Chapter 1: The Night Journey

The applause had died hours ago, but its echo lingered in the empty auditorium like dust settling after a storm. The critics would come tomorrow with their prepared questions, their notebooks filled with observations about theatrical nuance and directorial vision. But tonight belonged to the audience, and their response had been kind enough—perhaps generous, considering the weariness that had crept into the performances during these final weeks of touring.

Kaurav watched the last of the props being loaded into the first bus. Twenty-five people, he counted again, though the number had become meaningless through repetition. Five musicians, two singers, thirteen actors, three backstage crew. They moved with the mechanical efficiency of those who had performed this same ritual in a dozen cities across Karnataka. The props went first—costume trunks, lighting equipment, the portable sound system that had developed an irritating hum somewhere between Hubli and Belgaum.

Shaunak Sarkar—Ronida to everyone—had wanted him to remain for the morning meeting with the critics. "You should hear what they say about your writing," he had urged, his voice carrying that mixture of paternal concern and professional calculation that Kaurav had learned to recognize. But Kaurav understood the mathematics of theatrical touring better than sentiment. One hundred and fifty kilometers to Mysore, props to be set up, sound checks to be completed. Without him, the backstage crew would drift into their natural state of lethargy, and the evening's performance would begin late. Ronida's anger, when it came, would be swift and public.

The second bus smelled of diesel and stale cigarettes. Kaurav had chosen seat twenty-one deliberately—far enough from the musicians in the front rows to avoid their post-performance chatter, close enough to the window to feel the February night air seeping through the imperfect seal. He loosened his belt and settled back, his National School of Drama hoodie a small comfort against the advancing cold.

The engine turned over with a mechanical sigh. Siddhartha, their tour manager, completed his ritual count of passengers and luggage, his voice calling out names with the precision of a railway conductor. Then they were moving, the bus joining the sparse late-night traffic flowing south toward Mysore.

In the darkness, Kaurav felt the familiar surrender that came with being transported. His body, exhausted from the long day that had begun before dawn and ended after midnight, settled into the rhythm of the road. The musicians had found Rahman on the radio, and the familiar melodies mixed with the sound of tires on asphalt, creating a lullaby that was both personal and universal.

As consciousness began to fade, Kaurav thought about the performance they had just completed, about the one waiting in Mysore, about the critics who would analyze tomorrow what they had lived tonight. But these thoughts, too, became part of the rhythm, part of the collective unconsciousness that bound the twenty-five of them together in this metal capsule moving through the Karnataka night.

The bus carried them toward another heritage city, another audience, another temporary arrangement of lights and voices that would, for a few hours, transform empty space into meaning.

Disclaimer:   This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views and opinions expressed in this novel are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any agency, organization, or entity. Reader discretion is advised.