They met after fifteen years and for a moment, the audience is swept by a strong whiff of the passion that has survived over the years. The Man dressed in black kurta is suave and presumptuous. The Lady is a trifle unsure but feels drawn to the familiar air of unsolved mystery that is quintessentially him. Her glance is a mixture of loathing, disgust and withered love.
She feels bound to stay back when he is desperate and earnest. Added to this is the intoxicating thought of wringing from him a kind of confession, not a desperate attempt to make him suffer but more of a selfish idea of using his story to be used as an ingredient in a research book penned by her.
The narrative is not a linear progression of events but more of a magnification of feelings,of what happens on a Sunday. An intense study of a relationship gone dry and dead, yet quickened to life by the random stirring caused by a chance meeting and interaction.
Sunday is a day to relax and unwind but it is also a day when official work is usually kept on hold. What happens when more and more days of life resemble a Sunday? What happens when it is hard to remember the extraordinary significance of a Sunday?
In the end, it is like a long, winding conversation between two people.The course of future rests on their hands.
The past has left its irrevocable stamp.
You can smell yesterday.
But it cannot be stitched back seamlessly.
The crack remains to taunt.
Tears of regret or a deal to be made, it is essentially their choice.
