RADIO (FEATURE) SCRIPT SAMPLE!

Show Name: Second Coach Stories

Story Title: Stranger Things

Music:                                                           Station theme song played at bottom of the hour (6.30 p.m.)

SFX:                                                           Train whistle and sound of the chug follows

Radio Announcer:                                        Sana was standing on the platform. The train that faced her had a thick blue stroke stretched through horizontally, below the windows that obstructed the white layer of the train. The train had been plying over the New Delhi-Amritsar route for years and today was no different. It was waiting for all its passengers to hop in. The train was waiting. Sana was waiting. Dhinu was waiting.

Sana:                                                             Honey, where are you? The train is about to leave.

SFX:                                                          Sound of sobbing (Dhinu is sobbing)

Sana:                                                             (scoffs) Don’t tell me. You are joking, right. You can’t do this after all that... Come on, Dhinu. You said… you earned my faith… (Sana wells up). Please do not... (her voice fading).

Dhinu:                                                         I am sorry baby. (Dhinu disconnects)

SFX:                                                         Phone disconnecting sound.

Sana:                                                            Dhinu... Listen up, hey… hello… hello Dhinu…

Radio Announcer:                                      Sana was seen crying tears but the moving sound of the train supplanted the sound of her cry. She placed her mobile phone in the back pocket of her trousers and took out a handkerchief from the other pocket to wipe her runny nose. The train was organically speeding up and so was Sana’s imminent life in her head. The train moved on. Sana moved on.

SFX:                                                          continuous chugging of train complemented with chips-scrunching sound and some bits of laughter. (sound fading down)

Passenger:                                                    Can you please let me take that window seat? My baby is not acclimatized to aisle seats.

SFX:                                                          seat shuffling, baby whimpering and indistinct chattering sounds

Passenger:                                                    Thank you very much… 
(CONT.)                                                        (high pitched voice carrying intonation) Don’t cry my love, look at uncle’s shiny suit, aaanh, I think he likes your suit. My baby, you too want one when you grow up? You have got to be silencing your cry then. Hey, don’t bite your lip, don’t bite your lip. Hush! Hush! my baby.

baby crying sound fades down.

Passenger:                                                  Been to Amritsar before?

Man on aisle seat:                                     Yes, I have, when I was in grade 12.

Passenger:                                                  I have been plying over this route for the last nine years and Amritsar has grown so much younger since then. I work as a Writer with an overseas education company. It has 18 branches all over India. We consult students aspiring to go abroad, assist them with applications, get them scholarships, and all of that stuff. Once broke in a student as good looking as you and started to scream and threaten us for no reason. These students, they are all willing and well-off, but hardly 20 percent of them are actually deserving for education of a foreign level. I hope you are interested.

Man on aisle seat:                                   No. I do not think so.

Passenger:                                               (angrily) Hmmm…

Radio Announcer:                                  The chirpy passenger frowned her eyebrow at the man’s reply. She thought it was rude of him to be that bold in showing disinterest in her story. She looked outside the window and started showing the view to her child. The man, despite being bugged, initiated the next phase of the conversation with the passenger.

Man:                                                       How old is he?

Passenger:                                              Oh, I thought you were not interested. Two he is.

Man:                                                       You look quite young to have a 2-year-old baby. Got married early?

Passenger:                                              Hmm.

Radio Announcer:                                 The man could not make out the reason behind the beautiful passenger’s sudden seething behavior. He asked her unornamented if she was okay.

Man:                                                       I am sorry. Did I say something to irk you?

Passenger:                                              No. I do not think so.

Radio Announcer:                                 The passenger lady did an impression of the man. A steward in his uniform walked through the aisle, seat after seat, with his trolley cart carrying food items. He asked the lady passenger first.

Steward:                                                  Ma’am, vegetarian or non-vegetarian?

Passenger:                                               Vegetarian please, thank you.

Steward:                                                  And sir, you?

Man:                                                        Non-vegetarian.

Radio Announcer:                                  The passenger scrunched her nose at the man’s choice. She had ordered vegetarian and it should be obvious to her fellow passenger on the cart to order vegetarian food as the other option would not go well with her senses that can smell and see. The man observes her averseness and decides to change his decision.

Man:                                                         Well, I just recalled I do vegan meals on Tuesday. So, vegetarian for me too.

Passenger:                                                 Today is Wednesday.

Man:                                                          Maybe, Wednesday is the new Tuesday.

Passenger:                                                 I hope you can sense my questioning look.

Radio Announcer:                                   They are served with food and an extra packet of milk for the baby. The steward leaves for attending the other passengers.

Man:                                                          This food is pinning down all the rumors that swing train food into bad books. Hey, kid. Have this gulab jamun.

Radio Announcer:                                    The man tried hard to fill his fellow passenger with the spirit she had come into his life. He did not know what wrong did he do to make her this upset. He tried to break the rigid ice, once, twice, thrice, and many times. He tried to talk to the child who, sitting on the lady passenger’s lap, would innocently look at him and sway towards and on her chest, locking his thumb into his teeny-weeny teeth showing up from his little smile of the color of pink roses. Every time the child does that, the man would feel some deep-seated emotions billowing out. He wanted to hug that child, feel his head on his chest, pour some smiles over his Johnson & Johnson baby fragrance, and bring peace to his bubble. Never before had Danish’s heart tickled him inside this way. He thought all of it while biting his lower lip.

SFX:                                                      chugging of train (fades down)

Danish:                                                      Hey, you slept?

Passenger:                                                (in a hushed tone) Shh! My baby is sleeping.

Danish:                                                     Do you think getting married at an early age was a mistake?

Radio Announcer:                                   The passenger passed an angry glance to Danish.

Danish:                                                     Well, sorry. It was perhaps an offensive way to ask what is the biggest mistake of your life?

Radio Announcer:                                   The passenger was appalled and turned her head completely to face Danish’s side profile, on which surfaced his slightly mischievous smile and shrunken eyes gazing to his left. The passenger found it amusing and relinquished her unsuitable temper. She gradually swayed her head back to look straight forward and heaved a sigh.

Passenger:                                                I am not married. The child is not mine.

Danish:                                                     I kind of guessed it. No sindoor, no mangalsutra. No trace of a married woman. Well. This is a mistake, perhaps we all do at some phase of our lives.

Passenger:                                                 But..

Danish:                                                      (talking over) No, no, seriously! If it is not love, it is something else. You are looking after a child at an age when you could do (pause)… well, whatnot. You can paint the whole world. But, then some son of a ... (sighs) sorry. Some guy just barges into your life and wreaks everything, all your plans, all your dreams, leaving his responsibilities, leaving you with his.

Passenger:                                                Excuse me! No, but…

Danish:                                                     (cuts over again) I know this. I have been this son of a … Oh God… I am sorry miss. I think you are better off sleeping. I should keep mum.

Radio Announcer:                                 The passenger notices sweat on Danish’s face and anxiety he held onto inside his closed fists.

Passenger:                                               What is it? Tell me?

Danish:                                                     (exhales) It was two years long ago. She and I were all set to elope. We were prepped up for all the challenges that our interfaith marriage could bring towards us. We had chalked out it all, to run away to Amritsar, stay with our friends for a few days and fly to Canada after a while. We planned it like it was going to be a walk in the park. I earned her trust. I told her that I will be by her side, come what may. We were so happy unless…

Radio Announcer:                                   The steward returned to pick up the dishes.

SFX:                                                       sound of clinking crockery

Passenger:                                                 Unless?

Danish:                                                      The day we were to elope, I recalled several memories of my single mother, how she raised me after my dad was martyred in a ceasefire violation. I recalled moments of my elder brother working round the clock to make it through the Indian Army interviews and avenge those who killed our father. I just could not run away with a Muslim girl when I stood nowhere in life. I was just a graduate, unemployed, visionless.

Passenger:                                                 So, what did you do? Did you not meet your girl?

Danish:                                                      I blew her off, but it was unintentional. I blew her off on the balmy days of July 2017, exactly a year after it all started. I was floored by her melodious voice, twinkling eyes, wheatish skin tone, letters, shaayaris, motherese, tender touches, and all what it takes a young lover to tingle with excitement of newfound love.

Passenger:                                               You stood her up? Like… just like that?

SFX:                                                      Danish gulps down.

After few seconds

Passenger:                                                (a little panicky voice) Oh my! What’s you name please?

Danish:                                                     Oh hi! I am Danish

Passenger:                                                Danish Batra, is it?

Danish:                                                     You… (stammers) you… how dah.. (fumbles) do you know my surname?

Passenger:                                              (speaks with a hushed ferocity) You son of a…you… You criminal, you killer, you murderer…

Danish:                                                  Whoa whoa whoa! Madam, excuse me.

Passenger:                                              Don’t you dare madam me. And it happened on the 22^nd of July, 2017, to be precise. Ameena, she was standing there… on the platform with her luggage that seemed weightless in front of her heavy heart.

Radio Announcer:                                  Danish looked at the passenger with widest eyes.

Passenger:                                               She stood numb and it was only when I offered her help that her grief-frozen tears melted to rolled down like heavy streams of water. You left her there, I was there. I was travelling to Amritsar for work and I took her with me. And Mr. Danish, hold your calming senses strong…

Radio Announcer:                                   The passenger gave a heads-up before the big reveal.

Passenger:                                                 I have your baby sleeping on my lap.

Radio Announcer:                                 In the August of 2019, Danish had met the stranger passenger, the passenger, unknown to the truth that now sounded bitter and peculiar to him. Danish found out that the woman with the baby was somebody who gave his first inter-caste and only love of life a new beginning. Danish also found out that the baby was his. He recalled the time, or as they would call it, the mistake, when he and Ameena lost into the tenderness of each other’s first touches. He was hit massively by nostalgia. “Where is Ameena”, he thought.

Passenger:                                              In two months, Ameena showed up pregnancy symptoms. She hadn’t had her periods and the morning sickness had started to catch hold of her. She was pregnant with no father for the child she wanted. She decided to fend for herself all through this fight. On the day of delivery, she succumbed to a fatal hemorrhage and was survived by your son whom I have been fostering. People give me suspicious looks, because I have no answer to whose child is it that I am looking after with this much gravity.

Danish:                                                    (weeping) I… I just don’t know what to say. I met you like this, I got to know about Ameena like this, I met my son like this. What could be the odds, I wonder. Can I… Please…

Passenger:                                               Don’t you dare touch my, I repeat, my baby.

Danish:                                                    (weeping and whining) But he bites his lips like I do… Let me kiss his little fingers, my baby’s little fingers…

Passenger:                                                I think you ought to overhaul my position and only then I would allow you to get any close to him.

Danish:                                                      He has been raised by a Hindu so far. I am glad about that as I am sure my family would at least accept this part.

Passenger:                                                Excuse me! Do you really belong to this century, you timid rat.

Danish:                                                     I definitely do, it is hapless that my family do not… Yes… I will take up the custody of my child. I will do that. Thank you for raising him as a Hindu. May I please know your name ma’am.

Passenger:                                                Catch your breath.

Danish:                                                      Sorry miss.

Passenger:                                                 My name is Sana Khan.

Radio Announcer:                                   Ameena, a Muslim girl, was in a relationship with a spineless human, and her baby, who was being take care by Sana Khan, another Muslim girl, after Ameena’s death on the day of delivery. Danish, a young businessman, never really demonstrated having brains of his own. But he convinced Sana that he will take over the custody after few days. They both shared contact numbers and email addresses. Four months in time from then, Danish was again in love. He was in love with his baby. He was in love with his baby’s nose that reminded him of Ameena’s. There was not a day when he did not apologize to Ameena in his prayers. He even went to the holy dargah of Nizamuddin to pray for Ameena’s soul. He was also in love with somebody who taught him to love himself. He once again decided to elope, and once again with a Muslim girl. This time, it was Sana, whose love was Danish surfaced and gradually increased with the speed of the development of courage in Danish.

Sana:                                                            Honey, where are you? The train is about to leave.

SFX:                                                          Sound of sobbing (Dhinu/Danish is sobbing)

Sana:                                                            (scoffs) Don’t tell me. You are joking, right. You can’t do this after all that... Come on, Dhinu. You said… you earned my faith… (Sana wells up). Please do not... (her voice fading).

Dhinu:                                                         I am sorry baby. (Dhinu disconnects)

SFX:                                                         Phone disconnecting sound.

Sana:                                                            Dhinu... Listen up, hey… hello… hello Dhinu…

Radio Announcer:                                      Sana was seen crying tears but the moving sound of the train supplanted the sound of her cry. She placed her mobile phone in the back pocket of her trousers and took out a handkerchief from the other pocket to wipe her runny nose. The train was organically speeding up and so was Sana’s imminent life in her head. The train moved on. Sana moved on, with a baby carrier posited on her shoulders, and securing Danish and Ameena’s baby. But this time, Danish did not elope.

Danish:                                                       Walk slower you rage queen.

Radio Announcer:                                     Sana turned back. It was Danish.

Sana:                                                           You finessed a prank on me. We missed our train Dhinu.

Danish:                                                       Really? Did we? Oh! Thank highness. You know what I have decided. I am going to marry you. I am going to marry you the same way any other guy of my family has or any woman of your family has. You have helped me build a spine Sana. I don’t want to use it for running. We are not running away. We will face the challenges. We will convince our families, we will tell them everything and make them understand. We will marry with all the rituals, with everybody and in all right ways.

SFX:                                                       some cheerful and romantic music

Radio Announcer: And they live happily and confidently ever after. A stranger, much his own, helped Danish kill the stranger things inside him and confidently stand for his choices and decisions. That was the strange story of Sana and Dhinu. For more Second Coach Stories, stay tuned.

Station theme song played at bottom of the hour (7:30 p.m.)

Let Free The Fevicol

Sanam was pasting some pictures from the day in her scrapbook. She had gone out with some of her school friends after half a month of rigorous involvement in studies and preparation for exams. She was a science student and a poet at heart, which to her had started appearing as a trite combination.

“Every other person I see is a writer, a musician or an artist in some way or the other. I don’t know why being a science student and an artist alongside is hyped and acclaimed more than just being an artist”, Sanam told her mother.

“Would you like to reconsider saying that every science student is an artist”, Sanam’s mother told pointing at her dweeb son, who was elder to 15-year-old, class 11 student Sanam by four years.

While Sanam had the gift of the gab, Rishabh, her big brother, was a total nerd engrossed in inventions, whether existing or not. He lacked the sense of humor his Punjabi family naturally had. Many a time, Sanam would joke around saying Rishabh bhaia is not loyal to his genes. Rishabh would only grimace in reply as his mind was busy thinking about the tools he would require to device something new for the college project. However, unlike the hackneyed tradition of comparing siblings, or individuals for that fact, Sanam and Rishabh were never subjected to hold a candle against each other. They were both raised to be proud of who they were and are to become.

“The printer is again not working. Rishabh bhaia, please help me get these pictures out.”, Sanam said to Rishabh in her voice like that of a toddler.

“Technology does not stop working, our brains do. It needs a cartridge refill. I will fix it once I am back from college. I am already late because of you.”, Rishabh runs off picking up his bag and essentials. Sanam sees her project kept safely on the table of the drawing room. She had forgotten that she had to submit her monthly class project tomorrow but Rishabh remembered that she had ask for help a month ago itself. He had since been working on creating the solar energy-based project for Sanam.

“Now who on earth would believe that an 11^th grader could create a pen that does not require ink because it is solar-powered.”, Sanam yelled at Rishabh when he returned from college at 9 p.m. that evening.

“Aabhaas Sikka might. Search him on Facebook and ask if he does.”, Rishabh surprised Sanam and their mother with his first-ever shot at humor. “He was interning with Space-India when he made RamanSat 2 and he had a team of adroit scientists to assist him, so there is no comparison, first.”, Sanam reply had a touch of Rishabh’s tone. She continued, “I have just got in class 11 and I, someone who doesn’t even understand the concept of long-established solar cookers and likes to rather spend most of her time writing poems and consulting her classmates with their issues, is creating a solar-powered pen. Why did I even ask you for help?”

“Drop right now, sweetie.”, Rishabh’s last word before “Good Night” that night had a mocking stretch. It seemed like Rishabh and Sanam had stepped in each other’s shoes for that conversation. Rishabh was making jokes and Sanam was sounding serious. “What the hell did just happen”, Sanam’s father asked his wife after he came out of the bathroom.

Sanam, apparently, was a person who connected well with every kind of emotion. She read The Alchemist, The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, The Secret, As A Man Thinketh, and other motivational books time and again to connect to different theories of leading a solemn and stress-free life. She would go on to spread what she read and comprehended from the different ways of understanding and living life.

Once in the second period of their Wednesday time-table of grade 8, Priya, Sanam’s close confidant, was seen messing with a compass at the last bench. Mr. Batra, their Mathematics teacher, had asked the class to bring their geometry essentials for learning construction.

“Stop it, you will hurt yourself.”, Sanam warned Priya while sitting beside her.

“Who cares anyway?”, Priya defended while lightly scratching her finger with the compass.

Priya showed signs of depression and Sanam would always try to get her out of her negative thoughts. Her consolation was perhaps the reason why the compass strokes were soft.

“I care. There are a lot of people who care. Your parents don’t know you beyond your mark sheets and I would say it is just not their fault. You need to befriend them and share your secret talents the way you do with us.”, Sanam suggested to Priya.

“Easier said than done. I do not belong to a cheerful Punjabi family like yours. My parents are not as permissive as yours. They want marks, high scores, and a good academic reputation for me.”, Priya made a slight attempt at opening her heart out.

“Hey hey hey! It is not about the kind of family we belong to. We are all humans and we all have emotions. You always create a strict image of your parents in front of me, but wasn’t your mother crying in her vidaai picture that you showed me the other day from your parents’ wedding album. This proves that she has deep-seated emotions and she does know how to empathize as well. You must tell her what you plan for your future and she will surely help you make the cut.”, Sanam’s wisdom spoke up. Her wise words did not fall on deaf ears as later that day, Priya did explain to her mom about her dream to become a voice over artist. She gave the impressions of different voices, ranging from Misty and Nobita’s to Chutki and Tweety’s.

“Who from did you get this?”, Priya’s mother startled at her daughter’s gifted voice variations enquired, “Do you remember Dimple aunty? Her sister-in-law runs her own voice over institute but they require class 10^th as minimum qualification. So complete your studies and after that focus on becoming the best voice over artist. You are really blessed.”. A session of tears did follow the highly sensitive moment for Priya but it ended soon when her father ordered her favorite ice-creams.

This was the power Sanam held. She might never have had the power to create but she always had the power to console and cajole. She was never the brightest her in her class but she shone the brightest in her own world where everything was perfect because everything had a solution. But did Sonam have solutions to everything and every issue or was it just some past successful experiences where her friends heard her and followed her advice that led her to think that she is a healer?

“You know what if you smoke, your life expectancy is likely to decrease by a decade.”, Sanam taught to her three-year older cousin who was in the middle of completing her Bachelors in Mass Communication.

“Yes, I know. And do you know I am prone to a range of diseases like lung cancer, asthma, chronic bronchitis and others.”, Sheena said taking a drag.

For ten minutes from then, Sanam tried convincing her cousin against the act of smoking cigarettes. But no book she had read or no deep thoughts of hers about life could make a difference to Sheena’s life. That day, Sanam felt low on confidence, thinking if she is losing out on her healing capabilities.

Sanam opened her drawer and picked out her highlighters and pens of different colors.

“The world I created has started to collapse
I called for my will like a breathless person gasps
In this imaginative world,
Somebody please find a pad for my vision,
In my real world where accommodate my values,
I feel so crestfallen.
The gift of life,
they do not understand
The value of living
they fail to apprehend.
What do want to do is right,
What they don’t want to is wrong,
How do I make this world a better place
How do I bring the change I want to embrace.”

Innocent Sanam filled yet another page of diary with ink, feelings and water that dropped down her eyes. She was an intuitive soul who wished to touch every life with positivity and good values. But after she failed to convince her cousin for not smoking, she was crestfallen and fret giving advices or using her consulting powers.

“This just doesn’t fix”, Rishabh said surrounded with different engineering tools, thermocols, stacked and scattered books and notes, as he was engrossed in his college project. Sanam saw Rishabh work tirelessly and unaware that he hadn’t had dinner that night. He slept nearby his project only and had set an alarm to wake up early next morning.

The next day, Rishabh woke up to his alarm and massaged his eyes and facial muscles before putting on his fat specs. He fixed and re-fixed his specs, and squeezed and widened his eyes before accepting that his sister was using fevicol to paste one of his tools on a board that Rishabh was fiddling with in the night gone by. He stared at his sister for a while with a confused smile. He called for her.

“Sanam”, Rishabh started in a tone high enough to be heard at once.

“Sanam”, Rishabh tried at a higher tone when Sanam failed to hear to him.

“Sanam”, Rishabh was so loud that his parents in the next room had woken up too.

“Yea, what? Why are you shouting? I am not hard of hearing.”, Sanam said pulling out her AirPods.

“What are you doing with my project?”, Rishabh asked in a humble tone bringing his index finger to his chin.

“You are a dumb person. Haven’t you seen me pasting my pictures in my scrapbook? Would do I use? A simple fevicol. How could you not give a fevicol a chance to fix your thing?”, Sanam explained.

Rishabh guffaws. “You know what you lack?”

“What?”

“This”, Rishabh filled nuts and bolts in his hand, and showed it to Sanam. She responds with an exclamation mark present but not visible on her face.

“The practical facts”, Rishabh explained, “You have a wonderful heart Sanam. You want to help, you want to create a change, you want to spread positivity but you lack the practical fact. Come what may, the fact remains that a fevicol cannot glue or paste everything. Sometimes, we would need a tape, sometimes a glue or sometimes nuts and bolts to fix one thing with the other. A fevicol can paste things but not everything.”

Sanam welled up.

Courtesy: https://tinyurl.com/ubfj7bh

“I saw you writing that poem. Look Sanam, your values can change people but not everyone. Sometimes, even when you are right, you need to leave people hanging on their own circumstances and let them learn by their own experiences, just like you have. Give people a chance to experience and learn from them, instead of injecting your perspective into them. You can be a fevicol, you do you. You do your work. Keep trying but if things refuse to stick, you let them be. You need not turn into any other adhesive, rather find things that need a fevicol.”. 

Sanam, her voice breaking, said, “Do you also secretly write and read? How can you be this intellectual as an engineer?”

Rishabh smiled and called her for a hug. “We can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone. Remember this quote by Ronald Reagan. Okay.”.

Sanam and Rishabh’s parents clicked their picture while Sanam cried embraced in her brother’s arms. Since then, Sanam has remained a fevicol that maintains its properties, or qualities, and doesn’t force its adhesiveness, or perspective, on others. Sometimes, it is good to let go!