Playwright: Kallol Nandi
SCENE 1 — (OPENING SCENE) MORNING CHORES AT SWAYAMPRABHA’S HOUSE
CHARACTERS
- SWYAMPRABHA (mid 50s)
- SUBHO (late 50s/60s)
- SURJYA (25)
SETTING
Morning in a modest Indian home. A small kitchen opens to a living room. The soundscape is domestic: pressure cooker hiss, ceiling fan, distant traffic, neighbor’s TV. A table is cluttered: grocery list, ironed shirt half-folded, lunchbox, a phone charging near a steel spice box.
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA) — offstage voice, or an actor visible in a side light.
(Lights up. SWYAMPRABHA is in motion—efficient, practiced. She chops vegetables with one hand, stirs a pot with the other, glances at a grocery list taped to the fridge. A pressure cooker ticks. A shirt hangs on a chair, half-ironed.)
SWYAMPRABHA (on phone, ordering)
Hello, please note my list. Rice—five kilo. Atta—two kilo. Sugar—five hundred gram. Two body soap. Surf—one packet. Salt—one pack. Ghee—two-fifty. Sorshe—one small packet. Besan—five hundred gram. Egg—one dozen. Tea—flavored. Not what you gave last time, that was not good. You keep Boroline, right? Yes—one Boroline. And jeera, dhone—two-fifty.
(SUBHO enters the living room holding a towel. He’s dressed, but unfinished—like a man waiting to be assembled. He interrupts her.)
SUBHO
SWAYAMPRABHA?
Where’s my white shirt?
SWYAMPRABHA (on phone)
That’s all for now. If I remember anything else, I’ll call you. Please make it ready soon.
SWYAMPRABHA (to SUBHO)
It’s on the chair.
Don’t sit on it.
(SWYAMPRABHA stands, pulls SUBHO away from the chair, takes his towel, goes inside.)
(SUBHO looks around helplessly, as if the house rearranged itself overnight. He puts on the shirt.)
SUBHO
My belt? Can’t find my belt.
SWYAMPRABHA (offstage)
Where you always keep it.
And then forget.
(SUBHO keeps searching. SWYAMPRABHA enters with the belt and hands it to him.)
SUBHO
My socks? I can’t find them.
SWYAMPRABHA (puts down the knife, goes out, brings socks)
Here.
They were doing meditation.
SUBHO
How do you see these things?
SWAYAMPRABHA
If I don’t, this house stops functioning.
SUBHO
We’re going with the boys. Soumya has come from US after so long.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Don’t come back hungry and complain.
SUBHO
Don’t worry. We’ll have lunch together.
SWAYAMPRABHA
And after that you’ll say, “Outside food is not good.”
Like every time.
SUBHO (chuckles, drifting toward the kitchen)
Make me tea quickly.
(SWYAMPRABHA pours tea, places it in his hand like she’s handing a microphone to a performer.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Here. Drink. Don’t spill.
SUBHO
I don’t spill.
(He immediately spills a few drops on the floor. SWYAMPRABHA stares.)
SUBHO
It’s nothing.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Everything is nothing—
till I clean it.
(SWYAMPRABHA wipes the floor. SUBHO sips tea, relieved to be managed.)
(SURJYA enters. Earbuds in, backpack half-zipped, hair slightly damp. He scrolls on his phone.)
SURJYA
Ma, where’s my lunch?
SWAYAMPRABHA
On the counter.
SURJYA
Which counter?
SWAYAMPRABHA
How many counters do you see in this house?
Right there.
(SWYAMPRABHA points. SURJYA finds it.)
SURJYA
Oh.
SURJYA (already moving)
Ma, my new ID card?
SWAYAMPRABHA
In your wallet.
SURJYA (checks—doesn’t find it. Mild panic)
I can’t find it.
SWYAMPRABHA (doesn’t move; calls out like a magician)
Side pocket. Behind the metro card.
SURJYA (checks—there it is. He pauses, impressed.)
How do you know everything?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Because I carry three lives in my head.
SURJYA
Ma, can you iron my shirt? It’s wrinkled.
SWAYAMPRABHA
I ironed it yesterday.
SURJYA
I wore it.
(SWYAMPRABHA looks at him. Then at SUBHO. Same expression on both faces: innocent expectation.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Both of you should marry each other.
(SUBHO laughs. SURJYA doesn’t get the joke.)
SURJYA
What?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Nothing. Give it.
(SURJYA hands the shirt. SWYAMPRABHA irons—fast, expert. While ironing, she speaks like she’s reading an invisible list.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Subho—take your umbrella.
And your friend’s gift—did you pack?
SUBHO
What gift?
SWAYAMPRABHA
This gift. I bought it yesterday.
SUBHO
Ah. Yes.
SWAYAMPRABHA
If I didn’t exist, how would you survive?
(The pressure cooker whistles sharply. The phone rings—call from the shop.
SWYAMPRABHA (answers while still ironing.)
Hello? Yes, yes—I’ll be there soon.
Yes. Thank you.
(She ends the call, continues ironing.)
SUBHO
Do we have vegetables?
SWAYAMPRABHA
Since when did you start paying attention to all these?
I went to the market at seven.
You were still sleeping.
SURJYA (grabs lunchbox, backpack.)
Okay Ma, I’m going.
SWAYAMPRABHA
Call when you reach.
SURJYA
Yes, I will.
(He exits. SUBHO finishes tea.)
SUBHO
I’ll leave too.
Keys?
SWAYAMPRABHA
On the hook.
(SUBHO finds keys, pauses at the door.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
Enjoy. And don’t fight with your friends about politics.
SUBHO
I don’t fight.
SWAYAMPRABHA
You lecture.
(SUBHO exits. The door closes. The house becomes quieter— but SWYAMPRABHA is still in motion. She collects plates, wipes the table, checks the stove— routine like prayer. She finally sits—for the first time—just for a breath. Her phone is on the table. She picks it up mechanically, like checking the weather. She opens Facebook, scrolls.)
SFX: FB notification “ding.”
SWYAMPRABHA (soft)
Friend request—BODHISATWA KARMAKAR.
(A small, involuntary inhale. Her face stays calm, but her eyes shift— as if a distant room in her mind just unlocked.)
SWAYAMPRABHA
BODHISATWA…
(She stares at the request. Thirty years collapses into one rectangle of light. She accepts.)
SFX: FB confirmation ping.
(The pressure cooker ticks. The ceiling fan squeaks. The world continues as if nothing happened. LIGHTS HOLD on SWAYAMPRABHA’s stillness.)
SWYAMPRABHA (to herself)
Thirty years.
A friend request is… nothing.
(She folds a towel. Wrong. Unfolds. Refolds.)
SFX: FB “ding.”
(She picks up the phone. Looks.)
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Hi, SWAYAMPRABHA… is it really you?
(SWYAMPRABHA freezes. Then pretends she didn’t.)
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Hi, BODHISATWA. Yes—it’s me.
It’s been a long time. How have you been?
(She places the phone down like she placed a cup.)
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
I’m well. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Where are you now?
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Kolkata.
With my husband and one son—Surjya.
And you?
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Married. One daughter.
I live in Atlanta now.
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Atlanta!
What do you do?
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
I teach in an art college.
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Art college…
Of course.
You always had that hand.
But Facebook shows you’re in Canada.
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Old profile. I lived in London—then Canada—now Atlanta.
I travel with my paintings and sculptures.
SWYAMPRABHA (to herself)
Exhibitions. Cities. London.
And me—stuffed in a pressure cooker.
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Do you still rush on your bike like before?
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
No bike now. Life has changed.
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
No more hero-entry bicycle.
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
I miss those days.
I’m so excited I found you after thirty years.
Where have you been all this time?
(SWYAMPRABHA types slowly—like confession.)
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Whatever I am today… it’s because of you.
I decided to quit studying. You have no idea—
if you didn’t force me, I wouldn’t have done it.
You inspired me.
You told me not to quit.
I followed your steps.
I remember your walk… your every movement.
(She hits send. Immediately regrets the nakedness. Domestic sounds suddenly get louder: kettle click, fan squeak.)
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
I saw you were trapped.
University wasn’t only for higher study—
it was an escape into an open world.
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
That was a life-changing evening for me.
I will never forget that conversation.
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Perhaps I never told you this—
I loved you.
But I never said it to you.
(SWYAMPRABHA freezes. Her breath stops—disbelieving. She reads the lines again. And again.)
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Did I upset you?
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
Do you know what you just said?
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Yes. I wanted to share my feeling.
I’m not asking anything in return.
I’m only telling you a raw truth from my mind.
SWYAMPRABHA (typing aloud)
I’m old enough to understand your “raw truth.”
By the way, I have to go now.
Lot to do at home.
CHAT VOICE (BODHISATWA)
Yes—carry on.
Speak to you soon.
(SWYAMPRABHA moves through small chores, spilling to herself.)
SWYAMPRABHA (to herself)
You traveled. You became an artist. You lived in cities.
I stayed. I cooked. I folded. I did life.
And I did it with your shadow inside me—like an unpaid tenant.
So don’t say “loved”…
as if it’s harmless.
(She tries to fold clothes, stops mid-fold. Leaves them incomplete.)
(Lights fade.)