SCENE 7 — THE DESK: THE DRAWER
(Tight pool of light at the writing desk. SUBHAS sits. He opens the diary. The ticking is now a metronome.)
SUBHAS (to audience):
Every day I write.
Not because my life is important—
because paper is the only thing that still waits for me.
(He writes a line, speaks as he writes.)
“Today I turned eighty.”
(Pause.)
“The house was ready.”
(Pause.)
“And no one came.”
No.
That sentence is too naked.
(He presses the pen. Nothing. He shakes it. Dead.)
Of course.
Even the pen has given up.
(He searches for a backup pen, opens a small box—empty. He exhales.)
Backup… drawer.
(He pulls the drawer. It sticks. He tugs. It opens.)
(He goes still.)
(Inside: a stack of sealed envelopes—invitation letters—neatly addressed.)
SUBHAS (whisper):
No.
(He lifts one. Reads.)
Mr. Roy.
(Another.)
Mrs. Dalloway.
Dr. Sinha.
Harry, Arthur, Mr. Patel.
(He looks at the stack. His breath changes.)
They’re here.
(A broken laugh escapes—then stops.)
I… never sent them.
(A long silence. MANTU steps closer.)
MANTU:
Borda…?
SUBHAS:
All evening I blamed them.
I called myself unwanted.
I made a court in my head and I sentenced the world.
(He holds up the letters.)
And the world never received the charge.
(He tries to regain pride and fails.)
Eighty years…
and the simplest thing defeats me.
MANTU:
We can send them tomorrow, Borda.
SUBHAS (shakes his head):
Tomorrow isn’t the point.
(He looks toward the darkened table.)
Tonight wasn’t dinner.
It was a test.
(He swallows.)
I wanted proof I still belong somewhere.
MANTU:
You belong, Borda.
SUBHAS:
To what?
MANTU (small, firm):
To this house.
To your children, even when they’re far.
To your memories.
To me.
(SUBHAS closes his eyes.)
SUBHAS (to audience):
I wanted them to come without being asked—
so I could believe I mattered without requesting it.
But asking is not begging.
Asking is… staying human.
(He sets the letters down carefully, like fragile evidence.)