. That damn sword was poking. So got up, pulled it out and then sat. I could notice even the last row of people laughing like mad dogs. But I was a man, whose heart was made of steel. I sprung up, blasted my dialogues blowing off a few ear-drums thereby killing all the surrounding laughter and restored pin-drop silence in the hall (of around 150 people). Afzal Khan walked in wearing something resembling a frock, but again, a man made of steel wouldn’t giggle, so I grabbed the opportunity to shut up; then continued with my dialogues and exited with ultimate grace. My part was surely a hit, I thought. Only thing remaining for me was to get killed by that tiny little Shivaji.

“How dare you try to kill me” Shivaji tripped my foot, held me with my back resting on his arm and pushed his knife into my chest. That was it; I had kicked the bucket; I was dead.

Shivaji was supposed to drop me on to the ground gently but just before he could do that I heard him grasping for breath- “ Hey, oaahhh.. I am not able to hold on…aaaa…” even before he could complete it, let his hands off me and I fell real hard on to the ground. bloody damn idiot.. I wondered what an irony it would create if I got up and killed him. But anyway, the great fall incidentally turned out to be the best part of the play; a blood-pumping action scene.

Later as I was exiting the stage, I observed Miss. Stare laughing like she hadn’t for a decade. God, I hated her.

P.S- Unfortunately, nobody took photographs of the play that day. Leave alone snaps, that damn place did not have a single mirror for me to even see how I looked.

P.P.S- My parents' colleagues are still a pestering lot. What to do??