Chapter 10: The RTI Response

The RTI response arrived on day twenty-seven. Three days early, which was: unprecedented in the history of Indian bureaucracy and which Meri attributed to "the universe rewarding optimism" and which I attributed to: Dr. Nasreen Fatima pulling strings, because Dr. Fatima was the kind of woman who understood that some stories deserved to be: told, and that the machinery of government could be: nudged when the cause was: sufficient.

The envelope was: thick. Government brown. The kind of envelope that contained either: very good news or: very bad news, and that you opened with the: specific dread of a person who had asked the government a question and was about to receive: an answer.

I opened it at the bookshop counter. Amma was there. Meri was there. The retired colonel — a man named Bhandari who came to the bookshop every afternoon to read the Tribune and who had, over the course of the investigation, become: invested in the Farida mystery with the quiet intensity of a man who had spent his career in the army and who understood that: intelligence operations, even eighty-year-old ones, were: fascinating — the retired colonel was: there.

The response was: partial. The government had released: some of Inspector Wilkins' file. Not all — certain sections were redacted, the black bars of: classification covering names and operational details that the government had decided were: still sensitive. But: enough. Enough to understand what had happened on the stage of the Odeon Theatre on August 12th, 1942.

INSPECTOR G.R. WILKINS — REPORT ON SEDITIOUS ENTERTAINMENT

FILE 44/D/1942

Dated: 15 August 1942

On the evening of 12 August 1942, I attended a variety performance at the Odeon Theatre, Rajpur Road, Dehradun, as part of ongoing surveillance of entertainment venues under Circular No. 117/42 (Seditious Activities — Public Entertainment).

The performer, one Farida Khatoon (licence no. DM/ENT/1942/37), presented a programme consisting of dance and song. The first three items were of a devotional nature and raised no concern. The fourth item, however, was a dance-song described in the programme as "Bhajan — Andhere Mein Roshni" (Light in the Darkness).

The song, while ostensibly a devotional bhajan addressed to Lord Krishna, contained lyrics of a clearly seditious nature. The refrain — "When will the oppressor's shadow lift / When will the stolen lamp return" — was understood by the audience as a reference to British rule. The audience response was immediate and enthusiastic, with several audience members rising to their feet and shouting slogans including "Inquilab Zindabad" and "Bharat Mata Ki Jai."

The performance was disrupted by Military Police at approximately 10:15 PM. The performer was detained and questioned. She denied any seditious intent, claiming the song was "a traditional bhajan with no political meaning." She was released with a formal warning. Her performance licence was noted for review.

RECOMMENDATION: Continued surveillance of the subject. Possible revocation of entertainment licence. Subject may have connections to [REDACTED] network operating in the Dehradun-Mussoorie area.

I read it twice. Three times. The words: sinking in the way water sank into dry earth — slowly, completely, becoming: part of the ground.

"Andhere Mein Roshni," I said. "Light in the Darkness."

"The song she: composed," Meri said.

"The song she: performed. On the night the Quit India movement began. In a theatre in Dehradun. While a young sepoy from the Garhwal Rifles sat in the third row and: listened."

Amma was: crying. Not the dramatic crying of a Bollywood film — the: quiet crying of a seventy-year-old woman discovering that her husband, the Colonel, the man of brass lamps and collected things, had been: present at a moment of history. Had sat in the: dark of a theatre and heard a woman sing: "When will the oppressor's shadow lift." Had been: moved enough to stay. To be: warned. To carry the evidence in a trunk in his attic for: sixty years.

"He never told me: this," Amma said.

"He told you she was: a friend."

"A friend. A: friend." The word was: inadequate now. The way "friendship" was inadequate for what Grandfather had felt for Farida — the admiration, the: loyalty, the: protection that had lasted decades beyond her: disappearance.

"The redacted section," Meri said, pointing. "The 'network' she was connected to. That's the: key. That's why the file is: classified. Because whoever was in that network became: someone after Independence."

"We need the: unredacted version."

"That requires: an appeal. Under the RTI Act. And the appeal goes to: the First Appellate Authority, who has thirty more days to: respond."

"Another: thirty days."

"Or—" Meri looked at her laptop. The look of a woman who was: already somewhere else, already three steps ahead. "Or we go to: Bombay. To Grant Road. To Lamington Road. We follow Farida's trail. Not through: files. Through: the city."

"Bombay is: far."

"Bombay is: a flight. Two hours. Maa, the archives are giving us: pieces. Wilkins' report is a: piece. The letters are: pieces. Bilqis Begum's story is a: piece. But the whole picture is in: Bombay. That's where she went. That's where she: vanished. If we're going to find her, we have to go: where she went."

I looked at Amma. Amma looked at: the photograph. The photograph of Farida Khatoon, smiling on a stage in Dehradun, wearing the red choli, the woman who had sung "When will the stolen lamp return" and had: meant it.

"Book the: flights," Amma said.