The Eye of the Hurricane

I ascended the steps of the opera house stiffly, watching as we climbed higher and higher, far away from the stage. We passed rows and rows of red seats, and I took in the towering marble columns, so imposing and grand. We hadn’t anticipated that the cheaper seats in the back would be so far away. My breaths came out shallower by the time we reached the top, and settled into our slightly too narrow, scratchy seats. I tried taking deeper breaths, squinting my eyes against the harsh opera theater lights.

“Are you okay?” My mother asked.

“Fine,” I muttered, moving pieces of hair from my face. Not my hair, but a strange combination of fake and real, donated hair, which formed a wig. It covered up my baldness, but it also covered my recent past in a clean, unassuming way.

My heart thrummed too fast, de-conditioned from 4 months of chemotherapy, and possibly slightly irritated by the confluence of lymph nodes taking up more space than normal in between my ribs. Now I was on immunotherapy, which was much more forgiving. But the after-effects of the chemo still persisted, taking away my eyebrows now. The steroids were still making my face puffy, and black spots from treatment still marked my face and hands.

But the stage really was so far away. It would be like watching a puppet show. I longingly watched the people in the front rows filing in, already imagining how beautiful their view was going to be.

I had dreamed of seeing this show live, though I never thought I would actually be here.

The stage show adaptation of the classic Indian film Mughal-E-Azam first caught my attention in 2018, in the midst of my obsession with the film. It tells the sweeping tragic tale of Anarkali and Salim. Star-crossed lovers, threatening the very sovereignty of the classical Mughal empire.

At last, the harsh lights went out, covering the opera house in an anticipatory darkness, and I watched the stage curtains pull back, revealing a beautiful, glimmering Mughal-inspired set. A stunning display of colored tiles and golden borders and embroidered silk. I was too far away, but even from here, I gasped softly. My complaints about the distance were instantly forgotten, and I was humbled by the opportunity to be here.

But I felt my chest constricting as the show began, reveling in the beauty, but also well aware of the circumstances. I wondered about the version of me that wouldn’t have had to wear a wig. Who wouldn’t have had a long list of appointments waiting in her patient portal. I thought about her occupying this seat. Would she be in awe, or would she be disappointed with the view?

I whispered along with every song, every lyric running through my veins like blood. I gasped and laughed and blushed exactly in-step with the scenes, and I had never felt so engrossed in something before. I was not the tragedy for once. I was the one watching the tragedy unfold, and I was noticing the beauty more than the pain. But if someone were to view my story one day, would they be able to find the beauty too?

I held my breath in anticipation as Anarkali said my favorite line of the movie. After Prince Salim had judged a musical competition where Anarkali was participating, he gave Anarkali the thorn instead of the rose, symbolizing losing. But she smiled coyly and said, “Thorns do not have to worry about wilting.”

I grinned in satisfaction when the crowd cheered at the beauty of the line. At that moment, after such a long time, I felt so in sync with the people around me. Like we all had one beating heart.

I continued to whisper-sing throughout the show, feeling a lump form in my throat as Anarkali sang some deep-cuts, the actress’s strong voice bouncing off the walls. Songs that had taken on a new meaning for me in the past few months. Would the alternate, cancer-less version of me have had this lump in her throat? More importantly, which version’s experience was superior? And I came to the aching realization that perhaps, the brilliance of the vision in front of me was a direct result of the oppressive, twisted darkness in my periphery. And I didn’t know how to feel about that fact.

When the lights finally came on, illuminating the opera house seats once again, I adjusted to the lights begrudgingly. I felt the heat flushing my face, and the heavy satin material of my Indian dress. I desperately wanted to take my wig off. I wanted to take it off right there, in front of everyone. But I took a deep breath. I just had to wait until we got back to the hotel. How satisfying that moment was, when I no longer had to artificially hide my dysfunction to maintain social harmony.

The vision of the sublime costumes and sparkles and opulence continued to dance in front of my eyes on the drive back to the hotel. The roaring applause just before the intermission, as the most famous song had reached its fervent crescendo, echoed in my ears for days and for a brief moment, just a brief moment, I had been absolved of every burden. I had been transported somewhere divine. The eye of the hurricane.