The approaching chasm

(In a dimly backlit room, there is a couple. A female form who is clad in pitch black traditional Muslim garb, in total un-contrast with the surroundings. A few lengths away from her is a male form in gray trousers and white shirt.

The scence begins with a pregnant silence, as if, just before the camera zoomed in on the couple, there was some rampant conversation that had taken place in the room. Our eyes might just be the terrible intrusion that could abort the pregnancy, the poignancy of the moment.

Through there is a distance between the couple, it is as if, there in the vacant recent past, they had been locked in some all encompassing embrace. The feeling of a kiss gone sour persists in the atmosphere, almost, as if, two magnets who were attracting each other, one of them was reversed by some perverse force.

The male figure moves through the room, a leisurely cursory amble. Yet, there is tension in his walk, his figure is taut, his gait is lackadaisical. The female is more immobile, latching onto the foot rails of an adjoining wall, holding onto it, to avoid being blown away from some absent storm.

The room itself has a sense of nostalgia to it. Its filled with Persian furniture and finely carved teak wood. The beauty and grace of these devices, offer a intoxicating melancholy, rather than the accolades they should have exuded. The camera lights are so dim, that no more than the couple, an adjoining table, and a nearby window can be construed in the scene. The camera focuses on the couple, fitting both of them within the same frame.

The male just enters the middle of the frame, and comes to a still after having been fidgeting around for some time. He waits near the female, there is no implicit question for him to ask, but he is neither looking into her, yet, its obvious that he is waiting for some response to come out of her. He is in fact staring vacantly at some point which could be her shoes, or the lower edges of her dress.

If she were to look at him, and yet avoid him, she would look out of the window which is just behind him.

She has an expression which is neither anger, nor pain. It is of terrible helplessness and anguish. She  has been staring through him, out of the window. There is no change in her stance, as she breaks the silence. Its eerie, as if, a mirror just cracked in a lonely cemetery at midnight.)

She : I am sure you shall leave me and go. You can just stay with me, cant you. (A pause). Tell me, why cant we live together like the millions of others around us. Why cant I have you?

He : I am with you, am I not. (Abruptly, looks away). Wonder what antagonizes you. Is it the fact, that we have hardly spent time together. Have you not had me whenever you have wanted me. Why do you behave as if all is lost. I might not be here, all along, but I have been here for quite some time. And I have really no plans to leave you, why don’t you banish these fears out of your head.

She : You are lying, and you know, you are lying. (There is a vituperative trait in her voice, a raising baritone kind of voice.)

He : What is wrong with you ? You really believe what you are saying. Why should I lie, (a pause) to you?

She : You want to know why I am so sure that you are going to leave me. (She almost brushes past him, and walks onto the window sill. Outside is a jet black night, with some fireflies humming, and a vague unknown street light shining in some far off town. After a pause, that seems quite an eternity, she resumes.). Whenever you are with me, you seem to be reminded of all the terrible facets of life, you seem to despise life, you remember the hundred other atrocities that your life has perpetrated on you. Your worst fears and thought surround you in my company. That’s what makes me so confident of your imminent apostrophe from my life. 

(With her back to the camera, there is no visible signs of her breaking down or sobbing. Not even a shudder or sigh to indicate some kind of emotion. The black silhouette is like some statue, silent and static.

Then in a voice, that is  muffled, as if, years of repression were turning into liquid, still it is not a sob, its an undiluted pain, she says with a tiny hint of amusement, of derision that is more like the stab of death)

I am that tragic river, when all the time you thought I was flowing in, I was actually flowing out.

(End of scene.

Inputs from some movie starring Ratna Pathak. I don’t know the name. The last line belongs to Gulzar.)

August 11, 2000 - Amitabh Iyer