It is a saga of despair – a long driven despair that could not be answered any way. A play on revolution is not a revolution itself. That is the irony of our theatre. And so to our Time, too. It is really hard to believe that we are, basically, a generation of hypocrites who do not even know how to resist fascism. At the end of the day, we return to our mirror as a defeated soldier of our own battle. That is the harsh truth we refuse to believe.

Hemanto Biswas, the protagonist of the play, digs in such pains. The pains make him restless. He gets depressed with his futile anger. The history of Time relentlessly rebukes him for being impalpable to revolution. He then puts questions to us: is the revolution necessary or not; who are the real rebels of the Time; does any revolution get its longed ‘success – anywhere in the world.

Hemanta means ‘the autumn’. So, when he leaves us he, actually, throws us in absolute COLD & in QUESTIONS.

Who the hell is Hemanta? It’s you and/or me – who are suffering from our own relentless hypocrisy, and die someday, unnamed as a bloody common man.

The TIME is also ticking politically. But we turn our deaf ear to it. Ignorance is the poison the society injects in us in the name of vaccine. We get contented and slipped into our own comfortable cave.

Thus, the play is about our journey from a man to a hypocrite. The play has no answer about how to overcome hypocrisy and survive without it. We are sold everywhere. So we have to chose it, we have to live it. We do not know which path is the right one. The communism fails, the dictators regains power, the fascism overwhelms. But do we really care a fuck?

All these questions make me restless. My comfort zone makes me uncomfortable like hell. And I want to cry, to yell, to weep, to fight with my own shadow in my play.