Waiting for the Monsoon (14 page)

The boy, who's slightly older and taller than Madan, looks up. “What do you want?”

Madan stands motionless.

“Go away.” The boy takes another swallow. “Get out of here, I said!”

He doesn't move. “Have you ever been kicked?” The boy looks at the small figure standing in front of him. There's blood all over his shirt. He has a wound beneath his chin; it's covered by a bandage where something glitters. He isn't wearing pants and his feet are bare. His lips are dry and there is fear in his dark eyes.

“I suppose you want a swallow.”

Madan nods.

“And then you can piss off.” The boy gives him the bottle and Madan begins to guzzle it down. “Hey, you're not supposed to finish it.”

Madan goes on drinking.

“Did you hear me?” The boy snatches the bottle from his hands. “Are you deaf?”

Tearfully Madan stares at the half-empty bottle in the boy's hand. He is already walking away.

When the boy looks over his shoulder, he sees that Madan is following him.

“Scram,” he says, and again he makes a dismissive gesture with his hands to reinforce his words.

Briefly Madan stands still, but when the boy walks on, he continues to follow him. The boy crosses the street and so does Madan. He tries to ignore the wound and the pain. His little legs avoid the potholes in the street, he jumps over a sewer pipe in a narrow alley, and he has to climb over a wall. He feels that the wound in his throat is bleeding again.

The boy stops at the entrance to a park. Slowly Madan walks in his direction. “Are you still thirsty?” the boy asks.

Madan nods. The boy gives him the bottle and he pants as he drinks.

“Hey, leave some for me.”

Madan hands him the bottle.

The boy finishes what is left and asks, “What's your name?”

Madan doesn't answer.

“If you want to be friends, then you have to tell me your name.”

Madan starts to cough, bringing forth only a few hoarse sounds. He points to the bleeding wound under his chin. The boy stares at him in amazement. Madan tries again, but cannot produce anything intelligible, only groans.

“Can't you talk?”

Tears appear in his eyes.

“Are you going to start bawling?”

Madan shakes his head.

“Go ahead and cry, if you want. You're still a little kid.”

Madan gives the boy an angry look, shakes his head, and holds up six fingers.

“You're six.”

Madan gives him a proud look and nods.

“And I'm eight.” The boy sits down on the ground, under a large tree, and motions to his newfound friend to come and sit next to him. Together the two of them watch some boys who are playing cricket nearby.

“My name is Samar, and I'm going to call you Mukka.” He looks at Madan. “Is that okay?”

CHARLOTTE EMPTIED THE
bag with the length of silk onto the coffee table. The fabric, which once, long ago, had been destined to become a ball gown, disintegrated at the slightest touch. Peter had finally promised to go dancing with her. But every time they were invited to a dance, he found a compelling reason not to attend and begged off at the last minute — there was an emergency at the hospital, a terminal patient unexpectedly began to hemorrhage, he had to go to Bombay on short notice, or he himself was suddenly struck down by a severe headache and stomach problems. Once she was so angry that she called a taxi and went by herself, but the gossip that made the rounds later was so nasty and malicious that from then on she accepted his excuses and stayed home.

She gathered up the scraps and threads and stuffed them into the bag. As the remains of a fantasy faded away, she resolved that, no matter what, she would attend the festivities attired in a beautiful gown.

Suddenly she felt the presence of someone on the other side of the door. She was certain of it. Someone wanted to enter. She hadn't called Hema, and he knew that he was not allowed to disturb her unless she summoned him. She jerked open the door.

There stood the tailor, head slightly bowed, his hand poised to knock. He bowed his head even lower, making apologetic gestures with his hands.

“Why are you eavesdropping at my door?”

I wasn't eavesdropping
, he wanted to say.

“I do not wish to be spied upon, and certainly not by someone who is not permitted to enter this house,” she spat out.

Madan made a gesture with his right hand, as if he was turning the wheel on his sewing machine.

Charlotte was furious. She pointed to the door every bit as icily and implacably as her father.

You have to help me: my sewing machine is gone
. He went on gesturing with his hand, and there was panic in his eyes.
Listen to me! Listen!

Charlotte turned and pulled the bell cord. She would ask Hema to send the man away. It had been a bad idea from the beginning, and now that he refused to leave the salon, she could not stand his presence on the premises one more minute. If the women were determined to have new dresses, then they would simply have to find a workplace themselves. She didn't even have enough money for a new piece of fabric, let alone a ball gown. What was taking Hema so long?

The tailor was still standing on the threshold, desperately making turning motions with his hand.

“Is there something wrong with your sewing machine?”

Madan nodded violently, his hair flying in all directions.

“Is it broken?”

He threw his hands into the air, to make it clear to her that the machine had disappeared.

“Is it gone?” she asked in surprise.

He nodded and showed her his empty hands.

“And you don't know where it is? It's no longer in your room next to the kitchen?” No one except Hema ever entered the servants' quarters. She never went there herself: that would have been unseemly. “Have you looked everywhere?”

Madan had looked everywhere. He had walked into the room and seen immediately that his machine had disappeared. The table and the ironing board were still there, but his scissors, his chalk, the bottle of lubricant, and his Singer sewing machine had disappeared. His heart had started to pound furiously. Never before had anyone moved his most precious possession. He took exceptionally good care of his machine, as if it were his child. He had searched every room in the servants' quarters, even that of the old man who functioned as a factotum. He had raced outside in the hope that he would find him in the garden. But then he noticed that the back door of the big house was open. That's where the man was! Madan entered the big house, knowing that he was not permitted to simply walk in. That had been made quite clear to him. But the theft of his sewing machine was more important. The woman must realize that. That morning, while he was taking the ladies' measurements, he had heard that her name was Charlotte Bridgwater, that she seldom went to parties and no longer gave any, that she never received guests, and that she was an excellent pianist but had sold her grand piano.

Charlotte gave the cord another yank. It irritated her that Hema had not yet arrived. At this hour he'd normally be in the kitchen, preparing lunch. “Did you ask the butler?”

Panic-stricken, Madan shrugged his shoulders. His face was distraught as he tried to tell her that both his sewing machine and the man had disappeared.

Charlotte walked over to the window, drew the curtain aside, and pushed open the shutter. The excruciating heat and the blinding sun hit her square in the face. With one hand half shielding her eyes, she peered outside. She expected to see Hema trotting toward the house, but she saw only a bare expanse of dry grass and the odd crow pecking at the ground. That was all. Then she heard the sound of stumbling in the hall and, behind Madan, appeared the face of Hema.

“I called three times!”

“I was upstairs, memsahib.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, ma'am, everything okay.”

“Do you know where the
darzi
's sewing machine is?”

“Yes, ma'am, in the
mali
's shed.”

“In the
mali
's shed? Why?”

“Ma'am, the shed is better for work.”

“Are you out of your mind? The shed is hot and dirty! There are holes in the roof, and snakes.”

“The
mali
says that it's a fine house.”

“The
mali
is dead. I want you to put the sewing machine back. Now!”

Hema bowed humbly. “Of course, memsahib, of course.”

Charlotte watched as the two men walked across the grass in the direction of the shed. Hema had never done anything without asking. Was he failing, too? She closed the shutters. It would be too hot to sit in the salon for the rest of the day.

THE BUTLER IS
waiting at the station with five coolies. She's glad her father hasn't come to fetch her. She adjusts the black veil so that it covers more of her face, hoping that no one can see her eyes. Two bearers slip into her compartment, carry the dozens of suitcases outside, and then load them onto the waiting handcart. Charlotte doesn't look at them. She is interested only in the coffin that is being unloaded from the last wagon. A simple wooden casket containing Peter's body. The men tie cloths over their noses and mouths before loading the coffin onto the cart. Father told her she was hysterical, that it wasn't done, but Charlotte insisted that her husband be buried next to her mother.

She has visited her mother's grave only once before — in the second year of her marriage, during her first visit to her parental home. She walked down the hill to St. Stephen's Chapel. The cemetery was behind the church. She was alone and had no idea where the grave was. She searched and searched among the sagging tombstones and overgrown shrubs. Just as she was about to give up, she saw a stone with the inscription:

M
ATHILDA
B
RECKENRIDGE
B
RIDGWATER
1915–1938

She had never known exactly how old her mother was when she died. She never asked. When she saw the dates on the tombstone, she realized that she was exactly the same age as her mother was when she died. The tears welled up out of nowhere. She threw herself on the stone, encircling it with her arms, shedding all the tears she had been longing to shed, tears for the years of loneliness at school, the longing for a mother, the punishments administered by her father while she was still a child, the brother who was sent to a boarding school in a different city and whom she was never allowed to see, the war experiences that Peter refused to talk about, her childlessness . . . She could not stop the tears: they drenched the tombstone.

The cart carrying the casket is ahead of them. The butler tells the men to walk more slowly and with more dignity. Even at a distance of five metres she smells the penetrating odour of decomposition. Peter's scent disappeared long before he died. They walk up the hill leading to the big house. She is unaware of the faces at the windows of the houses as they pass.

Dressed in black, with her face hidden, she is someone else. Ever since the night she was awakened by the horrible screams.

He was foaming at the mouth and his eyes were wide open. She tried to calm him by saying his name softly. He didn't seem to see or hear her. She had no desire to see what he was seeing, for fear of triggering the same nightmares that plagued him. His screams were growing louder and he fought off her caresses. His heartbreaking sobs were without tears. Again and again she spoke his name, as a kind of calming mantra, but she could no longer reach him. He drifted down into the merciless deeps, dragged down by sharp claws that would not let loose and had already torn him apart. From far away, there arose an imploring cry for help. She begged him to stay, not to leave her, told him that she loved him. That she would never desert him. And she was lying when she said that she wasn't afraid. His screams were louder now and definitive. The cries filled the room, the house, the street, her heart. Then everything was still.

He was gone, along with her dream of having children and finding happiness together.

THE
MALI
IS
standing at the door with a bunch of flowers in his hand. He doesn't dare look directly at her face. He had never looked directly at her. He knows that she is sad, and that she is trying not to cry. They're tiny yellow flowers.

The garden is full of flowers: there's a border all along the driveway, around the house, in front of the veranda, and alongside the terraces. But Charlotte has never seen those tiny yellow flowers before. She accepts the bouquet and the
mali
shuffles back to the Lloyds, which stands in the middle of the lawn, humming softly. She goes into the house. She knows now that she will never leave.

Dear Donald,

This is a letter with very sad news. I don't know exactly how to tell you . . . sometimes I can't even believe it myself . . . but Peter is dead. He'd been ill for some time. I didn't tell you because I thought that it would pass. Even the doctors didn't know what it was. His body was healthy, they kept saying, but it was in his head. It was the war. I don't know what happened during the war, but it must have been something horrible. With Father, you never really notice that he fought in the war. Sometimes I think he wasn't even at the front, that he just told us he was, but then I realize that I'm imagining things. They didn't give him a medal for nothing. I'm in Rampur now. I didn't want to stay in Delhi or Bombay. I thought it was right to bury Peter next to Mother. Although I sometimes wonder whether it was such a good idea. Father was quite angry when I told him, but I didn't pay any attention to him. Peter was my husband. It's very sad that we didn't have children. Sometimes I feel so lonely. It would be wonderful if you could finally come to India, before you start university. I can tell from the photo that you've turned into a fine young man. It's strange to think that we are sister and brother, but I know that it's true. And I feel it in my heart. It's good for me to be with Father for a while. Will you promise me that you'll come? I can pay for your passage. I have enough money, now that I've sold our house in Delhi. So I'll sign off now, my dear brother. I hope to hear from you soon.