I release my hold on her shoulders and take her hands instead. “No one is ever ready for their first performance. All you have to do is decide to do it, and that’s it. You give yourself over to the role, and then there’s nothing to be scared of because nothing else exists outside the scene.”
“I don’t know the lines. I don’t know the blocking.”
“Yes, you do. You know this play inside and out, and you haven’t missed a minute of rehearsal. I’m one hundred percent certain that you could take on any role in this play and perform it well, except Jocelyn, because her character plays the guitar, but I also wouldn’t doubt that you’ve secretly been learning how to do that too via YouTube like some self-taught prodigy.”
Roshni laughs, and I take it as a positive sign. “You have to believe me—I know you can do this, and you are going to feel so proud and powerful when you’re done. And I’m going to be filming the whole thing, so you’ll have this memory to watch and rewatch forever. You can show it to your grandchildren someday. How many people can say that they performed a world-famous play in London with classically trained actors? You’ll be the most badass pharmacist that ever walked this earth.”
She takes a deep breath, and the color starts to return to her cheeks. “But I was nervous just being here and helping out today. How am I supposed to handle physically being in the show?”
“Have you ever been part of a production before?” I ask her.
“When I was younger, I used to do garba with a group during Navratri.”
“So, there you have it. It’s basically the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I was terrible in those dances. All the other girls were super graceful and on tempo, and I looked like a frazzled bodybuilder.”
I shake my head with a smile, summoning all my bravado, and hoping it catches. “I refuse to believe that. Plus, Ellie wouldn’t have asked you to step in if she didn’t think you could do it. Did she ask me? No, and I went to theater school. She wants you for the part, and we have a full hour to run lines. I won’t leave your side until you step out on that stage, and while you’re on it, I’ll be waiting in the wings, silently shrieking in excitement. I know you can do this.”
Roshni eventually nods, and I breathe out a thinly veiled sigh of relief.
“Will you hold my hair back if and when I puke?” she asks.
“Holding back puke hair is what I do best.”
We both smile, and in that moment, every other thought falls away. It’s just me and my friend, and we are going to get through this.
An hour and a half later, the play has begun, and Roshni is waiting for her cue. We stand in the wings, side by side, as she squeezes my hand with a brute strength I had no idea she possessed. All the seats that were set out are taken, and a large crowd fills up the surrounding standing space. People come and go, leaving and arriving, allowing a glimpse to anyone who’s interested, and this is what pop-up theater is all about. Opening countless eyes to possibilities.
Roshni’s entrance is coming up, and I grip her hand back, fully aware that she probably doesn’t even feel it. But then she looks at me, and I know she feels it. Our eyes lock, and I give her a grin as I try to magically send her every bit of confidence I have or have ever had. She must receive it in some form, because she smiles back at me and squeezes my hand one more time before letting it fall and stepping forward. She’s now nearly on the stage, waiting for her cue. It comes and she’s off, disappearing into the lights until my eyes readjust so I can see and hear her.
Her projection is a little low at first, but it picks up quickly, and I’m crazy thankful for the vocal exercises we rushed through minutes earlier. Tears well in my eyes as I watch her, and I don’t resist them in the least.
A few minutes later, she’s back in the wings. I give her water and a towel to dab her face—we’re like a theatrical boxer and trainer prepping to reenter the ring. The adrenaline has clearly taken over, and Roshni’s nerves seem to have reduced significantly. She’s so magnetic that I have to actively remind myself to take in the rest of the play as well, but I’m glad that I do. Our collective ideas from rehearsals have now taken flight and are being executed and delivered with all the passion and subtlety we hoped for.
Every so often, I steal glances into the audience—one of the privileges of being part of the show but not a cast member. Everyone seems as rapt as I am, their eyes glued to the stage even as some whisper back and forth to one another.
Roshni goes on three more times, and each time I’m there to send her off and welcome her back. When she leaves the stage for the final time, she walks right into my hug and starts to cry as we shift deeper into the wings. I’ve never felt prouder of another person in my life. She’s legit my little sister now, and I’m pretty sure a DNA test would confirm it.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” she says, wiping her tears away.
“You were amazing,” I tell her. “And I’m not just saying that. You were absolutely incredible.”
“I feel like my head might explode. Do you think people would notice?”
“Would people notice if you were to spontaneously combust? Probably. Let’s maybe try to delay all that until after the curtain call.”
“The curtain call! I almost forgot. I can’t believe I get to be part of the curtain call. What do I do? Curtsy or bow?”
“You do whatever feels right. Let the spirit flow through you.”
She quietly claps her hands together, brimming with anticipation, and it sends such a sense of happiness sailing through me. “Okay, so you enjoy the rest of the show. I’m going to head out front to relieve the intern who’s filming for us.” I give her one more hug before moving back once again. “I really am so proud of you, Roshni.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she says. “Assistant squad for life.”
“For life,” I repeat back. We both step apart smiling, Roshni sneaking into a better viewing spot and me slipping out from the backstage area. From there, I disappear into the crowd, maneuvering my way as carefully as possible. I find one of the interns faithfully guarding the tripod I set up, and he’s quick to scurry off closer to the stage for the end of the show when I tell him I’m there to relieve him.
I stand there alone for the next ten minutes. I try my best to get lost in the show, but it’s near impossible, as a million sensations surge through me at once. Pride, excitement, sadness—they all rise and fall inside me, reaching an emotional crescendo as the play ends and deafening applause fills the air. The curtains close and then open again as each actor comes out one by one for their time in the sun. I cheer at the top of my lungs when it’s Roshni’s turn.
