By Number 12 (Inside Center)
A Grand Satirical Masterpiece in Two Acts
Setting: The grand ballroom of a dilapidated hotel in Colombo. On the left stage, a glittering, state-sponsored sports press conference podium with a banner reading: “SPORTS TOURISM WILL SAVE US ALL.” On the right stage, a dusty backstage closet filled with broken plastic trophies and a moldy red carpet under a sign reading: “THE NONSENSE COMMITTEE OF THE OSCARS OF SRI LANKA.”
Audio Atmosphere: From the very opening of the house doors, a slow, jazzy, deeply melancholic brass band version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” loops softly in the background. It sounds less like a triumphant rugby anthem and more like a funeral dirge played at a New Orleans jazz funeral.
Characters:
- ANANDA PERERA: Former sports chief turned theatrical critic. Dressed in a pristine blazer over a sarong, holding a rugby ball in one hand and a calculator showing a deficit of millions in the other.
- MAHESH: The “Grand High Secretary of International Outreach” for the film committee. Wearing a rented tuxedo jacket, flip-flops, and clutching an empty clipboard.
- THE INVISIBLE MINISTER: A golden throne bathed in a blinding, unmerited spotlight in the center of the stage.
ACT I: THE RUGBY MIRACLE
(The lights snap onto the left side of the stage. The background music swells slightly—the trombone groans out the opening bars of “Swing Low…” ANANDA PERERA steps up to a gold-plated microphone, wiping a theatrical tear from his eye. He looks toward the empty golden throne.)
ANANDA:
(Voice trembling with faux emotion, timed to the slow rhythm of the music)
Ladies, gentlemen, and members of the press who haven’t yet been banned for asking about our national budget… lend me your ears! Today, I do not stand before you as a disgruntled administrator. No! I stand here as a blind man who has finally been made to see by the radiant, glittering brilliance of our visionary Ministry of Sports!
(He applauds frantically. Total silence fills the room. The trumpet in the background hits a weeping, muted note.)
For years, cynics—miserable, short-sighted fools like myself—complained about the “collapse” of domestic rugby. We wept because our national 7s team plummeted from Number 2 in the region down to Number 9. We cried that our local clubs have no sponsors, our stadiums are empty, and our grassroots development is buried in the gutter.
But how hopelessly pedestrian we were! Because our magnificent Minister looked at our burning house and said: “Why put out the fire, when we can hire a world-class British marching band to play in the front yard for a week?”
(The background music suddenly shifts from a dirge to an absurdly upbeat, circus-style swing version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as ANANDA gasps dramatically, pointing to the sky.)
Genius! Absolute genius! Who cares if local rugby is practically extinct? Look at the glitter! Look at the Westhampton Sinners! Ten English internationals are flying across the globe to grace our shores, coming to carry us home! They are going to play a T20 cricket match against our 1996 legends! Because nothing screams “local rugby revival” quite like a 50-year-old cricketer hitting a six at the Racecourse Grounds!
(He lifts his rugby ball high like a skull.)
We don’t need a domestic league! We don’t need grassroots funding! The Minister has unlocked the ultimate magic trick: Sports Tourism. You simply say the words, and suddenly, a one-week exhibition festival erases six years of administrative decay! Some might look at this and say, “All that glitters is not gold.” To them I say: Heresy! If it glitters, we will market it!
(ANANDA bows so low his forehead touches the podium. The music transitions back into a slow, mocking blues crawl. The light shifts harshly to the right side of the stage.)
ACT II: THE CINEMATIC MIRAGE
(MAHESH is sitting on an upturned plastic bucket in the dusty closet, staring deeply into an empty tin can. He taps his flip-flop to the agonizingly slow beat of the trombone.)
MAHESH:
(Standing up, shaking his empty clipboard at ANANDA)
Oh, bravo, Ananda! Bravo! Welcome to the club of pure illusion! You think you sports people have a monopoly on selling glitter? Please! Step into the hallowed halls of the Nonsense Committee of the Oscars of Sri Lanka!
(He paces the stage, his flip-flops slapping against the floor in time with the bassline.)
Do you know who I am? No. Of course you don’t. Because I am Someone at the Nonsense Committee, which means, by definition, I am absolutely No One. Look at our titles! We have the Sub-Sub-Director of Red Carpet Velvet Quality. And me? I am the gatekeeper to Hollywood! The bridge to the Academy Awards!
Every year, our cinematic elite gather. The flashbulbs pop! The speeches drag on until three in the morning, thanking aunts, uncles, and ancestors! And what is my solemn, sacred duty? My duty is to select our official submission for the Best International Feature Film at the Oscars.
(He breaks into hysterical, cynical laughter as the clarinet squeaks a discordant note.)
Except for one minor, microscopic detail… we haven’t sent a film in years! The global deadline passes every October while we are still arguing over who gets the free buffet passes at our local gala! We spend four million rupees debating the font size on the invitation cards, while our actual cinematic masterpieces rot in uncooled storage rooms because nobody paid the electricity bill!
(He steps into the center stage, locking eyes with ANANDA as the music reaches a mournful crescendo.)
Last week, a real filmmaker came to my office. He had a brilliant independent movie in his hands. He cried, “Mahesh, please! This could change everything!” And what did I do, as a proud official of this Nonsense Committee? I told him his application couldn’t be processed because he hadn’t submitted it in triplicate on light-blue paper. Light-blue! We don’t even have light-blue paper in this country!
EPILOGUE: THE GRAND CHORUS
(Both ANANDA and MAHESH step toward the center, flanking the empty, spotlighted golden throne. The brass band plays a final, swelling, ironic chorus of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”)
ANANDA & MAHESH:
(Singly softly, perfectly in time with the music)
But the gala must go on! The exhibition must play!
ANANDA:
We will watch foreign stars play on our broken fields!
MAHESH:
We will walk down a fifteen-foot strip of red carpet laid over a pothole in Maradana!
ANANDA & MAHESH:
We will hand out trophies and praise to each other in a beautiful, closed-loop ecosystem of pure, unadulterated irrelevance! We are the kings of a kingdom that doesn’t exist.
(They turn and bow deeply to the empty throne. On the final, lowest bass note of “Swing Low,” a solitary, out-of-tune referee whistle blows, and a plastic Oscar trophy falls off a shelf, shattering on the ground.)
