Once Upon a Curfew

by Srishti Chaudhary

‘Yes, I did,’ he replied.

  ‘I can’t believe you aren’t willing to give me this one chance! It’s not like I’ve asked for something crazy, I want to do something good, and my own father won’t—’

  Her father held up a hand, pressing his ear as if the shrillness in his daughter’s voice had hurt his eardrums. His pained expression made Indu stop.

  ‘There’s no need to look so fierce, dear,’ her father told her.

  ‘Indu,’ Govind began in a patronizing tone again, ‘I really don’t want to spoil any of your plans. But you know that we have put up a unit, and to make it grow in any way, we need a proper office now. Every day they say the economy is slowing, people don’t have jobs, there is drought, flood, famine. But it’s not true! The industry is there, and anyway nails are something that people always need, slow economy or not. We are one of the few who have begun to manufacture, and it’s the right time. If we strike now, in a few years, we could be the leaders.’

  ‘Govind bhai, I fully respect your ambition, and if you ask, I will offer you any help in my capacity; but this flat is not the right place for the office! I know you don’t understand what I want from it, but it is something valuable as well, and I know that my grandmother would have appreciated it.’

  Govind bhai waved a hand in impatience. ‘How can we say now what your grandmother would have wanted or not?’

  ‘Even so, as I told you before, this flat is perfect for what I want, and I think that I should be given a chance to prove myself—especially since it belongs to me!’

  ‘And to Amita!’ Govind bhai retorted.

  ‘Indu . . .’ her father began.

  ‘Daddy, I mean it, you know I am serious about it. It won’t be a waste!’

  ‘But a library?’ he asked her. ‘I don’t understand the purpose. What do you want from it? What you want people to do there?’

  Indu took a deep breath. ‘I want women to come and study there.’

  ‘Study what?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘Anything they want!’

  ‘But there has to be a purpose to the studying—do you mean college students? Is it for your college?’

  ‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘it’s like, I want women of different ages to come and spend time here to educate themselves.’

  ‘But who goes to a library for leisure? I mean, I don’t think your mother or sister would just go and hang around in a library. It’s a different matter with you—’

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ Indu said. ‘You need to take time out to read and do things you want. And only when you have a space where you feel comfortable can you do that. I want this library to be a place like that. I see it as a spot for women to come together, exchanging ideas and growing. Women who have already passed school, living their day-to-day life—they don’t have the time to think beyond their chores. I want this space to help them do that.’

  ‘But to what end?’ Govind bhai asked, exasperated. ‘Why do you need a special place for it? Why can’t they do it at home?’

  ‘I’m still not convinced,’ her father said.

  ‘Fine, give me a chance to convince you, then.’

  Her father couldn’t argue with that, and so he looked painfully from his daughter to his son-in-law. ‘Alright, we’ll talk about this further. At home.’

  ‘So can you stop this now?’ she asked.

  ‘No!’ Govind bhai said, and her father put a hand on his head. ‘Indu, go home and you’ll get a fair chance, but stand here and argue and I will make sure—’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Indu said, flinging her bag over her shoulder, and gave Govind bhai a triumphant look before walking out of Number 7.

  3

  Dear Rajat,

  25 September 1974

  Thank you for your letter. Happy to know you have adjusted well. The food problem can be easily solved if you learn to cook a little. Moreover, it will be good practice for the future (ha ha).

  The other day, I made a joke about Govind bhai when he gobbled up three bananas in a minute. After he finished, he said, ‘Goodness, I’m such a monkey.’ And then I said, ‘Yes, and you just finished three bananas so quickly.’ He didn’t get it at all. That’s a pitiable sense of humour.

  You know that Shashi uncle suggested me for the spokesperson of a kind of ‘education for girls’ campaign. I think it should be interesting, and I’ve always wanted to do something to bring about change. Good that you’re away from all the mess here (strikes and protests everywhere all the time), although I’m enjoying the drama.

  Keep me updated.

  Love,

  Indu

  She watched the other cars pass by as she sat in her own, with Natty patiently behind the wheel as usual. She had had a long conversation with her father this morning about the library at number 7. Though Govind bhai was still miffed at not being allowed to use a flat half owned by his wife, her father was coming around to it for a completely different reason. ‘It also looks good on the whole family,’ he said, ‘with your beti hee jaan hai campaign. Especially because we have two daughters, it really draws the focus to the good things we do, unlike those magazine people always trying to write ill about us.’

  ‘It’s not you that these articles personally point at, they’re talking about the government,’ Indu said. ‘Don’t take it to heart, daddy, it’s not your fault.’

  ‘Any finger raised at the government is a finger raised at us,’ her father said, shaking his head. ‘Of course, there is a division of responsibilities, but I am one of the chief advisors to the PM.’

  She nodded sympathetically but was glad her father now approved of the plan, and hoped fervently that the whole mess with Govind bhai would be sorted out soon as well. She tried to think of how she would explain to Rajat in the letter why she wanted to start the library, but decided she would elaborate it in her next correspondence. In her own head, it was quite clear. The sky today was cloudy and the sun hid behind the white fluff in the sky. She imagined how the library would look on such a day. In her mind, a cold, gentle breeze would drive away the heat that day, and the windows would be open so you could breathe in the air. The wind would be delicious and would ruffle the corners of the pages, so one would keep a finger or two at the edges, feel the rustle of the paper beneath their skin. In one of the rooms, one would hear the music, because there’d be a record playing. In the mornings and evenings, there would be a dedicated news hour so that one could be informed about what was happening in the country, so nobody could say women didn’t know anything about politics, that they couldn’t understand economics.

  There would be a few copies of the newspaper delivered every morning, and displayed so prominently that one would naturally pick it up, not just to read what was screamed out in bold letters, but also talk about it with each other, to understand that there were things that had not been reported. The books that dadiji had left behind would be available to everyone. One might read some good fiction, delve into distant, famous lives, escape from the monotony and demands of the husband and the child. One might read some history so that when it is said, this is not the way it’s done, this is not the way of our life, one could have an answer ready. Most importantly, one might sit and indulge herself with a magazine or two, idle the time away in beauty tips and little jokes, day-dream a while and find some time to think about irrelevant things, to dream of holidays that may never be, to think of another life.

  In the winters, the cold rooms would be bathed in sunshine, so that all women may sit together, shelling peanuts, peeling oranges and building bonds. One might find strength in this refuge, and think that if nothing else, they have some time in the day to lose themselves, find a willing ear.

  One might find a room for herself.

  * * *

  Since it was another pleasant day, Indu decided to search for him first on the terrace rather than indoors. The walls had been muddied and neglected by time, overlooking the growing city centre, which was lined by trees lush and proud
in the rain, interspersed with parked cars and people on the road. Waiters, dressed in their classic white uniforms with Nehru topis, bustled about, serving the flurry of guests seated at the tables—young students finishing college homework, men off on their lunch breaks, mostly in twos and threes, a couple of larger groups. She saw him sitting in the corner in clean-cut trousers and a half-sleeved shirt buttoned to the top, stroking the side of his face where the stubble had grown thicker, right hand holding a cigarette to the mouth.

  Indu walked towards him with measured strides, her dupatta trailing in the breeze, arms swinging slightly. Her lips pouted slightly as she walked up to him. Noticing her, he immediately stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and got up from his chair. This time, he remembered; he did not offer her his hand.

  ‘Hello, Indu,’ he said, and Indu noticed how he didn’t attach the ji at the end, how he addressed her in intimacy. She said hello and gave a non-committal nod, sitting on the chair that he had pulled out for her.

  They sat opposite each other and as before, he looked straight at her without hesitation. She averted her gaze, folding her arms in front of her, looking around the terrace in interest. ‘I used to come here a lot while in college,’ she mused.

  ‘I still come here a lot,’ replied Rana, his arms resting on the edge of the table, leaning towards her. ‘Tell me, what would you like to have?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her, but did not insist and ordered a coffee for himself. She stared at him as he lit another cigarette. He noticed her looking at him. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, holding up the lighter and the cigarette, and Indu shook her head in dismissal.

  ‘So, Mr Rana,’ she said, adding the ‘mister’ to re-establish the distance he had sought to dissolve, ‘what is it you want?’

  Rana looked at her and smiled, ‘The question is not what I want, the question is what do you want?’

  ‘What do you mean? Mrs Bala called me and said that you had a very specific interest in meeting me, and it is only on her insistence that I am here.’

  ‘Yes, but I am here to do whatever you want, so really, this is about what you want from me.’

  Indu narrowed her eyes and gave him a long stare before replying, ‘Please explain what you mean clearly, I have no patience for guesswork.’

  He held up his hands in surrender, and then put them on the table. ‘Okay, you said that you wanted to open a library for girls, right? I want to help you do it.’

  She looked at him, confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a noble cause, I’d be glad to be a part of it.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Indu scoffed. ‘I don’t think you believe in it.’

  ‘What? Why not? What’s not to believe in? Education, women’s empowerment . . . I’m all for it.’

  ‘You don’t sound very serious about it.’

  ‘Well, maybe I don’t know all the details yet, but I still like the basic plan, and I am sure you can do with some help. Everyone can do with some help. And I’ve seen you on that poster, beti hee jaan hai, beti hee shaan hai. Nice braids.’

  Indu stared at him, for the first time returning his audacious gaze. She noticed his chiselled face, the edges of his beard that weren’t very closely trimmed and grew naturally. His oval eyes had tints of light brown, and his hair was longer on the sides. Even his hairstyle was audacious, Indu couldn’t help thinking. He had the kind of face that looked grumpy except when he smiled. He raised his eyebrows at her and Indu continued to glare at him.

  ‘Very funny,’ she replied coolly. ‘How many people have you helped educate, hun?’

  ‘None, and that’s why I want to join you.’

  ‘What can you do for me?’ she asked him.

  ‘Whatever you’d like.’

  ‘For example, what?’ she asked him again with emphasis.

  ‘I can crack some jokes to try and make you laugh; you seem to need it . . .’

  Indu continued staring at him.

  ‘Uff! I’m sorry I haven’t set up a library before, but I’m sure there’s lots of work. Acquiring the books, setting up the place, advertising your library—whatever you need.’

  Indu wanted to laugh, but held herself back, pursing her lips to restrain herself.

  ‘I cannot pay you,’ she said flatly.

  ‘I don’t want to be paid.’

  ‘What’s in it for you, then?’

  ‘The pleasure of your company?’

  Indu noticed the lack of hesitation in his answer and gave him a cold stare.

  ‘You sound exactly like Fawad when I offer to do something for him—what’s in it for you?’ he imitated in a sing-song voice. When she didn’t laugh, he put his hands up. ‘Alright, I am not going to lie. I know that your father is a well-connected lawyer, and I wouldn’t mind being in his good graces . . . for a job, you know. If you find me useful, you could recommend me.’

  Indu sat back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. ‘Okay, I want a coffee too,’ she said.

  Rana looked at her, bemused, and then signalled to one of the waiters to bring another coffee. He then looked at Indu expectantly, waiting for her to explain, but she simply sat there staring at him.

  ‘Have you watched it yet?’ he finally asked, pointing a finger at something behind Indu—a huge poster outside Regal Cinema, which they could see from where they were sitting.

  Indu turned in her chair and saw a poster of Rajesh Khanna and Mumtaz; Aap Ki Kasam. It had been released a while ago but she still had not found the time to watch it, and felt ashamed.

  ‘No! I am dying to watch it, I think it will be the best one this year.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure, Rajesh Khanna has a few more coming this year.’

  ‘Rajesh Khanna is my absolute favourite,’ Indu said, her hands over her heart, her eyes dreamy. ‘I think there is no man like him.’

  Rana laughed, and then contorted his lips as if in contemplation. ‘People have often told me I resemble him.’

  Indu shot him an exasperated look, and he laughed some more. ‘Do you want to watch it? We can go tomorrow, or the day after that.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Indu said, her voice turning cold again, and sipped her coffee, which had arrived while she had been gushing over Rajesh Khanna. Rana stared at her but looked away when she glanced at him.

  After a while, she got up, arranging her dupatta and swinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Thank you for the coffee. I will consider your offer.’

  ‘What? Come on!’ He got up from his chair as well. ‘I can really be of help, you know. I’ll be a lawyer soon.’

  Indu just smiled at him.

  ‘Can I walk you downstairs, at least?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ she told him with a wave of her hand. As she went downstairs, she looked for Natty, leaving Rana gazing at her in chagrin.

  * * *

  Amita said she would get ready for the wedding with them. ‘I want to wear mumma’s kundan set, the one she bought last year, and it will be too much trouble to first bring it home. Anyway, Govind wants to be there throughout to help his Shashi uncle. If I go with him, I will be far too tired by the time of the ceremony,’ she had remarked nonchalantly.

  Amita was the taller and fairer of the two, with full lips and a huge smile that lit her face up, contrasting sharply with Indu, whose smile usually remained measured and contained.

  Indu gushed over Amita’s sari, which was all pink but without being startlingly so, and had a light blue border with embellished handwork that made for a beautiful drape. She watched her sister put her hair up in a tiny beehive, and then asked her to do her eyeliner.

  ‘Do it like you do yours, with the wings,’ Indu insisted and Amita laughed, asking Indu to shut her eyes.

  ‘Did you fight with Govind bhai?’ Indu asked her sister, her eyes still closed.

  ‘You figured it out?’

  ‘Of course. What is it? Because of Number 7?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, th
at’s just on the surface. There are other things too.’

  When Indu didn’t say anything, Amita went on. ‘Okay, so tell me exactly what you have in mind for Number 7.’

  Indu sat down on the seat with a sigh, patting down her sari neatly beneath her. ‘I know it seems to have come out of the blue. But you know I have some time now, until Rajat comes back, and well—I want to make something of it. I want to open this library, just for girls, and I wish you would support me in this.’

  ‘But why a library? And aren’t you already doing that beti campaign?’

  ‘For which I am just posing and getting clicked! No, I want to make it a place where women can use their time for themselves—a place where you could go every day and nurse a passion, something beyond everyday life. You of all people will understand,’ Indu said to her. ‘You say you want to finish your medicine degree. Are you able to find time at home to study?’

  When Amita didn’t respond, Indu knew she had her thinking.

  ‘Think of most women,’ Indu said to her, appealing earnestly. ‘They must have a passion, something they want to spend time on, learning, reading. I want to create this place so they can go there every day to spend time with themselves.’

  When Amita didn’t say anything but seemed to be thinking, Indu continued.

  ‘It’s solitude, it’s your space! Something which you, of all people, need so desperately, didi. You are stuck at home all day doing the same work, talking about the same things, waiting for Govind bhai.’

  Amita walked around the room, picking up the earrings from the set that lay in the velvet case on the dresser.

  ‘You started studying again, didi,’ Indu said, ‘but you always say you never get time, you never get space, that you’ll never be able to finish it at this rate. Think—what if you have a place to go to every afternoon after lunch, where nobody can disturb you? Nobody can ask you what you’ve made for dinner, nobody to tell you to pick out a dress. Four hours every day just to yourself, studying with other women and discussing things with them. Wouldn’t it change a lot?’

  For a while, her sister said nothing except put on the jewellery, and Indu fell quiet as well. Then they waited for their parents on the sofa in the living room. Indu went out to check on Natty and told him they would be out soon.