Waiting for the Monsoon (18 page)

Ram Khan watches him in amazement. He had expected resistance, and even thought he might have to give the boy a whack first. “And don't come out until I tell you to,” he repeats. Then he closes the door.

Madan immediately pushes the rickety door open again. Before Ram Khan has a chance to explode in anger, he points to the small pan that is still standing on the floor behind the stool.

“Okay, go stuff yourself.”

Madan grabs the pan and takes it with him into the crate. Then he shuts the door.

It feels good inside the small, dark space. Vague noises from outside penetrate the walls. He holds the pan between his knees. He can't see what he's eating: the sparse light that comes through the crack in the door isn't enough to distinguish anything. Not that that bothers him. He eats — or rather devours — the entire contents of the pan. It's gone all too quickly. He could polish off another pan, but he knows he'll have to wait until the boss gives him some more. He licks the pan clean. Then he pulls up his knees, puts the pan between his feet, and waits. He doesn't know exactly what he's waiting for, but he's sure the man would be angry if he opened the door. Madan doesn't even want to leave the crate. He's happy to be sitting where it's safe and no one can see him. He hears and feels the sewing machine in action. The plank on which the tiny store rests sways gently to the rhythm of the pedals. He hears someone greet his boss. Peering through the tiny crack, he sees a pair of feet in worn-out sandals. The voices are discussing the cricket game that's due to start that morning in Madras.

Everything has changed so quickly. Not long ago he awakened in the arms of the white woman, who kissed him. He had been in pain and she smiled at him and cuddled him. She put the chain around his neck, the chain that was made of real gold, according to Samar, and then called out that he was bleeding. She smelled like jasmine. His first thought was that he was in a garden full of flowers. The pain wasn't actually part of that. He remembers his sister, in her blue coat, and he still cannot understand why she hadn't stayed with him. Why did she go away? The wound under his chin has started to bleed again. He presses his hand against his neck and listens to the monotone voice of his boss. Slowly he falls asleep.

“Hey,
mukka
!” The door is yanked open and the boss pulls him out of the crate. “I don't pay you to sleep all day!” He thrusts a broom into his hands and says, “Sweep!”

Madan, still in the middle of a dream, squeezes his eyes shut against the sunlight. “My whole store,” Ram Khan says, and he grabs his stool and disappears around the corner.

“I've taken him on,” Ram Khan says to the other card players, with something like pride in his voice.

“Who?” grunted the man who'd warned him never to give a rat sugar, and who was now trying to keep his mind on the game.

“That kid.”

“Oh.”

“He's got good eyes and skinny fingers.”

“Gotcha.” The man throws down his cards and triumphantly rakes in the pile.

Ram Khan looks at his cards in dismay.

“That'll teach you to cut the crap,” says the winner.

“Another round?” asks Ram.

When Ram Khan returns to his shop he sees Madan sitting on the edge of the plank. He cannot believe his eyes. The tiny construction wedged between the kitchenware shop and the coppersmith seems to have undergone a transformation. Not only is the floor clean, but the sewing machine gleams. The boy looks up at him, his face beaming.

“Finally got yourself a boy?” the coppersmith asks.

“Only if he works hard, otherwise he's out of here,” replies Ram Khan, hiding his surprise.

“I'll take him off your hands,” says the coppersmith.

“He belongs to me.” Ram Khan picks up the bottle that Madan has been carrying around with him for days. “Here, go fill it up.”

Madan takes his bottle over to the bucket, by then almost empty, and carefully pours the last bit of dirty water into the bottle.

When he returns, the boss lets down a kind of metal shutter in front of the store. Holding up the lower part, he says, “Make it snappy, I haven't got all day. Inside with you, and don't forget your bottle.”

Madan crawls between his boss's feet and back into the shop. Ram Khan slams down the shutter. In the crate it's pitch black. He hears the boss attach two padlocks on the outside before walking away without a word.

“
WHAT I DON'T
understand,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair as she bit into her biscuit, “is why she never remarried. She was still attractive when she became a widow.”

“She's still attractive now,” said the wife of Ajay Karapiet, adding a dash of milk to her tea.

“Yes, but not as pretty as she was when she was young. Shall I turn the air conditioner up a notch?”

“No, turn it down. I'm cold.”

The wife of Nikhil Nair got up and turned the knob next to the door. “She used to be quite desirable, when she was young.”

“I don't agree with you there. She's still quite attractive.”

“Because she's white.”

“I don't consider all white women good-looking, but there's something about Charlotte Bridgwater. . . . She has a kind of translucence, and she's just as distinguished as her father.” The wife of Ajay Karapiet took a sip of her tea, and then added some more milk.

“You shouldn't put so much milk in your tea. It's not good for you.”

“What do you mean? Drinking milk makes your teeth white. Just look at Charlotte.”

“She drinks her tea boiled with milk, just like her personnel.”

“Not the English way, like we do?” said the wife of Nikhil Nair. “How do you know?”

“I heard it from my cook,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair.

“But that means that she takes milk in her tea, too.”

“That's what I'm telling you . . . boiled! That way it doesn't have any effect on your teeth.”

“Well, if you ask me, it doesn't make any difference whether it's boiled or not. Drinking milk strengthens your teeth. That's what my father always said, and he heard it from the general. They were on the tennis committee together.”

“You don't have to drag General Bridgwater into it.”

“I wonder how things are working out with the new
darzi
in the house?”

“Isn't the man a bit strange?”

“Well, there is something about him . . .”

“What's the matter with you today? All of a sudden you think everyone is attractive and special. Are you in love or something?”

The wife of Ajay Karapiet blushed. “No, of course not.”

“That's all right then. I don't like women who hang their dirty laundry out in public.”

“I have a washing machine.”

“That's not what I mean.”

“Well, what do you mean?”

“I'm just saying that I want nothing to do with women who . . . well, you know what I mean. Like Brinda.”

The wife of Ajay Karapiet put her hands over her mouth. “I would never do anything like that.”

“No, I know you wouldn't.” She held out the plate of biscuits, but her friend shook her head. As always, she took a second one herself.

“And what if Priya Singh had a lover? She's also been a widow for fifteen years.”

“Priya Singh?” The wife of Nikhil Nair almost choked on her biscuit and began to cough. “Good gracious, she's asleep most of the time. How could she have a lover?”

“Charlotte Bridgwater was twenty-three when she lost her husband,” remarked the wife of Ajay Karapiet, in a melancholy voice.

“Yes, that's what I mean: it's strange that she never remarried.”

“There are no more Englishmen around.”

“She could marry one of us.”

“One of us?”

“Well, why not? Don't give me that anti-colonial stuff. Your great-great-grandfather was an Englishman married to a Bengalese woman, and the grandfather of Alok Nath the goldsmith was Scottish and his wife was from Orissa.”

“Yes, but they were men.”

~~~

CHARLOTTE TURNED ON
the radio to catch the news.

This morning a courier with Sheppard's Stockbrokers was held up by a man waving a knife in Nicholas Lane in London. The attacker, who was wearing a dark tweed overcoat and cap, grabbed the briefcase, and escaped on foot. The attack is the biggest street robbery ever carried out. The briefcase contained close to three hundred bearer cheques, with a total value of
292
million pounds.

Charlotte heaved a sigh. With that much money she could install air conditioning in the entire house. “A seismographic team from Japan,” the BBC newsreader continued, “has announced at a congress in São Paulo that they have developed a device which makes it possible to —”

She switched off the radio and tried to concentrate on the book she was reading. Every time she got to the end of a page, she realized that she hadn't actually been reading. She blamed the suffocating heat, which became more intense with each passing day. The wind and the grey clouds that usually announced the monsoon were nowhere to be seen, and even the crows were sluggish. Only the cuckoo and the tailor seemed oblivious to the heat. She anchored her reading glasses more firmly on her nose, slid closer to the light, and started over again at the top of the page.
If Peter were still alive
,
it suddenly occurred to her,
where would we be living now? Would we have gone to England?
Cold, grey England, where the sun never shone, suddenly seemed like a paradise on earth.
Then everything would have been different. Everything!
She shook her head, in an effort to banish such thoughts.
The ruby has to go to the jeweller's, I shouldn't keep it here in the house much longer, it has to be appraised by several different jewellers, and I have to pay Sita.
She tried to go back to her book, but her thoughts kept interfering.
The money I gave Hema this morning to pay the shopkeeper . . . wasn't it on the high side? Maybe he's trying to pocket the extra money when he does the shopping, like the cook used to do?
She turned the radio back on, in an effort to calm her thoughts before they ran away with her again. That would mean another sleepless night. Her favourite classical music programme had come on. She put her hands in her lap and listened.
I should never have sold the grand piano. How could I have been so stupid? It was the only thing that made life here bearable. Can I buy a piano with the money I get for the ruby? A really old one, maybe?
Unconsciously she began to move her fingers in her lap.

She had played that same piece so often. The lamp over her head sputtered briefly and then everything went out. The heat, which had been held at bay by the ceiling fan, descended on her like thick jelly. She found the matches she always had at the ready and lit a candle.
Is Hema back already or should I go and throw the switch myself?
The fact that the switch was in the kitchen made her hesitate, but then she remembered last month. She jumped to her feet and headed for the kitchen.

HE WAS SITTING
at the sewing machine, by the light of a candle. The gold brocade glittered between his fingers. A pale pink gown hung from the ceiling, swaying gently on its cord. Charlotte shone her flashlight into the meter closet while she looked, watching the figure bent over the table.
There's something about him. Something I've never seen before. His face, the way he stands. Or is it his scent?
She sniffed gently. Shocked at her own thoughts, she quickly bent over the fuse box. She saw at a glance that the problem had nothing to do with the fuse, and guessed that there was a power failure in the neighbourhood. That meant they would have to wait until the local government official came and threw the switch at the bottom of the hill. In this heat, it could take hours. And yet she didn't move from the spot in front of the fuse box. Her eyes returned to the man in the adjoining room. She saw how he held the length of cloth up to the candlelight and examined the intricate floral pattern woven into the material. He gave the fabric a gentle shake and spread it out on the table in front of him. Then he ran the tip of his index finger over the fabric.
What is he looking for?
she asked herself.

Suddenly he looked up.

Charlotte felt as if she'd been caught out and tried to strike a pose. “The power is out. You'll have to manage without it for a while.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He smiled and then bent over the table again.

“When the butler gets back, I'll ask him to fix supper for you.”

He looked up again. His eyes sparkled.

It must be awful not to be able to speak,
she thought.

I understand you without your saying anything
,
he thought.

“Do you like okra? There's some on hand in the kitchen.”

He nodded.

“I hope he gets back soon.”

Again he shrugged slightly.
I'm not hungry yet.

“I don't know why he's so late. He should have been back by now.”

Please don't worry. I have hours of work ahead of me. I'm not in any hurry.

“I won't keep you from your work any longer. You have a lot to do. If you need anything, let me know.”

You haven't given me the fabric for your dress yet
.

“It just occurred to me that I still have to buy the material for my dress. I'll do it this week.”

Don't buy any material. Look for something you already love.

“But apparently there's no great hurry. You have so many lengths of cloth on hand. I'll wait my turn.” She looked at the pile on top of the cabinet against the wall. “I still don't know exactly what I want.”

But I know. Give me a piece of material that's dear to your heart and I'll make something just for you. It will be unlike anything you've worn before.

“I was going to give you a piece of cloth I'd saved, but it had already disintegrated,” she said softly.

Keep looking. You'll find it.

There was a slight grating noise, then a thud, and the light came back on. Suddenly their faces were brightly illuminated. Startled, they stared at each other. Both had felt it, the sudden atmosphere of intimacy. Nervously, Charlotte ran her fingers through her hair, said a hurried goodbye, and walked quickly back to the big house. She looked up at the sky, in search of clouds —
Please rain!
— and went into the house.

He blew out the candle. By lamplight the material was less magical. He placed the final mark on the fabric and picked up the scissors.

As he cut the out the various pieces of fabric, he heard the general dogsbody come in. There was no exchange of greetings, and Hema immediately started preparations for the evening meal: blowing on the coals, filling a pan with water, putting it on the burner, chopping the garlic and coriander. The smells reached Madan in the music room, followed by the clatter of plates and bowls. And then there was silence in the kitchen. Madan knew that the manservant was walking over to the big house with the dinner tray. In a half-hour or so, when the leftovers were collected, he would be given a share.

Everyone was asleep. By the light of the stars Madan slipped out of the kitchen. Without making a sound, he took a zinc bucket from the drain board and walked over to the
mali
's shed, where he filled it with water from the outside faucet. He'd never gotten out of the habit of drinking from a bucket, but now he wasn't thirsty. Carrying the sloshing bucket, he walked around the shed. He had already seen that the tree was parched and its leaves withered. Carefully, he emptied the bucket over the foot of the apple tree. The water disappeared immediately, absorbed by the thirsty earth. He refilled the pail, and now he walked back to the house and the bedraggled borders that lined the path. With great precision he poured water onto the roots of a row of dead sticks. The next bucketful was destined for a shrub at the back of the garden, and after that he watered the overgrowth outside the servants' quarters. When the moon rose, he quietly put the bucket back on the drain board and retired to his room.

THE DECK IS
empty except for a ball that rolls back and forth, with the movements of the ship. The passengers have assembled in the dining room. The captain is holding a champagne cooler containing the cards for a game called “The Assassin.” All eyes focus expectantly on a colonel from Leeds, who is the first to draw a card. The others try to discern from the expression on his face whether or not he is to play the part of the assassin. He glances briefly at his card and then looks up, an innocent expression on his face. Giggles are heard. Charlotte hates it when the woman she has to call Aunt Ilse suddenly starts to laugh. Now she says in a loud voice that she's “terribly nervous.” Charlotte hates the game. Her parents played it once at home: The vicar hid under the cabinet in the nursery. He told her to pretend he wasn't there, and to get into bed and go to sleep. But he spent the whole time staring at Sita, until Charlotte finally climbed into bed with her. No one dared to say so, but they knew for sure that he was the murderer.

In a corner near the door stands Ganesh. There are plasters on his face. She hasn't seen him since that time they'd played the wind game, which was lots more fun than what they're doing now. When Auntie Ilse sees him, she calls out, “What on earth is he doing here?” Ganesh bows his head and quietly leaves the dining room. All eyes are on him. When the door closes behind him, the colonel's wife draws her card and then begins to giggle loudly. Auntie Ilse joins in.

Charlotte slides off her stool and slips out of the room. She wishes that Sita were there. She would never have left her alone, sitting on a barstool. If no one was looking, she would have run all over the deck with her, taken her into the kitchen to sample delicious tidbits, braided her hair, or conjured ginger sweets out of the folds of her sari.

She finds Ganesh on the aft deck. He's looking out over the sea, and he doesn't seem to see or hear anything around him. She walks over to him and takes hold of his hand. “Don't worry. I want to play with you.”