It was piercing. It was shrill. It seemed to blow all the pretensions away in the vast room plunged in facile silence and darkness. It shattered her composure, her mask. It seeped inside her and was banging against the confines of her mind. Suddenly, the stage is flooded with a red glow. The woman who let out the scream looked straight at her. “Memory number 10: The pretty lady took me home. It was beautiful, just like her…” She felt like a voyeur peeping into the woman’s dark reminiscence. And then they were all battling it out - the sounds, the smells, the sanguine dreams, the despondencies, the guilt of desiring voluptuous pleasures, the unknown innate sensuality, the hypocrisy of an ideology, the shame of a compromise…