SCENE-I
NARRATOR: It was not just another day in Amit's life, rather it was a repetition of his yesterday.
[A young man, in his early twenties, is seated on a stool. Before him was a pristine canvas that was sternly laid out on a stand. He held a palette in his left hand, that aided him to mix up the colours required that his paint brush took the liberty to stroke on the canvas.]
NARRATOR: Sadly, his tomorrow will also be a repetition of his today
[Amit puts aside his palette and brush, and carefully carries the canvas to place it on the shelf behind him. Thereby, revealing to the audience, what he had painted – an image, a face, an awe-inspiring beautiful face of a young lady which he seemed to have painted from memory. A memory that had stained him]
NARRATOR: He was deeply fond of her, more than he was ever fond of himself. And this day, his yesterday, his tomorrow, was and will ever be only about her. But the misery of it all was that it was only a repetition of yesterday.
~
SCENE-II
NARRATOR: And such it was with Inchara. Such it was with her too – a repetition of yesterday.
[A young woman, the same women whom Amit had painted, had been painting, is seen to be seated in a stool, with yet another pristine canvas standing before her. And she too was seen embedding brush strokes on the canvas.]
NARRATOR: They were but merely the characters woven into a story, woven into a tentative romance. And where it leads from here, they were uncertain of.
[Inchara finishes her painting, places the palette and brush aside, then carries the canvas to display on the shelf, thereby revealing to the audience the face of a lover fallen from heaven – Amit's face, that she seemed to have painted from memory.]
NARRATOR: And such it was with Amit and Inchara. Separated by fate – or as they would claim – the writer's block.
~
SCENE-III
[Amit is repeating what he was witnessed doing in the last scene. Painting the same picture again, carrying the canvas again and displaying it on the shelf again.]
NARRATOR: Their days were literally a recurring rut. A painting of her memory was but a mere consolation to his longing, an aching hope to meet her again. But they were merely just a part of an imagination, a story by a writer.
AMIT: (after placing the canvas on the shelf) Oh, you damned writer! Where you at? Why aren't you writing our story further? Do you writers ever think about the characters as much as you think about your words?
~
SCENE-IV
[And so was Inchara repeating her last day – painting his picture again, carrying the canvas again and displaying it on the shelf again.]
NARRATOR: She was equally heart-broken and forsaken as Amit was. They were both very much self-aware that they were but characters in a fantasy, but waited and have been waiting long to find where the story leads.
INCHARA: (After placing the canvas on shelf) Oh dear writers! What good is an unexpressed feeling? What good is an unfinished story?
NARRATOR: What may become of their longing – is but the choice of the writer.
~
SCENE-V
[A mid-aged man is lying flat on the carpet, and beside him stood a table with a type-writer atop it. The ghost of Amit and Inchara appears out of thin air, seemingly intending to haunt him.]
INCHARA: (whispers to Amit) How do we wake him up?
AMIT: (Yells at a high pitched tone) Wake up! You lousy loser!
[The writer draws a deep breath and wakes up from his disgruntled slumber, and looks pensively at Amit and Inchara-]
WRITER: Bloody hell! If this is a dream – don't bother to wake me up.
AMIT: Do you really not recognize us?
WRITER: (looks intensely) Sorry bud! Sometimes I can't even recognize myself in the mirror.
INCHARA: I'm Inchara! This is Amit!
WRITER: (still not having realized) Nice meeting you two.
AMIT: Your careless remarks are amusing no-one. We have unfinished business, you and us.
INCHARA : An undying echo of an unwritten symphony. Does that remind you of us now?
WRITER: AMIT!! INCHARA!! What has become of you guys?
AMIT: We are the ghosts of the past. All thanks to you!
WRITER: I must be really drunk over-the-top to be even hallucinating you both.
INCHARA: You have to finish the story. We deserve a closure.
WRITER: I don't even remember. I can't even recollect.
AMIT: I miss her, man. I miss a part of my soul without her.
NARRATOR: In this moment, the writer picks up a photo-frame from his table – it is the photo of him, his wife and their 5 year old child.
WRITER: I know how it feels to miss what you loved more than life. I miss everything that I was.
INCHARA: Then you ought to continue our story. You know what is more miserable than suffering? A meaning less suffering! Give us a meaning.
AMIT: I don't know about happily ever after, but we at least deserve a closure.
NARRATOR: Amit and Inchara slowly stroll away in different directions and vanish into thin air.
[The writers, hastily searches for the note.]
WRITER: Where did I leave their story? They are right. They deserve a closure. Everybody's story deserves a closure!
NARRATOR: He eventually picks a note from the disarranged pile.
WRITER: Ah! There it is! An undying echo of an unwritten symphony. Now where did I leave their story?
NARRATOR: He reads through the pages of their past – to rekindle what he had long forgotten – a story of how Amit and Inchara met.
~
SCENE-VI
NARRATOR: It was in their painting class – did Amit and Inchara meet each other and it was in this painting class they grew close to each other.
[Amit and his friend is seated in the last bench. Inchara and her friend ware just seated before them. Amit was visibly bored off what the teacher was explaining-]
TEACHER: You gotta keep in mind that it's all about the blend of how you mix the colors and how you move the brush.
NARRATOR: Very soon Amit couldn't help but doze off. Inchara's friend notices him sleeping and nudges her to look.
[The Teacher looks over towards Amit and shakes her head.]
TEACHER: And, you know, art also requires you to be actually awake.
[Amit's friend nudges Amit for him to wake up. Amit looks displeased for being woken up – and squints his eyes to look at his friend.]
Inchara's friend: How does one manage to be bored in painting class?
NARRATOR: Just as Amit wishes to answer in a displeased tone, Inchara turns back and the two share a momentary stolen glance.
~~~Music cue-1~~~
AMIT: (looking into Inchara's eyes) Because beauty cannot be learned.
~~~Music ends~~~~
TEACHER: Alright then! (Making everyone look back to the front) Now everybody has to present a painting, Something of your own choice, your own liking.
NARRATOR: As the teacher does the rounds to check on everyone's work, Amit's painting catches her attention.
TEACHER: Interesting! What are you trying to convey? What is the meaning of this?
AMIT: No meaning at all. But a picture speaks a thousand words.
TEACHER: Touché.
NARRATOR: When the class was adjourned, Inchara and her friend gathered around Amit's painting. They tried to decipher what it was about, what he was trying to convey through colors.
INCHARA'S : Interesting. It looks like a flock of birds fighting over the last piece of bread.
[Amit shakes his head.]
INCHARA: It is his thoughts of mind that is trying to grasp and hold his heart. And I'm guessing no amount of his thought ever managed to behold his heart.
~~~Music cue-2 starts and ends~~~
NARRATOR: Amit was visibly surprised at how she discerned his painting.
AMIT: I like how you understand without words.
INCHARA: I like how you speak without words.
NARRATOR: From that moment, their bond grew closer and more sweeter with each passing day. They didn't have to exchange much words to understand one another.
~~~Music cue-3~~~
[Amit and Inchara move back and forth on the stage, before sitting next to each other, in front of a canvas.]
~~~Music ends~~~
NARRATOR: On one such passing day, they were seated next to one another, painting on the same canvas, trying to merge their thoughts into one painting.
~~~Music cue-4~~~
[Amit and Inchara take a few moments of peace while stroking their way onto the canvas in front of them. Until Inchara notices something and stops.]
~~~Music ends~~~
INCHARA: (Pushing Amit's hand aside) No wait! Why would you use that color?
AMIT: My bad, I seem to mistake the colors, with you beside me.
INCHARA: Uh-huh! And why is that?
AMIT: All the colors that my paintings ever needed are lost within your eyes.
INCHARA: Look again then. My eyes reflect only you. If my life were a painting, you would be all its colors.
AMIT: Is that so? Would you like a challenge? Tomorrow we will bring a painting of each other's face. We will decide whose eyes reflect whom better.
INCHARA: Let's see about that.
NARRATOR: And it was on this day, that their stories froze. They were caught up in an incessant recurring dream.