ACT 1 - THE END OF DUTY
The man who once made her run up the stairs in a flurry of shock and joy now lies beneath the fluorescent glare of a Critical Care Unit in a modern city, motionless, surrounded by women in blue, their masked faces as indifferent as fate itself.
Annapurna does not move closer. She watches from the threshold, her hands clutching the edge of her saree like a lifeline. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor is the only thing tethering him to this world, a metronome ticking away the last beats of a life lived in duty.
Her husband, Shankar, had been a good man. A dutiful man. The kind who paid his taxes on time, never questioned a family elder, never spoke louder than necessary. A man born in a different era, where love was measured in reliability, not poetry; where affection was shown through presence, not touch. He had never hit her. He had never raised his voice. He had simply filled the space of a husband the way a ritual fills an empty bowl, predictable, obedient, unexamined.
Her fingers twitch. A part of her expects herself to move, to walk to his bedside, to touch his hand, to whisper a prayer. To perform the role expected of her. But her feet remain planted. The distance between them is only a few feet, yet it feels vast, impossible, final.
The women in blue adjust the tubes, their movements brisk, practiced. They do not ask her to come forward. No one does.
For the first time in seventy-eight years, no one is telling her what to do.
The machine hums. The doctor clears his throat.
Doctor: "His GCS score is low. There’s minimal brain activity. We can continue ventilation, but there’s no guarantee of recovery. You have to decide."
Her hands tremble. She should do what is right. She should let them keep him on life support. But something inside her resists.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound slices through the room like her father’s finger tapping on wood.
FLASHBACK 1: DOUBT (Mangalore, Age 10)
The antiseptic smell dissolves into the scent of ink, sandalwood, and damp monsoon air. She is back in Mangalore, standing in front of her Appa’s desk, the wood swollen from years of stubborn humidity. He taps his fingers as he speaks.
Appa: "Your brother will go to study in the city. You will stay home. A girl’s place is with her family."
Annapurna: (hesitant) "But… I am good at numbers, Appa. The teacher said I—"
Appa: (cutting her off, patient but firm) "No more questions, Puttali. A girl’s world is inside the home. That is our way."
The words fall heavy, like stones in a river.
Her mind instinctively shouted I don’t want to be a Puttali. I want to be your magalu.
Her thoughts become a cauldron she does not dare spill. Do I trust my own voice, or the certainty in Appa’s? Amma and my aunts are always at home, and everyone says that is their rightful place. It must make sense. Then what about the maid who comes every morning, sari damp with sweat, carrying her own hunger in her eyes? She is not in her home. Maybe that is why she doesn’t have one. Or maybe, she wonders with a child’s guilty curiosity, maybe the maid is freer than all of them, precisely because she belongs to no home at all.
The logic quiets her. The doubt sinks. A stone pressed into her chest.
Back in the CCU, she clenches her fists. She has never made a choice for herself. Her throat tightens. She takes a step forward, almost.
But fear pulls her back. The silence around the doctor’s words swells until it becomes another room entirely.
FLASHBACK 2: FEAR (Bombay, Wedding Night – Age 24)
The sterile light fades into a dimly lit bedroom in Bombay, heavy with the smell of turmeric, jasmine pinned into her hair, oil lamps flickering shadows across the walls. She sits at the edge of the bed, pulse pounding in her throat.
Shankar clears his throat, words clumsy.
Shankar: (awkward, soft) “I will not… I will not ask you for more than you are ready to give.”
She nods, grateful for his gentleness. But fear remains.
Not of him, not exactly. She had known what her father wanted, what her brother expected, their demands were clear, their rules fixed. But a husband was different. His wants were invisible, unpredictable, waiting to be revealed in the privacy of these walls.
What new duties will he name? What hidden hungers will surface? What corners of myself will I be asked to give away?
Her heart races. She fears his touch, yes, but she also fears her own. What if her body betrays her? Already her skin tingles where jasmine brushes her neck, reminding her this adornment is not for her, but for someone else’s eyes. What if she feels something she has been taught is forbidden? A good wife does not want. A good woman does not desire. Desire is shame, and shame is ruin.
The silence thickens. She sees him, awkward, kind, and yet he is still a stranger. This room is a door closing behind her, locking her into a life she cannot escape. Fear curls around her like smoke: fear of failure, fear of shame, fear of permanence.
Back in the CCU, the same fear coils around her chest, ancient and familiar.
Annapurna (to herself): “If I let them take him off the machine, I will be alone. I have never been alone. What if I do not know how to exist without duty?”
FLASHBACK 3: HAPPINESS (Bombay, Proposal – Age 23)
A younger Annapurna stands beneath a narrow staircase in a Bombay home, the air thick with the weight of summer. Sweat trickles down her back. Outside, scooters honk as if competing for every scrap of attention, children shout in the street, servants clatter dishes in a busy kitchen.
And yet, in that crowded house, her world had shrunk to a single figure.
For months, she had lived on stolen fragments: quiet glances across balconies, the outline of a white starched shirt gleaming in the relentless Bombay sun. No words had been exchanged, but something had already been spoken. A story told in silence, a language carved out of restraint.
In those moments she had felt, for the first time, her heart beat for herself. A dream. A desire. Unburdened by expectations. Not her father’s daughter. Not her brother’s sister. Not yet someone’s wife. Just Annapurna, alive in the secret thrill of being seen.
Now Shankar stands before her, shifting from foot to foot, awkward but resolute.
Shankar: “I have… I have spoken to my parents. I have spoken to yours. If you agree, we should… marry.”
The words fall between them like stones, unmovable.
For a flicker, her heart soars, joy at the thought that this could be freedom, that the dreams she had spun in silence might find a home. But just as quickly, dread creeps in. Marriage does not mean freedom. Marriage means a new master, a new set of duties, a new lock on her life. Her Appa’s words echo inside her: a girl’s world is inside the home.
Her mind screams, her heart laughs. She turns and runs up the stairs, the silk of her saree whispering against the railings. She does not know whether she is running toward joy or away from dread. Perhaps both.
Back in the CCU, she understands now: it was never happiness. It was certainty. And certainty has abandoned her.
The ventilator exhales, a hiss that feels too human. It carries her back into another kitchen, another life.
FLASHBACK 4: FATIGUE (Mangalore, Festival – Age 72)
The CCU’s hiss becomes the shriek of a pressure cooker. She stands in her Mangalore kitchen, sweat stinging her brow, hands covered in flour, rolling dough while puris sizzle in oil. Her legs ache, her back throbs, the air thick with spice and noise. Her husband stands in the doorway.
Husband: (gently) "You don’t have to do it all. Sit, rest. Let the younger ones manage."
Annapurna: (bitterly) "And if I stop, who will do it? These things do not happen on their own."
The oil hisses. The ventilator hisses. Both accuse her.
Now, in the CCU, she wonders, was that her whole life? A series of tasks because who else would do them? She is tired. Not just from age, but from a lifetime of servitude. And maybe, just maybe, this is her moment to stop.
The doctor repeats, gently: "There is no guarantee of recovery. We can keep him on the ventilator or let nature take its course. The choice is yours."
She almost laughs. The choice is mine.
A woman who’s never been allowed to choose is now asked to make the most irreversible choice of all.
She closes her eyes. Sees his face. Sees her own. Not the one in the mirror, but the one buried under seventy-eight years of silence.
And with trembling lips, she speaks:
"Let nature take its course."
Not because she doesn’t care. But because, for once, she does.
She knows it’s late, too late for dreams, perhaps too late for reinvention. But not too late for honesty. Not too late to feel something that was hers and hers alone.
Freedom had come not with a trumpet, but with a breath. At seventy-eight, it was finally hers. And even bound by time, it was worth everything.