An unexpected round of gunfire reverberated in the air and shook the earthen hut to its core. A dark figure hastily ran across the window and disappeared in a ball of smoke, but the orchard farmer didn’t fail to spot the unmistakable shiny barrel of a gun. Everything happened in a flash, and before he knew it, his lover was lying lifeless on the ground with a gunshot wound. He rushed over and held her in his arms, letting out a guttural scream that pierced the dead night as he felt the warm blood run through his fingers. His ghost lover was dead, and yet he had never seen her look as alive as when he saw her bright red blood. He held her face with those bloodied fingers, just like the day he had cupped the same face and asked her to explain the fallen walnuts. Only this time, his hands were stained with blood and not with walnut grease.

‘So, was she a ghost or was she not?’ asked Meera once Sahil finished narrating the story to her during their first real sitting about the film.

‘I don’t know,’ Sahil answered somewhat vaguely, as though he wasn’t the real author of the story.

‘You wrote it, Malik saab, it’s a beautiful story. I would love to get your take on it – it’ll help me gain an understanding of the characters.’

‘A ghost or the living dead. Does it matter?’

‘True,’ said Meera, and fell silent, fighting back tears. The remarkable story reminded her of the chasm between herself and Abhimanyu. So close were they in flesh and blood and yet so far apart. And now, so distant in space and time, but he remained close to heart, no matter how much she tried to move on.

Sahil sat up straight and looked at her. ‘Now, Meera, forget all that you’ve learned. Your classical leanings, the ragas, the diction – forget everything. Just remember the characters. The drama of the human heart.’

*

From the moment he reached Calcutta from Dhaka, Sahil began working his connections. There was never any doubt regarding his maverick credentials – his songs had a lasting impact all over the subcontinent. But for a man who went missing for some years, that too in Pakistan, to just appear out of thin air with a somewhat bizarre script was too much to handle for the Calcutta film fraternity. Ever the hustler, Sahil went on to adapt his story and write a screenplay in verse. Pages of songs with composing notes such that even the sceptics could see the immense potential of the songs, if not the story. Scene after scene was expressed in exquisite verse, waiting to be turned into a befitting song. One could feel the pain of the orchard farmer as he embarked on the perilous journey across the border in the dead of night:

‘Bichhadkar kya hue tum sarhad ke uss paar;