Tonight, I walk into a theatre not as a spectator but as a curious onlooker of my own creation. I go to watch a play I have written. Not to soak in applause. Not to count the claps or measure the decibel level of appreciation.
I go for something far more unsettling and far more honest. I go to watch the audience.
Will there be a hush at the right moment. That sudden stillness when a truth lands quietly but firmly. Will someone shift in their seat because a line sounded uncomfortably familiar. Will a laugh come a second late because it carried a sting. These are the reactions no review can capture. They are the ones that tell you whether the message has found a home.
I go with curiosity. I go with a little apprehension. And I go with gratitude. Very few writers get to sit anonymously in the dark and watch their words walk, breathe, stumble, recover and finally speak to strangers.
Entertainment is a generous gift. A play, a film or a serial offers laughter, escape and relief from routine. But it also carries a quiet responsibility. Every story is an opportunity to slip something into the audience’s pocket without them noticing. A thought. A question. A pause. Something they will discover later when they are alone with themselves.
That thought takes me away from the theatre and into everyday life. Because most of us are performing roles whether we realise it or not. We may not be on stage but we are always in someone’s view. Parents perform daily before their children. Friends before friends. Colleagues before colleagues. Even strangers perform before strangers.
The question then becomes simple and uncomfortable. When someone walks away from us, do they take something with them. Not gossip. Not irritation. Not heaviness. But something that adds a little weight to the good side of life.
A mother who listens without interrupting. A father who apologises without defending himself. A teacher who notices the quiet child. A friend who does not offer solutions but stays. These are not dramatic acts. They will never get standing ovations. But they linger.
Writers and speakers often speak of impact as though it must be loud. But real impact is usually silent.
Your smile can be a script. A kind word can be a performance. A moment of patience can change the mood of an entire room.
So tonight, as the lights dim and the play begins, I will watch closely. Not for perfection. Not for praise. But for signs that someone in the audience has quietly received something worth taking home.
And tomorrow, when the curtain rises on our ordinary lives, perhaps that is the role we are all called to play. Not entertainers chasing applause. But everyday people offering small moments that make life just a little more liveable.
That is a play worth watching…!