"Okay, hit it," Grishal said.
A guitar started strumming out a high note, and the drums picked up after the intro. Soon enough, other instruments started belting out their own tunes. Ultimately, the song ended as a beautiful mixture of sounds.
As they all packed up and started to leave, Ron ran after Swita. "You were great today," he exclaimed. "Music-wise, at least," he continued. "But you have to work on that body language of yours."
This stopped Swita right in her tracks. She turned around, her face betraying anger. "What?" She sounded pissed, almost mean.
"People like to see musicians moving around on the stage. You can't just stand there in one corner, with no expressions on your face," Ron explained. "You need to- to- to emote, or walk around a bit... you know, let the crowd know that you enjoy performing for them."
"Yeahhhh, that's not happening. Bye," Swita cut him off, turned around and walked away.
Music had always been her thing. When she was just 3 years old, her father had taught her to play the keyboard. She was a natural. The grace with which her fingers moved across the keys—to play even the hardest of songs—were addictive to watch. Knowing that she had unnaturally steady hands, she had taken up the profession of eye surgery.
She was the most famous eye surgeon in town, known high and wide for the precision of her cuts. Her patients always came out of the operation theatre better than before. Even complicated cases were cakewalk for Swita.
But when it came to emotions, she was clueless. Her parents' early death had left her foraging for food in the streets, until a rich lawyer found her and decided to adopt her. She was eternally grateful to her adoptive parents for what they had done, but that couldn't erase the years of hardship she had faced on the streets. This had turned her into a bitter cynic, distrusting everyone around her. She rarely found things to smile about, let alone "emote" and "let the world know what she felt".
As she settled in to bed that night, her phone beeped with a text. She grunted and squinted her eyes half-open. Why won't they let me sleep? She grumbled to herself.
"Do what Ron told you to do, and I'll take care of your cat," the text threatened. "If you don't, the deal is off."
Aaaaaaaaargh. Stupid Grishal. Swita threw her phone, frustrated. Grishal, the lead singer of the band was supposed to care for Swita's cat while she went on a trip to Vietnam. The trip was extremely important, but Swita didn't want to leave her cat alone for 30 days. She had asked Grishal to help take care of the cat for her. But now Grishal was threatening to break the deal—unless she "performed" on stage.
Swita never understood the concept of putting on an act for the audience. They were there for the music. If they wanted visual entertainment, they could go to a theatre performance. Or a movie. They could even go to hell for all she cared. All she cared about was her music—beautiful, soulful renditions of sound. How was music related to "moving around" or "emoting"?
As the day of the performance neared, Swita found herself growing increasingly frustrated with the choice she had to make. Her patients were normally used to her brazen nature, but now rumors were starting to fly around that she had 'lost it'. But Swita didn't care—rumors were rumors. Her patients still consulted her, because she was the best in the city and she knew it. She was also the best musician on the team, so why should she have to act for the audience if she didn't want to?
Performance day. Post-performance party.
"Yo Grishal. I did what you asked. I went on stage and acted for the audience. You better keep up your end of the deal now," Swita said angrily.
"Sure, girl. Don't you worry. Your cat will be under my precious care until you're back from Vietnam," Grishal smiled. "Also," she continued, "congratulations."
"Thanks," Swita muttered and spun on her heels. She needed to rush home and pack for the trip.
"Welcome to Vietnam! We hope you enjoy your stay here!" the air hostess chirped as Swita got off the plane.
She switched on her phone, and got flooded by notifications. Bling, bling, bling bling, bling. "What the..." she muttered.
Her face was all over the internet. Twitter had exploded. During the performance, her attempt to "emote" had made her show her teeth in a big, teeth-y smile. It was scary to look at. Almost like the face a cat made when it got angry. Meme makers saw this picture in the press release and couldn't resist. Every website had picked it up...Facebook, Reddit, Instagram, 9gag...and worst of all, Twitter. She was now a living, breathing meme.
On her walk to the baggage collection terminal, she noticed that people were pointing at her, whispering. "EVEN IN VIETNAM? SERIOUSLY? YOU GUYS DON'T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH!" she screamed. She didn't realize that some people had filmed her outburst as well. New fodder for the internet. She could do nothing except stare helplessly as hundreds of people around her uploaded this new video.
Liked the story? Let me know what you think by leaving a comment! Honest feedback will help me improve my writing. This will improve the quality of the stories you read every day.
Yorumlar