Waiting for the Monsoon (11 page)

IF HE HAD
known that his name was Madan and that his parents would not have parted with him for the world, he would never have been cycling to Rampur with a sewing machine on the back of his bike. His tires were almost flat and the bicycle pump he had borrowed and forgotten to return was broken. The road to Rampur was full of potholes. It was used by hundreds of trucks, which sent clouds of diesel exhaust fumes billowing into the air, as well as by ownerless cows that chose to relax and chew their cud on the cracked asphalt, rickshaws carrying women who were busily fanning themselves as they headed for the market, taxis whose drivers couldn't advance a single metre without honking their horns, men pushing handcarts piled so high that they couldn't see the road in front of them, cavorting children, buses determined to pass every vehicle ahead of them, old people sauntering in the direction of the temple to say a prayer, mopeds so heavily laden with buckets and tubs that the drivers were invisible, goats — as well as chickens, crows, and rats — searching for something tasty in the omnipresent street litter, open car windows and drivers seeking a breath of fresh air. And cyclists like Madan, who had piled all their earthly possessions on the back of a bike in the hope that they could earn more in the next town. The car wheels often grazed the colourful wares of the street vendors. It was a question of give and take. The road belonged to everyone.

Calmly, Madan pedalled on. A cousin of the family for whom he'd made bridal outfits the previous week had heard from his wife, who had heard from her brother, a doctor who specialized in nail problems, that in Rampur a
darzi
had suddenly died and there was an important party coming up. An important party meant new clothes, and new clothes meant work and food.

Madan loved the tailor's trade as if it were a woman. A length of cloth sliding through his fingers excited him: the nap of the velvet, the sheen of raw silk, the texture of diamond cloth.

A lorry sprayed pitch-black smoke in his face: bitter, half-burned diesel oil. His eyes, nose, and throat smarted. Madan tried not to inhale until the lorry had passed him, but an ambling cow brought traffic to a standstill. The driver leaned on his horn as the cow bent her head to the ground and snuffled around in a mound of rubbish. Madan got off his bike, trying to manoeuvre it backwards, together with its awkward, top-heavy load. It was not easy, since the surface of the road was full of ruts, which became deeper each year after the monsoon and were never repaired.

A man with the physique of a boxer was standing by the side of the road, seemingly unaffected by the clouds of exhaust fumes. He looked in the direction of Madan, who was unable to back up. “Need some help?” he asked after a while.

Madan nodded, relieved. Hands the size of coal scuttles picked up the bicycle and lifted it over the cracks and fissures, manoeuvring between two rickshaws and a honking taxi, and put it down on the cement stoop alongside the road. Madan smiled his gratitude to the stranger and took back his bicycle. He couldn't lean it against a wall, and if he let go of the handlebars, it would fall over backwards, so Madan simply nodded again to the man and walked on, pushing his vehicle past the small shops, each with its own profusion of articles displayed out front. He had to keep his hands on the handlebars, so there was no need to restrain his lightning fingers when he passed a crate full of shiny apples.

THERE WAS ONLY
one extra dress in her suitcase, in addition to her school uniform. It was pink, with stripes, and that was the dress she was married in. Father said it was nonsense to buy a wedding dress, and Peter wore his uniform. Few words were spoken, and it was all over before she knew it. She did not remember the details of the train trip, alongside the quiet captain whom she could now call her husband. The journey ended at a small station where a luxury car was waiting for them. In silence, the chauffeur has taken them to a palace that is even larger than her former school, the renowned Queen Victoria College.

She is led into the
zenana
, where women in nightgowns and colourful saris are lounging or lying on beds. Every movement produces a tinkling sound that emanates from the bracelets on the women's wrists and ankles. There are single and double beds, three-quarter beds, children's beds, and even two four-poster beds, as well as sofas for reading. Everywhere she looks, Charlotte sees women, girls, and young children. There is no discernible order or system. Peter has remained behind with the maharaja; they greeted each other like old friends. Charlotte, who is accustomed to a dining hall with long wooden tables, where girls in grey school uniforms speak diffidently and at a whisper, stares in amazement at the chaos that prevails in the women's quarters. The women are lounging on couches and beds covered in costly fabrics; some are doing each other's hair or makeup. In one corner three girls are reading a book together, and a grey-haired old lady is sound asleep in a bed in the middle of the immense room while a female servant fans her with a fan made of peacock feathers.

A girl, only a bit younger than Charlotte herself, puts out her hand and says, “My name is Chutki.”

“My name is Charlotte.” She shakes the girl's hand.

Several women join them. The news that Peter Harris has married a young Englishwoman in Bombay came as a shock to everyone except the maharaja, who merely nodded, mumbling that his astrologer was the best.

“Are you really and truly married to Dr. Harris?” says a heavily pregnant woman in perfect English. She proves to be the wife of the maharaja.

“Yes,” says Charlotte softly. She can scarcely believe it herself.

This produces an animated hum of voices throughout the room. The women crowd around her. One woman picks up her hand and points to her finger — no ring.

“We haven't had time,” says Charlotte.

There is a hiss of disapproval. A man who cannot buy jewellery for his wife is not a man.

“Doctor Harris is a good man,” says a woman with a large nose-piercing.

“He's a
handsome
man,” says a girl with full, red lips.

“He thinks too much,” opines a woman with dark-ringed eyes.

“We thought he would never get married,” contributes an older woman wearing a red sari.

“Was it a big party?” someone asks in a low voice.

“We didn't know anything about it,” another woman says, crestfallen.

“We would all have come,” says the woman with the nose-piercing, and others echo her words. The element of reproach is unmistakable: Harris sahib got married and they were not invited!

A cry sounds. The women turn around and look at the heavily pregnant maharani. Wide-eyed, with her hands on her stomach, she is standing in the middle of an ever-­widening puddle. The other women rush over to her. They are all talking at once, in a language Charlotte has never heard before. The moaning wife of the maharaja is led away. Female servants are summoned, the pool of liquid on the floor is carefully mopped up, and flower petals and drops of essential oil are strewn on the spot, while two women go over to the wall altar by the door and break into song and the woman with the nose-piercing pulls her sari over her head and crawls onto a bed. Chutki is the only person still standing next to Charlotte. She takes her hand and leads her away.

THEY WALK THROUGH
corridors and large rooms. Charlotte has never seen such a gigantic building. Each room is more luxuriously furnished than the previous one. Everywhere deathly quiet servants dart off when they pass by. Charlotte would have liked to stop and watch, but the girl walks on. They go up a flight of stairs that takes them to another corridor. Upstairs there are all sorts of rooms and halls with costly furniture and wall decorations. They stop in front of a large wooden door and then enter the room without knocking.

Along the walls there are shelves filled with costly fabrics in magnificent colours. A man is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room; in front of him is a hand sewing machine. The man is turning the wheel and sewing. Chutki says something to him and points to Charlotte.

He gets up, walks over to where Charlotte stands, bows his head, and greets her with his hands in front of his chest: “
Namasté
.”

Charlotte returns his greeting. He takes the tape measure hanging around his neck and stands behind her. He takes her measurements without touching her, but with great precision.

“What is your favourite colour?” asks Chutki.

In the past few years Charlotte had scarcely worn anything but her school uniform, which — like everything in England — was dark and dreary. Now she is overwhelmed by the brilliance of the fabrics around her: blue, purple, green, yellow, red, pink, and orange in all shades. There are both solid and patterned fabrics. Some with embroidery, miniscule beads, or sequins. She looks around her at the shelves filled with dazzling fabrics. So many piles, so many colours, so many shades . . . Would Peter prefer pink? Or blue? He said he liked her blue hat. And what colour would she look best in? At school no one ever talked about colours. Her head starts to spin — until she sees a roll of pale green silk under a pile on the topmost shelf. It looks just like the evening dress her mother once wore, floor-length with a low-cut neckline. Charlotte points to the top shelf. The
darzi
follows her gaze and his stick goes to the pile. Charlotte nods enthusiastically when the tip of the stick reaches the green fabric. The man takes a ladder and climbs to the top. He pulls the roll out from under the pile and drapes it over his arm. The long, supple length of fabric reaches to the floor. Charlotte lets the material glide through her fingers.

“Do you like this one?” Chutki asks.

“Is it really all right?”

“Gaurav makes all our clothes. Just choose something. Father would do anything for Doctor Harris.”

“Why?” Charlotte asks softly, and again she realizes how little she knows about her captain.

“Doctor Harris is a good doctor, he knows everything about throats. We were always in pain and now we have no more pain, and Papa can even sing again, but only when I dance.”

“Did he operate on both of you?”

Chutki nods enthusiastically. “Here in the palace. Papa didn't want to go to a hospital, and Papa always does everything just the way he wants. Now he wants you to have an evening dress.”

At the top of the ladder the
darzi
waits patiently, with the long, pale green length of silk over his arm.

“Is this the one you want?” Chutki asks.

“Yes,” says Charlotte with conviction. She wants to look just as beautiful as her mother.

THE WOMEN'S QUARTERS
are empty. Only the old woman in the bed in the middle of the room is still there, but she's asleep. Her
punkah-wallah
is also dozing off. Charlotte walks over to the table next to the window and pours herself a glass of water from an insulated flask. Peter told her that he had something important to discuss with the maharaja, but she has no idea how long their discussions will last. The water is delightfully cool and quenches her thirst. Outside she sees that a car has just arrived. Two servants hurry out to the car carrying parasols. A man with a case gets out. He goes into the palace and everything is quiet again. On the vast lawn in front of the palace a crow pecks listlessly in the grass, and in the room a fly drones. Charlotte walks over to the open door on the other side of the room and peers into the narrow corridor. She doesn't know where Chutki has gone. Some distance away she hears noises and women's voices. She walks into the corridor, her footsteps muffled by the high-piled carpeting. She hears a cry. Charlotte starts and doesn't know if she should turn around and go back or keep on walking. At the end of the corridor a woman wearing a nurse's cap and a white apron appears, carrying a large pan of sloshing water. She disappears into another room. The cries mingle with women's voices: it sounds as though they're cheering someone on. Charlotte feels like an intruder, and yet she cannot withstand the temptation to get closer to the maharani in labour. The cries and groans increase in volume, as do the encouragements. Then it is still.

She peers into the room. A nurse is holding up a baby covered in blood. Her eyes are turned away from the newborn, but when she catches sight of the pale English girl in her pink striped dress, she gives a start.

Charlotte sees the pitiful creature she's holding in her hands: a wizened little face with closed eyes, two wet legs with tiny feet, a piece of the umbilical cord and, underneath, the scrotum.

The nurse lets out a scream and ducks behind a folding screen.

Another woman glares at Charlotte and roars, “You're not allowed here! Go back to the big room!” She gestures toward the end of the corridor.

“I'm sorry, I . . .” Charlotte stammers and turns around.

“Is she gone?” groans the maharani, still covered in blood.

“Yes,” says the woman who sent Charlotte away.

“What was she doing here?” she sobs. “Why didn't someone stop her?”

“Chutki was supposed to stay with her, but she disappeared.”

“Did she see it?” the mother asks, in between sobs.

The woman with the nurse's cap bows her head contritely. The mother begins to shriek again, and covers her face with her hands. The other women come running with wet cloths and water, and light incense sticks around the bed, murmuring that they will do extra
pudja
.

“Why my child?” the mother sobs. “Why?”

The nurse casts a worried glance at the others and motions them to leave. “Do you want to see it?”

The maharani moans. “If you all close your eyes.”

From behind the screen the nurse again produces the baby, provisionally swaddled, without looking at him. The other women also avert their eyes.