When the Curtain Rises: My Life Across Stage and Speech

When the Curtain Rises: My Life Across Stage and Speech

There are moments in life when the spotlight does not merely fall upon you—it reveals you. For me, the stage has never been just a wooden platform framed by curtains; it has been a sacred arena where imagination breathes, philosophy echoes, and the unspoken finds its voice. Whether draped in the intensity of a dramatic role or standing before an expectant audience with a speech that demanded both courage and conscience, I found myself shaped, chiselled, and illuminated by every performance.

The Stage: My First University

Long before I learnt to speak in public as a trained orator, it was the stage that taught me to listen—to characters, to emotions, to silence itself. I was blessed to perform in and direct a wide spectrum of plays across languages, cultures, and sensibilities.

From English plays such as Fur Flies, Beyond Reasonable Doubt, The Shoemaker of Syracuse, The Prince Who Was a Piper, and St. Simeon Stylites, to regional productions like Bakri in Hindi, Panchali in Bangla, Aama in Nepali, and Sangharsh in Odia—the theatre became a mosaic of human experience.

Each play was a pilgrimage.
Each role was a revelation.

In Panchali, I lived the ache of Draupadi—betrayed, humiliated, yet unbroken—her dignity a flame that neither kings nor dice games could extinguish.
In Aama, the mother’s pain crept into my bones, reminding me of the universal language of sacrifice.
In St. Simeon Stylites, spirituality rose like incense, offering a philosophical ascent beyond worldly dust.

There were times when backstage whispers felt like ancient mantras, threads tying our mortal efforts to eternal stories. Theatre, after all, is where humanity rehearses its truths before the larger drama of life begins.

The Art of the Spoken Word

Alongside theatre, my journey as a speaker galloped forward with equal passion. From school assemblies to inter-state competitions, from inter-college to inter-university tournaments, I stood behind countless podiums—sometimes nervous, sometimes fearless, always alive.

Winning first prizes at so many levels did not inflate my pride; rather, they deepened my responsibility. Speech, unlike a rehearsed script, is a living organism—breathing through the speaker, evolving with the audience, and flowering in the moment.

A good speech is not delivered; it is surrendered.
Surrendered to truth, to conviction, to the invisible thread that binds speaker and listener.

I recall an elderly judge once telling me:
“Your words do not speak; they walk.”
Perhaps that is what oration truly is—words stepping out into the world to do their work.

In those moments, I understood why ancient philosophers believed speech was divine. The Vedas considered Vāk (speech) as a goddess. The Bible echoes, “In the beginning was the Word.” And theatre reminds us that all creation started with a sound—a cue, a call, a whisper from the wings of eternity.

Between Performance and Philosophy

Both drama and speech enthralled me because they shared a common purpose: to reflect the human condition.

In a one-act play, a character’s journey mirrors the fragile architecture of our emotions.
In a speech, one must distil wisdom into sentences that ring true long after the applause fades.

The stage sharpened my empathy; public speaking refined my intellect.
The stage taught me vulnerability; speeches taught me persuasion.
The stage opened my imagination; speaking opened my influence.

Together, they shaped my worldview—one that acknowledges the depth of human suffering, the beauty of human resilience, and the eternal dialogue between destiny and free will.

As Tagore wrote:
“The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life.”

Finale: When the Last Spotlight Fades

When I look back today, the countless hours under glaring lights, the tension of a silent hall before a speech, the trembling hands of co-actors backstage, the roar of applause—all of it feels like a beautifully crafted tapestry. Every role I played and every speech I delivered became a stanza in the ongoing poem of my life.

If I have learnt anything through these performances, it is this:
One does not perform to impress; one performs to express.
And when expression becomes authentic, the world listens—sometimes quietly, sometimes thunderously, but always sincerely.

So here I stand, years wiser, heart fuller, still carrying the fragrance of greasepaint and the warmth of many podiums. Life itself has become my stage now, and every day, I continue to perform—not for applause, not for awards, but for the sheer joy of being alive, articulate, and purposeful.

In the grand theatre of existence, where destinies are scripted in light and shadow, I have learnt to walk with the poise of a performer and speak with the clarity of a sage. The curtain may fall on many acts of my life, yet the echoes of passion, resilience, imagination, and truth linger like a timeless soliloquy. For the actor in me still seeks new characters to understand, and the orator in me still yearns for words that can heal, awaken, and transform. And thus, with every breath, I continue my silent rehearsal—polishing the soul, refining the voice, and preparing for life’s next magnificent performance.