The Three Widows

Soft domestic light. Two PLASTIC CHAIRS, one CANE STOOL. POTTED PLANTS. LAUNDRY LINES swaying gently.

LATA (66), bright but slightly mismatched sari, energetic, stands with a TEA KETTLE.

RUPA (64), reading glasses, bangles, nosy and warm, enters with a TEMPLE CALENDAR.

CHITRA (68), neat bun, shawl, carrying a SNACK TIN like a weapon, already unimpressed.

Aao, aao. Time pe aa gayi tum dono. Respectable log late nahi aate.

Respectable log terrace pe memorial plan bhi nahi karte, Lata.

Arre, memorial hai. Respectable hi hoga. Main list laayi hoon.

She opens the temple calendar like it’s a sacred document.

Bas rona-dhona kam rakhna. Meri photo ko bhi sharam aa jayegi.

Teri photo ko sharam? Teri sari dekh ke toh usko already shock lag gaya hoga.

Chai pehle ya baad mein?

Pehle agenda. Kitne log?

Teen. Hum.

Nahi, memorial mein thode log toh honge.

Achha, phir char. Tera beta agar galti se call kar de.

Lata snorts.

Uska call? Usse zyada chance hai ki kettle whistle kare aur woh samjhe “maa ka mood theek hai”.

Mera beta toh har Sunday bolta hai, “Kal call karta hoon.”

Aur kal kabhi aata hi nahi.

Exactly.

Beat.

Meri bahu ne toh mujhe “background noise” declare kar diya hai.

Kyun?

Kyuki mere bangles khanakti hain.

She raises her wrists. Bangles JINGLE.

Main bolti hoon, “Toh volume kam kar lo.”

Rupa laughs despite herself.

Theek hai, memorial ka din shubh hona chahiye.

She points at temple calendar.

Is date pe.

Yeh date? Is din toh temple mein special prasad hai.

Aur temple mein seat bhi.

Seat?

Haan. Temple ki pehli row.

Main pehle row mein baithungi.

Nahi, main.

Main.

A beat. Three-way stare.

Kyun?

Kyuki main sabse kam lonely hoon.

Kya?

Mere paas snack tin hai.

She taps the tin.

Aur ismein namkeen bhi hai, aur emotional support bhi.

Lata bursts out laughing.

Wah! Toh lonely ka competition hai?

Main toh jeetungi. Mere paas temple committee ka WhatsApp group hai.

Good morning messages se company milti hai?

Bilkul. Roz “Good morning” aata hai.

Aur roz mute bhi kar deti hogi.

Rupa glares. Lata laughs harder.

Mere terrace par pigeons aate hain. Roz. Free mein.

Pigeons? Wah. Investor se bhi better.

Mere paas pension hai.

Kab?

Kabhi kabhi.

Toh woh bhi widowed hai.

Lata nearly spills tea.

Arre bas! Memorial se zyada yeh toh competition ho gaya.

Competition hi sahi. Main least lonely hoon.

Nahi, main.

Main.

They all start talking over each other.

Mera beta—

Meri pension—

Mera snack tin—

Suddenly they stop. Silence.

Then Lata looks at both women, softer now.

Hum teeno hi toh hain na.

Rupa adjusts her glasses.

Haan.

Chitra opens the snack tin. Offers it.

Toh phir memorial ka naam “The Three Widows” rakh dete hain.

Seedha naam. Logon ko sach se problem hoti hai.

Aur club?

Club bhi.

Club mein kya hoga?

Tea. Gossip. Temple seat strategy.

Aur monthly meeting?

Us local bachelor ko bula lenge.

Kaunsa bachelor?

Wohi. Temple ke paas jo rehta hai. Suna hai khana theek bana leta hai.

Hum usse kyu bula rahe hain?

Kyuki hum widows hain, free mein emotional support denge.

Beat.

Aur cooking?

Woh karega.

Rupa and Lata look at each other.

Then all three burst into laughter.

Main calendar mein likh deti hoon.

Main chai banati hoon.

Aur main snack tin sambhalti hoon. Weapon ready rahega.

They pull the chairs closer, finally together.

The kettle whistles.