SRISHTI CHAUDHARY
Once upon a Curfew
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
1
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Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
EBURY PRESS
ONCE UPON A CURFEW
Srishti Chaudhary studied creative writing from the University of Edinburgh and English literature at Lady Shri Ram College for Women. Previously, she had a series of short stories published by Juggernaut Books. Her articles have been published by BBC, Vice, Nat Geo India and the Hindu Businessline, amongst others. She wishes she had a cool signature, the apparent prerequisite to being a writer. She can be reached at www.srishtichaudhary.com.
To Edinburgh, the city which reminded me
that—above all—I am a writer
1
‘Some thanda, madame? Campa? Shikanji?’
Indu looked at the masterji, a short, hunched man with little bristles of white beard on his dark face, thick glasses covering eyes that never stopped squinting, and a slab of sky-blue chalk held safely above his right ear, ready to mark boundaries.
She said shukriya and shook her head clearly. ‘It would help, though, if you would not delay this any longer,’ she added.
‘Bass done, madame, it’s done! Think of it as already done.’
‘Don’t joke, masterji. With the state of the border on the kameez, it could well be another year. And didn’t I tell you I wanted brocade?’
Masterji gave a sheepish nod. The rolls of fabric at the back of the shop were propped up against each other in slants, waiting to be cut and stitched into clothes. Beneath the glass table, boxes of sample borders, sequins, laces, buttons and frills were on display. On the wall behind, there was a large calendar featuring Ganeshji, and the scent of fresh incense was in the air.
‘Arre, why do you worry, madameji?’ he asked. ‘If I say it will be done before the wedding, it will be! Do you think I will let you go to the wedding in old clothes?’
‘How many times have I told you to be more efficient with your work than your words, eh, masterji?’
‘Uff, madame likes her little jokes . . . so what about the arm, madame? You want brocade, hun?’
‘The neck, masterji, and don’t make me repeat it again. I’m going to send Natty on Saturday, and it better be done by then.’
‘Yes madame,’ he said. ‘Whose wedding is it?’
‘Someone in the family,’ she said before walking out of the shop; she didn’t want to bother too much with explanations. While Shashi uncle was not exactly family, the marriage of his son demanded the same amount of enthusiasm.
Indu eyed the dirty water and mud on the road warily, placing her dupatta on her right shoulder, making sure it was perfectly balanced in the front and the back. As she attempted to cross the dirty, congested road, a couple of children began trailing her, begging for an anna. It had rained all night, so the city was obviously paralyzed. But that’s not what made Indu stop in her tracks. She stared at the huge poster of Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore across the road. His head rested against Sharmila Tagore’s as if in peace. The way his eyes closed in bliss, his lips on the verge of a smile . . . Indu couldn’t imagine a more handsome man in the whole country.
Indu tore her gaze away from the poster and looked for Natty. There he was, at the wheel of the white Ambassador, waiting for her as he always did. She saw him see her and started the car. Holding her dupatta from both ends, careful not to let it dip in the muddy water, she got in the car and sat at the back with a sigh, pulling the door shut, blocking out the cacophony of the street.
‘Is your suit stitched, madame?’ Natty asked her, slowly reversing while looking into the rear-view mirror.
‘Of course not, Natty,’ Indu replied. It was an old, affectionate name for Natwarlal, who had spent half his life driving the family around. ‘You think masterji ever finishes anything on time?’
‘People change sometimes, madame,’ Natty said, straight-faced.
‘We’ll see about that, Natty. Let’s please go before the rain gets worse.’
Natty gave his usual small nod and began driving as little droplets of rain began hitting the windows. She watched the street pass by. Hawkers covered their stalls with plastic sheets to save their fruits from the rain, vegetable vendors pulled their carts under awnings to prevent them from getting spoiled, and bicycle and scooter riders shielded themselves under the flyover. The Ambassador cut through the traffic easily amid the sea of carts and bicycles.
Indu stared at the bald patch on the back of Natty’s head and asked him, ‘Say, Natty, what was that song that you were humming in the morning?’
She saw his face light up in the rear-view mirror. ‘Oh, the latest of Kishore Kumar! ‘Waada karo nahi chhodoge tum mera saath’, do you know?’
‘Of course I know,’ Indu replied smugly.
‘Then how come you asked me, madame?’
‘Because what you were actually humming sounded like a completely different song, Natty!’
‘Madame likes her little jokes. I know how bored she’d be without me and my summer hits.’
Indu shook her head, stifling her laugh, and stared outside the window. While brown and yellow leaves lay muddied on the side of the road as a result of the rain, the trees looked greener than ever. The heat had dissipated a bit because of the cool winds that accompanied the rain. The streets looked especially grey against the lushness of Lutyens’ Delhi. It was a city that was at its best and its worst in this season. The September rain might have brought relief from the aching heat, but had also invited disease, stagnant water and mosquitoes. Indu would rather stand the blazing heat than spend nights swatting mosquitoes.
As the car took a turn, Indu came face to face with a hoarding of Sunil Gavaskar advertising a shaving cream. The Ambassador glided through the tree-lined avenues as the roads became a little wider. There was the usual racket of horns and bicycles on the road as they went around the roundabout towards Civil Lines.
Indu’s father had always maintained that a good life was a Series of Smart Decisions that for him had begun with meeting his wife, Lata. From what Indu had heard, her mother had been a beautiful, docile and cheerful young woman from a well-to-do family and had a penchant for making karhak ginger chai. It was true, Lata’s chai was always great, but it was not what had sealed the deal. ‘It was always your sisters,’ her father had told her mother later. Her sisters had gushed and giggled over Ajit, the young Delhi boy. And so the decision was made even before the couple saw each other. It was the first in the Series of Smart Decisions.
Lata was a sweet, compliant bride but also a woman who fought her battles fiercely. Unshakeably religious, she was aghast to find herself with a husband who had driven all traces of God out of his home and preferred to avoid any matter of faith. Slowly and steadily, though, she was able to turn the dial in her favour. By the time Amita, their first daughter, was born, the new, happy father never missed the morning prayer. Amita was a clingy child, introverted and prone to bouts of anxiety, and so she too did whatever was asked of her, including prayers.
Perhaps it helped that their increased belief in God coincided with their prosperity. While Ajit had always been well-to-do, his career took off after he got married. Indu’s grandfather had been employed by the Brit
ish and had been in a high, administrative position, which had brought him into contact with Congress officials. He ended up being one of the few people who benefitted by the British both staying as well as leaving, for the house allotted to them in Civil Lines was not withdrawn by the Congress. A generous dowry from the wedding helped set up further savings, and pretty soon, her father was employed in several commissions of the government, working among members in the upper tiers of the Congress. Although never an official member of the party, he made lavish donations to it.
A year after Amita was born, and on the same day that all of Congress celebrated the birthday of the Prime Minister’s daughter Indira Gandhi, Ajit and Lata’s second daughter was born. There was no choice, then; the little baby girl had to be called Indira. The newly christened Indira was taken to meet her namesake as well, wrapped up in blankets in her mother’s arms, her mother’s own head covered by the drape of her silk sari. Indu had then received a fond kiss from the woman whose swearing in she would witness years later.
Natty stopped the car outside their house in Civil Lines, and Indu walked in to discover her parents sitting in the drawing room with some other people.
‘There she is!’ her mother said, her short hair expertly curled at the edges, which Indu thought was hypocritical of her since she continually dissuaded Indu from cutting her hair. Her parents were with a couple seated on the sofa opposite them.
‘Namaste,’ she said to Supriya aunty and Balwant uncle, who got up to hug her. She then went and sat on the settee in the middle, and found all eyes trained on her.
‘Should I ask Sunita to prepare tea for you?’ her mother broke in.
‘No, I am alright,’ she said, adjusting her dupatta and looking around, smiling.
‘We were just talking about how difficult commuting has become these days,’ Supriya aunty said. ‘Just this distance of five kilometres took us an hour to cross!’
‘I have to say I agree,’ Indu’s father replied, a few grey hairs standing out on a head of black ones, balding at the top. ‘Gheras on every corner, clogged roads, workers on strike every other day—God knows how the country is supposed to function.’
‘Arre ji, people have too much liberty these days,’ Balwant uncle said, ‘and still they complain! The press is happy to publish any masala they think is news, always trying to cook up trouble. The people are also happy to lap it up, bored in their lives and ready to blame the government for anything—everyone has forgotten the times of the Raj, when nobody dared raise a voice unless they had the Mahatma standing behind them! These days, it’s all hue and cry over nothing.’
‘I’m telling you, Lata,’ Supriya aunty added, ‘these jokers are now overdoing it. Protesting is one thing, but they are hindering smooth functioning, and then the blame is placed on the government. I just don’t read the newspaper these days, it’s so depressing.’
‘They should focus on Dilip Kumar, hun?’ her mother said with a twinkle in her eye as Indu giggled.
‘Batao! Of course! Shirtless pictures occasionally, his phone number! Hain na Indu? Or who is your hero again, Shammi Kapoor?’
‘Rajesh Khanna, aunty,’ Indu said, ‘the real superstar.’
‘Everyone thinks their hero is the real superstar only,’ she said, looking at her husband. ‘And what about our hero, hun?’
Balwant uncle laughed and looked at Indu. ‘Indu beti, Rajat is leaving for London in two days. I have given his address to your mother, and he, of course, will be writing to you first. It would be great if you two could keep up a correspondence—it will be some time before he returns.’
Indu nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘What course was he studying again?’ Indu’s father asked, ‘These fancy terms slip my mind.’
‘Management,’ Balwant uncle said proudly, ‘he’s studying management.’
Supriya aunty got up to hug Indu again. ‘We are so thankful to have a gem like you in our family. We cannot thank the gods enough.’
Indu smiled and hugged her back, and the others got up too.
‘Excellent, excellent!’ Balwant uncle beamed. ‘We must be going now, though.’
‘Arre, what is this chai pe charcha?’ her mother asked indignantly. ‘You have to stay for dinner, I’ve already told Sunita to start preparing.’
‘Bass Lata, thank you, but lots of pending work!’
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Supriya aunty and Balwant uncle left. Indu told him she had, to which he nodded and retreated to his study.
Ever since Indu’s grandmother had passed away, they had been trying to decide the fate of her sprawling flat in Ganpati Tower at Ferozeshah Road. After much searching, her will was discovered. They found that their grandmother had made special efforts to get her will attested by every possible government seal, leaving the flat to Indu and her sister, Amita, along with a letter. Her mother told her that the beginning of the letter contained a fair number of complaints against Indu’s grandfather, before relating its contents.
‘It was in the year 1914 that I was married to your grandfather. He was just a boy of sixteen, eager to enlist, serve the British, and rise through the ranks. The freedom movement had gained momentum, but your grandfather foolishly believed that their efforts were in vain and that when war came, as he was sure it would, we would be on the right side of it. But I thought differently; I’d always believed in Kasturba bai. She would go from home to home talking to women, and told us she wanted to empower us and bring us out of our homes. But your grandfather did not let me join the women till the movement was in full force and he faced his great dilemma, that of switching sides. He often behaved foolishly, but life was kind to him, so we are where we are now. I raised my sons to be smarter, but I had decided when you two were born that if it was ever in my power, I would render to you girls some degree of independence, so that you may not be forced to give up your beliefs. To whomsoever it may concern, I leave Number 7 to Amita and Indu, and to them only.’
When the letter was found, it was hard for Lata to hide her smile. While she had never been fond of her mother-in-law, she had redeemed herself in Lata’s eyes with this final act. The four-bedroom flat was passed directly on to Indu and Amita. The house came with more than a thousand books that her grandparents had collected over the years. These books particularly delighted Indu. She couldn’t wait to spend long afternoons in that house, discovering new worlds on those bookshelves.
* * *
Later that night, Indu asked her mother if it was now certain that she would marry Rajat.
Her mother spoke quietly. ‘Rajat is a good man, a decent man. Much better than all the other party members who would have sent us their sons’ proposals if the rumour of you marrying Rajat hadn’t been floating around already. Have you seen that Hansi Lal’s wrestler of a son? Imagine! I would rather you never married!’
‘I agree,’ Indu told her, ‘but I don’t know Rajat. I’ve seen him only occasionally and said the briefest hello, if that.’
‘For sure, he is better than the rest,’ her mother replied, her eyebrows knitted tightly together and her jaw set. Her father always said that Indu mirrored this look when she wanted to be stubborn. ‘The good part is that he is not interested in continuing with the party. You’ll have no opposition members pestering your household. But even better is that since he is going to London now, the marriage is still two years away. It gives you a lot of time to focus on yourself, do as you wish. And time is a luxury, believe me.’
Indu nodded thoughtfully.
Satisfied that she had allayed her daughter’s doubts, Lata changed the subject. ‘I have phoned Amita and told her to meet us at Number 7 tomorrow.’
* * *
The next morning, all three of them reached dadiji’s flat at almost the same time. The flat was on the first floor, but Indu took the lift because it made her feel fancy. Her sister was dressed in a sari, with her hair plaited. Amita hugged both her sister and her mother before they took a round of the house.<
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It was a spacious flat. Ganpati Tower was one of the few to have acquired the right permits, and the result was five sprawling, four-bedroom flats on each of the eight floors. Dadiji had not lived here towards the end of her life, for it was simply too big, and also because she had needed constant care.
There was a huge drawing room with large wooden windows and a little attached balcony. Mahogany chests lined the walls, atop which lay framed photos of all the weddings and babies in the family. Indu’s favourite picture was of her father on his wedding, looking unsure of exactly what was happening, while her mother sat next to him, looking demure. Dadiji’s other children—Indu’s five uncles, two of them now in Canada—and their weddings and lives also found place on top of the chests. A thin coat of dust now lined the glass. Indu ran her finger along the table as she walked.
The view outside the windows was of a big amaltas tree, which, although green now, would turn into beautiful shades of yellow and gold come summer. Indu kept walking around the house, peeking inside the rooms, on the walls of which hung her grandfather’s many laurels.
Once they’d all sat down together on the slightly dusty sofas, Amita told them how Govind, her husband, was planning to speak to their father about turning the flat into an office.
‘An office?’ her mother repeated in horror.
Amita nodded. ‘You know how he wants to manufacture nails and screws with his Shashi uncle. He told me I can sign off on it, since I have half the stake, and Indu might anyway move to London now, so it’s not a problem.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ her mother answered coolly.
‘I won’t, but what do I say to him once he’s talked to daddy? I’m sure daddy will be alright with it. He won’t hear a word against Shashi uncle.’
‘And I am still here! I’m not moving to London,’ Indu quipped.
‘This flat has been left to you two,’ she said. ‘If someone else starts using it, you may not have the same control over it. Keep it. In case of a rainy day, you know.’
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