Episode 6: The Return
630 Words
Twelve years.
That’s how long it had been since Arko last stood beneath the archway of Rangmahal Theatre.
But the rain hadn’t changed.
Nor had the scent of wet stone, peeling wood, and a hundred swallowed monologues.
Only now, the ghosts that lingered inside the theatre had names.
---
A Return Written in Silence
The letter had come in a brown envelope with no sender:
> You are invited to a private screening of “Behind The Light.”
Venue: Rangmahal Theatre — Greenroom
Time: 7 PM sharp.
Come alone.
—A.S.
No other details.
But Arko didn’t need any.
A.S. was Anirban Sanyal.
He hadn’t heard that name aloud since the day the scandal swallowed their final act.
He arrived first. Because he had to.
Because maybe if he stepped into that space before the others, it would hurt less. Maybe memory would sting softer in silence.
He sat on the same worn velvet bench where they had once shared chai and chaos. The theatre felt like an altar now, and he, the reluctant priest.
Then the others began to arrive.
---
Reunion of the Fallen
Tara Chatterjee entered next, in a red sari and combat boots, umbrella dripping rain across the floor.
Her hair was shorter now. Her eyes no softer.
She saw Arko and nodded. No smile.
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“Long enough,” he replied.
Rwik Dasgupta followed, dressed like a stage actor who had outlived the stage—half scarf, half silence. His face held the weight of someone who had never truly forgiven the past, not even himself.
He looked at Arko.
The silence between them could have drowned a city.
Mrittika Roy came next, quieter than memory. Her eyes scanned the greenroom like a returning orphan. She didn’t speak, but her presence cracked the air.
Then the twins.
Ishika Mukherjee, hair tied tight, eyes sharper than ever.
Ishaan Mukherjee, broader now, gentler still. He smiled at everyone—but something inside him looked fractured.
For the first time in twelve years, they were all in the same room.
---
Anirban Appears
The lights dimmed suddenly.
A voice from the shadowed balcony cut through the quiet:
> “Welcome back.
Tonight, we begin where we left off.”
Anirban Sanyal stepped forward from the darkness.
He looked older. Greyer. But the eyes hadn’t changed. They still held truth like fire—calm until it burned.
He held up a small remote.
“This is not a film,” he said.
“This is the truth you never finished.”
He pressed play.
---
The Screen Lights Up
Flickering light.
A soundless stage.
A younger Rwik laughing.
Mrittika painting props in sunlight.
Tara screaming lines from Caesar.
Then Arko’s voice. A monologue never performed:
> “Truth doesn’t speak.
It waits.
And when it’s forgotten,
It becomes performance.”
The group stared.
This wasn’t a documentary.
This was a confession stitched from the wreckage of their youth.
---
Unraveling Begins
Snippets played:
Hidden footage from rehearsals.
Shots of Arko writing alone.
A slow-motion scene of Rwik watching Anirban across a hallway.
A single moment where Mrittika brushes Tara’s hand and smiles—captured like a secret revealed too late.
Then came the turning point:
> The footage.
The scandal.
The final days.
The fracture.
But Anirban hadn’t stopped there.
The film went further.
Deeper.
Darker.
---
Final Frame
The screen faded to black.
Then a typed message appeared:
> The person who leaked the video is among you.
You never asked.
You only blamed.
Tonight, the light returns.
And with it—truth.
Gasps.
Silence.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Because in that moment, each of them looked at one another not as friends…
…but as suspects.
---
- Writer
