* * *
Indu and Amita had always agreed that white was the colour of grace and that nothing could take its place. But for an impact, black always takes centre stage. It didn’t escape Amita’s eye that Indu emerged from her room wearing a black multani kurta with intricate Kashmiri embroidery at the neck and chest, buttoned up to the collarbone. She wore bigger earrings than was her usual style, and high heels.
Amita said, ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t wear saris?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Indu said. ‘It’s just at his house, it’s no big deal.’
Indu wanted to look beautiful for this party and for everything to go well. Their parents had already given instructions to Natty about which route to take and not to bring them back too late, while Amita decided to spend only the Sunday with Govind.
In the car, she asked Natty if he had managed to find out anything about the little Sardar boy who would still creep up to the flat.
‘Nothing new, madame,’ Natty reported. ‘I did see that his mother was not surprised to see him coming from the direction of Number 7 yesterday. Very smart, that little chhichhora.’
‘Maybe the mother is in on it,’ Indu said darkly.
There was very little traffic and they found his flat easily. They could see the lights on and people moving about inside as the curtains weren’t drawn closed. Indu could even hear Rana’s laugh from the staircase, and unconsciously smoothened her kurta with her hand, placing the pashmina delicately to the side. She went up the stairs carefully, slowed down by her heels, with Amita following her.
He came to the door even before she could ring the bell, and she saw him take in the sight of her as she smiled at him. His warm brown eyes shone in the light. Whatever he had been about to say seemed to have evaporated in the air, and Indu looked away from his uninterrupted gaze, assuming an air of obliviousness.
‘Hi,’ she finally said to him. He shook his head slightly, and his face broke into a smile. He wore a shirt but had kept the top button open today.
‘How are you?’ he asked her, holding out his arms, and Indu couldn’t decide whether it was for a hug or to simply take the things she had in her hands. She was spared the trouble of deciding when he noticed Amita behind her.
He greeted her loudly, asking her if they had found the way easily. Indu walked inside.
There were a few people inside, but Indu couldn’t recognize any of them, so she stood at the door, gazing through the gallery, which opened out into a bigger room. From the door, Indu could see a carved wooden table in the centre, the room illuminated by a lamp in the corner. A couple of bags and jackets hung from a hook in the gallery, and next to it was a painting of a small boy in a field. As Indu looked around, she realized there were quite a few paintings on the walls, as well as a canvas on a stand at the far end of the room. She could hear a record player humming inside. As she walked in, she noticed the room had minimal furniture: a sofa by the wall, two or three chairs lying about, and a few foldable ones against the wall. The windows were shut and the number of people inside made it quite warm, so Indu held her pashmina in her hands. She saw a few figures huddled by the kitchen table, where there were drinks. She had already scanned the room for Runjhun and realized she wasn’t there, which cheered her up.
‘Who made all these paintings?’ she asked as she heard Rana and Amita come up behind her.
‘That’s our sensitive little artist, Fawad,’ Rana said, taking Indu’s pashmina and purse from her hands and placing them on the table. He then led the way inside.
Indu and Amita followed to where everyone was gathered. Indu was surprised to see there were quite a few women as well. She hoped they were Fawad’s friends, for Rana had never mentioned other women friends.
‘He always helps me paint them,’ Fawad walked up to them, having overheard what Rana said. Indu and Amita wished him a happy birthday, not knowing how to greet him at first, until Indu gave him a one-sided hug with an awkward laugh.
‘These paintings are amazing,’ Indu said to him, looking around. There was one with a wide blue lake full of lilies and boats, and another one of a valley filled with flowers.
‘Thank you,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘They are all scenes of Kashmir.’
‘Is it really so beautiful there?’ Amita asked, looking at the paintings interestedly.
‘Even more so.’
‘Now that you like them, you should know that it’s true, I did help him,’ Rana said, and Amita laughed.
‘Why don’t you make one for me?’ Indu asked.
‘He wouldn’t be able to do justice to you,’ Fawad answered for him. ‘A painting can only bring out so much.’
Indu acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod and saw Rana nodding enthusiastically as well.
‘It’s true, actually. It would be impossible to capture that nose and that grimace on paint,’ he said, and then began imitating her in an exaggerated, high-pitched voice, ‘Natty, you better not be late today! Natty, bring the books from the car. Natty, why is Rajesh Khanna not mine?’
As Fawad and Amita burst out laughing, Indu successfully managed to stop herself expressing any hilarity at his impression, and gave him a dangerous stare.
‘You know I’m joking,’ he said, putting his hand on her arm when she gave no indication of relenting. ‘Come on, what will you have to drink?’
‘Just a Campa for me, please,’ Amita said, and Indu walked to the table with Rana, saying hello to people she didn’t know.
‘Oh wait, we have to bring out more glasses,’ he said, and Indu followed him into the kitchen, where he took out a few and began rinsing them.
‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, yes, a little bit.’
He flicked his fingers so that the water running from the tap sprinkled all over her face, and she gasped.
‘You are dead, mister,’ she said, raising her voice over his laughter. He handed her a towel and she wiped herself with it. She handed it back to him and he dried the glasses.
‘Why are you trying to ruin my face?’ she asked him as he handed her a couple of glasses to carry.
‘I’d say it’s a little too late for that,’ he said with a sad pout.
For some time, it seemed like there never was a Runjhun; he introduced her and Amita to his and Fawad’s friends, and they all seemed to happily accept the sisters, asking them questions about themselves, doubly fascinated when Indu told them about the library and how she worked there with Rana. She felt proud of the library and sensed the same in her sister, who narrated excitedly how she was finding studying again, which speciality she would aim for and what kind of work it would require.
‘I’m actually thinking of starting a formal book club from next month onwards,’ Indu told two men and a woman who were speaking to her and Rana, asking them about their future plans.
‘Really?’ Rana asked her, taking a sip of his drink, one hand in his pocket.
‘Yeah, don’t you think it would be good? We could have a book of the week to discuss, and hold talks on it. I’d wanted to initiate discussions anyway, maybe some debates . . .’
He shrugged, finishing his drink. ‘Yeah, sounds good. Make sure you clash with Mrs Leela’s needlework course.’
Indu laughed, shaking her head, telling the others about her and how Rana shamelessly responded to her flirtations.
He was defending himself when Indu spotted a large device near the window and asked, ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, that’s a telescope.’
‘A telescope?’ Indu asked in surprise. ‘I’ve never seen one like this. I mean, I’ve seen some in pictures, but this one looks different. Wherever did you get it?’
‘Fawad got it from some uncle of his. I couldn’t afford one, it’s too expensive.’
Indu walked over to it, looking at it and then back at Rana in amazement. ‘Could I try it?’
‘No, of course not.’
She gave him a reproachful look. He cleaned the lens w
ith a small wipe that lay next to it and rotated the plates around it. ‘It’s quite a clear night,’ he murmured, ‘go for it.’
He gently placed a hand on the back of her neck to make her position her head properly, his fingers going through her hair, lightly brushing the bones at the back of her neck. She could hear the sound of his breathing and he told her to focus and look to the top and right.
The moon, which always seemed dull and grey, unremarkable in the humdrum of daily life, suddenly looked bright and exceedingly white. Indu could see the craters on it, smudges of black on a sparkling white surface. He adjusted it for her a little bit, and she saw stars, glittering and magnified.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘It is, but here it’s still quite limited. Some weekends, Fawad and I take it out away from the city; it’s much better there, the view. You can see so many constellations, so many stars . . .’
‘I wonder why you need to look for stars in the sky,’ Indu said, straightening up and stepping away from the telescope, ‘when the biggest star is me?’
Rana laughed and was about to speak again when she saw him look at the door and his face break into a smile. Runjhun had just entered wearing a knee-length green dress, waving at him while greeting others who were in the way. Rana immediately went to the door, leaving Indu standing beside the telescope. She watched Runjhun hug Fawad. She and Rana then moved to a corner. She began narrating something animatedly and he listened with interest, leaning toward her.
Indu took a deep breath and walked over to her sister, who was chatting with Fawad, and turned her back to Rana and Runjhun.
‘It’s always a bit delicate there, you can never say,’ Fawad was saying. ‘It’s a total mess. My father always says don’t trust anyone. Not the Army, not the government, not anyone who says “azad Kashmir”. And you can see why it’s so hard, for each of them wants to take over for their own benefit. They don’t care if a few hundred of us die as long as the land acts as an obstacle for the Chini.’
Amita was nodding sympathetically, asking him, ‘Did you really write all this in the magazine?’
Fawad nodded proudly as Amita told him he was very brave. Indu thought about what he said.
‘What do you think should be done?’ Indu asked him.
‘Leave us alone,’ Fawad said simply.
‘To what end? Even if the government leaves Kashmir alone, calls the Army back, you can be sure that Pakistan won’t. They will send their army the very next day!’
‘They consider us as much a part of their country as India does.’
‘Exactly,’ Indu said, looking at him and then at her sister. ‘Should we just leave it for militants to take over?’
‘But they don’t think they are militants, do they? They think they are reclaiming their territory. Anyway, what can I say? We are just stuck in the middle. Actually, now you have put me in the mood to listen to the Beatles, do you know them? They always take me back home.’
‘I don’t listen to English music,’ Indu said.
‘Why not? You have to now,’ Fawad said, heading to the record player.
‘Can you believe him?’ she asked Amita. ‘That’s not a solution—“what can I do, we’re stuck in the middle”. That doesn’t lead anyone anywhere.’
Amita pursed her lips. Just then, Indu saw Runjhun walk up to them with Rana by her side.
‘Hello,’ Indu replied stiffly to her greeting when she smiled brightly and said hi to them.
‘I had a great idea, Indu, while Rana was telling me something,’ she said.
Indu looked at Rana sharply, and Rana nodded earnestly; she didn’t want to hear what they were up to now, but clearly had no other option.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I was thinking we could have some discussions next month at the library on the theme of Partition,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, a discussion?’
‘Maybe a talk, a moderated debate—to bring the issue into the public discourse, you know.’
Indu looked at her sister and then replied, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Lots of people have begun to think that maybe it was for the best,’ Runjhun said. ‘The Partition, you know.’
‘Thousands of people were raped, brutalized and killed,’ Indu said coldly.
‘Perhaps it would be better if people were invited to share their stories, you know,’ Rana said. ‘I think it would be good for the library. We could announce it in advance so people could come prepared.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Indu said, looking at Runjhun, asserting the I; Runjhun looked taken aback for a second, and then nodded, turning towards Rana.
‘Where’s my drink?’ she asked him, and he laughed and went into the kitchen.
From the other end of the flat they heard Fawad’s shout, and Rana came out again to see what was going on.
‘Listen to this,’ Fawad emerged, holding the transistor radio in his hands and bringing it over to where everyone stood, placing it in the centre of the table.
A radio feed announced that the Prime Minister had to appear in a court today to testify against charges of electoral malpractice.
‘What?’ Amita asked Indu quietly. ‘Who filed the case?’
Indu wasn’t sure either, but had vaguely remembered reading about this.
Runjhun seemed completely aghast at the news, while Rana nodded. Fawad moved his hand, catching the transistor accidentally, almost making it slide across the table, and Rana reprimanded him in anger.
‘If anything happens to my Bush . . .’ he warned. Runjhun put an arm around him to calm him down.
Indu took a deep breath and turned towards her sister. ‘Okay, time to go home.’ They said a quick goodbye and walked back to the Ambassador. Indu was glad to see Natty by the car.
‘How much do you hate her?’ Amita asked Indu when Natty began driving.
Indu turned her head towards her sister, tired. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, I mean it to be,’ she replied, her face resolute.
When Amita didn’t say anything further, Indu gave in. ‘I know it’s not fair, but . . . I can’t watch it. Watch her, like this, with . . . with him.’
‘But it would have happened anyway,’ Amita said softly. ‘If not her, then someone else.’
‘I know.’
Amita took her hand. ‘I am with you.’
Indu laughed. ‘In what?’
‘He dared to move on and parade a girlfriend in your face,’ her sister said. ‘We’ll make him pay.’ Indu laughed loudly, squeezing her sister’s hand in gratitude for her unquestioning loyalty.
10
‘What are you staring at so intensely?’ Indu asked Natty.
His failure to reply made Indu follow the direction of his gaze, and she saw a cow standing in the middle of the road. The cow held up the traffic behind it, but Indu didn’t find anything remarkable about this; it happened every day. She went on watching the cow, who coolly chewed the chapattis that someone had given her. Occasionally, the cow flipped her tail, trying to swat away the flies that hovered at her back. She moved her head lazily, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding cacophony.
‘Arre chalo chalo!’ someone yelled from the driver’s seat of the car stuck behind a tonga stuck behind the cow.
‘Remove it from there yaar, stupid cow!’ a man on a motorbike yelled.
‘Show some respect,’ the woman sitting on a rickshaw told the motorbiker, throwing him a strict look. ‘She’s like your mother.’
The biker started laughing and slapped his thigh. ‘Arre aunty, I know they look the same. But my mother at least listens when I yell at her.’
The woman looked at him, aghast, and turned her face away, hiding her pained expression by asking the rickshawallah to hurry up.
After a couple more minutes of chewing, the cow seemed to throw an irritated glance at the people yelling behind her and heaved forward. She turned slowly, and Indu understoo
d why Natty was staring at this particular cow.
Written in red paint across the cow’s massive body was ‘Indira hatao’.
* * *
That evening, Rana watched Indu as she scanned the roads where they walked, a fierce expression on her face.
‘Why do you seem so angry? Can’t spot any simal trees?’ Rana asked her. She barely heard him as she continued scrutinizing the lanes, and replied after a pause.
‘I’m not looking for the simal trees,’ she said, looking left and right again. ‘I’m looking for hooligans who might attempt to throw Holi colours on us.’
‘What, already? It’s still a few days away.’
She didn’t reply as he looked at her amusedly.
‘Oh, relax, no one’s going to throw colour or water on you as long as I’m around,’ he said, suddenly gripping her by the shoulders and tipping her towards a puddle of water. He pulled her back at the last second, making her gasp. He laughed, ‘Except for me.’
She hit him on the shoulder and walked away, and he followed her on the pavement. It had rained all of last night, and while the roads were wet and dirty, the trees smelt fresh and new. Indu walked resolutely. She could still feel his touch on her arms.
‘Come on now, don’t be angry,’ he said, and she could still hear the laughter in his voice, ‘or I might have to trouble the other Indira here.’ She looked slightly to the left, where the walls next to the pavement were all papered with Indira Gandhi’s face, looking decisive, asking for a vote with the slogan of ‘garibi hatao’.
‘You couldn’t handle the likes of her,’ she said without turning around.
‘After dealing with this Indira here? She’d be a piece of cake.’
* * *
Amita was back from the weekend with Govind bhai. She was ranting to her mother that she couldn’t stand the party workers walking in and out of her house like they owned it, while Govind threw open the drawing room for them. ‘Uncouth, absolutely no etiquette,’ she said to Indu and her mother in disgust.
‘What do you expect?’ her mother asked. ‘You don’t live there any longer, and without a woman, of course he will turn it into a bachelor’s house.’
Once Upon a Curfew Page 12
