THE PLAY
THE PLAY
‘SUCH A TALENTED PLAYWRIGHT,’ said John as he glanced at the long queues outside the newly built Globe theatre. He had witnessed a similar rush of the crowd at The Theatre. ‘He is simply the best this country has ever produced.’
‘Are you referring to Christopher Marlowe, or Ben Johnson?’ said an old gent with mock puzzlement.
‘No! I’m talking about the one and only William Shakespeare,’ said John dramatically.
‘By the way, who’s in charge of the city? The country?’ asked John, feigning innocence.
‘Why, it’s Queen Elizabeth 1. Are you drunk? Are you in search of work in the city?’
‘Indeed, indeed, pardon me, ’ said John, as he bid the gent a quick goodbye and hurried along.
He was still taking in the sights and sounds, in what appeared to be late sixteenth-century England. How he was transported back in time, he does not know. The last thing he remembered was volunteering for a new invention by Elon Musk. He was in New Delhi in 2025, if memory served him right. Today, he found himself in ancient 16th-century London. The city of London seemed to be exhibiting restless energy. All around him, people were speaking in strange old orthodox English. The one he had read in Shakespeare’s plays at school. The streets of London were lined with houses, both of the rich and the poor. The poorer dwellings were simple to look at, plain, drab structures. The houses of the wealthy were attractive with timber frames and decorative gables. People milled around him, some repeating the lines of the play they had just witnessed. People seemed to be well-behaved with good manners. Their language seemed sophisticated and highly refined.
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‘May I have a bottle of beer, please?’ said John to the young waiter at the tavern, who had just entered.
‘Are you from out of town?’ said a gentleman with thinning hair in the front and a moustache. He was seated at a quiet corner of the tavern.
‘Please join me, I insist, ’ said the man in a friendly, warm voice.
‘You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you,’ said John in a dreamy voice. Everything seemed surreal to him at the moment.
‘Try me, I’m a playwright. Nothing you say will shock me’ said the man, still seated impassively in his seat.
‘William Shakespeare, ’ said the man as he extended his hand towards John.
‘John Dylan, ’ said John, taking the proffered hand, still in a state of shock.
‘May I suggest we try some ale, bread, and some pottage?’ suggested Shakespeare as he waved the waiter towards them.
‘Well, I’m a writer too, but how do I put it… from a different era, ’ began John. Over the next two hours, over some hearty ale, which was refilled frequently, and munching on some soft breads, John narrated his story to Shakespeare.
‘I don’t consider your story to be preposterous. I’m fighting with my good sense and logic to believe it. But what the hell, I’m a playwright. I thrive on novelty, so I’m tempted to believe in you. No… I completely believe in you’ said Shakespeare, to the delightful surprise of John.
‘Thank you, William. Thank you for believing in me. I feel as if a burden has been lifted off my soul’ said John, genuinely touched.
‘You tell me you are a writer…and here I am a playwright. That gives me an idea. What say? We collaborate on a new play. With your unique perspective and advanced methods of work, combined with my prose, we can make a play that can musically sing. What do you say?’
‘I’m game. I think it will be a unique concept. Combining the Elizabethan era with modern 20th-century thoughts, we can come up with a unique hybrid production. Let’s give it a try. And just one more thing, William… I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this opportunity. It will be my privilege to collaborate with a legend.’
‘You embarrass me…you don’t have to thank me’, said Shakespeare with profound modesty.
And so, John Dylan and William Shakespeare struck up a deep friendship. Their two different worlds came together in a bond of friendship that defied all explanations.
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‘As I have done some time travel…I propose we pen a play on that. But you have to help me out here. I’m severely handicapped without my tools. I’m used to working on a thing that’s called a laptop,’ said John in a helpless, lost voice.
‘Not to worry about such things. We work with what we have got. Here, take these’ said Shakespeare as he handed John some feather quills for writing.
‘You have to trim and retrim it for sharpness. Here, I’ll show you how it’s done’ said Shakespeare as he proceeded to give John a demonstration.
‘We don’t write on laptops or whatever it is you new fellows use. We use scraps of paper and these bound notebooks’ said Shakespeare, as he handed John the supplies.
‘What do you do for research in your world?’ asked Shakespeare in an amused tone.
‘We look it up on the net. But forget it… I know it will be a trifle difficult for you to comprehend my world. Why don’t you show me how you do it?’
‘Gladly, my friend gladly, ’ said Shakespeare, as he proceeded to throw some old chronicles, old plays, Italian novellas, and some printed old classical myths his way.
‘This is where I do my research. Feel free to use them’ said Shakespeare generously.
And so began the intense writing sessions- sometimes at the tavern, at other times at Shakespeare’s rented chambers. At other times, he accompanied Shakespeare to the Globe, where they jotted down ideas on scraps of paper backstage.
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They zeroed in on the idea of a mysterious clock as the theme for their play.
‘The Mysterious Clock’ scribbled John with his quill.
He was used to having cups of green tea at work. Now he had to do with an occasional glass of ale. Not too much…he had to stay sober. He was used to scrolling on screens, keeping digital files, and using other apps when writing. But here, writing with a quill seemed strangely a cathartic experience for him. It comforted him greatly, and he realised that he could think better. The research was more thorough, though time-consuming. He began to appreciate the writers of this era more and more as they progressed on their project.
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As they started sketching the characters for the play, he was privy to how the great legend worked. Shakespeare would move his lips silently as he rehearsed lines in his head before he wrote them down. He would enact each character’s role before he brought them to fruition on paper. He scribbled his notes on blank notebooks, where he constantly rewrote and adjusted lines, added speeches, and jotted and inserted ideas as they came to him. John was left awestruck at the maestro’s process. Wanting to contribute, he introduced Shakespeare to the concept of headphones to cancel outside noise. But here they took the help of a guitar player who strummed on his guitar while they worked. He thought he would tell Shakespeare about the messy first draft, but he felt Shakespeare was well ahead of the game, even in his day and age.
‘The Clockmakers’ Paradox’ scribbled Shakespeare, as he waved his ink-stained fingers, at John.
‘That’s it, ’ said John, ‘That’s the title of our play. ’
‘This play is about how the fate of kingdoms hangs in balance… given that now the time can be altered…should the characters, especially the protagonist, change the past or accept destiny?’ mused John loudly.
William Shakespeare had a special knack for adding jokes, a line, a pause at the right place. He scribbled, cut out, overwrote, added lines, deleted lines, trimmed the dialogues, and refined them until he was satisfied with the product. John noticed all these with reverence as he began to take mental notes.
‘Working with you, William, was a privilege… how the hours passed, I never noticed. I learnt a lot, watching you work. It was sheer magic’ said John as if in a daze.
‘I couldn’t have done without your help either, ’ said Shakespeare humbly.
The play “The Clockmaker’s Paradox” opened to packed houses at the Globe Theatre. It was a rage, and it electrified the audiences who came back for more and more. John Dylan became famous during the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1. He was invited to stage plays with his best friend, William Shakespeare, at the palace. Their plays found favour with the nobility, the aristocracy, and even the ordinary gentry. John Dylan had no regrets as his new world embraced him and took him in its bosom.
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