Behind The Light

The first rain of July fell not in drops, but in sheets—gray curtains drawn across the waking face of the city. Kolkata was gasping for breath beneath it, as though even the gods were weeping for something unsaid. The tram wires quivered under the weight of monsoon winds. And somewhere between the bruised skyline and the wet echo of old Rabindra Sangeet playing from a balcony radio, Arko Sen stood before a door he had sworn never to open again. It was the same theatre. Rangmahal. A cracked plaque on a rusting iron gate still read Rangmahal Experimental Arts Circle in faded red lettering. Ivy and moss had crawled over the signage like time trying to erase memory, but not quite succeeding. The building looked like it had sighed itself into decay—like a once-passionate lover grown too tired to explain their heartbreak. He stood there, unmoving, soaked through in a denim jacket that clung to him like regret. In his left hand was a thick brown envelope. Neatly addressed. > Arko Sen You are invited to a private screening of “Behind The Light.” Venue: Rangmahal Theatre (Greenroom) Date: 12th August | Time: 7 PM | Come alone. — A.S. Arko didn’t need a signature to know who sent it. Anirban Sanyal. Even the name still stung. He ran his fingers across the wet paper, letting the rain smudge ink as if to make the invitation disappear. But it didn't. Not like the past. Not like guilt. A rickshaw wheezed past him, the driver humming an old Hemanta Mukherjee tune, the wheels cutting ripples into puddles. The city had moved on. But the theatre hadn't. Arko opened the gate, the hinges crying out like ghosts being awakened. He stepped into the courtyard, once littered with rolled-up canvases, cigarette ash, spilled chai, and poetry. It was all gone now. Only the echoes remained. --- The theatre lobby smelled of mold, varnish, and the bones of forgotten applause. Posters curled on the walls like dried leaves. A glass trophy case, cracked in one corner, still held rusted plaques with names etched in hopeful script — awards that once mattered. Arko Sen. His name appeared twice. He turned his head away. The greenroom door was open. A single dim bulb flickered inside. Shadows danced on the peeling paint like performers mid-soliloquy. And there, placed dead center on the dusty table, was an old 16mm projector — humming softly, like a beast waiting to breathe. The reel hadn’t begun. But the theatre was already alive with memory. Arko stepped inside and sat down slowly on the velvet-cushioned bench that had once been their writer’s corner. It had a tear at the seam, still patched with duct tape — Mrittika's doing. She’d called it "Art Brut." He didn’t know what he was expecting. Perhaps silence. Or catharsis. But what he got was a voice. "Arko?" He turned. Slowly. Deliberately. A figure stood in the doorway, umbrella dripping onto the wooden floor. A red dupatta clung to her like a second skin. Black kurta. Short hair now. She'd cut it. Tara Chatterjee. Her face was older, sharper. But her eyes — they still burned like protest. "You're early too," she said, her voice low. He gave a small nod. "No one else yet?" He shook his head. She entered. Sat across from him. Her presence was still forceful, even in silence. Tara had always been a fire you didn’t play with — unless you were Mrittika. They sat in silence for a moment. “I thought I’d buried this place,” she whispered, eyes scanning the walls. “We all did,” he replied. Footsteps echoed from the hallway. A shadow — tall, broad-shouldered, red scarf draped loosely around the neck, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses even though there was no sun. Rwik Dasgupta. He removed his glasses slowly, as if shedding a role. “Well. This feels like the start of a bad arthouse film,” he smirked. Tara rolled her eyes. Rwik saw Arko. Their eyes met for the first time in twelve years. There was no anger. Just distance. Then came two more figures — one short, one tall. Mrittika and Ishika, walking in like they’d never left. Ishika's hair was tied back, blazer crisp, movements sharp. Mrittika walked like the wind — soft, unseen, always there. Ishika was the first to speak. “Is this real?” Arko reached into his coat and pulled out his envelope. One by one, they all did the same. Identical invites. Same signature. The theatre was silent again. Until the final footsteps. Heavy. Hesitant. Ishaan Mukherjee. His arrival drew the deepest silence. His gaze scanned the group. Paused briefly on Ishika. Then on Arko. “Has he arrived?” he asked. “No,” Tara replied. They sat. All six. After twelve years. Back where it ended. --- No one spoke for the first ten minutes. The air felt electric. Fragile. Then, the lights flickered. The projector buzzed louder. And a voice echoed from the shadows of the balcony: > “Good evening. You were all performers once. Tonight, you watch yourselves.” A figure stepped into the half-light. Anirban Sanyal. Still tall. Older now. Hair streaked with silver. Dressed in black. Holding a small remote. “I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said. “I don’t want apologies.” He clicked the button. The screen lit up. White. Then static. Then — > A boy’s laughter. A girl painting a mask. A cigarette shared between two fingers. A kiss never seen. A stage being built. A diary opening. A betrayal brewing. Behind The Light — appeared in typewriter font across the screen. Arko’s throat tightened. This wasn’t just a film. This was evidence. ---