Once Upon a Curfew

by Srishti Chaudhary

  ‘You are my problem,’ he told her. ‘See, I don’t believe you actually care about my brother. Now I don’t care if you’re in love with this loafer here, but to actually ask my brother to help your boyfriend? That pissed me off. I suggested to Govind here that the same might be true for her sister. He didn’t believe me when I said you’d be here. I asked him to come with me.’

  While Amita remained unfazed, Indu felt a surge of anger; she stepped forward, her arms folded, now talking directly to Roshan. ‘I’ve heard enough of your bullshit. You better get out of here. This is our house, and you have no right to step in here.’

  Roshan smiled widely. ‘Your house, is it? We’ll go, but we are taking these two with us. Both of them should have been picked up together in the first place.’

  She saw that he pointed at Rana and Fawad, at which point Rana laughed. He stepped forward and now he and Roshan were face to face.

  ‘Sorry, but I am not interested in going anywhere with you. I don’t like your look.’

  Roshan smiled at Rana, and before Indu could figure out what was happening, they were locked in a fight. They pushed, shoved and punched each other, knocking over some books from a bookshelf. Fawad was trying to fend off the three other men, kicking and punching as hard as he could. Dhar uncle stood to one side, and both the sisters watched in horror. Indu was sure that it would be only a matter of minutes before someone came to the door. In desperation, she tried to call out to Rana, but to no avail. Then she saw his bag lying on the floor and picked it up, rummaging inside, gripping it when she found what she was looking for.

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled and when no one heard her, she decided she had no choice; gritting her teeth and making sure she hit the ceiling, she fired a shot upwards and there was a loud blast. Plaster fell to the ground. Silence fell as the scuffle ended suddenly.

  ‘I’m going to say this once,’ Indu said quietly. ‘Leave, all five of you.’

  ‘Or what?’ Govind snarled, walking towards her. ‘You’re going to make your own sister a widow?’

  ‘Watch me,’ Indu replied to Govind, refusing to put the gun down.

  Govind laughed and Roshan joined him. Roshan picked up a book and began flipping the pages. Indu wondered whether he had gone mad.

  ‘I think it’s a little too late, if you’re looking to educate yourself,’ Rana said to him; Roshan suddenly took out his lighter, set fire to the book and threw it to the floor.

  ‘What kind of a child are you?’ Indu hissed. ‘You’ll ruin my things if you can’t have your way?’

  He ignored her and looked at Govind now. ‘Didn’t you say this place was the cause of your broken marriage? Well, you should have done this already, then, don’t you think?’ he asked, as he added another book to the previous one, which started burning.

  Dhar uncle told him to stop but Roshan ignored him, rattling the shelves so that books fell down with a clatter. Rana moved forward to make him stop but Roshan threw a burning book at him, so he backed off.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said manically, ‘if Indu Narayan can protect her burning library.’

  He added more books to the burning pile as Indu yelled at him to stop, that there were others in this building, but Roshan seemed to have lost all sense. ‘I don’t even know why my brother likes you,’ he went on. ‘Looking at your company, I can easily tell you’re not going to be an honest woman, let alone an honest wife . . .’

  Indu wasn’t listening now; she moved and pointed the gun right at Roshan’s face. Still, it was only when he could no longer stand the heat from the burning pile of books that he turned around and left, and the others followed him. Govind gave Amita a final, sweeping look. ‘Now’s the time to choose, Amita,’ he said.

  She turned away from him, towards Indu. ‘I chose long ago.’

  The gun fell from Indu’s hands with a clatter as the men left the flat. ‘Quick, we have to douse this!’

  Rana and Fawad tried to put it out with their jackets, but the flames were too strong now. There was no bucket in the bathroom which she could fill with water and pour it on the books. They looked around wildly as the flames spread until a bookshelf fell right on the fire, burning alongside the books.

  ‘We need to leave,’ Amita said urgently.

  ‘No! We have to douse the fire!’ But the fire was now past containing, and they dragged Indu out of the door. ‘We’ll have to call the fire brigade!’ Rana yelled. ‘Indu, come!’

  There were already clouds of black smoke in the house as Indu and Rana went into the corridor. She saw her sister through the smoke, clutching Fawad’s arm as they held themselves against the wall, trying to shield themselves from the heat. She saw Rana look around in panic and then at her; he took her dupatta and threw it far from them. ‘We must warn,’ Indu panted, ‘the neighbours.’ With her right arm, Indu covered her nose as her eyes watered from the smoke, and she struggled to keep them open but gave up, blindly being pulled by Rana as they crossed the corridor, and Dhar Uncle followed them.

  Amita covered her nose with the skirt of her kurta as all five of them coughed helplessly, unable to keep their eyes open for longer than a few seconds. She could now see a burning cabinet through the door of Number 7, and she banged on the Sardar’s door. The father came to the door, groggy and confused, and Indu asked them to evacuate. Smoke was emerging from the door of Number 7 now, and Rana, Fawad and her sister were backed up in the corridor, waiting for Indu; Dhar uncle was on the stairs. ‘You two have to go,’ she said to them, as a fit of coughing overcame her. ‘Dhar uncle . . . please. You have the pictures. These two can’t be seen here.’

  ‘Come,’ he said to them urgently. Rana opened his mouth to protest but was pulled away by Fawad, and she just saw a fleeting glimpse of him stumbling down the stairs. Indu and Amita got out of the building as more heads began to emerge from the windows and cries of ‘fire, fire!’ echoed from the flats. Indu held Amita’s hand and just about managed not to collapse on the ground.

  21

  ‘Where to, madame?’ Natty asked as Indu stepped inside the Ambassador.

  ‘Masterji,’ Indu answered listlessly.

  With a prompt ‘yes, madame’, Natty set off and Indu leant her head against the window, occasionally looking outside at the people. There was a slight nip in the air and so Indu kept the window shut.

  Tonelessly, Natty began singing ‘Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koi’ and Indu listened quietly, noticing how he glanced at the rear-view mirror frequently when she didn’t comment. His singing went from bad to worse but Indu didn’t say anything, so he finally stopped, looking curiously at her.

  ‘Seems like you have finally learnt to appreciate my singing, Indu madame,’ Natty said, and Indu gave a slight laugh, but still didn’t say anything. After that, Natty fell quiet. When they arrived, Indu quietly got out of the car and went up to the masterji’s boutique.

  As usual, there were rolls of fabric at the back of the shop, standing against each other. On the wall, there was a large calendar with a Ganeshji on it. Masterji’s words broke through Indu’s thoughts, ‘Some thanda, madame? Campa? Shikanji?’

  He was as short and hunched as ever, bristles of white beard covering his face, a slab of sky-blue chalk placed safely above his right ear.

  ‘Madame? Madame?’

  Indu shook her head slowly and he waited for her to talk, but when she didn’t, he admitted guiltily, ‘Your blouses aren’t ready yet, madame.’

  He folded his hands, his head bent, waiting for Indu’s disapproving snipes, but when she didn’t say anything, he looked up quizzically. ‘Just give me two more days, madame. In two days it will be done. Think of it as already done.’

  How many times have I told you to be more efficient with your work than with your words, masterji, Indu’s own voice rang out to her. She knew what was going to happen next—of course she did.

  ‘Whose wedding is it, madame?’ masterji asked her.

  Indu looked up at his face as if seeing it for the fir
st time.

  ‘My own,’ she replied, and barely heard his exclamations and apologies, hardly listening as he promised the delivery of these blouses within the next two days.

  She placed her dupatta neatly on her shoulder and spotted Natty across the road. As if on cue, she looked up at the building with the huge poster. It wasn’t Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore this time, Indu realized with a jolt; it was a poster of Kabhi Kabhie. The poster featured Amitabh Bachchan and Waheeda Rehman, and Indu stared at it wistfully, as if just her stare would change Amitabh Bachchan to Rajesh Khanna. She almost bumped into a man on a bicycle and heard nothing when he hurled an insult at her.

  Sitting in the Ambassador, she asked carefully, ‘Natty, can you tell me about this movie Kabhi Kabhie?’

  If Natty found her question odd, he did nothing to show that and only asked, ‘What about this movie, madame?’

  ‘This movie, what happens in it? Do Waheeda Rehman and Amitabh Bachchan marry or . . . or what?’

  ‘Oh,’ Natty said, comprehension dawning on his face. ‘Well, I’m not sure you want to hear it, madame. It’s a bit sad.’

  ‘I want to hear it.’

  ‘Well, what happens is, madame, Amitabh Bachchan and Waheeda Rehman have to marry each other, madame, because of family and what not. But they don’t love each other. Many years later, they meet the people they once loved and then some . . . but they should have married the people they loved, see. It only makes sense.’

  Indu heard him but didn’t have anything more to say.

  Yes, you look like Waheeda Rehman, a voice rang out in Indu’s ears, if the lights are off.

  ‘Stop, stop, stop, Natty!’ Indu yelled, and he stopped the car with a jolt.

  ‘Wait, did you mean the car or the singing, madame?’

  She ignored the question.

  Things were rather stiff. Supriya aunty and Balwant uncle sat in the drawing room of their house while Indu’s parents made casual conversation. Amita flitted in and out of the room as the phone rang for her constantly. When Indu arrived, she was told that Rajat was arriving soon, so she went up to her room to get ready. Her sister joined her after a few minutes, and smiled at Indu.

  ‘It’s done,’ she said smiling.

  ‘Seriously?’ Indu asked.

  Amita nodded.

  ‘And you’re sure?’

  Amita nodded again and said, ‘The papers will arrive soon.’

  Indu nodded too and clutched the side of a table to steady her beating heart. Would she remember this moment years later? Would she remember it as Amitabh Bachchan and Waheeda Rehman had done, would she remember it with sadness and regret? Rajesh Khanna, her own words echoed in her ears, the original superstar . . .

  In a few minutes, Amita told her that Rajat had arrived and Indu brought him straight up to her room.

  Indu shut the door behind them and Rajat looked around, staring at the painting, the one of Indu with the jasmines in her hair. ‘Nice painting,’ he commented, nodding at it.

  Indu shook her head and hugged him tightly.

  ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you into this mess. Really, I mean it—I know you didn’t ask for any of it.’

  He nodded curtly, and she saw that he wore this expression, one of long suffering. She couldn’t exactly blame him.

  ‘Did you tell Roshan about Govind bhai and Amita?’

  The colour suddenly drained from his face. ‘Listen, Indu, I told you, I’m sorry about what he did. We promised not to reveal each other’s secrets. You won’t tell anyone that it was Roshan who burnt Number 7 and I—as in we—won’t reveal all that you’ve been doing with Rana and Fawad.’

  ‘But did you tell Roshan—did you put the idea in his head to try to bring Govind bhai, to manipulate him into thinking wrongly about Amita, to gather support? To have Govind bhai with him when he arrived at Number 7?’

  Rajat shook his head vigorously. ‘Of course not! That’s, well, Roshan is a bit of a maniac. He gets overprotective sometimes. I did tell him about Govind in general, but I would never do this, Indu.’

  Indu didn’t reply and instead sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

  ‘What—what is it, Indu? It’s all over, everything will be fine now, we’re moving . . .’

  She shook her head as she cried some more, and now his eyes widened and he took a step towards her. She shook her head some more and he took another step forward.

  ‘Indu, what are you saying, we—we can go . . .’

  ‘I can’t,’ she told him tearfully, ‘I just can’t. I don’t want to. I can’t.’

  He stopped where he was now. ‘Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?’

  Now Indu nodded, and a wave of relief washed over her as she finally said it; as if all of her being wanted only to assert that one thing.

  He opened and closed his mouth several times, taking a step back, and finally sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Indu said in a small voice, but he did not seem to hear it. Indu shook her head again, rushing to explain. ‘I don’t know you. We have nothing in common. How can I imagine spending a lifetime with you? I know I have been unfair and a horrible person to you, but don’t you see? It’s . . . clearly, it’s not enough! The situations of two people are not enough to determine if they should be married, if they can be together. Everything is perfect, you will have a beautiful home in a new city, lovely parents, and you’re a nice person, I’m sure—but I feel nothing for you. Marriage has to be more than that. It has to be more than us fitting together on the outside. Look at what happened to my sister, you know it now, what with your brother and her husband joining leagues—have you seen her wedding picture, though? Wait, I’ll show you.’

  Indu ran to her shelf and took the wedding picture of Amita and Govind, so beautiful and so widely distributed. She took the frame and thrust it in his bewildered hands. ‘Look! Look at them! Don’t they look perfect? Can you tell that they would be divorced in a few years? Do you see the lie?’

  He stared at it because she asked him to, and then shook his head. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’

  ‘I don’t want to take that chance.’

  Putting the frame on the bed, he got up and walked away while Indu followed him. She felt sorry for everything, but weak with relief at the same time.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she heard Rajat call out to Balwant uncle and Supriya aunty, but when he walked straight out of the house without saying anything, his parents looked at Indu accusingly.

  All four of them sat down again, the reality of what had happened hitting them. None of them spoke for some time until Indu’s mother asked, ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Father said we’ll see if Number 7 can be restored,’ she said.

  ‘We will,’ he replied, ‘and we’ll also look into other things. What you want to study, work . . . there is so much to do.’

  Indu sat all afternoon, ruminating about her decision, looking back on the last few days. Nothing seemed to make sense. All her life, Indu had revered a leader; that leader had caused a crisis, the end of which Indu could not see. Indu’s encounter with the resistance to this leader had been as unfavourable. It did not seem to care for an individual life if the greater goal could be achieved. And then those with whom she would have been bound by marriage hadn’t turned out any better than the others.

  Now her father was openly against the party’s policy and that divided everyone into two camps—those who were afraid of saying anything and those who had already acted. For the first time ever, he and Shashi uncle were on opposite sides. While a lot of it had to do with Amita and Govind’s crumbling marriage, their ideological differences had also become too wide.

  Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about Amita and how she was a doctor now, and come what may, would forever be a doctor. That was the strength of being something; it didn’t matter whether Govind bhai was in her life or not. There was nobody in the world who could take this away from her, and despite her pa
rents’ initial hesitation about her wishes, there was no one who boasted about it more, no one who was prouder. They were already talking about setting up a clinic for Amita in the next few years.

  More than anything else, Indu decided, that was what she wanted.

  ‘Indu, there’s someone waiting for you outside!’ her father said, standing at the door to her room, interrupting her reverie, while her mother laughed standing next to him.

  She looked up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Rana,’ her father said.

  When she didn’t reply, her father continued, ‘We had a chat this morning.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He was seeking advice. He said he had been offered a job at this particular firm, and he wanted to check the “political leanings” of this place.’

  Rana had gone to speak to her father that morning and hadn’t even informed her. Classic Rana, she fumed to herself; they hadn’t met since parting that night after the fire, and here he was, already making new plans for himself . . .

  The Ambassador’s honk sounded as she made her way outside.

  Rana stood beside Natty in front of the car and when she appeared, walked into the garden towards her, holding his hands behind his back. He had recently cut his hair and wore a white shirt, his teeth matching the colour as he grinned. He held out his palm to Indu, and a couple of white jasmines lay on it.

  ‘I remember what you had said once,’ Indu said, looking at him. ‘It’s just flowers, you had said, it’s not my love.’

  Rana laughed at that, but Indu didn’t let it go. ‘You meant it then.’

  ‘What I meant was, it’s only flowers, nothing as special as my love.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Indu said. ‘Or you know what.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll crush the flowers.’

  ‘You’ll never crush my love.’

  ‘It could do with some crushing, to be honest.’

  He held her other hand, the one without the flowers, in both of his.

  ‘What if there’s a Runjhun again?’

  ‘She will pale in front of your fury.’