The net went out like a damp candle. The days are now shorter, the nights shorter still. In all the gloom there is still the flickering flame of the looming PAFs (for the present, read: plays). The atmosphere is visibly taking on a rather bellicose character. Men skulk about the corridors, trying to stay in the shadows. Every now and then one of them is taken away to the land where none wish to tread. It is a land right outside each room, a land that pervades every nook in every hostel. It is what I deign to call the Workplace. It is where the unwary are dragged to work into the ungodly hours of the LAN-free night, breaking their backs over bamboo brackets, twisting hemp and wet rope onto those rickety frames destined for their three hours of glory. Glue, papers bearing old news, and posters have something to do with it all, if I remember correctly from the early days of my captivity.
The more experienced, those who bear the scars of previous bondage (among whom I am pleased to belong), strive to devise feeble excuses to escape the military regime. More out of respect for our relative seniority than our cleverness, they leave us to our 'work', though not without a hackneyed and unenlightening account of what they conceive to be a man's duty to his hostel. As a man who regards patriotism to be a dangerous and subversive form of regionalism, these speeches do little to stir my sentiments.
I flatter myself to imagine that Anne Frank spent her last days like this, spending the evening in near darkness (perhaps reading under a lamp), making no discernible sound and feeding off rations that one has carefully hoarded. For to step out is to court danger. A visit to the hostel canteen is as clear a message as day that one has time and, more importantly, a hand to lend. The trick, some veterans hold, is to pretend that you are already involved - that whatever you are doing, be it munching on fried potato wafers or going to fill your water bottle, is of vital importance to the PAF. I, for my part, believe in the simple and time-tested idea of a passport. I carry about my person, at all times, a sheaf of printed papers that give false testimony for my absence to anyone who cares to question me. These sheets are a discarded assignment of mine that I claim I have to work on. Wearing a regretful expression that comes close to a grimace, I shrug as if I am powerless in my professor-governed life. It always works.
There is, of course, the rather more interesting part about working in the PAFs. But before I delve into that, it is time I introduced the ignorant to this mysterious acronym. The Performing Arts Festival (pluralized and often used to refer to each individual entry) is a fierce competition between the hostels in their efforts to host the best play. Held in the OAT (Open Air Auditorium), it plays host to mammoth sets where actors, actresses and dancers fight for space in a three-hour show judged by members of the faculty.
Whatever may be said of the making of the sets (and I have nothing to praise there), the acting and the dancing - since they are done by those who passionately participate - is, I presume, quite enjoyable. For my part, stage-fear grips me like a vice and I decline even the most unpromising roles. With my two left legs, dancing is quite ruled out and I settle to playing the part of spectator, which is by far the most enjoyable role.
Then there is the FA (Fine Arts), the painting of the sets, posters and sometimes even the costumes. On all fours in the lounge of their hostel, they diligently bend over a vast white space and let their fingers do the imagining. The result, if not because of skill then out of sheer size, is quite breathtaking. When it is all put together after two nights of somnambulant labour, the stage is set for the PAFs and from that moment on they cease to be mere plays.
The PAFs have only one constraint: originality. Everything from the script to the dances to the music score is a work of the student community. All their efforts converge to that one night replete with dancing and general merriment. The cast of a PAF is significantly numerous, with almost everybody queueing up for a role, no matter how minor. The limelight of the PAF has a magical affinity to it that most find hard to resist.
On the penultimate night it is downright dangerous to stay in one's room, for the demands transcend mere toil. Tables, chairs, lamps, tube-lights, and even clothes are taken as a sort of blood money that the PAF demands. Democratically unbiased in their choice of victims, it is only the articles that interest the 'tax-collectors'. When they set their eyes on something that could have a part in the PAF, more often than not they get it. That day looms near at hand and my next post shall cover every PAF, if I make it through till then. The day is quiet. It is the lull before the storm, and I am caught in its eye.
