‘No,’ her mother replied with a sigh. ‘He turned out to be a maanglik. It would have been too much of a risk.’
Indu looked at Sunita again. ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘why can’t Esha work there?’
‘Where?’
‘At Number 7! That will also help her stay out of the house while her mother is away.’
Her mother considered the proposal, looking at her husband, who was now engaged in a conversation with Amita.
‘I think it is perfect,’ Indu said excitedly. ‘Don’t you think so? She would be earning a bit of money as well; I mean, we can pay her. It will be so helpful to have her there, that flat is a chidiya ka ghosla right now, dust everywhere . . .’
‘I’ll talk to Sunita,’ her mother replied, and Indu squeezed her hand in excitement. Amita put the radio on. At the first beat, Indu recognized the music.
‘What? Is this another Rajesh Khanna song?’ her mother asked.
‘Yes,’ Indu replied dreamily as Mohammad Rafi’s voice floated through the room, singing ‘Gulaabi aankhein jo teri dekhi’.
‘I don’t know how many women have fallen in love with this man,’ her mother said, getting up from her chair as if with a heavy heart.
‘Yeh bhi koi gaane hain! These are not songs,’ her father said over Indu’s singing. ‘The real songs were the good, old songs; these days, it’s all about love and dancing around trees!’
Indu wanted to tell him that Rana felt the same way, that his favourite movie was Mughal-e-Azam, but chose to focus on the song instead. She then wondered what he would have to say about the fact that she was learning how to drive from Rana and Natty.
It had started off as a joke, of course, but Rana kept asking her. ‘What if Natty is not there, or what if he’s sick and you have to take him to the hospital?’
‘Then I’ll ask you,’ Indu had immediately replied, suddenly realizing what she had done, implying that he would be there in her future. ‘I mean, if it happens one of these days, since you’re always following me like a bee. Or anyone else who’s around, honestly.’
‘Alright, what if you have to escape, and you can’t really ask for someone’s help?’
‘I’d never put myself in such a situation,’ she said, ‘but okay, whatever, let’s try it.’
More than anything else, it ended up being great fun for all three of them. But when Indu finally begun to get the hang of it, Natty grew morose, thinking he wouldn’t be needed any longer. So Indu had to assure him that she would always need him, because she would never drive on her own.
‘Why not?’ Rana had asked her, laughing.
‘Why would I if I can loll in the back and read a book?’
‘You’ll be driving for your life one day, Indu Narayaan, I can tell you that much,’ he said as she stuck her tongue out at him.
* * *
They created a membership application and discussed how they could go about getting women to sign up. Signing up wouldn’t be a problem, Rana told Indu, it’s free. It’s the following up, the coming here every day, that will be tougher. They decided to focus on the movie screening as much as they could and put up flyers. Rana put up some in his university, and Indu met Mrs Bala again to update her and ask her to spread the word among the girls in college. It was important, Rana noted, that women who lived nearby know about it, since they would be the most likely to sign up.
But what really helped, of course, was her campaign—people were more open to the idea because they had seen her on all the posters for the beti hee jaan hai, beti hee shaan hai campaign. Indu’s excitement was contagious, so much so that it managed to distract her parents from Amita and Govind’s problems as well.
After a few weeks of cold-shouldering, Govind had tried to talk to Amita and persuade her, but she had not relented despite her parents’ insistence. The matter was put aside for some time, and Amita stayed on at her parents’ house. Govind resented Indu more and more with each passing day.
With Esha coming to work at Number 7, another problem was solved. All of thirteen years old, she happily agreed to spend her time at the flat for she had always liked Indu didi. Each morning, she would go with Indu and Natty to Number 7 and begin cleaning, sweeping the whole flat, dusting the surfaces and wiping the floor clean. Indu showed her how to set up the chairs every day and to make sure that no books were moved from their positions.
Together with Esha, they designed the membership cards, signage, posters and leaflets. Rana had taken a fancy to Esha, teaching her all the latest songs and watching her side with her Indu didi whenever he made fun of her. When Indu told him that Esha’s stepfather could not be trusted and that’s why she had to be married off soon, he looked dejected and promised her that things would turn out fine.
‘Ah, but you are the Champion of the Minorities, I forgot,’ Indu told Rana, remembering his comment.
‘You can say only “champion”, that fits fine,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘And so is your favourite politician. At least that’s what she claims to be.’
Indu shook her head at him. ‘Only “champion” for her is also fine.’
With Esha always at Number 7, Rana could walk in and out more freely and stay for as long as was required. Sometimes, he’d get his books and study there, and Indu would sit and read from her dadiji’s collection. They prepared the kitchen as well, making basic tea and coffee arrangements, and decided to let everyone use it as they wanted. Indu suggested that later, they could consider getting a cook and have set meals every day of the week, so women needn’t think of how to arrange for lunch.
One day, Rana pointed at one of the cabinets and said, ‘Whoa!’ Indu looked where he was pointing.
He said, ‘Your dadiji liked her alcohol, hun?’
Behind the glass cabinet were glass bottles in all sorts of shapes and sizes, holding dark and transparent liquids, none of which Indu knew or recognized.
‘Must be my grandfather’s,’ she said, touching the window glass with her fingers. ‘They moved all his stuff here. They used to live in Civil Lines with us.’
Rana opened the cabinet slowly and took out a seemingly heavy glass bottle, filled with a golden substance. He opened the cap and smelt it, and must have found it strong, for his eyes opened wide.
‘Strong stuff. Have you ever tried it? Alcohol, I mean?’ he asked her curiously.
She shook her head.
‘Do you want to?’
Indu stared at the bottle, narrowing her eyes. ‘What will happen if I do?’
‘If you have it, you mean?’ he asked, amused.
She nodded.
‘I don’t know. You might want to kiss me,’ he said with a casual shrug.
‘Stop dreaming, mister,’ she said, taking the bottle from him to put it back. ‘It’s not yet late enough in the night for that.’
* * *
The park was starting to dry up. Frayed, parched grass began to lose its colour and freshness in the sun, but as long as they walked in the shade on the paths, it was not very bad. The weather was more still now, less people out in the early evenings, most waiting for the sun to go down before they ventured outside their homes. Rana walked slightly ahead, but stopping for her by a bench. She paused as they crossed a jasmine bush, plucked a big, bright flower and sniffed. It reminded her of evening walks with her sister. She took the jasmine and handed it to Rana when she reached him.
He accepted it with a smile, looking at her in surprise. ‘What?’ she asked him.
‘It’s a very human thing to do. I didn’t know you had it in you,’ he said.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, spotting a small jasmine bush nearby and picking another one for herself. He looked at the new flower and scrunched up his face.
‘That is the worst-looking jasmine. I’m going to pick you a better one,’ he said, going off to search another bush. Indu stared at his back as he looked, separating the branches to find the perfect flower. He walked over to her after a couple of minutes, handing her one. ‘I’ll wear it
,’ she said, putting the little flower in her braid.
‘Wait,’ he said, extending his hand, adjusting the flower and pushing a strand behind her ear. He smiled. ‘There you go.’
She stared at him and said after a moment, ‘You do it too.’
He put the flower behind his right ear with a shrug.
‘My jasmine is still prettier than yours,’ she told him.
‘Well, you need it more than I do,’ he said, and she punched him lightly on the shoulder as they started walking forward.
Outside the park, there was a stream of tourists, and in front of them a photographer with a camera on a tripod, asking each of them if they would like a photograph. Indu stopped in her tracks, and he looked back at her, a step ahead.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Let’s get one,’ she said. He looked at the photographer, then at her, and with a smile, called over the photographer.
He trotted over to them happily, blessing them, saying they looked just like Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore, and that they would have four fat, happy children. When the time came to stand next to Rana, Indu shuffled her feet awkwardly, but when she saw him scratching his head in the same confusion, she leant towards him with a smile, their jasmines close together. They wore careful smiles, and the photographer readied his camera.
‘Please try to look good, although I know it’s hard for you,’ Rana muttered to her and she turned her face to him with an expression of indignation just as the camera snapped.
‘Arre madame,’ the photographer said, ‘please try to take your eyes off sahab for a moment!’
Rana sniggered as Indu fumed and crossed her arms in front of her chest while the photographer readied the camera again. ‘Smile!’
Indu smiled widely this time, looking straight ahead, and the photographer took another snap. ‘You can take these from me tomorrow, madame,’ he said happily. ‘They will be first-class.’
The next day, when Indu brought the pictures around, Rana gazed at the one where they were both smiling at the camera. He looked neat, with this buttoned shirt and clean-shaven face, a new look for him, except for his hair, which had been ruffled by the wind. Indu’s flying dupatta and hair created a flurry in the picture. Both wore happy smiles.
‘Very impressive picture,’ Rana remarked, ‘considering your face.’
She pushed him lightly as he laughed.
7
‘Could you maybe, for two seconds, not look like you’ll bludgeon someone to death?’ Rana asked Indu as she stared around her at the transforming Number 7, her eyes narrowed. A flurry of activities was taking place inside the flat on that hot Saturday morning, in preparation for its inauguration the next day. Indu’s father had sent Tinka Ram and Nathu Ram, two peons from his office, to help them set up for tomorrow, the day of the big screening. They moved about taking instructions from Natty, who seemed to be enjoying every minute of it, asking them to set up the chairs one way, and after a few minutes, another way, unnecessarily. Esha went about dusting the whole house, singing to herself, apparently having inherited her mother’s love for the latest songs.
‘You think it’s going okay?’ she asked Rana, her arms folded.
‘Yeah. Everything will be finished by tonight, don’t worry. Once Fawad arrives, I’ll set up the projector and screen with him, he knows better how it goes.’
The screen would be set up right opposite the main door, against the balcony door, where all the furniture would be placed for the day. A huge standee saying ‘The Library at No. 7—India’s First Local Library For Women—Become a member today!’ graced the entrance, along with a reception desk, where Rana would take his place. They were yet to collect the little map-and-facilities pamphlet they had had printed. With dadiji’s old furniture moved out and the new, identical chairs and tables moved in and set up, it definitely looked more like a library. They had labelled the bookshelves and put up some posters of past Indian leaders.
In the adjacent room, the tables still had to be set up for the snacks and drinks. Another room had been set up as the music room, where one could work while a record played in the background on dadiji’s old player. In her old bedroom, her bed and belongings still remained. The spare room had been turned into a group study/conference room.
Esha walked up to Indu and Rana, her cotton salwar-kameez bouncing along with her braid, little hoops in her ears and nose, smiling like a little girl who’s just finished her homework. ‘I’ve finished, Indu didi,’ she announced.
‘You’re finished, hun?’ Rana asked her in an affectionate, mocking tone.
Indu nodded distractedly. ‘Good, now go eat something. There is a banana for you in the packet I got from home. And tell Natty to hurry up and bring up the lunch for everyone. For Tinku Ram and Nathu Ram also.’
Esha nodded happily and scampered off. Indu sat down for a few minutes, watching Rana move about the house, till she heard a knock on the door, which was ajar, and saw Fawad there.
‘Hello,’ Fawad said to Indu, sticking a hand out, his glasses glinting with the sweat on his face.
Indu smiled back sweetly, having completely forgotten how much more awkward he seemed next to Rana, who could talk easily to anyone.
‘I’ll get the screen and other things from the next room,’ Rana said and walked away, leaving Indu to ask Fawad how he was doing.
‘Good, good,’ Fawad replied. ‘How have you been dealing with Rana’s company?’
Indu snorted, ‘You know my pain best, hun?’
Fawad laughed. ‘But he’s a brilliant guy, you know. Best in his class, very responsible, always locks the doors and windows at night . . . he’s also very strong. You should see the weights in his room.’
She raised her eyebrows and gave him a doubtful look. ‘Did he tell you to say this?’
His face fell. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yes, you idiot,’ Rana said as he walked up to them, having overheard a bit of their conversation. He handed Fawad the extension cord and said to Indu, ‘Ignore him,’ as if he hadn’t himself asked his roommate to talk him up.
‘So what kind of things do you write?’ Indu asked Fawad as Rana bustled away.
‘Ah’, Fawad said, ‘you know Goonj, our magazine, is independent? We don’t report just the news the government wants people to read.’
‘The government wants you to read news that’s different from real news?’
‘There comes the question—what is the real news?’
‘And what would you say it is?’
‘Nothing! Just the spirit of the publication and the effort of the journalist. Here, have a look.’
Indu took the magazine from him. It was just a few pages thick. On the cover was a picture of two little girls sitting on a pile of rubble, with the caption, ‘The Aftermath of a War Won’.
‘Interesting,’ Indu said. ‘What is it about?’
‘Just some stories about how the war didn’t really help solve the crisis as it was in East Pakistan anyway, and instead, the retaliatory atrocities, and those by the Army as well, were completely ignored.’
‘Is it true?’ Indu asked.
‘These people say it is,’ he replied.
‘How can you trust them?’
‘How can you not?’
At that moment, Rana came in and announced that it was time to test the projector. Indu watched them fiddle with the screen for some time, and then connect the player to the projector to test the cassette. After a few minutes, the opening credits of the movie rang out in the house, and Rana looked triumphantly at Indu, who smiled in appreciation as Natty, Esha, Tinku Ram and Nathu Ram stared at the screen in amazement.
‘I feel like watching it now,’ Indu said.
‘Tell you what,’ Rana said, looking at Indu and Fawad, ‘let’s get the work done, and then we can actually sit down to watch a bit of it. I doubt we’ll be able to catch much of it tomorrow, there will be so much running around to do.’
Indu considered it and decided the
re wasn’t any harm in the proposition, and Fawad shrugged. ‘What are we left with now?’
‘We have to pick up those pamphlets . . . wait, maybe I should send Natty for that, yes? Okay, then we have to arrange for the water . . . yes, that’s about it . . .’
Rana set the projector aside as Indu went to give Natty instructions. He got the last bit of work done by Tinku Ram and Nathu Ram, so they could leave. Then they decided to get water from Sharmaji ki Shop. They stopped by a shikanji stand nearby on their way, and Rana ordered three glasses.
‘I’m very excited about tomorrow,’ Indu told Fawad.
‘Are you expecting many people?’ he asked her, taking his glass from Rana.
‘I don’t know. I hope there are enough people. I’ve already told Mrs Bala to ask her students to come, so I’m sure some of them will be there, especially because it’s only for girls. That should fill it up. Some of my sister’s friends, some people I know . . .’
‘Can anyone come to the screening tomorrow, or is it just for women?’
‘Anyone can come tomorrow, of course. Just later on, it’s women-only.’
‘That’s why Rana fits in well, eh?’ Fawad asked, and Rana accepted the jibe with a grin.
‘I really hope that lots of young girls join, you know. The younger, the better; they’ll get into the habit at a formative age,’ Indu said. She took a sip and added thoughtfully, ‘I’ve already picked out the sari I’m going to wear.’
‘I have to say, I am quite envious now,’ Fawad said.
‘Come on, I don’t mind lending you another sari,’ Indu suggested innocently, breaking into a laugh with Rana.
Rana looked at Fawad sympathetically. ‘Yes, she has a weird laugh. Surprised me the first time as well.’
Indu walked away in a huff, refusing to look back despite their half-hearted sorrys between snorts of laughter. She reached Sharmaji ki Shop to order the water, and asked him to send extra glasses to the flat the next day.
‘Let’s play the movie from the main song,’ Rana suggested after they returned to Number 7, ‘the one in colour.’ Indu agreed, drawing a couple of curtains to make sure it wasn’t too bright but not completely dark, and took a spot on one of the chairs. Rana sat on a chair away from her and Fawad in the row in front of her.
Once Upon a Curfew Page 8