SCENE 2 — LATE MORNING: THE GUESTS WHO LIVE IN MY MOUTH
(Brighter. MANTU polishes glasses. SUBHAS paces, restless.)
SUBHAS (to audience):
People don’t vanish.
They fade—like paint on an old wall.
One day you notice a blank patch and realize it used to be a doorway.
Now I remember my friends like I remember old songs—some melody, some words—sometimes just memories.
(SUBHAS calls out, too loudly—nervous energy.)
Mantu! The wine?
MANTU:
Yes, Borda. The good one.
SUBHAS:
Good.
Tonight we don’t drink to forget. We drink to remember.
(SUBHAS sits. The pacing slows—memory takes over.)
Some of them I’ve known since school.
We were ridiculous. We thought—time would wait—like – at your service, Sir.
We thought love was a thing you could control like a horse.
There was a boy—Subodh—who had an eye on my wife before she was my wife.
Everyone had an eye on her.
Jealousy taught me something: it burns only the person holding it.
I had a curse for one of them once. Not a real curse—just the kind young men throw around when pride is bruised.
But I never crossed the border.
I learned early: the border you cross once becomes a habit.
MANTU (quietly):
You don’t talk like this often, Borda.
SUBHAS:
Because no one asks.
Because no one sits long enough to hear the ending of a sentence.
(SUBHAS looks at the prepared table.)
Look at it—
candles, cloth, plates—
a table waiting like an open hand.
MANTU:
They’ll come.
SUBHAS (a crack):
Yes.
They must.
(SUBHAS catches himself, stands, regains pride.)
It would be indecent otherwise.
Indignity isn’t wrinkles or sickness.
Indignity is when your importance becomes a memory in someone else’s mind.
(Clock ticks louder. Lights shift toward noon.)