I can no longer hear. The whispering autumn leaves.
Everything touches me. Nothing. Touches.
I am no longer as beautiful as I used to be, he says with a twinkle that went back to the sixties and sparked memories in my head of this once and ever beautiful woman-man. Chapal Rani. The reigning queen in those days of our youngnesseses. A woman we-of-the-theatre grew up adoring. The Adoration of the Chapal Rani. In the days of a purer Jatra the travelling theatre of Bengal when men played women. Wounding the hearts of an enthralled audience in performances that lasted an entire night. Sheer stamina. Coupled with a monumental style of acting with every gesture exaggerated to live music and declamatory dialogue. Voices that boomed and thundered and whispered and cried tears that would overflow and flood the hearts of a riveted audience of men women children.