“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.”
A play was in progress in India. Actor and dramatist Girish Chandra Ghosh (1844–1912) was playing the role of a drunkard and profligate. In one scene he was required to abuse a woman. His acting was so vivid and natural that a man in the audience, intensely infuriated and stirred, threw his shoe at the actor. It struck Girish and rebounded on the stage. Girish immediately picked it up, placed it on his head, bowed to the audience, and declared that he had never received a more gratifying tribute.
What happened to that man in the audience has probably happened to us all. The play of creation has been going on from God-knows-when. We were supposed to be watching it and enjoying it. At some point in this cosmic play, we probably got so involved in it, so identified with the characters and events in the story, our response was so strong and so quick, that before we knew it, we had already left our seats and found ourselves on the stage, becoming a part of the story ourselves.
When exactly this transition from being a “spectator” to being an “actor” occurred we do not know. We stopped watching the play at some point and began acting in it. We became immersed in our roles to such an extent that we even forgot that we were only actors. We became one with the characters we were playing.
This is, of course, the hallmark of all genuine actors. They forget their real identity and become one with the role they are playing in the story. When the story requires the character to shed tears in a tragic scene, good actors don’t need to smear glycerine under the eyes. Their body and mind, their entire being, becomes so attuned to the role, that tears and smiles come naturally to them. On this stage of the world, we too have become excellent actors. We laugh, we smile, we grieve, we suffer, we hate, we love, we fear. We do all of this, and more, naturally and effortlessly.
When the play is over, all actors regain their identity. When this play of creation is over, we too will regain our lost identity and know who we have always been. Not that every one is eager for the play to end. Many don’t even know that it’s a play. Some have heard that it is, but don’t really realize what it means (Kaṭha Upaniṣad, 1.2.7). Among those who believe it, some are terrified by the idea. But a few have had it. They just want out. For them, the question of questions is: when is this play going to end? If we are thinking “death” may be the answer, we need to think again.
Death does not end the play. The curtain rings down only for a while, and soon we have to get ready for the next act, perhaps for a different role, in a different costume, in a different makeup. The story continues with little variation—a few tears and a few smiles, with a liberal sprinkling of love, hatred and jealousy—like the soap operas, full of stock situations and the usually predictable storylines.
If this play of creation does not end with death, when does it do so? Alas, it never does. It just goes on and on, without ending. It’s being enacted on a revolving stage, one scene following another without respite. Now that we are already somehow entangled in this play of creation, when can we realistically expect to be free? Is there any hope that the play will end someday?
There is always hope. The play can go on—who cares?—but there is no reason why I should. The problem is that, so long I continue to be a “good” actor, I cannot get out. Will the director ever let go of good actors? They will be held back one way or another. But in the case of bad actors, the director is only too eager to dismiss them. As soon as a suitable substitute is found, the director shows the door to the bad actor. I know now what I need to do to get out. I must stop being a good actor and learn to act badly.
Is it possible to consciously practice bad acting? I think it is possible. Suppose a rich man is required to play the role of a beggar. Would his acting be natural if he is not able to forget that he is really rich but only playing at being poor? If an actor, miserable in her real life, is asked to play on stage the character of a cheerful woman, would she able to do it well if all the while she remains conscious of her personal woes? The actors who cannot forget their real identities while acting are bad actors. Their acting lacks spontaneity and authenticity. They have no future in the acting world. Sooner or later they are forced to quit.
If I really want to quit from this play of creation, I must become a bad actor. That is the only way out. When I consistently dish out bad performances, the director of this cosmic play—who else but God!—will, I imagine, gently whisper in my ears, “My child, go and sit among the audience. I cannot use you anymore. You have lost your ability to act. The only thing you are fit for now is to watch this play.” While this seems like a dismissal, it is in fact a reward.
Oddly enough, in this play of creation, it requires tremendous effort to become a bad actor, and hardly any effort to be a good actor. (Try writing a sentence with every word spelt wrongly. That needs more effort!) To get out now and dissociate myself from the play appears impossible unless I try real hard to make myself unfit for it. The only way to become a bad actor is to remind myself incessantly of my real identity, and to consciously detach myself from the role I am playing. I must remember always that all this is only a play, not real. I am reading fiction, not living history. I am not the character I have been dressed up in. I am someone different.
I learn from Vedanta that I am not the body, not the mind, not the intellect, not the ego. I could say that they belong to me, but I am not any of them. I am different from them. The ātman—or pure awareness—is the real me. The body, the mind, the intellect, the ego—all these are, at best, only coverings over me. What is my true nature? I am free, ever-pure, without birth, without death. I am being, consciousness, bliss absolute. I have never had any birth, nor will I ever die. I am free and infinite. (Gita, 2. 11–25)
All of this sounds too ridiculous to believe. It can be too disorienting to be told that I am not who I’ve always thought I am. It’s too scary to feel that I do not know who I am, but that seems to be the message. I have been so much absorbed in acting in this play of creation that I have forgotten my real identity. When and how did I forget this truth about myself? The Gita addresses this subject of loss of memory (smṛti-bhraṁśa) and traces its cause and its effects (2. 62-63), and recommends practices to help recover the lost memory.
When the quality of my acting in this play of creation starts degenerating, that is to say, when I am reminded again and again of who I really am, I become incapable of responding fully to the fictitious character I am supposed to be playing. I can no longer play a human being because I find it difficult to forget that I am divine. That’s the time for me to quit the stage. Sri Ramakrishna said,
“If a boiled paddy-grain is sown, it doesn’t sprout. Just so, if a man is boiled by the fire of knowledge, he cannot take part any more in the play of creation” (Gospel, p. 668).
I have to become “boiled” by the fire of knowledge—which will burn to ashes my false self and reveal my true identity. I will then remain absorbed in my real self (ātman). My duties as actor will be over (Gita, 3. 17). Once again I’ll find myself among the audience.
All who have attained enlightenment in this life are the audience. They are watching and enjoying this play of creation. Those who are absorbed into the play and are playing their roles to perfection are the actors. They can’t choose their roles but they can, if they wish, quit acting. No one is forcing them out. But if they want out, there is a way to get out.
Let the play go on. Once I am in the audience, I am free from the obligations and compulsions of acting. If I want, I can sit and watch the play. If I get tired and find it boring (as I eventually will, everyone does), I am free to walk out of the auditorium for ever. No rush. I can take my time. I am free.