PART ONE{mosimage}

Never in my life had i been this desperate to star in theater - however tiny the part may be.

I'm 45 - sounds great this number combination is but in all actualities, i'm beginning to lose my grip on its greatness as i approach the starting line of being old.

Lyrics of Michael Jackson's  BEN and MUSIC&ME in ripped-off pages of the cheapest notebook you could ever imagine and top hits of the Carpenters pasted at the back of an old calendar, all posted yet hidden behind hanged black and white portraits of our family are haunting me. This were all my father's. I hated him as I hated the way he handled my blossoming 'career' in singing. A career which was then highlighted only by sending me to almost all singing competitions from the nearby town to the remotest villages celebrating feast of saints. I couldn't have anything with ice; couldn't play neither under the glaring sun nor in the rains as those would destroy my voice...my angelic voice which made my family proud amidst the daily servings of rice with tomato toppings in its freshest condition and holed wallings of the house. I was forced, I thought so then. His eyes would penetrate my innermost strentgth to make me sing in front of his guests and so I would die afterwards..then breathe...and hide myself completely under the power of a radio transistor belting the music of those on the walls.

Now...I hate myself for hating those memories.

Now....I want so much to sing....with force...with power...with that figure who prominently stays in my mind as the owner of this voice and I was just his instrument. But I don't give a damn. All I wanted now is to see him again with bulging eyes as he stared at me to go on sing.. That was, now I realize, the peak of my 'career'.