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KÀ4MA
Written by
Mohith Yadav
Summary
KÀ4MA is a dark, symbolic thriller exploring the brutal
symmetry of karma. The story unfolds through a series of
haunting vignettes centered on a mysterious man whose
choices ripple with cold indifference. It begins with a
rainy night where he hits a stray dog and rides off, an
anonymous observer watching silently. In the following
scenes, the same man denies water to a desperate beggar—his
only hope—then ignores a tragic hit-and-run. Tension mounts
as an unknown figure, hands bloodied, scrawls something
cryptic on a table before slamming it thrice. In the
chilling climax, karma strikes back: the man lies wounded in
the street after a crash, begging the same people he once
ignored. No one helps. The final image is of him, hopeless,
staring at the sky—now a victim of the apathy he once
showed.
UNNAT PRODUCTIONS
BOLARAM, HYD
7729073399

KÀ4MA
Scene 1: "The Rain and the Eye"

EXT. CITY STREET – EARLY MORNING – OVERCAST AND RAINING

Muted daylight bleeds through thick gray clouds. The city is
hushed—no horns, no chatter—just the constant patter of rain
on concrete.
A STRAY DOG stumbles into the frame, soaked to the bone. Its
breath clouds in the chilly air. Bones show under its
drenched fur. It hesitates at the edge of the road.
A faint WHIR of a MOTORBIKE grows louder—
THWACK!
The bike flashes through and strikes the dog with a
sickening jolt. The animal yelps, flails, and falls limp in
the muddy gutter. The bike vanishes into the distance, its
taillight swallowed by the rain.
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Rainwater pools around the dog, red tinges blending with

brown puddles.
Standing a few feet away, under a dripping awning, is a LONE
FIGURE in a hoodie. His face is mostly obscured—but the
camera locks onto his eye.
It narrows. A pause. Not shock, not horror—just a brief
tremor of something deeper. Regret. Pity. Memory. Then,
nothing.
He looks away.
SMASH TO BLACK.
Scene 2: "Thirst"

EXT. CITY SIDEWALK – MORNING – AFTER RAIN

The rain has just stopped. The street glistens with leftover
puddles. Drops fall lazily from rooftops. The sky remains
gray, but the storm has passed. People begin to reappear,
quietly returning to routine.
The same MAN from before walks calmly down the sidewalk. His
hoodie is up. He’s dry, untouched by the storm. His shoes
splash gently through shallow puddles.
Ahead, sitting against a damp wall, is an OLD BEGGAR. His
blanket is soaked. His body trembles faintly from the cold.
Lips cracked. Palms open. Eyes sunken.
BEGGAR
(weak, but hopeful)
Water… please… just a little…
The man slows down. Notices him. In his hand: a half-full
plastic water bottle.
The two lock eyes.
The beggar doesn’t plead more. He just watches—his last
thread of hope dangling.
The man tightens his grip on the bottle. He looks around. No
one is watching.
He turns away—silent—and continues walking.
Behind him, the beggar exhales shakily. The silence says
everything.
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The man’s reflection distorts in a puddle as he steps

forward—then vanishes from it.
A droplet of water falls from a rooftop and lands on the
beggar’s outstretched palm. He looks at it. It isn’t enough.
FAINT SOUND CUE:
A dog’s whimper echoes briefly in the
distance. Unseen.
CUT TO BLACK.
Scene 3: "Blind Corners"

EXT. EMPTY LANE – LATE MORNING – CLOUDY SKY

A narrow side lane—quiet, deserted, framed by cracked walls
and overgrown weeds. A few puddles remain from earlier rain.
The world feels paused.
The MAN walks through this lane alone. No earbuds this time.
Just silence. His pace is calm, detached.
He turns a corner—
SCREEECH—THUD!
A loud crash just out of view. A hit-and-run. Tires squeal,
and a car speeds past behind him. The sound of twisted metal
and a human GROAN echo from around the bend.
The man halts. Looks over his shoulder.
From where he stands, he can't see the victim. Just the edge
of a crushed bicycle wheel poking out.
A long pause.
The camera holds on his face—neutral, almost meditative. His
eyes don’t flinch. He listens. Groaning. Then silence.
He looks down and sees something: a child's crumpled drawing
on the wet ground, blown from the crash. It shows a smiling
stick family holding hands under the sun. Innocent.
He bends, picks it up, stares at it for a beat… then lets it
fall back into the puddle.
He walks on.
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VOICEOVER (SOFT, THOUGHTFUL)

"Sometimes, it's not the loud choices
that shape us… but the quiet ones.
The ones made in blind corners… when
no one is watching.
When the soul whispers—and we turn
our heads."
As the man walks away, the camera tilts slowly upward—
revealing a wall mural partially covered in grime. What’s
visible reads:
“EVERY EYE MISSES NOTHING.”
FAINT SOUND CUE:
A faint gasp… then silence again.
CUT TO BLACK.
Scene 4: "Ink and Iron"

INT. DARK ROOM – TWILIGHT – LSD TRIP AESTHETIC

Blackness. Then—
A flicker. A pulse. Like a heartbeat underwater.
The screen blooms into a vision: a dimly lit room where time
doesn’t move, only bleeds. Walls ripple subtly, like
breathing skin. Faint chanting echoes from nowhere—no words,
just vibrations.
In the center: a table drenched in blood. Not fresh, not old
—eternal. Blood seeps from its edges like ink on tissue. It
drips onto the floor… but never forms a puddle. It simply
vanishes.
Seated at the table: the UNKNOWN MAN. A hood covers his
head. His face is never shown. Shadows and light refuse to
reveal him. His hands, however, are steady—one glowing
faintly with veins of ink, the other wearing a ring etched
with an all-seeing eye.
As he opens the ledger, the pages flutter by themselves—each
one screaming faint whispers. The names on them melt and
reappear. Some blink. Some bleed.
He finds the correct page: the name of the MAN from earlier
scenes appears on its own, as if summoned.
The figure dips a pen into a well of dark, living ink. It
bubbles like it's breathing.
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He begins to write—but the words don’t just form on paper—

they echo into the air, appear above his head, twist into
the walls, ripple into the blood.
As the final stroke finishes, the table begins to THROB. The
blood boils. Symbols begin to appear within the pool—scales,
eyes, wolves, flames, and the limping dog.
CLOSE-UP:
Three ghostly, transparent versions
of the same man (from earlier scenes)
flicker across the room—
One watches the dog die.
One walks past the beggar.
One ignores the hit-and-run.*
They don't speak. They only observe… themselves.
The hooded figure slams the table:
BANG.
Reality blurs. The room stretches.
BANG. (CONT'D)
The blood on the table lifts—
floating. Spiraling upward.
BANG. (CONT'D)
All the whispers scream into silence.
One second of deafening stillness.
The figure presses his palm into the blood. When he lifts it
—the man’s name is burning into the wood beneath.
CAMERA ROTATES UPSIDE DOWN as the book closes itself.
VOICEOVER (DISSONANT, MULTIPLE TONES
OVERLAPPING)
"There is no punishment… only
reflection.
What you strike becomes the hammer.
What you ignore becomes the voice.
And what you deny… becomes the
blade."
The blood on the table crawls toward the walls, forming
strange shapes, briefly becoming a smiling car grill…
laughing.
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FAINTLY, FROM OUTSIDE:

A CRASH. Tires. Screech. Then… a
distorted, humanlike laughter coming
from a car engine.
CAMERA SLOWS. PULLS BACK.
The hooded figure sits still,
unmoving. The blood fades. The walls
still. Only the name remains.
CUT TO BLACK.
Scene 5: "Debt"

EXT. DESERTED STREET – NIGHT

The street is empty, fog thick in the air. The MAN walks
slowly, his footsteps heavy. His clothes are drenched, his
face hollow. There is a distant hum.
A car's headlights cut through the fog, speeding toward him.
The man doesn’t move.
SLOW MOTION:
The car slams into him, sending him
sprawling onto the wet pavement. He
lies there, disoriented, eyes wide,
but there’s no pain. Only a deep
sense of inevitability.
His hand reaches out weakly, blood pooling beneath him,
forming strange, cosmic symbols—scales, eyes, the dog.
HIM (weakly):
“Water… please…”
His breath is shallow. The figure watches from the shadows,
never fully seen, its presence suffocating yet distant.
VOICEOVER (CALM, ETERNAL):
"You cannot outrun your debt.
It finds you in the end."
The figure steps away, fading into the fog. The man’s hand
falls limp, his body still.
FADE TO BLACK.
CLOSING TITLE CARD:
"Debt."
"No one is ever truly free of it.
The END***