Jumbo Circus

When I was younger I did not like going to the movies. The theatres by themselves were inviting enough, with the soda fountain, the popcorn machine and the candyfloss counters beckoning me from a distance. But the moment I walked into the cinema hall and the lights dimmed for the film to start playing, I wanted to turn around and run home. The darkened room scared the living daylights out of me. 

The result was that I was never taken to the pictures, which suited me just fine. But on the rare occasion that my baby-sitter had taken the day off, my mother would drag me along. After promptly getting bribed with enough treats, I trooped in most reluctantly, balancing my Coca-Cola bottle in one hand and a humungous cotton candy in the other. Right after the newsreel (yes, those days, every film began with a newsreel and ended with our national anthem) I would turn my back to the big screen and sit facing the audience. The next three hours was pure torture and sometimes, when the music became too disturbing, I even shut the sound out by putting my hands over my ears. For the longest time, even the thought that we were going to the movies, gave me an imaginary stomach ache, almost instantly. 

However, quite contrary to this, if my family was taking me to the circus I would be over the moon because I simply loved everything about it. In fact, from the moment the gypsy like people of the troupe marched into the colony, I was filled with excitement. The road to the spacious sports ground, where they usually pitched their tent, went past my house and I would stand by our gate for hours, waving at everybody and everything that went by. 

The various acts of the juggler, the trapeze artists, the tightrope walker, the unicyclist, the lion tamer, the elephant ringmaster, the fire breather, the knife thrower, the gymnast, the monkey trainer, the magician, the trapeze artist, the sword swallower, the trampoline jumper, the plate spinner and the leotard wearing somersault experts, mesmerised me. I sat up straight, kept my eyes peeled and refused to blink for fear of missing out. But in all these routines, the one I really looked forward to, was that of the clowns. 

Oh! How I adored those clowns. The tall ones and the short ones, the fat-bellied ones and the scrawny ones, I loved them all. With white and red paint on their faces, pointy hats and exaggerated mannerisms, they made me giggle throughout the evening. 

When our daughter was five years old I took her to meet some clowns who were performing at a circus in Abu Dhabi. I was writing a story for the local paper and I thought she would like to interact with them. One look at their antics, as they jumped up and tried to sit on my husband’s lap, had her screaming in terror. My spouse had to carry her away immediately and I had to the conduct the interview the next day. 

Recently the Jumbo Circus came to town.

“You want to go to the circus?” my husband asked. 

“Yes!” I said. 

“No!” our daughter said. 

“I want to see the clowns,” I wailed. 

“They will jump on Dad’s lap again,” she warned. 

“You can sit facing the audience,” I suggested. 

She made a face at me. 

“Ok, both of you sit facing the audience,” I decided.