eFiction India eFiction India Vol.02 Issue.09 | Page 12

11

STORIES

was absolutely brilliant. Tragic, but brilliant. Supposedly, she had
died of carbon-monoxide poisoning as she had put her head in
the oven and blocked the rooms between her and her kids with
wet towels. Her end was as absorbing as her name, and surely as
unfathomable. It was a complete mystery. Did she commit suicide?
If so, why? Or did she want to be saved? What in the world was
she trying to do as she stuck her head in the oven, with the gas
turned on? If she didn’t mean to die, why did she go through the
trouble of sealing the rooms between her and her kids? Whoa, this
is mind-boggling! I thought, as I suddenly found myself empathising with and completely enamoured of her. She must have been so
sad, so desperate to have done this to herself. Just like me. Anyway,
as sad as I felt, I also felt excited (and guilty about feeling so) about
playing Sylvia Plath; about being Sylvia Plath.
The entire week before the carnival, I shocked everyone (and
myself ) with my cheerful disposition and unusually high spirits
in anticipation of the carnival. I enacted the scene a million times
in my head, even drawing on my love for Maths cleverly to time
the whole thing right, so that I didn’t end up being Sylvia literally,
if you know what I mean. I triple checked the time everyone was
expected to arrive, the time we were supposed to have dinner, my
position in the lineup of performances, how much time I had for
prep, and the myriads of details that would make the Act perfect.
The performances were not supposed to start until after dinner, and
my performance was right after my sister’s who was playing everyone’s favourite Virginia Woolf, so people would be too engrossed
to come barging in on me as I prepped. Moreover, our kitchen
was at a considerable distance from the living room and the rest
room, so once dinner was through, no one ever really went there
anyway until it was time to put the leftovers away and load the
dishwasher after everybody had left. During the last minutes of
my sister’s performance, I would politely excuse myself. I would
let my mother know I was going into the kitchen to rehearse, so
once my sister’s performance was through, and I didn’t appear on
stage, she would know where to come looking for me. My plan
was flawless. Finally, after seven nights of endless doubts, extreme
anxiety and a stinging rush of adrenaline apropos its execution,
the day of the carnival arrived.

eFiction India | June 2014

My nerves were on edge the whole day, and in the evening, I was the
first one to get ready. I greeted everyone with a smile, and for the
first time in the history of The Bloomsbury Group, received compliments for my costume. The rest of the evening passed through
in a daze, as I hopped between the living room and the kitchen,
mentally replaying the particulars over and over again. Finally, my
moment of truth stared me in the face. My sister started performing. I rushed to the kitchen nervously when I felt she was about
to conclude. I carefully shut all the doors to the kitchen and sealed
them with wet kitchen towels. I gently turned the gas on, and
placed my head in the oven. Just as I was beginning to get comfortable in the position, it struck me that I forgot to tell my mother
where I was going. Shoot! What do I do? It was too late to go back
and rectify my mistake. It would ruin the impact of my performance. I couldn’t risk that. This was the first time I was so genuinely involved in something that it made me feel alive. I couldn’t
let one tiny error jeopardise it. I’m sure everyone would figure out
where I am... Eventually. Well, they would come looking for me when
my name is called out and I don’t appear, wouldn’t they? At least, my
parents would... But what if they didn’t? What if they asked my
sister for an encore performance, like they always do? What if they
asked someone else to perform, mistaking my disappearance for
one of the many tantrums I was notorious for throwing?
All of a sudden, amidst the panic at the mere thought of not being
discovered till it was too late, and the dizziness of having my head
inside the oven for too long, setting in simultaneously, I found
myself thinking about Sylvia again. Was this how she felt, as she
placed her head inside the oven on the portentous morning of February
11, 1963 – scared, lonely, and unloved? Did she believe someone would
come and rescue her in time? Did she even care if someone did? What
were her last thoughts before she passed on?
And so, all of a sudden, without warning, I stopped worrying.
I just continued to sit there, with my head lying motionless in
the oven, as my mind crept out to wander freely in a vast limbo,
finally choosing