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‘Well, the biggest problem we’re facing is that no one knows how to act with you,’ Anushka explains. ‘To fix that, I think we need to humanize you a little bit. Bring you back down to earth.’
‘You’re saying you want to deflate his ego,’ I say.
Anushka nods. ‘In a way.’
Zayan grins, his more charming persona leaking past his icy exterior. ‘It’s an ego made of steel.’
Anushka smirks and gestures for us to make our way to the stage. The cast goes quiet at Zayan’s arrival – another thing we don’t want.
‘Let’s go over Act Two, Scene Four. Just a little run-through,’ Anushka calls, thumbing the pages of her script. David’s gaze flicks between us and Anushka, and I give him the tiniest of nods. He understands immediately and begins to dismount the stage. He joins Anushka, but I notice, sadly, that he keeps some space between them.
‘Sure,’ Zayan replies, flipping to the right page.
I do the same. There are five acts in the play, and the second one is my favourite. It’s the most heartwarming, where Ranjha and Heer’s stolen moments are bolder and brighter under their love for one another. They’re defying society’s rules and not caring, because all that matters is their affection for one another.
‘Heer,’ Zayan – now Ranjha – whispers. He says the name with such yearning it nestles deep in my heart. My feet – or Heer’s feet – begin walking towards him, pulled by his voice. ‘Allow me one touch, one brush of my –’
‘Stop,’ Anushka interrupts, snipping the threads of the scene Zayan was just starting to spool together. ‘That was good, Zayan, but I think we can work on your stance a little more. You need to be more liquid. Your voice reacts to your lines instantly, but I can’t feel Ranjha’s want from your body language. I think it may be because you’re used to close-ups, not having your entire body in certain shots, but when you’re on stage, every part of you needs to be acting. So when you say that line, lean into Farah’s space. Reach for her. The same way Ranjha is.’
There’s a beat of stunned silence. The cast share looks with one another, horror etched on their faces. I can practically hear their thoughts.
Did she just critique Zayan Amin?
I glance at the boy in question. Zayan’s gaze keeps flicking from his body to Anushka, like he can’t quite work out what she’s saying. At the sound of my strangled laugh, he shoots me a look that quite clearly says Shut up. I bite the insides of both of my cheeks, and Zayan rolls his eyes, but I see a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips. The rest of the cast doesn’t notice his good humour, and there’s a nervous wall of whispers forming around the stage.
He turns his attention to Anushka, slipping back into his professional self. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind as we go on.’ Anushka’s about to say something when he barrels on. ‘Actually, would you have some time afterwards? I’d love to go over this scene with you and Farah, really work out the kinks of my character.’
It’s a brilliant response, one that makes gratitude erupt in my heart. Zayan could’ve shouted and stormed off. He could’ve pulled out all his accolades, throwing them in Anushka’s face. But instead he’s humbled himself, showing the cast and crew that he is not beyond criticism. From the murmur that simmers through them, I know his answer has had the desired effect, and from Anushka’s huge smile, I know her plan has worked. The cast will treat Zayan like he’s a little more human now.
We go on after that in chronological order, and the cast is more attuned to the play. We only get through the first scene, as both Anushka and David – who are still not quite working in complete tandem – offer critique upon critique. Zayan and I throw ourselves into our scenes, but also into our ruse. We glance at one another, make sure to stay in one another’s orbit, and studiously pretend we’re unaware of our fellow castmates’ curious looks.
The thought of beating the LSDCATS becomes less of a faraway dream and more of a concrete aspiration. Our talent speaks for itself. That, coupled with Zayan, should be enough to wow our audience and prove to the LSDCATS that we are all worthy of being in the theatre.
But while there’s a new vigour upon the stage, and the voice that sounds a lot like Henry in my head is dimming, I can’t help but feel that there’s still something missing. That nagging feeling stays with me all the way till the end of rehearsal.
‘I thought that went pretty well,’ Zayan says, sitting comfortably in one of the theatre seats as I pack my bag.
‘Yeah,’ I say, half enthusiastically. I still can’t put my finger on what feels wrong.
‘Please, try not to sound too thrilled,’ he probes, stretching his legs out and interlacing his fingers over his stomach. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Farah.’
‘Zayan.’
‘Come on, tell me,’ Zayan wheedles, his voice pitching higher. ‘I can help. I want to help. Consider it a part of my apology for being a complete and total jerk to you and The Tragedies.’
I sigh, dropping my bag to look at him fully. He’s sitting up now, resting his chin against his closed fist, elbow on the armrest, head tilted. A spear of attraction pierces my chest. It’s so hard to remember this is all pretend when he’s got his lidded brown eyes focused on me, a half smile tugging at his lips.
It’s all pretend, I chant in my head. He doesn’t plan on ever falling in love again.
When I return to my regular thrum of emotions, I struggle to find the words to explain what I’m feeling. ‘It’s … weird. The dynamic in here. I just … expected that maybe we’d all gel more. The new cast, The Tragedies. Everyone. I wanted it to be like how my drama club used to feel. Like a family, almost?’
‘Well …’ Zayan says, eyes roving over the people exiting the theatre. Aside from The Tragedies, who are also leaving, most of them glance his way. ‘You could start by making yourself more available to your cast. Set the tone. Why don’t you go talk to that girl over there? The one who’s playing your lady-in-waiting – you’re going to have loads of scenes with her.’
I look over my shoulder to see the girl he’s referring to. She’s a dark-brown-skinned girl, with short brown hair that’s been pinned up at the front, and she’s wearing a patterned top that I recognize to be a kameez. She’s also packing up her things, wrangling a laptop and charger into an almost ineffectively small tote bag. My heart lurches with twin feelings of excitement and humiliation at the sight of a Pakistani Society pin on her bag strap.
