(Amrita calls for Ansuya and the latter enters. Amrita tells her she is going out; she and Rai Saheb leave. Ansuya is left looking out of the French windows.)
And that girl there is Ansuya, Amrita’s daughter. She was not born to lead a staid, conventional life. Lonely, withdrawn, but with an almost fierce vitality, she wants to live fully and passionately.
Finally, there is her uncle, Amrita’s brother, Karan Chand. (Looks around on stage, sees no other actor. Turns to audience with a sheepish smile)
Me. I incurred my father’s wrath by becoming a teacher and taught for a while at the University. But the crisis in our family obliged me to give up my job and, after an hopeless attempt to run the mills, I gave up … well, just gave up, to live with my sister and with Ansuya, my niece … Ansuya, who was the centre of my … but we must get on with the story.
(Lights fade out on the two areas of Chitra – Deepak and Ansuya.)
I must take you back now to (looks at newspaper on the table.) the twenty-fourth of October, 1962, just before Diwali. The Chinese have invaded India and every day the papers are full of sad, humiliating news of Indian defeats. It is breaking Nehru’s heart. The country hasn’t yet realized that it is dangerous to put dreamers in power. It saddens me, as it does many of us, because we once believed in the same, hopeless dreams.
This is the living room of our home, 9 Jakhoo Hill. Tatty? Well, it is: it reflects our condition, but you can see that it was once an elegant room, like the house itself. The house was about a way of life; the way we were.
It is nearly midnight. So, let’s start the story.
(Full lights on the drawing room. The furniture, drapes and upholstery—all conspire to convey the impression that the occupants have seen better times. There is a large, old-fashioned radio prominently placed on stage left.
It has been a damp October, but the fire at the back makes the room appear cosy. Mamu is sitting near the fireplace on an easy chair, next to a standing lamp. He has a shawl around his shoulders and is engrossed in the final moves of a chess game. He is forty-eight years old.
There is another chair directly opposite him, which is empty. It is late, almost midnight. The bells of Jakhoo Temple can be heard in the distance.
Ansuya enters with a cup of tea. She is twenty-six, intelligent but impulsive. She wears a comfortable salwar-kameez.)
ANSUYA: Here is some tea, Mamu. It will warm you.
MAMU: (Without looking up.) Knight to queen six. It’s a mate. I’m afraid
… um … you can’t move anywhere. (Taking the tea.)
ANSUYA: But you always win. (She goes up to him affectionately, puts her arm around his neck. She sneezes.)
Mamu, you must do something about your cat. It drank the milk again today. I had to make tea with powdered milk.
MAMU: (Drinking the tea.) It tastes all right.
ANSUYA: But we can’t have the cat drink our milk every day.
MAMU: It’s late, and your mother still hasn’t come back.
ANSUYA: Is that surprising? Dinner rarely gets to the table before eleven at the Rai Saheb’s, even on a normal day. (Frowning.)
Besides, Amma will be desperately trying to recapture her past.
MAMU: The past always looks better because it isn’t here. Why didn’t you … er … go to the party?
ANSUYA: (Wearily.) You know the types at Rai Saheb’s parties—you can always predict what they are going to say. There’s a war on, but they’ll be laughing drinking and talking about everything else except what matters. Simla contains two types of people—those who are bored and those who are bores.
MAMU: (Laughs.) But you never go out, Ansu.
ANSUYA: I hate parties, Mamu. I feel as if I’m on display like a sari at Leela Ram’s shop. I can tell by their looks. (And she mimicks.)
‘Such a nice girl, Ansuya Malik—I wonder why she hasn’t got married?’ It is humiliating, Mamu.
MAMU: (Hesitantly.) Shall we … um … have another game?
ANSUYA: (Petulantly.) No, no. I’m tired of playing.
MAMU: (Hurt.) With me?
ANSUYA: Look at us. It’s the night before Diwali and here we are, killing time, playing chess. Of course, there’s no question of celebrating this year, but it’s not just the war. Mamu, do you remember the excitement at Diwali when Papa was alive? The servants bumping into each other, beating carpets, scrubbing the floors, cleaning the drapes—everyone was in a hurry and the house was full of confusion. There’d be new clothes for everyone. And comings and goings and puja. I used to be so excited. I could hardly sleep. What has happened to us, Mamu?
MAMU: Well, for one thing, we don’t have the money.
ANSUYA: And why don’t we have the money?
MAMU: You’re not going to start on your mother again.
ANSUYA: Yesterday, she gave Bhola a thousand rupees to get married, when the others haven’t been paid for months.
MAMU: She is generous, Ansu.
ANSUYA: But someone has to run the house. (Suddenly her eyes are filled with tears.)
And now, even this house will have to be sold.
MAMU: Shh!
ANSUYA: (Getting angry.) Who are we trying to fool!
MAMU: Shh! The walls have ears.
ANSUYA: Thank God! Amma was in the bath this morning when the broker came.
MAMU: (Afraid.) What happened?
ANSUYA: I had to turn him away.
MAMU: Oh no!
ANSUYA: Yes, everyone knows.
MAMU: How humiliating!
ANSUYA: (In tears.) Everyone knows that the house is going to be sold, except the owners.
MAMU: (Consoling her.) Now, now, Ansu, don’t be upset.
ANSUYA: That is Simla for you! The whole town knows everything in twenty-four hours if it is raining, and in twelve
