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‘Actually, they’re both your property,’ Anushka says casually. ‘The handwriting on the note matches the writing in your diary.’
‘We had to do a fairly in-depth search to make sure,’ Ben says. ‘But I’ll admit, reading your almost Freudian thoughts was pretty funny.’
Henry’s hands clench and unclench. Lisa looks up at him, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘How – how –?’ he splutters, before finally unleashing his question. ‘How did you get that?’
Without waiting for a reply, Gibitah and the LSDCATS’ only other desi cast member, Kamran Milwala, walk out from the left wing. They wear matching expressions of contempt, but I can see the fear under their layers of armour.
They’re taking an enormous leap, revealing themselves like this. Gibitah’s trust in us was so solid – she didn’t waver as she stole Henry’s journal – and Kamran’s unexpected allegiance was secured when he met with The Tragedies and asked to be involved. They are so strong, and the sight of them makes me emotional. I want to be down there with them, but I know that I need to let them – all of them – make these moves on their own.
‘This is criminal!’ Lisa grasps at straws, standing beside Henry now.
‘So is breaking and entering. Along with destruction of private property,’ David counters calmly.
Lisa and Henry fall silent. A nervous energy buzzes through the theatre. Beside me, Zayan shifts, leaning closer to the edge. We know what’s coming next, and as if we’re watching our favourite play, we can’t help but be captivated by the performance.
‘But we won’t press charges,’ Ben offers, and my stomach somersaults. The people in the seats below us move imperceptibly, tension twining around person after person as they watch this story unfold.
‘What’s the catch?’ Lisa asks, her tone suspicious.
‘We want you to listen to the pain you’ve inflicted,’ Nur says, her voice growing louder. ‘I want you to look me in the eyes when I tell you that you rejected me because of my hijab.’
Henry snorts, unimpressed. ‘You want to tell me how I ruined your life? Is that it? Fine. Go ahead.’
The smile that curves Anushka’s lips is sharp. ‘As you wish.’
The first story comes from the back row. A woman stands, her skin matching Anushka’s, her smile as blood-red as roses, as sharp as thorns. Henry and Lisa whip round in their seats, horror painted across their expressions as they realize that their open auditions are actually an ambush.
‘My name is Nadia, and I was seventeen years old when I auditioned for a role at the LSDCATS. I was rejected for being dark-skinned and bold enough to try for a white role.’
‘Wait – wait – you’re all here to audition, not …’ Lisa stumbles.
Nadia’s announcement is a trigger, a signal, a sign – the initial tremor of an earthquake. It shakes the LSDCATS’ theatre, fills the air with a rumble of fury and dissent.
One by one, a person stands and shares their story.
‘My name is Dennis Walters,’ a man from the fourth row says, interrupting Lisa’s spluttering. ‘And I was twenty years old when the LSDCATS used me as an example of someone who couldn’t play the role of a white man.’
‘My name is Abigail Huang, and I was nineteen years old when the LSDCATS told me that my accent was too hard to decipher, and that I’d have to Westernize to survive in this industry or move on to something else.’
‘My name is Anushka Menon,’ Anushka says, her voice trembling. My heart balloons in my chest at the sight of her speaking up for herself. ‘And you thought my skin tone made me unqualified to be a director. You made me believe that the colour of my skin had some influence on my ability. You tried to break me, but you didn’t succeed.’
Untold stories, whispered cautionary tales, paint themselves in front of us. My heart thuds sharply, but my body is filled with sheer pride. Watching The Tragedies start this has emboldened me. Strengthened me. It’s made me feel powerful.
Henry is wearing a bored mask over his face as he listens. Lisa’s gone pale beside him, her hands anxiously fluttering by her side.
‘Fine, fine. I’ve heard your pieces,’ Henry says when the last person finishes, his expression full of displeasure. ‘And now I would like you to leave my theatre, quietly –’
‘We’re not done.’
As I stand, my declaration echoing around the silent theatre, Zayan remains seated. But I feel his gaze on me. I feel The Tragedies watching me take the baton from them. Surrounded by their bravery, I feel my own begin to grow.
‘My name is Farah Sheikh, and you called me unsuitable for your stage. And you were right. I would never fit in here.’ My eyes are locked on Henry, on the sheer anger in his gaze. ‘You didn’t allow me to. You didn’t allow any of us to. You believe that theatre doesn’t have space for people of colour, but it’s people of colour who have revolutionized this industry, brought to it a thousand new stories and ideas. Theatre doesn’t belong to you. It’s a stage for everyone.’
Henry looks like he’s been slapped across the face, and I soak in the satisfaction of saying what I’ve been wanting to say for the last two months. I draw on the strength of The Tragedies, of every person in here.
‘And you have spent far too long trying to silence us,’ I say, my throat working with sudden emotion. ‘I always believed that we needed one story to spark a flame. One person to bear the brunt of everything. But I was wrong. This is just the beginning. Together our stories will make change. Our collective voices will start the necessary conversation that you have spent too long avoiding. It is time for you to face your audience.’
‘Oh, please!’ Henry crows, genuine amusement replacing his disbelief. Next to him, Lisa places a hand on his arm and hisses something at him. Henry’s expression darkens. He tries to shake off her hand, but she clutches on anyway.
