SCENE 8 — ENDING: A SMALL LIGHT
(MANTU quietly brings a single candle. Places it on the desk near the letters. Lights it. One small flame.)
MANTU:
One candle, Borda.
Not for guests.
For you.
(SUBHAS watches the flame.)
SUBHAS:
When my wife died, people came.
Then they stopped—slowly.
Not because they are cruel.
Because life pulls.
And I… I helped it happen.
I stopped insisting.
I stopped calling.
I stopped sending.
(He picks up the diary again. Finds the backup pen now—it was inside the drawer. He writes.)
SUBHAS (writing aloud):
“Tonight I learned something simple:
the world can’t answer what I never send.”
(He looks at MANTU.)
Mantu… sit.
SUBHAS:
Tell me something from when the children were small.
One small foolish thing.
MANTU (after a beat, soft smile):
Madam used to hide sweets in the rice jar, Borda.
And you pretended you didn’t know.
But every night you took one and left the lid a little loose—
so the children would find it in the morning.
And Madam scolded you—
smiling scold—
like she caught you stealing joy.
(SUBHAS listens. His shoulders drop for the first time. He breathes.)
SUBHAS (to audience, final):
Maybe this is enough to begin.
Not a room full of people.
Just one person who stays.
One candle.
One story told slowly.
(He picks up one envelope, weighs it in his hand.)
Tomorrow… I will send them.
Not for proof.
Not for pride.
Just to say—
“I am still here.”
(Lights hold on the candle flame. The ticking continues, but it no longer sounds like a threat. Fade out.)
— END —