Once Upon a Curfew

by Srishti Chaudhary

  Her mother got up, deep in thought while Indu and Amita chatted. The two sisters decided to have a look at the two huge bookcases that lined the wall from top to bottom, hundreds of books on the shelves.

  Indu stared at the titles behind the glass. Some of them seemed ancient, ranging from English classics to Hindu religious texts, the names of some Indu couldn’t even read. There was a thick coat of dust at the edges of the shelves, and stray strands of lint covered some of the spines. Indu read the names—Robert Frost, Leo Tolstoy, Simone de Beauvoir, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Charlotte Bronte, D.H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf . . . She opened one of the cases and picked up a battered copy.

  There were many Indian writers as well, Indu registered excitedly—copies of the Mahabharata, Tagore, Gandhi, Nehru, R.K. Narayan, Dhan Gopal Mukerji. She felt the urge to settle down in a chair right away and begin reading, but resisted.

  ‘What will we do with so many books?’ Indu asked.

  Amita shrugged. ‘Do as you like. Read them, take them to your college library, take them home.’

  ‘I’m not letting these in the house, there are too many,’ her mother suddenly spoke up, looking at Indu. ‘I mean, you could almost stock a library out of this.’

  Indu looked at the bookshelves thoughtfully and said, ‘Hmm. Let’s decide the next time we come here. I have to go now.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Amita asked Indu.

  ‘I have to go to college.’

  ‘Why?’ Amita asked.

  ‘Just some books I have to return for the new debating president. I better get going.’

  Hugging her sister again, she headed out, slinging her purse into the crook of her arm.

  She thought about waiting for the lift again, but it was on the seventh floor. Natty brought the car to the gate and got out to open the door for her.

  ‘You always remember to open the door whenever mother is around, Natty,’ Indu said to him.

  ‘I try to open it each time, madame, but it’s just my poor, old memory that fails sometimes,’ he replied calmly, barely containing his own laugh.

  ‘Chalo college ab. Hope your poor, old memory still remembers the way.’

  ‘We can always hope, madame.’

  Indu looked out the window as they took the road towards Lajpat Nagar, which was quite familiar to her now. Her thoughts returned to her grandmother and how she had painstakingly collected all these books over the years. She wondered how many she had been able to read.

  For each birthday, she would give Indu a book to read. For some years, Indu never bothered to open the books. But once she began reading, she couldn’t wait to have her own shelves full of books and pass them on to someone younger.

  As they entered the gate to the college, the red brick building shone, like it always did, for it was very new, and the manicured garden contrasted sharply with the grey sky. Indu walked in and sat on a bench next to the garden, enjoying the mild September weather. She watched a bunch of girls on the other side of the garden, huddled together over some exciting piece of news, no doubt, squealing in mirth, so that their voices were carried by the wind. She pondered about their lives, how happy they seemed. Before they knew it, this life would be behind them, and they would walk out of those gates, like Indu had done, with their lives ahead of them. Indu wondered what they’d do. She wondered what she’d do. It seemed certain to her that in a few years, most of them would have husbands and families, with this life a distant memory.

  Indu was sure the girls would soon be admonished for being too loud. And sure enough, a security guard walked over, but not to the bunch of girls, who had gotten up to leave for a class, but to Indu, who had begun walking on the grass. He told her to stick to the path, and she rolled her eyes at him like she had done for the past three years, but she was happy to realize that nothing had changed. And so Indu slung the bag again into the crook of her arm and directed her steps towards the library, for she had two books to return.

  She was about to enter the library when the guard outside stopped her and asked for her ID card. She told him it had been returned when she graduated, but she still had to return the books in her hand. He said she couldn’t go in without a signed letter from the principal. Indu expressed frustration over this arbitrary new rule, but she couldn’t do anything to change his mind, for the security guards in this girls’ college were of a particularly stubborn nature.

  Irritated, she walked across the campus, huffing, when she spotted a familiar figure in the distance.

  Indu ran after her, slowing down as she approached, not wanting to scare her. ‘Mrs Bala!’ she called out as her old teacher stopped and looked around, her face breaking into a smile, her short hair frizzier than usual. Indu never could stop staring at Mrs Bala’s hair, which was short, curly and seemed to have a mind of its own. Her own mother refused to let her cut her hair, which Indu didn’t really mind, for her smooth locks were the envy of many, but she always wondered how it would be to have hair so short and wild.

  ‘Indu, dear!’ Mrs Bala exclaimed, giving her a hug. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, Mrs Bala,’ she replied. ‘How’s the new class?’

  ‘Beautiful, of course. All my girls are beautiful, but no one to outdo you, don’t worry.’

  Indu had to laugh at that, as she had requested that answer in all future meetings with Mrs Bala, and was glad that her teacher had remembered. Yet a silence hung between them now, for it was always a sensitive subject to ask what plans young girls had, now that college was over.

  ‘Yes, so,’ Indu said, producing the books from her bag, ‘I’m wondering, Mrs Bala, if it would be possible to ask a small favour? The guard wouldn’t let me inside the library. I need to return these books because the new girl must need it, for the debating society, you know . . .’

  ‘Aah, I can take them, of course, don’t worry. I have to meet her after lunch anyway.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, handing over the books.

  ‘What are you doing these days?’ Mrs Bala asked after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘I’m just thinking, you know,’ Indu told her, ‘about different things. What to do.’

  ‘I’m glad you are,’ Mrs Bala told her with an understanding smile.

  They stared at each other for a moment. ‘Well, I’ll let you be on your way, then,’ Indu said. ‘Thanks so much for the books.’

  ‘But wait, dear, are you free this Saturday? I was thinking, since you’re not a student of the college anymore, I could invite you this Saturday evening.’

  ‘Ah, your famous Saturday evenings with the students!’

  ‘Precisely, but only once you graduate.’

  Indu thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes, I’d like to come, thank you.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Mrs Bala said, clapping her hands and tearing off a slip of paper from a notepad she held in her hands, jotting her address down on it. She hugged Indu once again, who clutched the piece of paper in her hands, memorizing the address as she walked away.

  * * *

  A couple of days later, the clouds were beginning to clear up and the sun was already high in the sky. The usual heat descended on the city. At home, Indu wandered around the house, lounging on the sofa her mother loved so much, which she had had made especially after seeing something similar at Shashi uncle’s house. Indu had a view of the kitchen from her seat and looked on as vegetables were chopped for the dinner tonight with Amita didi and Govind bhai.

  That night, the topic of Number 7 came up when they were all seated at the table.

  ‘Your father and I have come to a conclusion about it,’ Govind bhai said to Amita and Indu, clearing his throat, as everyone turned to look at him. In his usual formal manner, he put his spoon on the table and took a swig of water before speaking.

  ‘You know, this is an opportune time in the industry. We have to strike the iron now, and as your father says, a good decision at the right time can make a huge difference,’ he said
, smiling around the table.

  Indu’s father shook his head, laughing. ‘Govind, you can make such a show of things.’

  Indu stared at her father without blinking. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, we’ve decided that Govind will set up an office there.’

  Govind bhai nodded in agreement, turning to Amita.

  Crunching on a piece of carrot, he said, ‘There has never been more demand for nails and now we really need a sales office. Number 7 is in the centre of the city, it’s big and it will be perfect.’

  Remembering her mother’s advice, Amita said, ‘But it’s a private flat, in a private building.’

  ‘These things can always be sorted out,’ her father said, waving a hand in dismissal.

  Indu looked quickly at her parents. Her mother was staring at her husband with raised eyebrows. So he hadn’t discussed it with her mother either, otherwise he would have known how she felt about the matter.

  ‘No,’ Indu said, and everyone turned towards her. Govind bhai looked surprised that she had uttered such a loud and clear no. Indu’s heart began thumping as she was on the verge of saying what had been going on in her head for the past few days. Ever since her mother had taken her and her sister to Number 7, she could not get the image of that flat out of her head. She couldn’t stop imagining what it could be. When she had walked around college the other day, it had started making even more sense.

  ‘What do you mean, Indu?’ her father asked.

  Indu stared at him and then at Amita, who blinked back at her.

  ‘I need that flat,’ Indu said.

  Her mother stared at her quizzically. ‘What in the world for?’

  Indu made her face more resolute.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of doing something,’ she said, ignoring the ire on Govind bhai’s face. ‘I mean, Rajat will be away for two years. I want to make something of my time till then.’

  ‘How about a finishing school?’ Govind bhai suggested, and Indu threw him a look so dirty that her mother had to clear her throat loudly so she could divert her attention. ‘What are you talking about, Indu?’

  Indu told her father, ‘I want to set up a library there.’

  Govind bhai put his glass down noisily.

  Amita turned to her sister. ‘A library?’

  ‘Like, with books?’ Govind asked Indu.

  ‘Yes, Govind bhai, that is the main feature of a library,’ Indu said, trying to hide her testiness in her laugh.

  ‘But why?’ her father asked her.

  ‘It’s something that I really want to do,’ she said. ‘It will be a private library. I’ve been thinking about it, but I didn’t know how to do it until today. Number 7 is perfect. It’s empty, spacious, has the perfect energy, and all those books! I can put them to good use.’

  ‘Indu, but, we have already decided,’ Govind bhai said, looking at her father. ‘We need it for an office. I am sure we can find another place for your, uh, library.’

  Indu gave him a cold stare, avoiding looking at her sister. ‘Daddy, is it set in stone? It’s something that I want to do, and all those books are there already. I have an equal right to be given the chance.’

  Her father pushed his plate away, scratching his head. ‘I mean, of course, we didn’t know that you wanted to do something with it, but Indu, it’s too valuable a place. I don’t know what you mean by a library . . .’

  ‘What, is a library not a valuable place?’ Indu asked. ‘Come on, daddy, it’ll be my own project. I want to make it a library for girls.’

  Govind bhai sputtered as he drank water.

  ‘Girls?’ he asked her, trying not to laugh. ‘What kind of girls? Like, poor, I mean, underprivileged girls? Like a charity project, you mean?’

  Indu looked thunderously at her sister, who murmured to her husband not to be so crude, and he held up his hands.

  ‘We will talk about this later,’ Indu’s mother said forcefully. ‘Who wants ice cream, now? I found a very good brand. They import it directly from Switzerland.’

  Indu gave her mother a sullen look as Amita nodded eagerly.

  2

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ she asked Natty.

  ‘Yes, madame,’ he replied. ‘I checked again with sahab as well to be sure.’

  Indu sat back and looked at herself in the window. She had finally chosen a cream kurta with three-quarter sleeves, and a light scarf to top it off, as well as small diamond earrings. She wore her light brown sunglasses like a hairband and had done her eyes up with a light line of kohl.

  She had been happy to accept Mrs Bala’s invitation, of course, but was also looking forward to discussing her library plans with her. This would be the perfect setting in which to ask her.

  Indu was also slightly apprehensive as she had never been to such a gathering. She had never wanted to be the sort that partied, one of those university students who ran away from home, smoked into the night and went for protests at India Gate. She had no qualms about her life and wanted it to remain the way it was; moreover, she didn’t really fancy running around in the heat in unsophisticated khadi pants.

  Once she rang the bell and walked in, after giving a hug to Mrs Bala, who had opened the door for her, she noticed there were about a dozen people around the dinner table, mostly men, who shifted their attention to her. Years of scrutiny had inured her to stares, though, and she walked with her chin held high, giving everyone a courteous smile, and not looking at anyone in particular. In the cursory, cool glance she allowed herself after a couple of minutes, she noticed that besides the people seated around the dining table, there were two men at another table. On this table were some drinks, including, Indu noted, alcohol. Except her, there was just another woman, also with short hair, at the other end of the dining table.

  ‘You can take a seat over there, Indu,’ Mrs Bala said, pointing to the chair next to hers, on the other side of which sat a man in a light shirt, his hands in a steeple over his plate, talking to his friend next to him. Indu gave him a perfunctory nod before hanging her scarf on the back of the chair.

  Mrs Bala’s house was exactly how Indu had imagined a professor’s house to be—souvenirs of her travels on the walls, from paintings of cities to fancy china. A huge bookcase covered the entire wall on one side. There were wine bottles and boxes of tea in a glass cabinet, and a few plants in the corner. Stacks of magazines and newspapers were piled on a side table at the far end of the room. Her own mother would have been appalled at the bareness of the sofa, but Indu thought it quite suited Mrs Bala. She stopped looking around and focused instead on the dinner table, deciding that it had been long enough, so she could pay attention to the others around her. Mrs Bala asked Indu if she would have some wine or tea, and Indu smiled, saying, ‘Thank you, tea, of course.’

  Now Indu looked pointedly to her right, where the two men sat together, engaged in a conversation, who quickly broke it off when they noticed her looking at them. The one next to her took his elbows off the table and said, ‘Hello, my name’s Fawad.’ Indu looked at him for a second longer than she should have. He was very fair and wore glasses, and nodded at her as he smiled. The one next to him stuck his hand out towards her, saying, ‘I’m Rana.’ He had a light brown moustache that slanted down at both ends, and went with the stubble on the rest of his face. He wore a simply cut, half-sleeved shirt buttoned to the very top. His eyes looked right into hers, which Indu thought was a bit audacious on his part.

  She ignored the hand he had extended and folded her own hands into a namaste in response, but made up for the repudiation with a wider smile, and said, ‘Indu.’ The one called Fawad chuckled, and Rana bowed his head in defeat.

  ‘Are you Mrs Bala’s students?’ she asked them. Mrs Bala was also a visiting teacher at the college of journalism, which was a co-ed college.

  ‘I am, she taught me a paper in journalism,’ said Fawad, ‘but not him, he just lives with me.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Rana. ‘I study law.
’

  ‘Ah,’ Indu said, and his eyes seemed to twinkle at her reaction.

  ‘What, you have something against lawyers?’ Rana asked her as Fawad laughed.

  Indu laughed as well. ‘I don’t. It’s better than being an accountant.’

  ‘Of course it is!’ Rana said, making a face as if she had just stated the obvious. ‘We are much better built.’

  Indu simply raised her eyebrows in response.

  Aloud, she said, ‘Tell me about one law that doesn’t work in this country.’

  Rana looked at Fawad before chuckling. ‘Just one?’ he asked.

  Indu waited and stared at them without blinking.

  ‘The land acquisition law,’ Rana said. ‘At any time, the government can acquire your land for official or government purposes and give you a compensation that they deem fit.’

  He kept his glass down and sat back in his chair, tipping it slightly backwards, his right arm folded at the table’s edge.

  ‘I didn’t know that. Anyway, my father’s also a lawyer, so I’m the last person to have anything against them, don’t you worry.’ She turned around to accept her cup of tea from Mrs Bala.

  She did not turn to them again, but heard Fawad ask her, ‘How do you know Mrs Bala then?’

  Indu took a sip of the tea and waited a few seconds before answering, ‘She taught me as well, at college.’

  ‘Do you mean at undergraduate college?’

  ‘That’s right. Also, she coached the debating society, and I was the president,’ she told them.

  ‘Ah, so you like to argue as well,’ Rana said with a laugh, picking up a few peanuts from a bowl on the table and tossing them in his mouth.

  Indu couldn’t contain a smile, but then pursed her lips and raised her chin. ‘That’s a dangerous thing to say to a woman, mister.’

  Rana leaned his head back on the chair as he chewed, while Fawad looked at them back and forth, seemingly enjoying the conversation. But Indu turned around to face Mrs Bala, who seemed to be in animated conversation with the other people at the table, among whom was also her husband.