Episode 3:A Seventh Shadow
650 Words
It was during the screening of Meghe Dhaka Tara in the old AV hall that he arrived.
The seventh.
The stranger.
The spark.
Anirban Sanyal.
He didn’t walk in like most guests. There was no announcement, no dramatic flair, no clipboard or assistant. Just a leather satchel, a Canon DSLR around his neck, and a black umbrella dripping onto the floor like punctuation in a monsoon sonnet.
He took the back seat.
He watched.
And when the screening ended, he didn’t applaud. He didn’t leave. He simply stood and said, “The tragedy wasn’t the ending. It was that no one ever listened when she cried.”
Silence followed. Then applause. Then questions.
He was introduced as an alumnus. A filmmaker. Graduate of Jadavpur’s golden era. Now based in Mumbai. Independent. Obscure. But respected in niche circles.
When asked what brought him back, he smiled.
> “I heard the city’s soul was still intact. I came to listen to its heartbeat.”
It wasn’t the answer.
It was how he said it.
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First Contact
Arko noticed him at first in fragments.
A shadow in the corner of rehearsal.
A voice in the hallway.
A question during a script meeting:
> “Why doesn’t the protagonist speak in Scene III?”
No one had noticed that gap. Arko had.
The next day, Anirban brought tea for everyone. He carried a small video recorder. He filmed rehearsals without being asked, edited quick clips, and sent them back to the group.
“We should archive this,” he said.
Rwik watched him with fascination.
So did Ishaan.
So did Ishika.
But for different reasons.
---
Rwik and the Mirror
Rwik had always been the sun — everything orbited around him. But when Anirban came, something shifted.
They stayed after rehearsals, talking.
About acting. About light design. About male gaze in Ritwik Ghatak’s work. About not being afraid to be seen.
One night, Arko came back to the rehearsal hall to fetch his notebook and saw the two of them alone — a dim bulb swinging above, laughter low and intimate. Rwik was leaning against the window. Anirban was standing too close.
There was no kiss.
Just proximity.
But that was enough.
Arko didn’t enter.
He left.
The next morning, Rwik sent a text:
> “New idea for Scene V. Let’s discuss.”
Arko didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
---
The Quiet Shift
Tara noticed it first.
“The group feels… different,” she said during chai with Mrittika.
“Everything changes,” Mrittika replied, stirring her tea clockwise like always.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anyone getting close to us.”
“I don’t trust him.”
Mrittika didn’t answer.
Tara’s fingers brushed hers under the table.
And yet, it wasn’t Anirban that scared Tara.
It was how easily everyone let him in.
---
The Diarist
Arko wrote more now. Pages upon pages. His journal grew thick with entries he’d never read aloud.
> “He looks at Rwik like Rwik is art. I look at Rwik like he’s a wound.”
> “How do you tell someone that silence is not strength, it’s survival?”
He knew the danger wasn’t Anirban’s camera.
It was the truth it might capture.
---
Ishika’s Watch
Ishika grew quieter.
Not openly hostile. Not aggressive.
But cold. Calculating.
She watched Ishaan laugh with Anirban one evening during stage setup. Their conversation was about documentary funding.
But Ishika saw more.
That night, she didn’t go home.
She sat on the terrace, knees pulled to her chest, letting rain soak her until her bones stopped aching.
When she came down, she sent a message from a throwaway email address.
One attachment.
One 23-second grainy video.
She didn’t think much of it then.
Just a warning, she told herself.
Just to make things clear.
She would undo it later.
She never did.
- Writer
