Once Upon a Curfew

by Srishti Chaudhary

  ‘On the other side of the world they have reached the moon, Anil, the moon. Can you even imagine what that means? In the history of humankind, thousands of years, millions of people have slept every night watching the moon, but did anyone ever think we’d one day be able to visit it? No! This is the age. I’ve been saying it for some time now—this is the modern age. It’s time to either change or burn. There, people are touching the moon and here, we are still fighting the administration to let girls wear kurtas with trousers!’

  Mrs Bala looked at Indu directly when she said the last sentence and Indu nodded right on cue. ‘It’s true,’ she said, ‘they made such a tamasha of the whole situation, you know, just didn’t understand the need to wear trousers to college. We led the movement for it! It’s a girls’ college, for God’s sake. If there is one place we should be able to wear trousers, that is it.’

  ‘But we aren’t so far behind,’ said Mrs Bala’s husband. ‘Our prime minister is a woman! Country only twenty-seven years young. Who else can claim that, hun?’

  Indu nodded enthusiastically at that, for she herself was going to bring that point up, but the girl across the table interrupted the cheers with a disdainful ‘pff’. ‘She got the seat solely because she’s her father’s daughter, and did nothing to earn it.’

  ‘Are you joking? After all that has happened after 1971?’ Indu asked.

  ‘1971 was a war she fought solely to consolidate her own position and change the public mood.’

  ‘Oh, yes? She was still elected by the people of this country!’ Indu spoke up, unable to stop herself.

  ‘Yeah, because she was the First Daughter,’ the girl replied in a tone so sarcastic that Indu wanted to throw her teacup across the table. ‘I don’t think gaining public sympathy was very hard after her father, who was also incidentally one of the founding fathers of the nation, suddenly died from a heart attack.’

  ‘The first dissent to oppression always arises from a place of privilege,’ Indu said coolly. ‘Did you expect a little girl to rise from the ranks of slum dwellers, without education or opportunity, and become the prime minister?’

  ‘That’s how it should be,’ Rana spoke up. ‘Why is this a democracy? Where are the equal chances? There’s so much corruption in the upper tiers that benefits and privileges are never dispersed enough, and so we might never have a little girl from “the ranks of slum dwellers” becoming prime minister.’

  Indu shot him a look of annoyance, for she thought he’d be on her side. They had just had a nice conversation. She narrowed her eyes at him, summoning her coldest voice for the betrayal, her nostrils flaring: ‘It’s not a matter of how it should be,’ she said, ‘it’s a matter of how it is.’

  He again looked straight at her, and Indu stared back at him this time. He smiled slightly, the lines on his face coming alive. ‘But I would disagree,’ he said calmly. ‘We’d never progress if it wasn’t about how it should be.’ Slightly taken aback, she looked at Mrs Bala, who had just guffawed.

  ‘Don’t mess with Indu over the prime minister, I’d suggest,’ she told Rana with a glint in her eyes. ‘She has a soft spot for her namesake.’

  ‘So you fancy yourself a Gandhi supporter?’ he asked her.

  Indu shot him a look of utter contempt.

  Instead of being offended, he gave another chuckle, so she gave him a fleeting, lofty look before deciding to ignore him. He was audacious and foolishly idealistic, she decided, and moreover had no courtesy. She liked Fawad much better. ‘Mrs Bala,’ she said to her old teacher, ‘I’d like your advice on something.’

  The rude girl diverted her attention and decided to listen to their conversation. Indu was sure that she had a wardrobe full of khadi pants and did all kinds of other pretentious things. Her hair was shorter than even Mrs Bala’s, and she wore a nose ring.

  Mrs Bala gave Indu her full attention.

  ‘I want to open a library,’ she told her. Mrs Bala seemed as if she had been expecting something else.

  ‘Noble idea,’ Mrs Bala said, nodding. ‘But how do you mean? Like collect books and make them available for lending?’

  Indu took a deep breath before answering, ‘No, I was thinking more in terms of having a space to read and study, you know? I want to make it more about the library, the space, rather than reading itself.’

  Mrs Bala waited for Indu to go on, but Indu said nothing. ‘I don’t think I understand exactly what you mean,’ Mrs Bala then said, and Indu noticed more eyes on her.

  She ignored everyone and said, ‘I wonder what it would be like if all the areas that we live in, like Civil Lines, where I am, had a library, and people actually used it. If there were a dedicated space to study, to read, a place where we may spend two hours training the mind, as part of a larger community, where everyone does the same. As a . . . as a focused effort, not a distracted whim.’

  Mrs Bala nodded, ‘But what gave you the idea?’

  ‘I was thinking about having your own space, you know,’ Indu replied, watching from the corner of her eyes that Fawad and Rana were listening intently to her, which somehow gave her more confidence. ‘My sister and I used to share a room. Now she is married and it’s my room. I feel my thoughts go wider. I read more, because I am alone in that space, and I think more about what I read. I would like to create that space for others, but also make it one where they can come together to discuss and grow.’

  ‘But there are libraries,’ Mrs Bala said. ‘There are public libraries, and college libraries for students.’

  ‘But I’m talking about a local library, where women who stay at home could come. The public ones are too crowded, the college ones too academic.’

  Indu paused for breath, and felt the room go quieter and listen more intently. ‘Women?’ Mrs Bala asked.

  ‘Yes. I want to set up a library, but just for girls.’

  Mrs Bala took a swig from her glass of wine and spoke to her husband, ‘You see, Anil? People coming from affirmative spaces always want to enlarge that space.’ She turned to Indu and added, ‘He says there is no point of women-only spaces, that they create greater inequality.’

  Indu wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say, but Fawad broke in, ‘I don’t know how exactly that would help the situation. A library for whom? The poor don’t have time to sit in libraries and train their minds.’

  Some of the hurt of the instant rebuttal must have shown on her face as the girl across the table ‘hmmed’ in agreement.

  ‘You don’t have to listen to him,’ Rana said, lighting a cigarette. ‘He’s just a commie.’ Everybody laughed. Much to Indu’s chagrin, she didn’t understand what the laughter was aimed at.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Indu,’ Mrs Bala said. ‘Of course, it’s an idea worth looking into; slightly unusual, but I’d hold on to it. I’ll of course be happy to help and advise in whichever way, but have you thought of the practical considerations? There are so many things—who would visit, and why would they visit? What do you offer them? How do you intend to explain the concept? Someone might consider just sitting on a chair for two hours a waste of time. And more importantly, where on earth would you find such a place?’

  Indu stared at her and gulped before answering, her head still held high, ‘I have a place in mind. All I’d need you to do is spread the word in your network.’

  Mrs Bala nodded thoughtfully. The girl across the table turned away and began speaking to the others beside her, not wanting to give Indu the courtesy of her attention. Fawad looked at her curiously; Rana took another drag of his cigarette and extended her a smile, which Indu did not return.

  * * *

  ‘Indu madame, hold dum laga ke—yes, like this!’

  She stood surrounded by professional lights and reflectors, being ordered around by a photographer whom she obeyed only reluctantly. The cheap material of the salwar-kameez made her sweat more than usual, but more than anything else, the ribbons in her hair increased her irritation by the minute. She had hated t
ying her hair with ribbons all throughout school, and this ad campaign was making her revisit that feeling. To be fair, it had come at an opportune time: Shashi uncle had suggested her name for the spokesperson of the ‘Beti hee jaan hai, Beti hee shaan hai’ campaign, and when Lata had heard that it was about education for girls, she had encouraged Indu to go for it. ‘It will give you greater credibility if you are already speaking for the education of girls, for the library.’

  It was the perfect arrangement. The daughter of one of the Chief Advocates of the Cabinet, whose name was incidentally also Indira, setting up a library for girls, a champion for the cause of education for girls under the Prime Minister’s special campaign, who understood the injustices felt by women . . . except for the hideous, red hair ribbons.

  ‘Smile, please, Indu madame, but not too much! You have to look happy, but also not too happy. You have the burden of making your family proud!’

  The photographer took pictures from various angles of Indu holding a set of books in her arms, and when he was finally done, she asked him what processing he would do on the pictures.

  ‘I’m an expert, don’t you worry, madame,’ he replied smugly, packing his camera into the bag with care.

  ‘I hope you are,’ Indu said to him with a dangerous smile. ‘If I don’t come out looking good, you, sadly, won’t have many chances to make your family proud.’

  He had nodded with a nervous gulp as Indu packed up and left for home.

  Diwali was around the corner, and most places they passed in the car were lit up with yellow string lights. Often, they had to stop and wait as firecrackers were set off on the road. Indu thought about the girl at Mrs Bala’s party who was intent on arguing, ready to prove that the government did nothing. Typical of a girl who wore khadi pants, Indu couldn’t help but think—a proper rebel without a cause. She thought of Rana and how he had spoken of his friend, ‘He’s just a commie.’ She thought of Rajat, and, despite not knowing him at all, was sure he would never say something like that. She knew him to be poised.

  Her mother was waiting for Indu when she returned and promptly took a seat at the dining table to ask about the shoot. Indu told her it was fine except that she had to spend six hours holding a bunch of books while they took the same picture over and over.

  ‘See how hard it is to be a Salome Roy, now?’ her mother asked. ‘And you had dreams of being a Bollywood queen!’

  Indu pursed her lips primly. ‘I still maintain that I could have been where Sharmila Tagore is right now if it weren’t too tacky a profession for you and father.’

  ‘But now you will be standing up for something even better—the education of girls!’

  ‘Will this campaign work?’

  ‘It should; they are putting in lakhs of rupees,’ her mother replied vaguely.

  On the table, Indu spotted a letter addressed to herself and took it in her hand, her thumb running across the dry, starched envelope. She opened it swiftly and pulled out the letter. Her mother cringed. ‘What?’ Indu asked, noticing the expression.

  ‘How can you handle it so crudely?’ she asked Indu. ‘When I used to write to your father, it would take me five minutes to be able to unfold the precious paper.’

  ‘Because there wasn’t that much to do in those times,’ Indu told her. ‘Today, things move too fast to spend five minutes staring at an envelope.’

  Her mother shook her head at her. ‘Don’t you want to go to your room while you read it?’

  ‘What? No,’ Indu almost laughed out loud. ‘You think I’ll cry or something?’

  Her mother gave a long sigh and muttered something that sounded very much like ‘May God bless the man marrying you’.

  My dearest Indu,

  23 August 1974

  I hope you are ever so well. I am alright, but had a terrible cold last weekend. I am told that these are probably the last few summer days, so I better strengthen myself for the upcoming winter.

  I can certainly smell a change in the air; the leaves have lost their lushness, and the sky is greyer than it has been in the last few weeks. While I miss India and its rain, I do not look forward to the rain here! Other than that, I think I like this country, although it’s been only a few days. One can understand why London is considered the centre of the world, for it really charges towards modernity in every aspect. The underground trains are absolutely spectacular and transport you with perfect ease, while the trams glide across the roads carefully and without any accidents. It actually makes me laugh sometimes, because, my father had told me once, around Independence Day, of when he took the tram in Delhi, the electrical wires had got tangled so badly with the kite strings that the poor operator had to stop the tram, untangle the wires and then continue.

  I am still adjusting to the food here; did you know they eat peas and potatoes plain and just boiled? I find it so strange. There are a few Indian restaurants, but it’s not economical to eat at those places every day. Yet, I really do love this city, its pace, its discipline and its neatness. They seem to be very fixed about their meal timings, which is certainly something we can pick up.

  At the moment I have a lot to study, but I do certainly miss you, and hope that you are having a relaxing time. Give my greetings to your parents, and to Amita and Govind, of course.

  Yours,

  Rajat

  When Indu was done reading, she got up from her chair and her mother again let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Indu! Are you really leaving the letter here?’ she asked, outraged.

  ‘Oh God,’ Indu turned around and picked it up from the table. ‘I’ll go put it somewhere safe in my room. Happy?’

  ‘Thank God Rajat isn’t here to see you throw it across the table.’

  ‘I didn’t throw it!’ Indu yelled back, and then put it in a drawer in her dressing table.

  ‘This magazine is what should be thrown!’ her father said from across the room. ‘I don’t know what journalists these days are writing, imagining themselves the kings of the world, writing as if public officers are their servants.’

  ‘What are they writing now?’

  ‘Same old—government is inept, trains are late, food prices rising . . . arre, tell that to all the opposition party protestors who sit in a dharna on the tracks every day! How is it our fault if these people make the trains late and stop the movement of grains for their unreasonable demands?’

  ‘Nobody even reads these, father, don’t worry about it,’ Indu said, waving her hand, but her father seemed troubled all the same. Indu walked out of the room before her mother could admonish her further about the letter.

  * * *

  Two days later, Amita called Indu and told her that Govind was meeting their father at Number 7.

  ‘What for?’ Indu asked immediately.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Amita replied quietly, ‘but I think to see what they will do with Number 7 together.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Indu said. ‘I’m going to go and see what.’ She hung up and rushed to get her dupatta and bag.

  Indu went straight to the car, telling Natty to drive her to Number 7. When they reached, she quickly went up the stairs, ignoring the lift, and stopped outside to find the door ajar and a bunch of men inside, moving furniture.

  ‘What is happening here?’ Indu asked loudly, and the command in her voice made the workers stop what they were doing and glance at each other doubtfully. When nobody replied, Indu asked again, this time more forcefully, and so one of them replied that ‘sir’ had instructed them to take things away.

  ‘Which sir?’ Indu asked. They all looked at each other, wondering which one of them would be impudent enough to take his name, when the person in question emerged from behind them. Govind bhai was leading two workers, one of whom carried a huge alcove, and the other a stack of files. Her brother-in-law smiled and put an arm around Indu’s shoulders. ‘Anything wrong, Indu?’

  Indu stepped away and asked him sternly, ‘What’s going on here?’

  Govind bhai looked around no
nchalantly, as if he had just noticed the flurry of activity. ‘This? Nothing, we are just getting the place ready, moving in stuff. We have to start as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ready for what?’ she asked, infuriated.

  ‘Ready for the office. I’m thinking of getting pest control done, you know, there could be bugs—’

  ‘Did you speak to daddy about this?’

  ‘Of course, my dear. He said we should get it ready as soon as we can. In fact, he should be coming up in a few minutes.’ Indu gave him a suspicious stare and went around the room angrily, checking what had been moved. The workers were afraid to look at her.

  ‘How can you just—just presume? It’s not your flat!’ she hissed at him.

  ‘Indu, the matter is already closed,’ Govind bhai said with forced patience. ‘Your father decides what happens to it, and we agreed we aren’t going to pander to your fanciful—’

  ‘My father didn’t say anything to me,’ she cut him off, clapping her hands to gather every worker’s attention. ‘Everyone, stop what you’re doing—this work will continue some other time, but at the moment, you all have to leave!’

  ‘What? No!’ Govind bhai said, alarmed, standing next to Indu and waving his hand at the others. ‘Go back to what you’re doing, nobody has to leave!’

  The workers looked confused, not knowing whom to obey.

  ‘Do you even know what you’re implying?’ Govind bhai barked, losing his cool. ‘This property, this flat—it’s worth so much!’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, thank you,’ Indu said. ‘No, I won’t be bossed over, I’m not like—’

  She broke off when she heard footsteps as her father entered the room, followed by Sharmaji, bumbling behind as always, carrying a little brown briefcase under his arm.

  ‘Daddy,’ Indu said, rushing to him, immediately trying to gain his support. Her father looked at her but ignored her appeal, hissing something to Sharmaji.

  ‘Daddy, look what’s happening here! Did you tell Govind bhai that he could make this an office already?’ Indu asked.