Shwarmas and showbiz

Illustration/Uday Mohite

My friend Anuvab Pal managed us two tickets for Jerusalem. Every London season has a ‘fully sold out' play - and this year, Jerusalem, was it - we climbed to our upper balcony seats, completely challenging our upper hamstrings, expectations were high.

Jez Butterworth had written what many considered to be the "greatest British play of the 21st century" - it starred Mark Rylance, Best Supporting Actor from Steven Spielberg's Bridge of Spies.

But nothing could have prepared us for what lay ahead.

For the next three hours, Mark Rylance, the heavy drinking, eccentric, lead character caught us by our unsuspecting collars and never let go.

His character, the opinionated, ex-daredevil, modern day Pied Piper, Johnny ‘Rooster' Byron, was so profoundly moving, three hours of his improbable storytelling, savage at times, poetic at others, attempting to balance on one leg through a lament for a lost England that vacillated between searing Shakespearean tragedy and Spike Milligan-like mad vaudeville.

I stepped out of the theatre, having witnessed perfection in a performance.

Perfection is a hard one to handle, for its sheer unexpectedness and one's own lack of preparedness.

As I chomped on a post-show shwarma, the Edgware Road, Beirut born, owner of the Lebanese eatery, Abdul, asked me, irritated: "Why long face, you nau like my lamb shwarma?"

"It's great, really great, Abdul"

"Den why you frown?"

"Sorry… it's not your food… it's a show I've just seen"

"Yew nau like lamb… make you cheeken?" he persisted.

"Lamb is fine, Abdul."

"I breeng you sammething else... tabouleh, fattush"

"No no, I'm fine, really, thanks."

"Then why you no smile when you eat Abdul's shwarma?"

How was I to smile, after seeing this performance, it was tears I was closer to.

"Also can you seet down wen you eat, no good eating while standing," Abdul informed me.

Restless, I was pacing up and down the street outside Abdul's Lebanese eatery. Rylance was in my head, his words, impossible to believe were ever written, so spontaneous and improvisational did he seem.

"Why you nau seedown… you cannot eat Abduls shwarma cold… you fusst eat, then you walk up and down my rezzraunt."

How could I tell Abdul from Beirut that I'd just seen an acting master class that was unreal in its brutality, it needed a scream out loud, and I was pacing to stop myself from doing that.

"Sorry don't mean to disturb, just pack up the shwarma, Abdul… I'll eat it at home."

"No no you eat here… eef you take home it geccold… here eat fresh!"

In that last scene, Rylance's ‘Rooster' all bloodied from a savage beating he'd just received, backing us the audience, stooping on one leg, quoting William Blake, all at once.

Every play or movie needs a protagonist, and we the audience need to care for him, his pain, his bravado, and we want him to satisfy his "want" - does he get the girl, does he win the war, can he vanquish his inner demons while battling the outer devils?

Protagonists who battle invisible/visible villains while dealing with inner vacuums are the most special.

And this performance was that.

Clearly my frown had returned, except my thoughts were different - Abdul's accent had not a hint of British anything in it, considering he'd been here awhile, it interested me much that, London was so ‘immigrationised', you heard a variety of Czechlish, Latvish, and in this case Lebanish.

Abdul, finally unable to cope with my distractedness asked: "What dis play you saw… why you like?"

I attempted to give him a gist. He interrupted me.

"Ah all dats rubbish… its what you call, make-belief... I'm a modern day hero… unnerstand… me Abdul Farhat, I come thirty years ago with nutthin… I leave behind my caantree, and come here… face racism… and make de best shwarma on Edgware Road, yes?"

How could I explain to this sweet old man, show biz was slightly more complex than shwarma making.

Except to him, it wasn't.

Rahul Da Cunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.com