The show.

One puppet. Two puppeteers.
(They don't know each other. 
They don't understand each other.
They want to co-ordinate but can't.)
Each hand attached to one puppeteer.
The strings hang unequally, 
the hands are awkwardly placed.
The movements are unnatural.


One hand slaps the cheek,
the other scratches the head.
The legs hang and hence move
randomly in the air, making the
puppet look like it's in a fit.
Maybe it is.
A state where it gets taken over
by powers that are beyond its comprehension.
Led by no emotion, its movements
are measured by guilt-free fun
of the puppeteers.


One puppeteer thinks the puppet has a mind of its own, because it moves not to his liking.
The other, only a little clueless, thinks he owns the puppet because he moves it.
The puppet cannot think. Can only dance.
Can dance like a clown that entertains.
Can dance like a mad man who only dances to forget his woes.
The puppeteers make his dance.
Because they can. Because they hold the reins.
Because they like to make the puppet move,
to make it look like a real man.


But the puppet can never be real.
The puppet can only act like it's alive.
It can act like it can emote
because its body emotes.