Waiting for the Monsoon (27 page)

Slowly he becomes aware of the long, narrow space. There are men sitting all along the walls, staring at him. Madan stands there motionless with his eyes closed.

I have to go back. I have to get help. I can't leave him there alone.

The iron door behind him opens. He turns around and sees an old man being shoved inside, and when the door slams shut, he hears the key being turned in the lock. When he was working for Ram Khan, he was always happy when the shutters were closed and he was locked in for the night. But this is different . . . he misses the sense of security that locks used to represent.

“Let me out . . . ,” the old man pleads, beating his fists against the heavy door. “I haven't done anything . . . Let me go . . .”

Suddenly Madan knows where he is, even though he doesn't know he got here. He was on his way to get help for Abbas, who is lying on the ground between the high walls along the quay, waiting for him.

The door opens again and four policemen carrying sticks walk in. The old man takes a step backwards and Madan also moves farther away from the menacing figures. One of them points his stick at a great hulk of a man, who curses as he gets up and is then roughly dragged off. The door slams shut and the old man goes back to banging on the door.

AT REGULAR INTERVALS
the heavy door swings open and someone is thrown into the room or dragged out. Many of the new men shout that they haven't done anything. The old man was taken out hours ago. First they beat him into silence with sticks and then they hauled him away.

Madan sits on the floor, like all the others. He's worried. Although it's not terribly hot in the dark basement, he knows it's sweltering outside. He doesn't know a great deal about death, but the year he lived on the street, with Abbas, taught him that when a rat or a goat or a dog dies, the body begins to smell after just one day, and that people start complaining. He can't stay away too long. He has to go back. The next time he hears the turn of the lock, he gets up and walks over to the door. A drunken man walks into the room, and before the door closes again, he worms his way outside. Immediately someone grabs him by the shoulder.

“Back inside, you!” the policeman says, raising his stick.

“He goes to the commissioner.”

“Oh, yeah? The commissioner himself?” The man holds onto Madan tightly, keeping his stick at the ready. “Is the commissioner going to do this one himself?”

“No, he's already left, you can take care of him.”

“Me?”

“Why not? You've got to start somewhere, and the commissioner was furious when he brought in this little rat. It shouldn't be too hard. Put him in room three.”

THE INTERROGATION IN
room three takes only a few minutes. The young policeman soon realizes that unlike most of the beggars, Madan is not faking a handicap. Confidently, he starts filling out the papers. It's something he's used to doing, and he's good at it. His account is long and detailed. Madan tries to explain that Abbas is dead, and that he has to get help and then go back to his friend as fast as he can. But the policeman barks that he'd better keep his mouth shut, so Madan sits there and watches the pen in the policeman's hand. He wishes he could write. If he could write, he'd be able to tell him what happened.

With a deep sigh, the policeman finally puts down his pen and proceeds to place six different seals on each sheet; then he painstakingly signs the documents. It was only two days ago that he was given authority to sign documents, and he's very proud of himself. He pushes a buzzer, the door opens, and his colleague walks in.

“How are you doing? Are you done?”

The young policeman sighs and puts on a serious face as he hands over the pile of papers. The other man reads the first line and, surprised, glances at Madan before continuing. “So, so,” he remarks. “So, so . . .” When he's finished reading the whole document, he puts it back on the table. “Good work. This is what we call good work.”

The young policeman beams.

Without another word, the other policeman drags Madan from his stool, pushes him out the door, through the hall, and into a bus — where the old man is sitting, crying noiselessly.

I HAVE TO
get out of here!
Madan screams.

“Can't you get him to stop that caterwauling?” the fat guard says to his colleague as he opens his lunchbox.

I haven't done anything. Someone has to go to Abbas! He's still lying there, and pretty soon the dogs or the rats will find him!

“Smack him,” says the guard who's eating his lunch.

“I'm not about to touch him with my bare hands. He's liable to bite, the beast.” The man is convinced that the wild little boy standing in front of him not only is dumb, but also lacks a brain.

I don't bite. And I haven't done anything.

“Then go get your stick. You'll have to keep an eye out. Rats have nasty diseases.”

I'm not sick, Abbas was sick, he was bitten, someone has to go to him.

“Where do we put him?”

I have to get away.

“Somewhere where I can't hear him. You'd think they were slaughtering a pig.”

“I thought you were a vegetarian?”

“I am, but I heard a pig shriek once, and that's just what he sounds like.”

Let me out of here.

“Do your people eat pigs?”

“No, of course not, and take that animal away, before he spoils my appetite.”

~~~

THE ONLY TIME
the others cannot see him is when he is sitting on the bucket. A grimy rag separates the corner from the rest of the cell. It wasn't there until a couple of weeks ago, when the old man, whose name is Mister Patel, found a piece of cloth left behind by one of the men who were released. He fastened it to the bars in a corner of the cell, creating a small enclosure where he said his prayers. But one morning the WC bucket appeared in the corner and no one dared to move it because they all knew that Ibrahim had put it there. So Mister Patel has gone back to praying with his back to the other prisoners, and Ibrahim spends most of the day behind the curtain, and not only to poop.

Madan thinks about Abbas day and night. Even when he doesn't want to think about him, he sees his friend's body. He wakes with a start as a dog is devouring the eyes and refuses to stop, even though Madan is beating him with a stick. Or a rat suddenly jumps out of Abbas's mouth, while he dreams that Abbas is only asleep. He still doesn't know why he's in jail, but everyone seems to be convinced that he is guilty of a terrible crime. Everyone except Mister Patel.

“Here you are, son,” whispers Mister Patel; he is the only one who doesn't call him Mukka or rat. He slides his bowl in Madan's direction: there are at least four spoonfuls of rice left. “You're still growing. And I'm not.”

Madan looks at him gratefully and quickly polishes off the rice. Even Mister Patel can have second thoughts.

“When we get out of here, son, you must come and have dinner with me sometime. I'm a good cook, if I do say so myself.”

There's nothing Madan would like better. He's accustomed to eating irregularly — bad food and very little of it — but even Ram Khan gave him more to eat than he gets in the prison. Some of the others think that Mister Patel is his grandfather. Even Ibrahim, who is violent and abusive to everyone, has thus far left the old man in peace.

“That time will come, my son. I know it will. And then I'll make dal for you, with as much rice as you can eat.” Mister Patel turns over and closes his eyes. Madan listens to his incomprehensible prayer. Sometimes Mister Patel prays for an hour at a stretch. And when he's finished there's always a serene expression in his eyes, something that none of the other men seem to have, not even after their prayers.

“Do you ever pray?” Mister Patel asks as he tries to pick the dirt from under his fingernails.

Madan shakes his head.

“Have you never learned to pray? Or aren't you a believer?”

With an effort, Madan can dredge up a few vague memories: once he was taken to a temple where bells were ringing and incense was burning, and he remembers the holy pictures where Ram Khan did his
pudja
every day, and Brother Francis, who knelt down next to him and took hold of his hand to point to the man on the cross. He shrugged.

“Do you want to learn how to pray?”

The serenity that Mister Patel radiates after finishing his prayers appeals to Madan, but he's afraid that if he prays, Mister Patel's god will get into his head and reproach him for forgetting Abbas. Even though he hasn't. But that's hard to explain.

Mister Patel sees the hesitation in Madan's eyes. “You don't have to do it the way I do, using real words. You can pray in your head. Did you know that?”

Again, Madan nods his head. Praying inside his head is something he does all day long. He doesn't call it praying, of course, but talking.

“It's not just talking inside your head,” Mister Patel says. “When you pray, you start by emptying yourself and concentrating. Then you can start your prayers.”

Madan's mind reels:
emptying yourself
and
concentrating
. He doesn't have the faintest idea what Mister Patel is referring to. But he nods earnestly, and Mister Patel continues.

“We are all part of Cosmic Awareness. You don't have to understand everything, but it's good for you to know that. The aim of prayer is to show respect, to make a request, or to guide your own thoughts and emotions. I pray to Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. But if you aren't yet acquainted with those gods, then as long as you're here you can also talk to the god inside you. Do you understand a bit of what I'm saying?”

The god inside him? He hasn't the faintest idea.

“Your god is part of you.”

Abbas!
Suddenly he understands what Mister Patel means. So that's what Mister Patel does: he talks to someone he loves very much. Abbas is always with him, every minute, every hour he thinks of him, and yet he's never dared to talk to him.

“I can see that you understand,” says Mister Patel with relief.
This is really something
, he thinks to himself: an innocent prisoner in a filthy prison, trying to teach a deaf boy to pray.

THE DOORBELL RANG
for the fifth time that day. Hema had brightened visibly in his active role as butler, but Charlotte retired to her bedroom; she was annoyed with the women from the club, who had not kept their part of the bargain. The last time they had this many visitors was four years ago, when her father turned ninety. She hadn't planned to celebrate his birthday, but a steady stream of servants and former personnel had come to congratulate the general, in the hope of receiving a gift. It was a tradition that he had initiated on his seventieth birthday, when he gave generously to all and sundry, and one that he had attempted to equal on his eightieth. Charlotte had run up to the attic dozens of times that day, in search of items that could serve as gifts. She had cursed her father for initiating a tradition that they could no longer afford. Looking at the empty sideboard, it suddenly occurred to her that her father might very well live to be a hundred. She heard Hema open the front door and ask someone to wait. He knocked on her door.

“Come in.”

“Mrs. Nath is here to see you.”

“Ask her in.”

The wife of the goldsmith, Alok Nath, had never been inside the large house on the hill, so she looked around with interest. Charlotte had always had a problem with the goldsmith's wife, since she had the ridiculous idea that speaking very softly was the hallmark of chic. She also ate very little, because she regarded being fat as bourgeois.

“W . . . t,” she whispered.

Charlotte couldn't make out what she said but welcomed her amiably and asked if she'd like a cup of tea. That was another problem. Her normal supply of tea lasted one month, but now it was almost gone after just three days. The same was true of the sugar and milk. She'd also had to buy extra biscuits, since tea can't be served without a biscuit.

Hema, who was waiting by the door, was of the same mind, except that he was delighted that at long last there was shopping to do. He'd visited five different shops before he found the right biscuits, and he enjoyed the rare luxury.

Charlotte sent him off to make tea and to let the tailor know that the wife of Alok Nath was there. As she uttered the word “tailor” a blush came over her cheeks. The wife of Alok Nath didn't notice, since white people always colour in such stifling heat. She'd seen people who had blisters on their sunburned skin or who developed a sty. Such extreme temperatures always gave her a headache, which was exacerbated by the interminable cries of the cuckoo and the barking of wild dogs. As those sounds were not audible inside the great house, she happily sank back into her chair and asked Charlotte how her father was doing. Charlotte was under the impression that her guest had commented on the weather, so she lamented the fact that the monsoon was so long in coming and the level of water in the reservoir was exceptionally low. This was interpreted by the wife of Alok Nath as an indication that her father wasn't doing well and that she shouldn't pursue the subject. Suddenly the room went dark.

“Oh, no, not the electricity again!”

“B . . . l.”

Charlotte felt her way to the window, drew the curtain aside, and opened the shutter a fraction of an inch. A light shot into the room through the narrow slit, together with the searing heat that inundated the room like some kind of oily liquid. She heard the back door open and then close. Her heart began to beat faster. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and ran a hand through her hair. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”