Once Upon a Curfew

by Srishti Chaudhary

  ‘Progress through Congress,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Well, who else?’ she said.

  He looked at her strangely. ‘Oh, yes. You support Indira Gandhi, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Indu said loyally, at which Rana shook his head, which incensed her, but she said nothing and they continued in silence.

  It was wintry but warm that day, and she and Rana scoured the Nai Sarak market, passing newspaper vendors and booksellers who had their wares spread out on mats, sitting at their head like custodians. Indu subscribed to a few magazines and newspapers using the address of Number 7. They reached the shop where Indu wanted to get some chairs. They spent a while there, taking their time picking them out. When they got one for free in the end, Rana smugly insisted that they had got it free because of the great conversation he initiated. They walked through various markets, musing over what they might need, ending up with a bunch of homely stuff for the library: a rug, stationery holders, utensils for the pantry.

  ‘Ishq ne Ghalib nikamma kar dia,’ he said, as if he’d just remembered it, ‘varna hum bhi aadmi the kaam ke (Love has made me useless now, though I was once quite the man to know).’

  ‘Sounds like you,’ Indu remarked snidely.

  ‘You know, I dreamt of you yesterday,’ Rana told her as they began walking again, his hands in his pockets. Indu looked behind her to make sure nobody could overhear.

  ‘Really,’ she said, raising her eyebrows sceptically.

  ‘Yeah,’ he looked ahead of him in contemplation, twisting his lips into a pout. ‘You told me that you were in love with me.’

  Indu snorted, looking at him in exasperation. ‘Even dreams need to have boundaries, mister. Remember the bird that soared too high?’

  Rana couldn’t help laughing. Indu watched his hair blow in the wind again, and tugged at her braid.

  ‘I think I’ll write you one,’ he said, more to himself than to her.

  ‘Write me what?’

  ‘A poem, of course.’

  Indu merely smiled at that.

  When they reached the car, Rana directed Natty through the lanes of old Delhi, where the Ambassador could go only up to a point. There was the usual chaos outside, people hurrying past, selling everything on the streets—wares, snacks, shoes of the latest fashion. When Natty stopped the car, Rana caught Indu staring doubtfully at the streets.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, leading the way, as Natty said, ‘Enjoy, madame,’ from behind them.

  Rana walked briskly ahead of her, parting the crowd easily, not looking back to see if she followed. Indu didn’t mind very much; she wanted to feel as if she was going through it on her own. She tightened her hold on her bag and saw from behind her sunglasses the unceremonious stares that were thrown her way. The street was lined with little eateries, outside which people huddled, waiting to get inside. Meat was being smoked on skewers over trays of coal, and Indu saw a large board for Karim Hotels Pvt Ltd. When they reached, Rana led her to a seat in the corner and sat down happily. ‘Food fit for a king,’ he said, laughing.

  Waiters bustled around, serving each table with speed and precision, signalling with their eyes, serving one place but looking somewhere else. She held the laminated menu in her hands as Rana sat back and relaxed, watching everyone eating, looking around as if he had never seen anything like this before. He grinned at Indu as he caught her looking at him, and she went back to the menu with an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘So what should I have?’ she asked him.

  ‘Burra,’ he replied without even glancing at the menu, his hands folded behind his head against the seat. ‘Mutton burra.’

  ‘I’ve never had mutton,’ she said, making a face at him.

  He shook his head with certainty. ‘It’s the only thing in which you get the purest flavour.’

  She ignored what he said and scanned the menu again, meanwhile asking him when he had first arrived in Delhi. It helped reduce the pressure to make a quick choice. He told her how he had arrived three years ago, that he was completely taken by the liveliness of the city and wanted to make it as a lawyer here. He said his father owned a bit of land in Lucknow, but that he had given up farming to become a police inspector. Being an inspector in UP was no joke, he told Indu, talking of the harsh realities his father faced every day.

  ‘Ready to order?’ the waiter asked, coming up to them.

  Rana looked at Indu, who had indecision writ large across her face. ‘Two mutton burra,’ he said to the waiter. She was relieved he ordered so she could be saved the trouble, although she didn’t show it.

  ‘I thought about the movie,’ Rana told her as they waited for their food to arrive. ‘I think we should screen Mughal-e-Azam for the opening.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Indu said, impressed. ‘I like that idea. Good choice.’

  Rana nodded. ‘There never was another movie like that and there never will be.’ Just then, the mutton burra arrived. Indu held her thumb up to Rana, telling him that she liked it.

  ‘Ek berehem shehenshah ke khaane mein Salim ki Anarkali dam nahi todegi, nahi todegi!’ Indu said between bites.

  ‘I don’t think he says it twice.’

  ‘Shut up, it’s more fun to say it twice.’

  Rana laughed, and when he didn’t say anything more, Indu went on, ‘I think Salim is the most real character of the lot.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘His dilemma! Love versus duty, the struggle of his life. It seeps into every part of his body, into his acting.’

  ‘Salim ki Anarkali,’ Rana said.

  ‘Who do you identify with the most?’ she asked him.

  ‘The shehenshah,’ Rana said with a wink. ‘Do you think it’s better if we show another love story for the opening? To attract more people?’

  ‘Come on, it’s the best love story of all time,’ she said.

  ‘After ours, you mean?’ he said with a laugh.

  Indu snorted loudly and went back to her food.

  * * *

  As the days went by, they did little things every day and built up the library. Rana seemed only too happy to spend time with her. She found him and his company more and more pleasant, as he questioned curiously, laughed sincerely, and said what he thought. She knew he liked her, for he never really missed the chance to express it, overtly or otherwise, and she lost no opportunity to spurn his trifling, which he took with spirit. He talked to her ardently of things he liked, of cricket and music, never hesitant in his thoughts. But mostly he spoke about her, as if he had known her all his life.

  ‘You may pretend to have your nose all up in the air, Indu Narayan,’ he said to her, ‘but I know you love all our quips just as much as I do.’ They met mostly in Natty’s presence, who had also developed an easy rapport with Rana.

  One day, as they were setting up two additional bookcases, Rana said, ‘Remember, I told you my friend Fawad has this magazine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking, could he sometimes also come and work at Number 7? He has lots of work to do, compiling the various stories that are posted, editing them, putting it all together before sending the final version to print. Could he do some of that work here?’

  Indu thought about it; she wouldn’t mind him doing the work at Number 7, that is what it was meant for—but for women. But what if the women visitors felt discomfited by his presence? So she suggested to Rana that he work in the fourth room, the empty one. And that he would have to set it up himself. Rana beamed even more widely at that.

  For the books, they settled on the most basic cataloguing system. Her dadiji’s collection included mainly religious texts and spiritual books, some encyclopaedic volumes, and books on housekeeping and embroidery. Rana obtained a few books related to law from his college and some on politics and history from his seniors. Indu picked out the English classics and some contemporary writers, mostly books about the freedom struggle, besides multiple copies of the works of Nehru and Gandhi.

  They went by genre and then author names,
numbering them from the outside in. Keeping track of the books was a whole other matter. The most important feature of any library was that the right book must be at the right spot at any given time, and once read, should go back to the very same spot. They debated for a long time on the best system, and finally decided that instead of requesting people to keep the book back on the right spot, they would collect all books taken from the shelves at the front desk and place them correctly every evening.

  They also agreed that Rana would be the custodian, for as long as he could be there, and the rest of the time, Indu would carry out the job. Rana told her that he did not mind spending his days at Number 7, managing the library with her, as long as Indu could give him space to write for Fawad’s magazine and study for his exam. ‘Do you have classes as well?’ she asked him. ‘Not often; I mean, it’s my second-to-last year, so we’re mostly supposed to study at the library ourselves. Which is exactly what I’ll be doing.’ Indu was happy to oblige. At the front desk, they would keep a logbook, where each borrowed title would be recorded when issued and returned. Indu would write letters to the weeklies and periodicals of which she wanted subscriptions for the library; she assigned a week to collection for the common fund every month, when donations could be made on a voluntary basis.

  Now that the days were getting slightly longer and it was not as cold, sometimes they took walks in the late afternoons and evenings. Indu told Rana about Govind bhai and her sister, how she felt that their relationship had soured because of her, and that it was weighing her down.

  Rana began whistling as they fell quiet. Indu shouldered her coat, which she had gotten along just in case it was cold, but it had proved totally unnecessary. Rana looked at her as she moved the coat from arm to arm and chuckled.

  ‘People must be thinking, look at this strange girl with the strange coat, how fancy does she think she is?’

  Indu looked at him, not laughing only because she had an answer, ‘No, they must be thinking, look at this strange boy with the girl, does he sometimes think how lucky he is?’

  He laughed loudly and Indu laughed with him, so that the people around them really did begin to stare at them. Indu threw her coat at him to carry, and he shouldered it with a sigh.

  * * *

  Different troubles brewed at home, and the dining table became a battlefield. Her parents blamed Indu for the recent rift between Govind and Amita. They didn’t miss any opportunity to attack Indu and got even more annoyed when Amita supported her sister. Indu, on the other hand, was totally unimpressed by their show, wondering why they couldn’t support her daughter in her decision.

  ‘Of course we support her,’ her mother replied, stung. ‘If she wishes to study, she will. But this is not the way, to leave your house and fight with your husband.’

  ‘Well, if the husband is so—’

  ‘Not another word, Indu,’ her mother warned.

  Lohri came and went as bonfires cropped up all about the city, the popcorn crackling in the fire. Yet, at the Narayan residence, a grim mood prevailed.

  If her parents thought the problem would simply go away, they were wrong. Amita was resolute in her decision, and Govind made no attempt to take back what he had said. But Indu understood—not only had Govind practically told her sister that it was because of her that he felt his life was empty and bereft, he had also insulted her abilities. Her mother might not understand it, but that was what hurt most of all.

  Every morning, then, Amita bathed and dressed early, sitting at her desk with her books. Sunita served her breakfast and lunch so that she could study. Amita seemed determined to show her husband the skills and willingness that he claimed she lacked. Her parents had no idea how to deal with the situation as Amita, up till then, had been the more peaceful of the two children in the family. It annoyed them even more when Indu merrily declared, ‘Wait till the library is completed, didi, you can sit and study there in peace all day and show him what you’re capable of.’ They thought that it was unnecessary encouragement for more strife in their marriage.

  For Indu, it was exciting to have her sister back in her life, especially at a time when things were happening for her. She looked forward to introducing her to Rana, and the three of them working together in the library. She thought about it for some time and then wondered if it was a thought too naïve; they all had very different lives and would have to go back to them eventually. Yet, the more she thought about it, Rana seemed the only one who was free to fashion his life any way he chose, to do whatever he wished, live and breathe as per his will.

  6

  April rolled into May, bringing the dry, enervating heat typical of that month in Delhi—relentless sunshine provided by the sun, which seemed to rise higher in the sky each hour. The city stretched in sunlight like someone waking up after a satisfying slumber, relishing the kind of repose that comes with the cracking of knuckles after a long rest. Rana rued the summer. When Indu asked why, he looked at her like she should already know; ‘the best food is in the winter, of course.’

  As all the supplies for the library started coming together, Indu turned her attention to sprucing up the house. She asked Sunita to come with her to Number 7 so the house could be properly cleaned. Sunita went about the flat, cursing its deplorable condition, with Esha trailing behind her, handing her the necessary equipment. Indu imagined how it would look once it was a library, with rows of chairs and tables, women browsing the bookshelves, with maybe a huge pinboard at the entrance displaying announcements and advertisements for events happening around the city.

  Indu had also invited Rana and Fawad to come to Number 7 that day. As Sunita and Esha were there, she wouldn’t be alone in the house with two men. Indu noticed that Rana hadn’t gotten his hair cut, and it curled slightly at the edges. His narrow face tapered towards his chin, and his beard covered the sides of his face. He seemed even taller than usual today in his buttoned shirt and trousers. When he entered, he looked questioningly at Sunita and Esha, who had both stopped working to look at the young man. Indu made sure he stood a little way away from her.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, his voice deep and smiling, looking over at Sunita and Esha again. ‘And who are they? What are they doing?’

  ‘I’m getting the house cleaned, obviously,’ Indu said, raising her eyebrows at him, like it wasn’t that hard to deduce. ‘And they are Sunita and Esha.’

  He nodded tersely, moving a step closer to her and grinning again. ‘So what do you want to do today?’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Nothing that you want to,’ and moved away to tell Sunita to clean the tops of the bookshelves as well. He sighed and followed her around the house, bending down to say hello to Esha, who giggled. Her mother sharply reminded her to pay attention to the job at hand, and Rana walked about, picking up and inspecting various knick-knacks.

  Later, Rana and Indu sat outside in the balcony.

  ‘What about the screen and the projector for the movie?’ she asked him.

  ‘It’s all sorted. I’ve already arranged for it.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, putting one hand on top of the other. ‘I thought you were bluffing about taking care of it, as usual. I should probably trust you more.’

  Rana looked at her in exasperation. ‘You should trust me on everything!’

  Indu made her most sarcastic face, just managing to hold her laughter.

  Rana remarked that the women would have a lot to gossip and giggle about once they started coming to the library, and it would become a place where they had fun.

  ‘And why is that?’ Indu asked him.

  ‘Come on, look at our chemistry here,’ he said, putting his arms behind his head, against the chair. ‘With your snootiness and my dazzling humour, we make for a deadly duo.’

  When she giggled, he added, staring at her intently, ‘You have these little things when you smile.’

  Indu blinked innocently. ‘Teeth?’

  He acknowledged her joke with a pout.

 
‘No, these, beneath your lips. I think . . . little dimples. Doesn’t she?’ he added to Esha, who had appeared in the balcony, and who nodded vigorously. Indu smiled at her, feeling a bit self-conscious, and got up from her seat to have a look at what Sunita was doing.

  The most important task now was the seating plan. The seating had to be arranged in a way—she had discussed it with Rana—so that it would facilitate quiet, group study. For that, they needed new furniture, apart from the chairs they had already bought. Indu was glad that her sister was now in it with her, as she could help with a lot of this planning.

  Indu knew that her parents held her partly responsible for Amita having returned home and for all that had gone wrong between Amita and Govind, but if they believed it, they had to be fooling themselves. Discord had been sown into their relationship long before they found out that Amita couldn’t have children. According to her, it had begun when the match had been arranged, when Amita was still studying and had cleared the initial examinations for a degree in medicine. She had to leave it mid-way as Govind bhai’s parents wanted the wedding to take place as soon as possible.

  Amita had tried to get over the disappointment, but it must have been deep, so she resolved to resume her studies one day. Indu was happy that she had been the one to trigger it. But now, as a result, whenever Indu announced anything new that they might be planning for Number 7 to her mother, she turned a deaf ear.

  ‘This one,’ she told Amita, ‘she will make life hell for any man. Poor Rajat, uff, poor, little Rajat . . .’

  Indu had made a face, but still told both her parents that they should prepare for the big launch. Her mother now looked worriedly at her husband. ‘But there are so many things. That house has to be made hospitable. Every day, it has to be cleaned, swept, taken care of, dusted . . .’

  Indu glanced at Sunita, who had gone into the kitchen, anticipating the demands of dinner.

  ‘What about Esha?’ she asked her mother suddenly.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is she getting married?’