Waiting for the Monsoon (31 page)

Madan placed his sewing machine on the table, which Hema had positioned in the middle of the room. He didn't know where to begin. He looked around the room, then reluctantly sat down and started fiddling with the wheel. The needle shot up and then down again. In front of him lay a pile of fabric, and beside him his scissors and the tiny bottle of lubricant. He picked up the bottle and absently started oiling his machine. Suddenly, he heard footsteps above his head. He stopped and cast a worried glance in the direction of the ceiling. He listened to the sound of footsteps that went in the direction of the window and then back to the middle of the room. His glance shifted toward the dark spots on the wall where paintings must have hung. He went on oiling his machine. Above, he heard a door open and close. The hand holding the bottle shot out and a small puddle of oil formed around the presser foot. Startled, he looked around for a cloth to mop up the mess, but he saw nothing but the costly fabrics belonging to the members of the Rampur Ladies Club. He opened the cabinet, but the shelves were empty except for several photo albums wrapped in plastic. Someone was coming down the stairs, and that made him even more nervous. He raised his leg and used the inside seam of his trousers to wipe away the oil. Then he quickly sat down at the machine, and, taking the topmost length of fabric from the pile, he began sewing at the spot where the needle came down. When the sound of footsteps grew faint, he stopped, looked at the fabric, heaved a sigh, and began unpicking the useless seam.

THERE ARE NO
rickshaws or taxis waiting in front of the hospital. She doesn't realize that it's already well past midnight and that her father's operation lasted more than twelve hours. She waits for a while and then decides to walk. Guided by the light of the stars and the odd street lantern, she walks away from the city centre of Rampur. Their house is on the other side of town. She's not used to walking alone. She always has a coolie with her to carry the groceries, or the
bobajee
, who's better at bargaining at the market.

Except for a snoring dog and a sleeping goat, there's not another living soul on the street. The unrest of the day has made way for a serene hush.

She pauses in front of St. Stephen's Chapel. It's too dark to distinguish the cemetery behind the church.
Let Papa live
, she prays, directing her words to the steeple. Charlotte never prays. Not since her last year at boarding school, where she had to go to church every Sunday, year in, year out, and always said her daily prayers. None of her pleas for help were ever answered. After Peter died, she renounced prayer for good.
Let him live
,
please.

Perhaps it's the nocturnal calm, or the dark of the night, but the nauseating anxiety that gripped her at the hospital seems to be ebbing away. It's as if she has entered a kind of vacuum. The concern for her father's life fades away, and her feet seem to leave the ground. The fact that she is on her way home is of no importance. She is no longer walking, but dancing, her arms spread slightly, like elfin wings.

Only then does she hear the music, so gentle and rarified that it seems part of the starry sky, millions of light years away. She turns into an unfamiliar alley and sees a house whose doors are wide open and welcoming. She steps inside a room filled with cigarette smoke. There are people sitting on the floor. The music that enticed her here is just as fragile and ethereal as it was a moment ago, when she first became aware of it, but now the sounds are richer and fuller. In the middle of the room, on a small, raised platform surrounded by lighted candles, there are three Indian musicians: one is playing the tabla drum, one is seated behind a kind of xylophone, and in the middle there's a zither player. No one in the audience seems to be surprised by her entrance, and despite the fact that her blond hair and fair skin contrast starkly with the outward appearance of the other people in the room, she senses that she is welcome. She sits down on a cushion that someone has shoved in her direction and closes her eyes. The celestial tones take possession of her, and all the events of the day are forgotten.

The zither player starts to sing. Charlotte opens her eyes, and by the light of the candles she sees the man's face. The song has a nasal tone, and it is full of unintelligible words. She cannot take her eyes off the singer. She watches his long fingers as they glide over the strings, his black-rimmed eyes, his mouth, singing about a world she's never experienced before.

SHE HASN'T SEEN
anyone get up or heard anyone leave, but when the musicians stop playing, only a handful of people are left in the room, which was packed when she first arrived. The final notes fade away. People begin to talk quietly. The musicians get up and put away their instruments. The panic that had faded away begins to force itself upon her from all four corners of the room. Closing her eyes doesn't help: where a moment ago there was light, there is now darkness. Her breathing accelerates. She wipes away the traces of tears on her cheeks, tears that brought some relief. She gets up and walks over to the singer. He looks at her and she looks back. Each step in his direction is a step away from the world she comes from. She knows that if she keeps walking, everything will change. She does not hesitate.

The room is empty except for Charlotte and the zither player; they are sitting next to each other in silence. One last candle is still burning. He offers her a cigarette. She hasn't smoked in years, but she takes it. He gives her a light. The brief touch of his hand goes through her like an electric shock. She shudders. He lights a cigarette himself. She inhales the pungent tobacco smoke. A wave of dizziness sweeps over her, and when it fades away, she takes another drag. There are no memories, only longing.

They sit perfectly still. Outside, an owl hoots. It's calling them. She blows the cigarette smoke toward the open window: a cloud that is free to rise up to heaven. The tobacco is hot on her tongue. Soon the last candle will go out. She listens to the sounds of the night. He takes her hand . . . or perhaps she takes his.

NOT A WORD
is spoken. She doesn't know his name, but she can still taste him on her lips and smell his skin. The sky was turning pink when he slipped out of her. They got up, put on their clothes, and walked outside. They went in separate directions. The owl hooted one last time as she turned onto the road leading home.

~~~

Dear Donald,

There's a lot I have to tell you and I don't know where to begin. If you were here, it would be so much easier. I called the telephone number you gave me, but there was no answer. I do hope that nothing's happened, and that this letter will reach you. Father has had a very bad accident. For four days he was at death's door, but last night he opened his eyes and looked at me. At first I thought he was angry with me, but later I realized that he was in a great deal of pain. It's hard to describe what happened. A load of heavy iron pipes fell on him. The worst part is that it was his fault. He'll probably never walk again, but he doesn't know that yet. He also doesn't know that they had to cut his boots to pieces. I sometimes think that's going to be the worst blow of all. I'm not looking forward to telling him all this. That's why I wish you were here now, so that we could do it together. He's in a plaster harness from his toes to his neck. The doctors said that it was ridiculous to put a cast on his shattered legs, but I'm positive that Father wouldn't have survived if his legs had been amputated. If he still has his legs — even if he can't walk — he will probably find the courage to fight for his life. No one can say how long he'll have to stay in hospital, but it's certain to be a matter of months. Will you call me as soon as you get this letter? I'd really like to talk to you. I'll send this by special delivery, so it'll get to you quickly.

Regards from your sister Charlotte

MADAN UNPICKS THE
material very carefully, without breaking the thread. He's amazed that a thread can be so long: as if it'll never end. He's sitting on the ladder leading up to the scent attic, as he calls it, and working on the red and white cloth. Subhash, the oiler, asked Mr. Chandran if it would be all right for Madan to work upstairs, and he gave his permission with a curt nod.

Madan is still very angry with Mister Patel. Now he won't be able to filch an apple if he wakes up in the middle of the night. He feels his stomach rumbling, and he has no idea whether he'll be given some scraps at the end of the day, like when he was working for Ram Khan, or maybe nothing at all. He can't ask Subhash, who's just crawled into one of the machines clutching his can of lubricating oil, and the weavers are all just as busy. He continues to pull on the thread — but this time he pulls too hard, and it breaks. Subhash told him he was supposed to unpick the entire length of cloth without breaking the thread, so he ties the two ends together, which is pretty tricky because it's so fine.

“
DID YOU LEAVE
him behind with Chandan Chandran?” Mister Patel's nephew asks, with a hint of concern in his voice.

“You were the one who said he might find work there.”

“I never thought he'd say yes.”

“Well, he didn't.” Mister Patel has decided to go straight back to Hyderabad, and he's only stopped by his nephew's shop to pick up the kit bag containing what remains of his possessions.

“But you left him behind there?”

“I came back half an hour later and he was already gone.”

“Oh, that's all right then,” says the nephew in relief.

“What do you mean, all right! I do my best to find something for the boy and he just walks away.”

“Chandan Chandran . . . ,” a customer mutters, but loud enough for the others to hear. “I'd have my doubts.”

“Doubts about what?” Mister Patel asks, looking in surprise at the man with the three bananas in his hand.

“Oh, nothing, really,” says his nephew.

“What do you mean, nothing?” Mister Patel asks. “You're the one who said I should send the boy to him.”

“Did you really say that?” the customer asks the nephew in alarm.

The nephew raises both arms in a gesture intended to absolve himself of all blame. “It was one of the possibilities.”

“What's wrong with this Chandran?”

Mister Patel wishes he hadn't come back to pick up his kit bag. There's nothing of value in it, since Ibrahim the murderer took everything he was attached to and the rest is in the police commissioner's pocket.

“They say he's rather . . .” The customer searches for the right words. “Rather peculiar.”

“He wanted the boy to unpick a length of cotton!” confirmed Mister Patel, who also found the weaver a bit strange.

“Is that what he wanted him to do?” said the customer with relish. “And what else did he want him to do?”

“Nothing. He just wanted the boy to unpick the piece of cotton.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Mister Patel is not planning to tell the customer that he was reluctant to ask the man at the loom if he had work for the boy because he sensed that Madan didn't want to stay there. Just as he had been able to do in prison, he could always tell when the boy was afraid. That's why he rambled on about the dissertation he's been working on for ten years and the fact that he'll probably never be able to finish it because all his books are gone. He does recall that the weaver suddenly asked, “Is it that kid?” Now, how did the man know that that was his question?

The nephew sighs and weighs the bananas. “What's all the fuss about, anyway? The kid is smart enough, and there are more important things in life. Did you hear we're playing Pakistan again?”

“When?” asks the customer.

Mister Patel picks up his kit bag, takes an apple from the crate without his nephew noticing, and drops it into his kit bag. “I've got to be going, otherwise I'll miss my train.”

MADAN UNDERSTANDS HOW
the threads criss-cross each other: a lot of short ones and one long one. Every time the colour changes, a new thread is used, tied to the one before, just as he has done. He's figured out that the easiest way to pull out the long thread is to lay the cloth with the short threads flat on the floor, so they don't get tangled. He's kneeling on the floor. He's forgotten about his rumbling stomach, and he's no longer angry with Mister Patel. He's fascinated by the thread, which is getting longer and longer. Things become more difficult the closer he gets to the end: the long thread keeps getting tangled up with the short ones.

He's rolled up the entire thread and holds the spool proudly in his hand. It's only then that he smells the lubricant again and becomes aware of the machines. He sees the man with the ponytail coming toward him. The man holds up his hand, and Madan places the spool in his palm. Chandan Chandran beckons him to follow.

They walk back to the stairs and go up to the next floor. On the flat roof there's a kind of lean-to made of wood and long grass, with several grass mats and a chair.

“Are you deaf, too?” asks Chandan Chandran.

Madan shakes his head.

“If you want a job, you can sleep here and you'll get breakfast and your evening meal.” He gives Madan a penetrating look.

I'm hungry
. Madan nods and points to his mouth.

The man with the long hair goes down the stairs and Madan follows him past the mechanical looms to a small room in the corner. Subhash and the weavers are sitting on the floor eating.

Madan fills up a plate with rice and dal, and sits down on the floor next to them. He is nine years old, but he feels like an adult.

CHARLOTTE TIED THE
bib around her father's neck. It was a large bib, made at her request by Sanat, the previous
darzi
. She remembered the first time she had to feed her father, and how awful it was. She couldn't get a spoonful of lukewarm cereal into his mouth without showering everyone and everything in the vicinity. Nowadays she had no trouble, and the bib wasn't even necessary. But the closer she kept to the daily routine, the calmer he was. She stirred the yogurt and gave him a spoonful. Her father smacked his lips contentedly. She'd ask Hema to change his diaper: it attracted flies, and that would interfere with his afternoon nap.