There was a heavy pounding on the room's door.
Bang! Bang!
— "Sir! Open the door!"
Pradipta's voice from outside.
Along with several other agitated voices.
Inside the room, a strange silence.
Amoresh Saha sat in the chair.
Ranju Singha stood trembling by the door.
Bundles of notes scattered on the floor.
And on the table, that file lay open.
Glowing still on the wood of the chair—
One reckoning closed.
Amoresh said, his voice shaking,
— "Ranju... open the door."
Ranju went to the door.
Turned the handle.
It wouldn't open.
Pulled harder.
No use.
— "Sir... the door's stuck!"
Right then a heavy sound came from the back of the chair.
Creeeak...
Both of them turned around.
The chair slowly turned toward Ranju.
Ranju's face went dry.
— "This... what is this?"
Amoresh gave no answer.
Because he understood—
this time the chair was looking for someone else.
Outside, Pradipta pounded on the door again.
— "Sir! Open the door!"
No answer.
Sulata Ray said anxiously,
— "What's happening inside?"
Pradipta said,
— "I don't know."
Just then Tapan Ray slowly stepped forward.
Looking at the door, his face grave.
— "No need to break the door."
Pradipta asked, surprised,
— "Why not?"
Tapan said quietly,
— "It'll open itself."
Pradipta looked at him.
— "It?"
Tapan gave no answer.
Inside the room, Ranju suddenly shouted,
— "I haven't done anything!"
The chair, still.
No sound.
Ranju shouted louder,
— "I only carried out sir's orders!"
Amoresh started.
— "Ranju!"
Ranju fell silent.
New letters appeared on the wood of the chair.
The first word of a lie.
Ranju stepped back.
— "No..."
The chair now began slowly moving forward.
One inch.
Two inches.
Three inches.
Ranju backed into the wall.
Then that deep voice was heard—
"Ranju Singha..."
Ranju's body shook.
"How much did you take in the name of a file that was never made?"
— "I..."
"How much?"
— "I don't know."
"Lies."
Suddenly Ranju's bag, kept under the table, came out on its own.
The bag landed on the floor.
Then—
Thump!
The bag's mouth opened.
One by one, out came—
Old envelopes.
Receipts.
Torn papers.
An account ledger.
And small scraps of paper with names and figures written on them.
The sound of the papers scattering across the floor echoed through the whole room.
A sharp smell of old, dusty receipts rose into the air.
Ranju's hands were shaking, but he couldn't move.
Ranju fell to his knees.
— "No... how did these get here?"
Pradipta had been watching everything from outside.
Seeing the papers slide out from under the door, he was stunned.
Amrit Singh picked up one of the papers.
His eyes widened.
His hand began to shake, the paper nearly slipping from his fingers.
— "That's my name!"
He showed the paper to Pradipta.
Written on it—
Amrit Singh — 50,000
"Land document — work completed."
Tears welled in Amrit's eyes.
— "But I never paid this money..."
Pradipta said,
— "Then what is this reckoning?"
No one answered.
Sulata picked up another paper from the floor.
Seeing it, her expression changed.
Her lips trembled slightly, as if a long-held suspicion had suddenly become real.
— "This is my file number."
She turned the paper over.
On the back, written—
"Hold the file. We'll see if the pressure builds."
Sulata's hand began to shake.
She said slowly,
— "I've been deliberately strung along all this time..."
Pradipta lowered his head.
He felt guilty too.
Because he had seen much of this.
But had never protested.
Suddenly the chair turned toward Amoresh.
Amoresh stepped back.
— "Why are you looking at me?"
The chair said,
"You sat in the chair."
— "Yes."
"But did the chair tell you to do wrong?"
Amoresh, silent.
"Did the chair tell you to take bribes?"
Silence.
Amoresh's breathing grew heavy. He couldn't lift his eyes.
"Did the chair tell you to play with people's dignity?"
Amoresh lowered his head.
The chair said,
You thought the chair was power.
It was responsibility.
Amoresh, trembling now, said,
— "Forgive me."
The chair stayed silent for a while.
Then said,
"Forgiveness isn't mine to give."
Looking toward the door, it said,
"Judgment belongs to people."
Right then—
Crack!
The door opened on its own.
Pradipta, Sulata, Amrit, and the journalists poured into the room.
Everyone stood stunned.
Documents scattered on the floor.
Money.
Account ledgers.
And in the middle of the room, the old chair standing.
A journalist held out a microphone.
— "Amoresh Saha, what is the account of this money?"
Amoresh gave no answer.
Another asked Ranju,
— "Are these documents yours?"
Ranju, silent.
The journalist asked again,
— "A little while ago you said you were innocent. Now?"
Ranju opened his mouth.
But before he could speak—
a sound came from the wooden chest of the chair.
Crack.
Then a new sentence appeared there—
Silence, too, is an answer before the truth.
Everyone in the room stood staring at the chair.
Tapan Ray slowly stepped forward.
Looking at the chair, he whispered,
— "You've come back again..."
Pradipta overheard.
— "Tapan-da, did you know it before?"
Tapan, silent.
Then said,
— "I know it."
— "How?"
Tapan placed his hand on the back of the chair.
— "When this chair first awoke, I was still in this office."
Pradipta's eyes widened.
— "What happened then?"
Before Tapan could answer—
a new sentence appeared on the chair's wood.
The old reckoning is still unsettled.
Tapan's hand suddenly froze.
The color drained from his face.
Pradipta understood—
this chair's story was not only about Amoresh or Ranju.
Tapan Ray, too, carried some past he had kept hidden all this time.
Standing in the corner of the room, the chair slowly faded into the darkness.
But one last time, a sound drifted from its wooden chest—
The next trial — Tapan Ray.
Tapan closed his eyes.
And Pradipta understood—