Siamese Theatre

The Baldy, The Spiky, The Stringy and their famished-looking wealthy disciples glancing at the desperates whose incarnation of rage is always available, behind the stage there the crème de la crème working on speeches and powerful phraseology, from their appearance they appear the linguists, the political scientists, and so and so, who have volunteered with the hope that they too will be the ferocious pundits. Whereas the heavy old man surrounded by infuriated young lads wait and see in their intense anger. They all stand on this key-shaped part of the world battling on the spacious side of the key.

The Baldy was once a good chum of papa, the Spiky once the papa’s mentor, but papa outwitted him, the Stringy a frail walker, rendered by his age but behind them are his ferocious bookworms, all are clean and disciplined chaps. They fought and asked papa to join them, then they fought the papa, now they are egoistically fighting his innocent children who are inspired by papa but failed to groom. If time and their wealth allowed them they would even fight the grandchildren of papa as it is their dharma and their Nirvana will be televised.

The war is fought on my TVs in my drawing room. The heavy old man, whose frame does not fit in my 21 inch TV, starts with respectful demeanor, then it takes the incarnation of rage only to be nudged by his ferocious young lads. While on the other TV the Baldy raises his hand delivering his bookworms-drafted speech, the Spiky takes over, then the Stringy wraps up clasping and clapping his frail hands. 

As this inaudible is elevated to a voluble one by his aspirants. The desperates roar and habitually punch the air and halt the punches in front of the threatening headbands. Oh! Perhaps their attention is heavily emphasized on the bookworms-drafted speech. It’s raining insults, bottles, and stones over them. The clouds riding motorbikes have dismounted like the heroic hooligans of Ravana to piss down and finally they have clouded the few desperates. Happily they piss down as clouds do over the clouded.

Watching the footage of clouds pissing over the desperates the infuriated thoughtful kind , now compelled , venture out from their control room to get “the bulky duffer” to stop the rain asking him to ensure there are no clouds where the desperates are.

The clouds have sped away on their wiry motorbikes leaving the desperates swollen and much larger; large enough to block the ways of toddlers and pillars of the nation, it could be a crime in a civilized nation. The children of inflationary victims sit in the rumbling buses for hours when they get to their reputed establishments they are whacked for being late but they don’t question for they are innocent and to them the battle on my TVs does not interest them, they just want to know why they have been whacked.

It’s now equivalent of Dubya’s war on terror YOU ARE WITH ME OR AGAINST ME. They are warriors and warriors ought to fight, if they stopped the fighting who would recognize them? The toddlers are collecting money to build a stadium where they can perform their dharma within that enclosed vicinity. May be the toddlers could build a sand stadium for them.