Waiting for the Monsoon (28 page)

Madan entered with a length of cloth that belonged to the wife of Alok Nath. The heat, until then almost unbearable, became even fiercer. Charlotte felt the blush on her cheeks spreading all over her body.

Madan bowed his head slightly and held up the length of cloth.
It's not finished yet.

“It's not finished yet,” said Charlotte, who had vowed the evening before not to listen to the voice.

“M . . . g,” whispered the wife of Alok Nath.

What did she say?

You can't understand her either?
Charlotte felt the beginning of a smile.

“A . . . . . . . . . l,” the wife of Alok Nath continued.

I've never heard anyone speak so indistinctly!

That's the way she always talks
,
Charlotte replied, without looking at him.
I answer her and just hope that I got it right.

But you can understand me.
He didn't look at her either.

Charlotte's blush deepened and the tingling sensation in her belly intensified. She didn't want to think, but the thoughts came anyway. She wasn't sure if he was actually answering her or if his replies were a figment of her imagination. The sentences she heard in her head were so unashamedly direct that they couldn't possibly come from him.

You're not sure.

Charlotte nodded.

The wife of Alok Nath was under the impression that Charlotte had just agreed with her: the choice of fabric was wrong and she ought to buy new material. Charlotte looked on in surprise as the woman took the cloth from Madan's hands and stuffed it into her bag. She nodded to Madan in a friendly manner.

“H . . . . . . f.”

Well, I'll be going.

Stay.
The thought came faster than the self-control she'd always thought she possessed. Startled,
s
he looked at Madan.
No, just go. I don't know what's going on anymore. I don't understand this. It's never happened to me before.
She covered her face with her hands.

The wife of Alok Nath concluded that Charlotte had suddenly been overcome by the heat, and for the second time in her life Charlotte heard what she said: “Call the butler!”

Mechanically, Charlotte rang the bell.

“Don't . . . well?” The gaunt woman walked over to her.

“I'm fine,” said Charlotte. She heard the door open and then close, and she knew that Madan was gone. A bullet made up of long-concealed emotions shot through her body with such power that she gasped. She was immediately filled with fear. Her body was shaking.

The wife of Alok Nath looked at her anxiously and breathed a sigh of relief when the fan over her head began to rotate again and the lamp came back on. “G . . . . . . s,” she said as she closed the shutter and drew the curtain.

Hema arrived with the tea tray and began to pour. The wife of Alok Nath declined the biscuit, and Charlotte decided then and there that she'd have to find another workplace for the tailor — and that she'd be wearing an old dress to the party.

WALKING BACK TO
the kitchen, Hema caught sight of Madan sitting in the shadow of one of the big acacia trees. While he was pouring the tea, he'd overheard that memsahib Nath had taken back the material for her dress. It annoyed Hema that at the very first setback the man had gone into the garden to sulk. But what irked him most was the fact that he couldn't order the tailor around as he'd done with the other servants. For the fourth time that day he wished that memsahib had never taken the man into the house, and for the fourth time he took back his wish: if it hadn't been for the
darzi
, he would never have been able to do so much shopping.

Madan leaned against the tree and closed his eyes.
I don't see how she can hear my thoughts. Up to now, you were the only person who understood me. Other people never understand me — you know that. How is it possible that she does?
He opened his eyes and looked at the house with the closed shutters.
She hears all my thoughts, even the ones that last only a second. It's as if she can look into my mind.
He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled through his lips.
It's because of her that I suddenly say whatever comes into my head. You're not supposed to say what you're thinking, but inside your head you don't have to be polite. How can she hear my thoughts?
He opened his eyes and looked at the house
. She thinks I'm cheeky. And that I don't respect her.
He closed his eyes again.
But I do respect her, in my head as well, really and truly. But I can't think in a servile way, and if I have to talk in my head the way other people talk with their voice, where can I do my real thinking?
He heaved another sigh.
I'll have to stop talking to her. If only I hadn't taught myself that I can say anything in my prayers. I'm going to do my best not to think about her, even when she's not there
. A deep frown line appeared on his forehead above his closed eyes. In the distance a peacock screamed.
But when I look at her hands, the way she walks and moves, and smell her scent . . . I feel that I'm safe. Please, tell me how I can stop all this, I don't know how. I think about her the whole day, even when I don't want to. Tell me. I don't want to be sent away, I want to stay here. I'm afraid. It's as if I have to protect her.
Madan opened his eyes and shook his head. He got up and walked back to the kitchen, head bowed. Only then did he hear the scream of the peacock. He hoped it was dancing: that meant that the monsoon was coming.

HE WENT TO
the faucet to fill up a bucket, but only a thin trickle of water came out. All the windows of the big house were thrown wide open. There were no lights on, and perfect calm reigned, even in the kitchen. The sound of the water trickling into the bucket was drowned out only by the sound of thousands of crickets, taking advantage of the cool of the night to serenade their lady loves. Madan stared at the open window on the first floor and tried not to think, because he was afraid that his voice, like a real voice, could be heard in the bedroom. He picked up the bucket, which was half full, and walked away from the house as fast as he could. When he got to the apple tree, he stopped. He sniffed the bare trunk. The scent of apple wood was returning, and that reassured him.

AT THE END
of the long corridor there is another barred gate. This time it's opened by a guard with rotten teeth.

“So, sonny, did you come to pick up your grandpa?” he sniggers. The smell from his mouth is even more nauseating than the odour that came from behind the curtain after Ibrahim had relieved himself.

Mister Patel takes Madan's hand; they bow their heads, stare at their toes, and say nothing. They have learned that silence sometimes minimizes the number of blows, although it was no guarantee where Ibrahim was concerned — if he lost something, he'd give everyone in the cell a good thrashing. The guards also beat them when they didn't return the metal bowls fast enough after meals, or the toilet bucket overflowed. The fact that they are being set free together comes as a total surprise. Since the interrogation at the police station, neither of them has seen anyone except their fellow prisoners. At one point Madan heard from one of the guards that he was charged with raiding a shopkeeper who was a second cousin of the commissioner. Mister Patel told him that he had a shifty landlord who was also a distant relative of the commissioner. Several of their fellow prisoners had also fallen foul of one of the man's relatives. But not Ibrahim: he'd murdered three men who he was certain had looked at his wife. And he was proud of what he'd done.

“Has the little guy come to pick up his grandpa?” says the guard as he breathes into their faces. Then he turns the key and the gate opens with a creaking sound. “These days people do what they damn well please. It was different during the Raj. Back then you could tell the good guys from the bad guys, but now . . .” The stench from the man's mouth is revolting.

Madan wants to hold his nose, but he doesn't take his hand out of Mister Patel's. Slowly they walk toward the next door. He feels the urge to run.

The guard opens the large wooden door.

On the other side, they see cars on the street, and a bus honks its horn.

“Don't I get my money back?” Mister Patel holds up his hand.

The guard gives him a stony look, accompanied by a blast of foul breath. “Did you fill out the form when you came in?”

“No, I wasn't given a form. They took away all my money.”

“Write a letter to the director. It's not my department.”

Madan, who arrived and is leaving clad in nothing but a pair of torn shorts, tugs gently at Mister Patel's hand. Mister Patel continues to protest, but when the guard pushes the heavy gate shut, they have to jump back in order to avoid being hit.

THEY WALK SIDE
by side, still holding each other's hand. After all that time in a small, dark space, they are alarmed by the hustle and bustle of traffic and the people walking in all directions. They turn a corner and enter a quieter neighbourhood, with the occasional small shop displaying its merchandise out front. On the sidewalk, next to a chair under an umbrella, stands a cart overflowing with apples. Madan sees it from a distance, but Mister Patel does not notice until they are quite close. Mister Patel's hand tightens around Madan's, as if he is reading his thoughts, and he doesn't relax his grip until they've turned the corner.

The streets are broader now and there is more traffic. Madan recognizes the neighbourhood. It's an area where he and Abbas often begged. And suddenly he misses his friend more than he did during all those months in the cell. Unconsciously he begins to limp. “Does it hurt, my boy?” Mister Patel points to Madan's leg. Madan shakes his head and quickly adjusts his pace. He knows he must go back to the harbour to see if the body is still there. He owes it to his friend. But not today. Mister Patel walks into a narrow alleyway and stops in front of a low gate. All around them there are dark stairways. He lets go of Madan's hand for the first time.

They walk to the end of the alleyway and climb a narrow flight of stairs. Some of the steps are missing, and the handrail has also disappeared. Madan is glad that it's dark here. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes and burned his bare torso. They walk along a rickety gallery, and beneath them Madan sees that there are courtyards in between the housing blocks, where craftsmen have their workplaces. The smell of paint rises from below. Mister Patel knocks at a door with a carpet out front. They hear thumping noises coming from inside, like objects being shifted, and then a heavy-set man opens the door.

“Good day,” says Mister Patel.

“Yes. What is it?” the man says. His voice is raspy from smoking.

“This is my house.”

“Your house? No it isn't. It's my house.”

“But it was my house.”

“Maybe it was, but now I live here. I pay rent and I have a lease.”

“Then perhaps you know where my furniture is?”

“Furniture? The place was empty when we moved in.” Behind him, they hear a shrill female voice. The woman wants to know who's at the door.

“No one!” the man calls back.

“Then maybe you know what they did with my things? My books?”

“I don't read. Ask the neighbours.” And before Mister Patel can open his mouth again, the door is slammed in his face.

MISTER PATEL DIDN'T
ask the neighbours. He walks slowly back to the stairs. Madan knows that he's crying, just as he often cried in the prison, when he thought no one was looking. They cross the courtyard, go out the gate and back through the alleyway. Madan senses that Mister Patel doesn't know what to do next. They have no money, and the crevice where Abbas is lying is too narrow for Mister Patel to squeeze through. When they reach the street, Mister Patel takes hold of the boy's hand again and starts walking. Madan realizes that there is a big difference between being a beggar and walking hand in hand with an old man. People are much friendlier and some even say hello. Mister Patel stops in front of a greengrocery. Madan sees the huge pile of apples and mangoes. Would Mister Patel mind if he quickly grabbed an apple?

“Uncle!” cries a surprised voice from behind the counter. “It's been a long time! Where have you been?”

Mister Patel pulls Madan into the shop. The smell of fresh fruit and vegetables makes his mouth water. With a deep sigh, the old man sits down on a rickety stool. Madan can't take his eyes off the apples. “Go ahead and take one,” the nephew says.

Madan gazes at the apples. He can already taste the sweetness in his mouth. Never before has he been able to look around before making a choice: he always grabbed the first one he could get hold of. His hand hovers over the crate. Then he picks up the biggest, reddest apple he's ever seen. He holds it in his hands, turning it over and over. Suddenly he takes a bite. The sweet juice runs over his lips, and the cool, firm flesh dissolves between his teeth. At each chew, the juice spouts against the inside of his mouth. As if he's in paradise.

“No house?” There is surprise in the nephew's voice. Mister Patel explains what happened and where he's been. His nephew looks at him in disbelief, occasionally uttering a cry of disgust, especially when Mister Patel tells him about the bucket behind the curtain and the quirks and moods of Ibrahim the murderer.

Madan doesn't hear any of it. He is aware only of the taste and smell of the apple, more heavenly than the most delicious fruit he has ever tasted or even dreamt of.

Mister Patel drops his hands into his lap, heaves another sigh, and asks if his nephew has a place for them to sleep.

“Here?”