Chapter 9: The Renovation Begins

We returned to Doiwala with: three things. A name — Riyaz Ahmed. A location — Lamington Road, Bombay. And a: timeline — thirty days until the RTI response.

Thirty days was: a long time to wait. Thirty days in Doiwala was: an eternity measured in chai cups and customers and the specific daily rhythm of a bookshop on Station Road that did not care about mysteries from 1942 because the mysteries of 2024 — would Kamla Aunty's goat survive the monsoon, would the municipality fix the drainage on Rajpur Road, would Sharma ji ever forgive the banyan tree — were: sufficient.

But Meri was: not waiting. Meri had decided that the thirty days would be: productive. The renovation of Grandfather's house — "Rawat Heritage Stay," the name she had chosen, the name that Amma had: not approved but had not: vetoed, which in Amma's governance system meant: proceed with caution — would begin: immediately.

The house on Rajpur Road was: large. Four rooms downstairs, three upstairs, a kitchen that had been designed for a woman who cooked for: a regiment (which Grandmother had, in spirit if not: literally), a verandah that wrapped around three sides and that offered a view of the: Doon Valley that was — and I said this as a woman who had lived in this valley for fifty-three years and should have been: immune to its beauty — breathtaking. The Shivalik hills to the south. The sal forests to the east. The morning mist that rose from the: valley floor like the earth was: breathing.

Meri had hired: a contractor. Rajan Negi, from Mussoorie, a man whose reputation was: solid and whose timeline estimates were: fictional. Rajan Negi had looked at the house, measured the rooms, examined the plumbing (which he described as "historic," a word that Meri took as: a compliment and that I understood as: a diagnosis), and had said: "Six weeks. Maybe: eight."

"Eight means: twelve," I told Meri.

"Maa. Positive: thinking."

The renovation was: chaos. Rajan Negi arrived with a team of four — Birju (plumbing), Kailash (electrical), and two young men named Deepak who were: interchangeable and who did: everything else. They began by: dismantling. The plumbing came out in pieces — the iron pipes that Pappu (deceased) had installed in 1978, the pipes that had been carrying water with the: grudging tolerance of infrastructure that had been asked to do: too much for too long. The electrical wiring was: worse. Kailash, upon opening the first junction box, had stepped back and said: "Madam, this is not: wiring. This is: art. Bad art. The kind of art that: kills."

Amma supervised. Amma supervised: everything. She sat on the verandah in a cane chair — the chair that had been Grandfather's, the chair that bore the: imprint of his sitting the way the third row at the Odeon had borne the imprint of his: presence — and she: watched. Every pipe removed. Every wire stripped. Every wall opened to reveal the: secrets that old houses kept — the nests, the dead insects, the newspaper fragments stuffed into gaps by workmen decades ago, the newspapers with headlines from: 1978 that said things like "Janata Party Government" and "Cricket Test at Eden Gardens" and that were: history compressed into insulation.

"Your grandfather would hate this," Amma said, watching Birju remove a pipe from the kitchen wall. The pipe came out with: a sound — the groan of metal parting from stone, the sound of a house being: operated on.

"Grandfather would understand," I said.

"Grandfather understood: nothing about houses. He understood: collecting. The house was his: warehouse. He would have been: horrified to see it opened up."

"Then it's good he's: not here."

"He's: here," Amma said. Quietly. "He's in every: wall."

*

While the house was being: dismantled, I was at the bookshop, and the bookshop was: busy, because the news of the trunk had: travelled.

Doiwala's information network operated at a speed that made the internet look: quaint. By Thursday — one week after we'd opened the trunk — the entire town knew: the story. Surbhi Rawat had found a trunk. In the trunk were costumes. The costumes belonged to a dancer. The dancer had known Colonel Rawat. The dancer had: disappeared. And Surbhi was: investigating.

The customers came. Not for books — for: information. For the specific pleasure of being: involved in a story that was happening in: real time, in their: town, to people they: knew.

"Is it true she was a: spy?" asked Renu, the pharmacist's wife, who bought romances and medical thrillers in: equal measure.

"She was a: performer."

"A spy-performer? Like in the films? Like that — what was it — like Mata Hari?"

"Not: Mata Hari. She was a dancer who performed during the freedom movement."

"Freedom fighter! Even: better. My mother-in-law's uncle was a freedom fighter. He was in jail for: three days. He tells the story like it was three: years."

Renu bought two books and left with: enough information to fuel the network for another: day.

Professor Qureshi visited. He had been: working on the letters — all seven, translated fully now, the Urdu rendered into Hindi and English with the: care of a man who understood that translation was not: substitution but: recreation.

"The letters tell: a story," he said, sitting at the counter with a chai that was: correctly made (by me, not Meri). "A love story, but also: a political story. Riyaz writes about the: shows. About the songs Farida sang. He mentions specific songs — 'Vande Mataram' arrangements, bhajans that were: coded, the specific musical resistance that performers used during the: movement."

"Coded: bhajans?"

"The British banned: nationalist songs. So the performers: adapted. They sang devotional songs — Ram bhajans, Krishna bhajans — with: lyrics that were technically: religious but that the audience understood as: political. 'When will the darkness lift' meant: when will the British leave. 'The dawn is coming' meant: freedom is near. The performers were: brilliant. They used the British's own ignorance of Indian culture against: them."

"And Farida: sang these?"

"Farida: created them. According to Riyaz's letters, she composed several of the coded songs. She was: not just a performer. She was: a composer. An: architect of resistance."

The word — architect — sat in the bookshop the way the trunk had: sat, heavy with: meaning, waiting to be: opened.

"Professor sahab," I said. "The seventh letter. The one that says 'destroy everything.' Why would someone tell Farida to destroy evidence of her: work? Her: compositions?"

"Because the work was: dangerous. If the British found: evidence that Farida was composing seditious material — not just performing it, but: creating it — the punishment would have been: severe. Imprisonment. Deportation. Perhaps: worse. The seventh letter is not a love letter. It's a: warning. Riyaz was trying to: protect her. By erasing: the evidence."

"But she: kept the evidence."

"She kept: everything. The costumes. The letters. The ghungroos. She kept the: proof of her existence. Which means—"

"Which means she: wanted to be found."

The Professor smiled. The smile of a scholar whose student had: arrived at the correct answer.

"She wanted to be: found," he agreed. "By someone. Eventually. And now — eighty years later — she: has been."