On the 14 of May, 2014, a most terrible storm in the Arabian Sea caught dozens of fishermen unaware.

Many drowned, as their boats were torn asunder by the sheer magnitude of the waves, the powerful winds and mad rain.

But, there were survivors too.

The winds had carried them to a small island which none of them had noticed before. Now they were on this island, bruised and in shock.

When the storm subsided, the clouds gave way to the sun. The break of light revealed that five men had survived. But there were no boats, at least none intact.

The five men sit on the sandy beach of the island. They are bruised and their clothes are torn.

Man 1 (A teenager): I have never seen a storm like that. I am Rajan. A fisherman from a village near Mumbai, are all of you fishermen too?

Man 2 (Young person in his 20s): You are an Indian?

Rajan: Are you from the same village?

Man 2: No, I am from a fishing village some 50 miles out of Karachi.

Rajan: Pakistani fisherman? Name?

Man 2: Shabeer.

Rajan points at a middle-aged man sitting beside him: This is Joti. We are from the same village. Fisherman also. Indian.

Shabeer surveys the group: Are you all Indian?

Man 3 (in his early 40s): No. I am Khalid. From Makran. I work as a clerk in the city of Gwadar. I was on a launch with a couple of engineers. I am Pakistani. They were Chinese. But now gone.

Man 4 (A bearded 20-something with long hair. He is trying to dry a long blue piece of cloth): I am from Chandigarh.

Rajan: Fisherman?

Man 4: No, not fisherman. I am a college student. I had travelled to Surat on the invitation of a classmate. We hired a boat to go sailing. Got caught up in the storm. Now I am here. Don’t know what happened to my friend. My turban is all wet.

Shabeer: You are Sikh?

Man 4: Yes. Hunar is my name. College student from Chandigarh.

All of them then look up to see an old man sitting on top of a palm tree there. He is shivering and very quiet.

Hunar: Oye, uncle. What about you? Are you feeling cold? The sun has come out. It will warm you. My turban is almost dry.

Old man on the tree, shivering and looking disoriented: I … I … I am not sure what my name is … and … where I am from.

Rajan: Really? Oh ho, I now remember you! You were on my boat. Must be fisherman. Indian. It’ll all come back to you, brother fisher.

Khalid gets up and moves closer to the tree. He looks up at the old man: Hmmm … no, I think he was on the same boat as I. Yes, now I remember. He was! Old man, you are a friend of my uncle’s. I think your name is Qasim. Qasim bhai. Yes, yes that’s who you are. Qasim bhai, fisherman, Pakistan.

Rajan pushes Khalid aside. He too comes close to the tree and looks up at the old man: Aray! Murli chacha! It’s really you! Sorry, I didn’t fully recognise you with all that sand on your face. But I knew you were on my boat. Chacha jee, look closely, it is me, your nephew, Rajan. Fisherman, India.

Shabeer jumps in, pushing Rajan aside: Move! Qasim bhai, come down. We are here for you.

Rajan: Abey, now you know him too?

Khalid: Of course, he does! He is fisherman, Pakistan. He can recognise all fishermen, Pakistan.

Joti begins to climb the tree and then starts to smell the bewildered old man around the neck: Hmmm … old man is definitely fisherman, India. He smells like one. Salty type.

Shabeer also climbs the tree and smells the old man: … Almost salty type.

Rajan: See! Definitely fisherman, India. Same smell. Salty type.

Hunar: Of course, salty type! We all smell salty type because we were in a shipwreck and thrown into the sea.

Khalid begins to smell Hunar: Hmmm … he is right. Smells salty type too.

Khalid then smells his own arm: This also salty type.

Joti smells the old man again: Wait, wait. Hmm. Not salty type. But coconut. Certainly fisherman, India.

Shabeer too smells the old man again: No. No. Beef! Definitely beef. Fry-like. Definitely, fisherman, Pakistan.

Rajan gets hold of Sahbeer’s collar and both fall down to the ground.

Rajan: You rascal, how dare you say this about my Murli chacha! Murli chahcha would die than eat beef!

Khalid: Qasim bhai hates coconut! I have seen it. In fact, he was preparing beef biryani on our boat when the storm struck.

Joti: Rascal, I once saw Murli chacha lynching a man after he caught him eating beef!

Shabeer: You rascal, that man was Uzair bhai, a cousin of mine!

Joti: Aha! So this means you believe us when we say the old man in the tree is Murli chacha, fisherman, India, killer of beef-eater!

Khalid: Abey, you weren’t even on the same boat as the old man. You did not know him. But now you say you saw him lynch Zubair bhai …?

Shabeer: … Uzair bhai.

Khalid: Yes, Uzair bhai.

Joti: Oh, so now you too know Uzair bhai?

Khalid: Of course. He was Shabeer’s uncle …

Shabeer: … cousin.

Khalid: ... Yes, cousin. Very decent man. Very pious. You people lynched him, just because he ate beef? Rascals!

Joti: We didn’t. Murli chacha did.

Khalid: Abey, the guy you call Murli chacha was preparing beef biryani on our boat!

Joti: Don’t you dare say that word, you rascal!

Hunar jumps in between the two men: Friends, friends, please. We are marooned on this island. And all that talk about food has made me hungry. Aren’t you people hungry? We have to eat to survive. I see some trees with fruit on the hills up there.

Rajan: Fruit alone won’t sustain us.

Hunar: That’s true. When I was swept here, I thought I saw a couple of wild boars on the same hill. We can catch one, kill it, and …

Shabeer: Oye Sardar! Boars are ... are … that animal!

Hunar: You mean …

Shabeer: Don’t dare say that word, you rascal!

Hunar: Oye how dare you call me a rascal, you swine!

Shabeer gets hold of Hunar’s collar: I told you not to say that word, you dumb Sikh!

Hunar: Then what do you suppose we eat, you crazy Muslim?

Shabeer: Fish.

Rajan: We need proper meat. A boar would do.

Khalid: What if there are also cows on this Island?

Rajan: Well there aren’t any, are there, you filthy Muslim?

Khalid: How do you know that, you smelly Hindu?

Rajan: We didn’t see any. We just saw wild boars.

Hunar: Not we, I alone saw them.

Rajan: Sardar jee, do not contradict me. You are fisherman, India.

Hunar: I am not fisherman. I am college student.

Rajan: College student, India.

Hunar: … And a proud Sikh.

Rajan: Proud Sikh, India.

Joti: No difference, brothers. Sikhs are a kind of Hindus.

Hunar: No, they are not!

Shabeer: They are kind of Muslims, actually.

Hunar: Shutup, you rascal! I will kill you all right here and have you for lunch.

Khalid: Breakfast. It is still morning.

Hunar: Not in Chandigarh. Time in Chandigarh is some hours ahead from this island.

Rajan: But where is this island?

Shabeer: I am sure it is somewhere close to Pakistan.

Khalid: That is true. If we go up the hill then I am certain we can see Karachi’s shoreline. This island must belong to Pakistan.

Rajan: Abey, look at the fruit hanging from the trees on the hill. It is pineapple. I have heard pineapples do not grow in Pakistan; so this island clearly cannot belong to Pakistan. Pineapples are aplenty in India. This must be an Indian island. Do both of you have valid visas?

Khalid: Oh, now you are visa officer, India?

Rajan: And you are Muslim conquer, Pakistan?

Hunar: Friends, be reasonable. Let’s eat something, already.

Joti: Yes, wild boar.

Hunar: No, those only I can eat.

Joti: What do you mean?

Hunar: I saw them first. They belong to me.

Rajan: But the Island is Indian! We have as much right over them as you.

Khalid runs towards the sea and jumps in: The seawaters here belong to Shabeer and me. The sea here is Pakistani. Only we can fish here.

Hunar: So be it! The boars belong to me; the pineapples to Rajan and Joti; and the sea and the fish in it to Khalid and Shabeer, agreed?

Rajan: But the boars are on the island. And the island is Indian; it belongs to us.

Hunar: Rajan, let me quote a saying on a similar issue by one of our great gurus …

Rajan: No, first let me quote something on a similar issue from the Bhagavad Gita and …

Shabeer: Wait! A quote from our Holy Book would suffice. Let me quote a …

Hunar: You are all illiterate fishermen! What do you know? I am the most knowledgeable. I go to college and have a Twitter handle.

Rajan: Sardar jee, keep your handle where it belongs. Faith is for all. Rich, poor, educated, illiterate.

Khalid: I agree with Rajan. Our God is for all.

Joti: So are our Gods. They belong to all mankind.

Khalid: Not Gods. God.

Joti: Gods.

Khalid: God.

Rajan: Gods.

Khalid stands up in anger and threatens to hit Joti with a rock: Are you questioning my faith?

Joti also stands up with a rock in his hand: Are you mocking mine?

The old man throws a coconut down. Everybody looks up at him.

Hunar: Coconuts won’t do, uncle.

Shabeer: He must be hungry. Nobody asked him what he wants to eat.

Rajan: Hey, old man …

Joti: … old man, India.

Rajan: Yes, old man, India …

Joti: … Murli chacha, fisherman, India.

Rajan: Yes, Murli chacha, fisherman, India. Are you hungry? Do you want us to cook you some wild boar? We own all the boars here.

Hunar: No you don’t! I do. Feed him pineapple.

Shabeer pushes Rajan aside and looks up at the old man: Uzair bhai …

Khlaid: Uzair bhai was lynched. This is Qasim bhai.

Shabeer: Yes, Qasim bhai. How about some beef biryani?

Rajan: There is no beef here, you rascal. This island is Indian.

Shabeer: How do you know?

Rajan: Because of the pineapples!

Hunar: Stop! I am hungry, you illiterate fools! Let’s make up our minds, already! What should we eat?

Rajan: Wild boar.

Hunar: That only I can eat.

Joti: Traitor!

Shabeer: Beef biryani.

Rajan: There is no beef here, rascal!

Khalid: Fish. We own it.

Hunar: Look, look …!

Khalid: What? You saw a cow?

Rajan: Rascal!

Hunar: No, you ignorant men, what is that floating on the sea. The waves are carrying it here. Must be from one of the wrecked boats. What is it?

Everyone looks towards the sea.

Shabeer: Looks like … looks like …

Rajan, Joti, Hunar, Khalid and Shabeer shout together: Daruuuu!

Act 2

All four men drunk, sharing two whisky bottles that had washed on to the shore.

Hunar: (Burp) Yaar, this is very smooth. Whattay booze.

Rajan: (Burp) Yes, Indian, I am sure.

Khalid: Abey … (burp) … fisherman, India, how do you know this? I am sure you never had any daru like this in your life.

Rajan: Abey, poor Pakistani, have you?

Khalid: Yes. Pakistani daru. Just like this one. I am sure had the labels on these bottles not been washed away we would know that …

Joti: What Pakistani daru?

Khalid: Murree.

Joti: Never heard of it.

Shabeer: Of course you haven’t. Too expensive for you.

Rajan: Abey fisherman, Pakistan, all your life you have only had cheap moonshine whisky. How come you haven’t gone blind yet?

Hunar: Friends, why spoil the mood? And look, we didn’t even offer any to uncle up there.

Rajan: Murli chacha makes his own booze at home. I have seen it. It tastes great.

Khalid: Nonsense. Qasim bhai only drinks Murree.

Rajan throws the empty bottle at Khalid:

He is Murli chacha, you filthy cow-killer!

The bottle hits Khalid on the face. He throws the other bottle at Rajan: You rotten vegetable!

The bottle hits Rajan who falls on Hunar who pushes him towards Shabeer. Shabeer begins to punch him. Joti jumps in. A chaotic fight breaks out between all four men.

The tree starts to shake and the old man falls down to the ground. Thud!

He suddenly gets animated: I now remember! I now remember! I remember where I am from! I am from Kashmir!

He gets excited. But when he looks around, all the other men have knocked themselves out. He becomes somber again and climbs back up. He looks down at the unconscious men and mumbles: Rascals.