SCENE 2 — ARUNDHUTI COMES TO SWAYAMPRABHA’S HOUSE
CHARACTERS
- SWAYAMPRABHA
- ARUNDHUTI
SETTING
Late afternoon at SWAYAMPRABHA’s home. The living room is tidy but lived-in: a folded laundry basket in a corner, steel cups on a tray, a shawl draped on the sofa.
SFX: distant traffic, ceiling fan, occasional neighbor sounds.
(Lights up. SWYAMPRABHA stands in a corner, not doing anything exactly—just standing as if the space is holding her together. She adjusts something that doesn’t need adjusting. Doorbell. She startles.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Coming!
(She wipes her eyes quickly though she hasn’t cried yet, smooths her saree, opens the door.)
(ARUNDHUTI enters with a small cloth bag—fruits and a packet. She scans SWYAMPRABHA in one glance: the face, the breath, the unnatural neatness.)
ARUNDHUTI
Arre wah.
You called like emergency, and now you’re standing like you’re hosting a committee meeting.
What happened?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Come in. Sit. I made tea.
ARUNDHUTI
Your voice on the phone—
(imitates gently)
“Aru… can you come when you can?”
That “when you can” was not “when you can.”
That was “come now.”
(SWYAMPRABHA busies herself—pours tea, rearranges biscuits. ARUNDHUTI sits, watching. She lets SWYAMPRABHA perform “normal.” Then—)
ARUNDHUTI
Okay. Enough.
Tell me why you called me.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I didn’t see you the last few days.
ARUNDHUTI
Don’t even try that!
You’re wiping a clean table.
And your eyes—
your eyes are not sitting in your face. They’re somewhere else.
(SWYAMPRABHA freezes. The spoon clinks loudly in the cup.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Aru…
ARUNDHUTI
Make it clear.
Otherwise, I’ll sit here and guess.
And my guesses are always more dangerous than truth.
SWYAMPRABHA (sits slowly.)
BODHISATWA came back.
ARUNDHUTI
BODHISATWA who? Where?
(ARUNDHUTI looks around, as if someone’s hiding behind her)
SWAYAMPRABHA
I mean—Facebook.
ARUNDHUTI
Ohh!
SWAYAMPRABHA
He sent me a friend request. I accepted.
Then we talked.
ARUNDHUTI
That BODHISATWA?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Yes.
After thirty years.
ARUNDHUTI (leans forward—gossip-bright, but careful.)
Okay. What did he say?
SWAYAMPRABHA
He’s married. One daughter.
He teaches in an art college.
He lived in London, Canada—different cities in the US… now Atlanta.
ARUNDHUTI
I’m not interested in his biography.
Tell me your story.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I… I told him something.
ARUNDHUTI
What?
SWAYAMPRABHA
I told him—
whatever I am today… it’s only because of him.
ARUNDHUTI
SWAYAMPRABHA!
SWAYAMPRABHA
I don’t know why I wrote it.
It just… came.
ARUNDHUTI
Because you still hold him in your heart.
You just opened the lid.
SWAYAMPRABHA
You know what’s the worst part?
ARUNDHUTI
What?
SWYAMPRABHA (face tightens)
I didn’t even know it was sitting there.
I thought I forgot.
ARUNDHUTI (softer)
SWAYAMPRABHA… you never forget.
You pack things nicely and lock them.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Yes. Now I see—
when I’m upset with myself…
I see him.
I didn’t even know I was doing that.
ARUNDHUTI
Does Subho know?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Are you mad?
ARUNDHUTI
Just asking.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Besides… he has no time to know me.
ARUNDHUTI
Okay.
So—BODHISATWA returned. You wrote too much.
Then what happened?
SWYAMPRABHA (swallows. Her fingers curl around the cup.)
He wrote…
that he loved me.
(A beat. The ceiling fan squeaks once. Her breath catches.)
SWYAMPRABHA (contd.)
He said it like a simple sentence.
Like telling me his city—“I live in Atlanta now.”
And then—“I loved you.”
As if he’s saying, “I used to ride a bike.”
(Her eyes fill. She tries to stop it. A tear falls.
She wipes it quickly — angry at the tear.)
ARUNDHUTI
SWAYAMPRABHA…
SWYAMPRABHA (breaking)
It opened something.
Something I buried so deep that…
I forgot it existed.
SWAYAMPRABHA (stands suddenly, restless, moves toward the corner.)
I did everything right.
Marriage. Child. Responsibilities—
(She touches the cup—almost knocks it.)
SWYAMPRABHA (contd.)
One message—
one sentence—
and suddenly I’m angry.
Crying… shaking… for no reason.
ARUNDHUTI (follows a few steps—careful, like approaching a frightened animal.)
There is a reason.
It’s just not today’s reason.
SWYAMPRABHA (turns—tears in her eyes, anger in her jaw.)
I sent him a long message.
I don’t even remember all I wrote.
I accused him.
ARUNDHUTI (sits beside her)
SWAYAMPRABHA, sometimes we bury feelings so deep—
we don’t even know they’re there,
because we had to survive.
SWYAMPRABHA (looks at her, startled—like she’s hearing her own secret explained.)
So why now?
ARUNDHUTI
Because it’s familiar.
And suddenly the buried thing gets air to breathe.
SWYAMPRABHA (wipes her face, tries to compose. Her voice goes smaller.)
Never mind.
I just needed someone… to hear me.
ARUNDHUTI
I’m hearing.
And I’m not judging.
SWYAMPRABHA (looks away, ashamed.)
I don’t even know what I want.
(ARUNDHUTI reaches for her cup, tops it with fresh tea from the thermos—as if tea is a ritual of repair.)
SFX: keys, latch.
ARUNDHUTI
Okay—face. Normal face.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I don’t have a normal face.
(Door opens. SUBHO enters, loosens his collar, kicks off shoes neatly—habit. He freezes when he sees ARU.)
SUBHO
Arundhuti!
Arre, you’re here?
ARUNDHUTI
Where else can I be? My friend occupied all your heart.
I hope she left a small room for me.
SUBHO
Wow. I need to breathe.
(then, noticing SWAYAMPRABHA)
Everything okay?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Yes.
ARUNDHUTI
Yes, yes—okay.
I came because your wife is becoming too serious these days.
I’m prescribing gossip.
(SUBHO laughs. A small smile flickers on SWAYAMPRABHA’s face. SUBHO sees it.)
SUBHO (to SWAYAMPRABHA)
You ate?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Later.
SUBHO
I told you to eat on time.
ARUNDHUTI
Subho, you “tell” like you remind your phone to charge.
You don’t check if it actually charged.
SUBHO (laughs—friendly.)
You two continue. I’ll go change.
(SUBHO exits.)
ARUNDHUTI (urgent whisper)
Listen — Behave normal.
If you want privacy, act like you have nothing to hide.
And SWAYAMPRABHA— (holds her shoulders)
don’t reply to BODHISATWA today. Not today.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Aru, don’t go yet.
ARUNDHUTI
If I stay, it becomes suspicious.
I’ll call you later.
And whatever happens—don’t panic.
(ARUNDHUTI holds SWAYAMPRABHA’s hand briefly, grabs her bag.)
ARUNDHUTI
Eat something.
(ARUNDHUTI exits. The door clicks shut. The room becomes fragile.)
(SUBHO returns, changed into a house kurta, relaxed.)
SUBHO
SWAYAMPRABHA, give me tea. My head is heavy.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I’ll bring.
(SWYAMPRABHA pours tea, hands it to him. SUBHO sits with the cup. SWYAMPRABHA gathers used cups, biscuits tray, small things, heads toward the kitchen. Her phone lies face-up on the living room table. SUBHO sips tea.)
SFX: FB Messenger “ding.”
(SUBHO glances casually—hesitates—then picks up the phone.)
SUBHO (to himself)
BODHISATWA?
(He scrolls—slow at first, then faster. His face changes: confusion → suspicion → hurt → anger.)
SUBHO (reads aloud, quick flashes)
“Whatever I am today… it’s only because of you.”
“I followed your steps.”
“Perhaps I never told you… I loved you.”
(He keeps scrolling. His breathing changes. He sets the cup down harder than necessary.)
(SWYAMPRABHA returns, wiping her hands on her sari, trying to hold “normal.” She stops. SUBHO is holding her phone.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Subho— (instant fear)
Why do you have my phone?
SUBHO
Who is BODHISATWA?
SWAYAMPRABHA (mouth opens. Closes.)
Old friend.
SUBHO
Old friend?
Is this how you talk to old friends?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Subho, listen—
SUBHO (rising)
No—you listen.
“Whatever I am today is only because of you.”
This is friendship?
SWAYAMPRABHA
I… I was emotional. It’s stupid.
SUBHO
Stupid?
Or secret?
SWYAMPRABHA (steps closer, hands slightly raised—like approaching a frightened animal.)
Subho, you read private messages. That’s not right.
SUBHO
Not right?
You’re teaching me “not right” now?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Nothing happened. It’s only chat. Thirty years later—just—memory.
SUBHO
Memory?
Then why is he saying “I loved you”?
Don’t act innocent.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I am innocent!
SUBHO
I’m not blind, SWAYAMPRABHA.
You called Arundhuti.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I called Arundhuti because I was upset.
I needed someone to talk. That’s all.
SUBHO
So you go to Arundhuti for “talk,”
and to BODHISATWA for… what?
Romance?
SWAYAMPRABHA
No!
SUBHO
Then what is this?
Tell me clearly.
Are you having an affair?
SWAYAMPRABHA
No!
SUBHO
Then why did you write “I followed your every step”?
“I remember your every movement”?
SWYAMPRABHA (trembling, trying to stay firm)
It’s not about today.
It’s… old.
It came out because he appeared suddenly.
That doesn’t mean I did anything.
SUBHO
How convenient.
You didn’t know.
You didn’t mean.
It just happened.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Give me my phone.
SUBHO
No.
First answer me.
How long have you been talking?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Only today. Since the request.
SUBHO
Only today and already this much?
So fast?
So hungry?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Subho, please—don’t talk like that.
SUBHO
Then how should I talk?
I come home, I drink tea, and I find my wife writing love letters
to some man in Atlanta!
SWAYAMPRABHA
It was not a love letter.
SUBHO
It looks like a love letter. It reads like a love letter.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I was explaining my past—my gratitude—my shock—
SUBHO
Gratitude?
Then why did you hide it from me?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Because it’s embarrassing.
Because it’s mine.
SUBHO
So I’m not “yours,” then.
SWAYAMPRABHA (eyes fill)
Subho, I have lived this whole life for this family.
I cooked, I cleaned, I raised Surjya, I—
SUBHO
Don’t give me accounts now.
SWAYAMPRABHA
My mind can have memory!
SUBHO
Memory is one thing.
This— (holds up the phone)
—this is longing.
SWYAMPRABHA (cracks)
Even if it was…
it doesn’t mean I crossed any line.
SUBHO
You crossed a line the moment you let him into our house—through your phone.
SWAYAMPRABHA
That’s not fair.
SUBHO
Fair?
Did you think of “fair” when you were typing those messages?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Subho, you’re misunderstanding.
SUBHO
Then explain so I understand.
SWYAMPRABHA (desperate, honest)
He was part of my youth.
He said he loved me—suddenly—after thirty years.
It shook me.
That’s why I got angry.
That’s why I wrote too much.
I didn’t plan anything. I don’t want anything.
SUBHO
Really?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Yes.
Like something buried came up.
And I didn’t know how to handle it.
SUBHO
You want me to believe this is nothing?
SWAYAMPRABHA
It is not “nothing.”
But it is not what you think.
SUBHO
If it’s not what I think, prove it.
Delete him. Block him. Now.
(SWYAMPRABHA freezes—not because she wants an affair, but because the demand is punishment. Control. A verdict. Her silence looks like guilt.)
SUBHO
Aha.
See?
Even now you can’t.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Subho, please—
SUBHO
No.
I don’t want to hear “please.”
I want to hear truth.
And right now your truth is not coming out.
(He thrusts the phone toward her.)
SUBHO
Keep it.
And keep your secrets with it.
SWYAMPRABHA (takes the phone, shaking.)
Subho, don’t do this.
Don’t make me a criminal for having a memory.
SUBHO
Memory is not a crime.
But hiding is.
(He turns away, paces a step, stops.)
SUBHO
What will Surjya think if he knows?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Don’t bring him into this.
SUBHO
Why not?
This house is his too.
SWYAMPRABHA (flashes—hurt turning to anger.)
All these years you didn’t have time to know me.
Now suddenly you have time to accuse me?
SUBHO
So now you’ll blame me.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I’m not blaming.
I’m saying—
you don’t see me until you fear losing control of me.
(Silence. Both breathe hard. The domestic room feels unfamiliar.)
SUBHO (quiet, cold)
I’m going to lie down.
I can’t look at you right now.
(He exits toward the bedroom.)
(SWYAMPRABHA stands alone, holding the phone like a heavy object.)
(Lights fade to blackout.)