SCENE-VII
[Writer walks in with a book and pen.]
WRITER: Ah, right! This is where it all stopped. I know just exactly how to continue this.
NARRATOR: The writer ponders while fiddling with his pen a little – then moves to write, and the story continues –
[The writer exits as Inchara pulls out her umbrella when the rain starts to pour (insert happy rain music)…]
AMIT: INCHARA! (rushing towards her)
[Many people run to get away from the rain. And Amit runs towards Inchara – while holding a canvas in his hand.]
NARRATOR: While everyone tries to find a cover to themselves; Amit carefully puts his canvas under Inchara's umbrella.
[Inchara doesn't say a word but looks at the canvases between them and then into Amit's eyes. They stare for a moment before smiling and blushing at this moment they are in. And their hands holding the canvases crash against each other. People run amok while cussing at the sudden rain.]
INCHARA: Voila! (As she reveals her painting to Amit)
AMIT: Hmm, not bad. If I'm honest, it's better than what I look in the mirror everyday.
INCHARA: Thank me later. Now what have you done?
AMIT: Here goes nothing! (As he reveals his painting)
INCHARA: Daammnnn. That's breathtaking.
AMIT: Duhh! It's you. Of course it's going to be breathtaking.
NARRATOR: Inchara blushes and hides her face behind her painting.
[Somebody rushes and dashes into Inchara from her rear as she covers herself behind her painting –]
SOMEBODY, holding a canvas over their head and running past Inchara: HEY MOVE IT IT'S IS RAINING!
[As Inchara falls forward Amit bends to his side to catch and hold her by her back. But they stare there, still in shock but now looking amazed while looking into the other's eyes.]
~~~Music ('Mere Hi Liye' by Aditya Rikhari) cue-5 (01:42)~~~
[Amit slowly lifts Inchara up, as they continue looking at each other, the distance from each other's eyes not changing. Inchara tries to say something but awkwardly looks away, taking her shoulder away from Amit. Amit's expression doesn't change. As Inchara looks back at him, they awkwardly stare at each other for a good moment until the music in their heads gets interrupted.]
~~~Music ends (01:59)~~~
AMIT'S FRIEND: -Yo! Amit! Get over here. Ma'am's asking for you.
[Amit looks at his friend, and then back at Inchara.]
AMIT: Be right back. Maybe we can meet under your umbrella and continue tomorrow.
~~~Music ('Mere Hi Liye' by Aditya Rikhari) cue-6 (03:36)~~~
[Inchara nods. Amit leaves the scene, but just before he leaves – he turns back to throw a meaningful smile to Inchara. Inchara continues staring at him until he is gone entirely. And even though the rain hadn't stopped her hands lower her umbrella.]
~~~Music ends (03:53)~~~
[Inchara's friend enters the stage, and holds Inchara's umbrella above both their heads.]
INCHARA'S FRIEND:(Coughs pretentiously) Ahem!
INCHARA: What!?
INCHARA'S FRIEND, smirk-lit: You tell me.
INCHARA: I'm yet to tell him in the first place.
INCHARA'S FRIEND: And when is THAT?
INCHARA: Tomorrow. I have missed him enough for one eternity.
~
SCENE-VIII
NARRATOR: The next day Inchara eagerly arrives and waits for Amit at the entrance, to confess her feelings for him. But he was nowhere to be found.
[Inchara's friend arrives and finds Inchara looking like she's trying to find the college.]
INCHARA'S FRIEND: Are you lost, lil birdie?
INCHARA: Lost in search of him.
INCHARA'S FRIEND: If not today, tomorrow.
INCHARA: No… today. You go in, I'll be right there.
NARRATOR: As her friend leaves her side, Inchara yet stands there. Waiting for what Amit had promised her.
[Amit's friend enters the scene and dashes into Inchara before stumbling a few steps from her.]
AMIT'S FRIEND: Oh, sorry.
INCHARA, trying to lend him a hand: Hey, you alright? Sorry. It was my fault.
AMIT'S FRIEND: (staring at Inchara, realizing it is her) Inchara… did you not hear?
INCHARA: Hear what?
AMIT'S FRIEND: It's Amit, h-he just met with an accident. And I don't t-think he… I'm sorry I need to go… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…
[Amit's friend rushes away as thunder is heard in the background. Inchara just freezes there – trying to process what she had just heard. Her knees hit the floor, and her umbrella falls loose… making rain fall onto her. But the water on her face was not the rain, or the hurt of falling.]
~
SCENE-IX
NARRATOR: The writer of this whole tragedy is slouched and passed over the typewriter. He is awakened by a shattered glass that fell from his desk. He wakes and finds the ghost of Inchara standing forth him.
WRITER: Ah shit, here we go again. (Fixes his glasses) What now?
INCHARA:(in a sad, creaking tone) WHY-Y?
WRITER: What's done is done.
INCHARA: But why does it have to be this way? You owe me a reason at least.
[She picks up the photo frame, of the writer with his wife and kid, on his desk and points it to him-]
INCHARA: He and I could have been this. Why didn't you give us a chance?
[She places the frame on the desk and walks backwards, slightly.]
INCHARA: I hope the bottles help you sleep at night.
[She turns away. Enraged, but knowing it is pointless. She starts walking away.]
WRITER: They are both dead.
[Inchara stop and turns back to him.]
INCHARA: What?
WRITER: Did you ever wonder why I stopped writing your story? My wife and daughter, they died because of a motorcycle accident. Sometimes, we don't get to choose our endings. We are just left to make peace with it.
[Inchara approaches the writer and places her hand on his shoulder.]
INCHARA: I am sorry.
WRITER: I am sorry I couldn't give you the ending you deserved. I can only write what I feel… and lately I couldn't write or fathom happiness.
INCHARA: I cannot help but wonder… what your writer had in mind.
WRITER: This is the closure I needed.
[As Inchara walks away – the writer only watches her go.]
WRITER: No… what have I done? This is wrong… I should…
[The writer picks his book and starts scribbling. Amit and Inchara appear at the sides of the writer's table (with red and silver ropes tied to them). But that is only a pigment of the writer's imagination, as he writes.]
NARRATOR: The writer tries to mend what he has brought upon his characters.
[Amit and Inchara come closer, but the writer scribbles it down – making them walk back to their initial positions.]
NARRATOR: But he only scribbles everything he writes. He couldn't mend them.
WRITER: NO! I CAN! (shouting while turning towards the Narrator – but not taking his eyes entirely off of his book)
[The writer writes, Amit and Inchara go back and forth. One runs while the other stretches their arm out. Then they reverse roles. Then they finally extend both their hands towards each other, as the writer intensely writes and scratches onto his pages. And finally thuds upon his desk – freezing the two… just a page away from each other. Their hands ache to hold the other.]
WRITER: I can… mend them. I can bring them together.
[The writer writes something onto his pages. Something which doesn't move Amit or Inchara from their frozen state.]
WRITER: I know exactly what to do.
[The writer scribbles words onto the book, and the Narrator eagerly tries to peak into the far book. The writer finally comes to a halt.]
NARRATOR: What did you write?
WRITER: It… doesn't matter. Ah, to hell with it!
[The writer tears the page and pushes it sideways – away from him.]
[At this moment the Narrator comes out of their place and picks up the tossed paper.]
NARRATOR:
I know and love stories, I know how this goes
Million rivers captured within me, I know how this flows
Weird how we are the way we are at the face of what we call life
Interesting how we disgust, love, fall, brave, brace, and strife
"Couldn't it have been easier?" I sometimes hate to wonder
I see pain behind your smile and beyond your micro-actions I yonder and ponder
If only life hadn't hurt you… Would you be you, or happier?
Even when I want you happy, I love the you you are, I'm sappier
Your story holds lies of misery, while your eyes reflect beauty
As a writer I'm obliged to write you happiness; that indeed is my duty
But I hope my pen has enough ink for when I do sit down
I will write you a beautiful prophecy, and you get to wear your wedding gown
No the guy won't leave you at the altar, nor die before he wears you a ring
He'll kiss your lips and never hold anger, I hope his him makes you sing
But I don't see a happily ever after, after all, things aren't always the same
But I hope to write you strength if so, and you get to get anything you fight to claim
But… Who writes for the writer his or her own symphony?
They write misery and death, because the floor has hit their bruised-knee
They hope the pen bleeds enough ink, to cover their wounds
They hope to find some happiness or closure, before their story concludes
They know what has happened has happened but they try to fight the pages
They tear them apart to rewrite to a perfection at each of your stages
Call us gods, triumphant kings, a lousy loser, lover, careless jerks, or even nerds
But believe… us writers do think of our characters as we think of our words