The Wait List

Pale walls. Plastic chairs. Water dispenser humming softly. Afternoon light through blinds makes stripes across the floor.

FARHAN (29), shy, office wear, earphones around his neck, lunch box in hand, sits with an appointment slip.

Across from him, PRAKASH (44), linen shirt, reading glasses, calm and observant, flips through a magazine.

A beat.

Farhan folds and unfolds his slip.

Prakash notices.

Nerves?

Haan... ya clinic ka system.

Prakash gives a small smile.

Dono ka same effect hota hai.

Farhan almost smiles. Hides it.

Prakash reaches for the water dispenser, pours a cup. Hands it over.

Lo.

Thanks.

Their fingers nearly touch. Farhan looks away quickly.

A silence.

Aap bhi regular ho kya yahan?

Follow-up patient.

Ya phir chronic waiting disorder.

Farhan chuckles despite himself.

Main Farhan.

Prakash.

They nod like the introduction matters more than it should.

Farhan glances at the magazine upside down in Prakash's hands.

Reading glasses pehen ke bhi magazine ulta?

Main bas pretend kar raha tha ki main busy hoon.

Farhan laughs softly. Prakash likes that.

A beat.

Office se aaye ho?

Customer support.

Din bhar log chillate hain.

Main smile karke voice mein sunata hoon.

Wah. Professional suffering.

Aur aap?

Bookstore.

Ab log book kam, Wi-Fi zyada poochte hain.

Farhan looks at him, curious.

To phir yahan kya kaam?

Prakash adjusts his glasses.

Blood pressure.

Farhan nods, impressed.

Serious lag raha hai.

Doctor ko bhi lagta hai.

They share a small laugh.

The room settles again. Blinds lines move with the light.

Farhan opens his lunch box, then closes it.

Rajma?

Haan.

Maa ka pressure hai.

Aur shaadi ka bhi.

Prakash’s smile fades into something gentler.

Family ka pressure sabke paas hota hai.

Aapka bhi?

Prakash looks at the magazine. Then at Farhan.

Tha.

Ab divorce ka pressure hai.

Farhan is startled, then immediately sorry for being startled.

Sorry, main...

Arre, koi baat nahi.

Main theek hoon.

Bas zyada quiet ho gaya hoon.

Farhan absorbs that.

Main bhi...

Ghar pe akela lagta hai.

Phone mein contacts hain, par call karne layak koi nahi.

Prakash looks at him, genuinely.

Hm.

Bookstore mein log aate hain.

Par ghar jaake awaz kam ho jaati hai.

A silence. Not awkward. Honest.

Farhan’s appointment slip slips from his hand. Prakash picks it up.

Waise tumhara number?

Number?

Appointment slip pe jo hai.

Ya phone mein jo tum kisi ko dena chahte ho.

Farhan hesitates. Then smiles, shy.

Dono mein se koi bhi use nahi hota.

Prakash nods, understanding too much.

A NURSE'S VOICE is heard faintly from offscreen, but no name is called. The room stays still.

Farhan looks at the closed prescription envelope in Prakash’s hand.

Aap sach mein patient ho na?

Prakash holds his gaze.

Nahi.

Farhan blinks.

Main therapy ke liye aata tha.

Aaj bhi bas yahan baithne aaya tha.

Ghar mein rehne ka mann nahi tha.

Farhan slowly nods, then exhales.

Main bhi sick nahi hoon.

Prakash waits.

Main bas yahan isliye aata hoon kyunki...

office aur ghar ke beech kahin rukne ki jagah nahi hai.

Prakash smiles, sad and warm at once.

Toh hum dono wait kar rahe the...

bina kisi kaam ke.

Haan.

Shayad kisi se baat karne ka wait.

Prakash looks at him for a long moment.

Aur?

Farhan swallows.

Aur... second chance ka.

Prakash takes off his reading glasses.

Same.

A beat.

Farhan picks up his lunch box. Prakash folds the prescription envelope.

Aaj ka wait khatam karein?

Agar tum chaho.

Farhan, gathering courage.

Main coffee ke liye pooch raha tha.

Prakash smiles, this time openly.

Main samajh gaya tha.

Farhan stands. Prakash stands too.

They move toward the exit, side by side.

The striped afternoon light follows them across the floor.

THE END.