Waiting for the Monsoon (47 page)

This morning the doctor tossed a length of ash grey cotton onto the table. Madan, who has not been awakened by turbulent dreams and his languishing organ for the last two months, awaits the task that follows with anticipation. The longer he works here, the happier he is. He has never revisited the room where the doctor left him that first day, and he seldom leaves the house. He throws himself into his work and focuses on the fabrics and the patterns, much to the satisfaction of the doctor.

“Today we have a visitor,” Dr. Krishna Kumar says, with a big smile on his face. “I want you to make a coat for this man that fits him like a glove.”

It is not unusual for the doctor to bring someone in and for Madan to be told to make a garment for them. Most of them are gentlemen from his club or their wives. Madan has also made complicated garments for almost all the neighbours and family members. Madan looks at the door. He hears the sound of shuffling feet in the hall and deep sighs. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the guest. The man's neck is located where other people have their chest, and on the spot where the head is usually located, there rises a pointed, hairy hump, which vibrates slightly at every step. His face is full of pockmarks and his hands, which hang limply alongside his body, almost touch the ground. Because his shoulders are crooked, he has to ball one fist to keep it from dragging along the floor, while the other hangs slack. The man stares at the ground, and the crumbs of the free meal that the doctor probably used to coax him to come are still on his torn shirt.

“I thought this might be a good assignment for today.” Dr. Krishna Kumar turns the man around as if he's a tailor's dummy, and the beggar follows him, awkwardly but willingly.

Although Madan has grown into a handsome young man, for the first time in years he again experiences the sense of shame that accompanies a physical handicap. Before he can make a sign, Dr. Krishna Kumar has disappeared and the man, who smells of urine, is standing diffidently next to him. The silence in the atelier is broken by the groaning sighs of the beggar, and Madan has difficulty taking his eyes off the quivering hump. He wants to pick up his tape measure, but it occurs to him that the man probably finds it distasteful to be touched by others and to have his hump, which he didn't ask for, measured. The man stares shyly at the ground as Madan's eyes glide over his misshapen body. Although his head is in the wrong place, he has fine ears and his eyebrows give the impression of strength. Madan discovers the man's arms are long but muscular, and his legs and feet are straight as an arrow. He tosses away the grey material that Dr. Krishna Kumar brought with him and selects instead a piece of ochre-coloured linen that is lying under his table. As the other tailors drift in, one by one, they cast curious glances and then take their places behind the sewing machines. Madan walks around the man and tries to understand the shape of his body. Then he goes over to his table, where he spreads the fabric out and makes a few careful chalk marks. He looks at the man, erases a line, and draws a new one.

The man, who had begun to shuffle nervously with his feet when the other tailors came in, gets a sign from Madan that he can sit down. The beggar sees that the tailor doesn't look at him in the same way as the people on the street. Madan's eyes don't have the same repugnance. Madan studies the man each time he looks up from his cutting or pinning. Then it is as if the tailor has forgotten him: he goes back to the sewing machine, his foot presses down on the pedal, and the material glides faster and faster through the machine. The beggar watches as the tailor sighs, stares hopelessly at the material, turns it around, unpicks a section, and then reattaches it.

“How is it going?” He hears the voice of Dr. Krishna Kumar long before he enters the room. “Is it finished?”

The doctor walks past the machines where the other tailors are working, making the odd remark or suggestion, and then he sees that Madan is sewing a button on an ochre-coloured length of cloth.

“Why didn't you use the cloth I gave you?” the doctor asks.

Madan hands him the coat.

The man with the hump watches with interest as the bald man holds up the garment at arm's length and examines it closely.

“I thought I made myself clear,” the doctor says sternly as he turns the coat inside out and studies it. “I told you to make a coat that fits him like a glove.” He points to the beggar, who immediately pulls in his neck and watches anxiously.

Madan nods.

“But this is an ordinary coat, without room for his hump.”

Madan nods again.

He takes the coat from the doctor's hands and hands it to the beggar, who isn't sure whether he's supposed to take it or not. Not until the bald man gives him a stern look does he dare to take the garment and put it on. He tries to button the coat, but the hairy hump presses uncomfortably on his neck and towers even farther over his head.

The doctor fusses and fumes. He doesn't understand how his talented pupil has managed to create this horrible garment. He was confident that the young tailor could deal with such a complicated body. Obviously, that was not the case.

Madan, who until now has not touched the man, sees him fumbling with the collar and the buttons and goes over to him. With a single light movement, he pulls the material over the hump and adjusts the collar.

Dr. Krishna Kumar cannot believe his eyes. Over the years he's seen many wondrous things. Once, on an organized trip to Kerala, he saw how a fakir lay on a bed of nails and allowed the nails to penetrate his legs. And once, on a visit to a holy temple, he saw an ascetic meditating, with an enormous rock weighing at least twenty kilograms hanging from his penis. Fire-eating yogis and holy men who could charm snakes . . . all these extraordinary accomplishments evoked his admiration, but they were nothing compared with what he is seeing now. The other tailors are crowding around the man, and Dr. Krishna Kumar sees that the hump, which a moment ago loomed so large, has disappeared. And the head, which previously hung like a strange bulge, is now looking him amiably in the face. Dr. Krishna Kumar notices that the man has good ears and forceful eyebrows, things he always pays extra attention to. The doctor, who is never at a loss for words, is speechless. He sees that the man standing opposite him is smiling. Shyly, he smiles back. He doesn't know whether to sink into the ground or burst into ecstatic jubilation. This beggar, this monstrosity he found at the train station and for whom he ordered a plate of food set down in front of the WC, is now standing before him like one of his friends at the club.

“And he never even took his measurements,” stammers one of the other tailors.

THE FACT THAT
everything could change in a single second was not new to Madan. But this time the change worked to his advantage. After he made the coat for the beggar, he was promoted to the main cutting table, and from then on he has allocated the work to the other tailors. Over the years, his colleagues have become accustomed to the way he communicates with others. Madan speaks by means of glances and gestures, indicating what they're to do with the material and the garments. When someone new is taken on, they have to get used to the quiet tailor who heads the atelier. Madan enjoys the prestige that goes with the post that he has attained, and he is seldom plagued by troubled dreams.

Until this morning. The monsoon has just ended and the air is fresh and clear. The windows of the atelier are open and a slight breeze caresses the bodies of the toiling tailors. Suddenly Madan looks straight into the eyes of a girl who was hired two months ago. It is as if he's been struck by a bolt of lightning. The girl goes about her work calmly. She sits on a mat next to the door and her job is to finish the seams of each piece of clothing that leaves the atelier. Except for the elderly ironing lady in the hall, she is the only female employee. Madan has just made a cutting error in a piece of cloth destined to become a
kurta
for the secretary of the tennis club, and he has forgotten to tell the errand boy to get more needles. His eyes keep straying to the corner where the young woman with the long braids carefully picks up every piece of clothing from her pile, turns it inside out, cuts the remaining threads, and tucks the ends into the seam. If he hadn't spoiled the
kurta
, he would have gone over to her sooner. Now he neatly folds the pale grey
kurta
and walks in her direction. He feels as if everyone is looking at him, which they are. Not because he's walking over to her, but because they're hungry. Just before he places the garment on the girl's pile, he remembers that it's lunchtime. He turns around and holds up his hand. The men jump up from their sewing machines and scurry outside, chatting to one another. He puts the
kurta
on the pile next to her. The girl remains seated but does not look up. He shuffles his feet, but the girl continues her work.
It's lunchtime
, he wants to say.
You can go for lunch.
She pulls the needle through the material.
Why doesn't she look up?
Then she bites the thread with her teeth.
She must see that I'm standing here
. She turns the garment right side out and checks her work.
Please look up!
The girl looks up. When she sees that Madan is looking at her, she immediately lowers her eyes. She sits there quietly.
Isn't she hungry?
Then she takes the
kurta
and turns it inside out.
Doesn't she want to have lunch?
Her fingers go over the seams that Madan has just sewn. Near the elbow, at the exact spot where Madan made the cutting error, her finger stands still.
She sees it.
Then her finger glides farther, until she gets to the hem, where she cuts off a loose thread.
She's so beautiful.
Her fingers glide along the hem and then up to the neck.
Has she been married off as well?
As a street orphan, Madan is sometimes envious of his colleagues, who often spend years searching for the most appropriate marriage partners for their children. And with his handicap he doesn't stand much chance of finding a partner, not even as head of Dr. Krishna Kumar's atelier.

The girl looks up. Madan begins to blush, and then turns and goes back to his sewing machine. He isn't hungry. He doesn't feel like taking a break with the others. He doesn't want to hear all the stories about their children and their demanding wives, their bossy mothers-in-law, the houses that are too small, and the high cost of schooling and food. All he wants is to find someone who loves him.

He doesn't hear her coming . . . until suddenly she's standing next to him. Her eyes are averted and she's holding an empty spool in her hand. He points to the cabinet with the thread. The girl doesn't move but fiddles with the wooden spool.

Do you want me to wind it up for you?

He puts out his hand and the girl gives him the spool. He walks over to the large wooden cabinet. In the courtyard outside, under the big banyan tree, he hears the men laughing. The girl is still standing next to him, and although her head is still bowed, he feels the tension she exudes. Slowly and carefully, he winds the thread onto the spool. Dr. Krishna Kumar's rules — never use too much thread and always use your own spool — don't apply to the girl, since she will never be allowed to sit behind one of the sewing machines. He hands her the spool. She bows her head even lower and returns to her place, where she picks up the next garment. Madan also goes back to his post. He wishes that they were all free, that they didn't have to work until eight o'clock at night, and that he knew where the girl lives. His eyes wander from the silent machines to her. He sees how she quickly lowers her eyes.

~~~

“
MUKKA!
”
THE VOICE
of Dr. Krishna Kumar resounds through the atelier.

The only light burning is at Madan's table.

“Mukka, where are you?”

Madan appears from under his table.

“Problems with the machine?” asks the doctor.

Madan shakes his head.

“Do you know where the new scissors are, the ones I bought last week?”

Madan has also noticed that the scissors are missing. With a worried look, he shrugs his shoulders and raises his eyebrows.

“They must be here somewhere.”

Madan knows that the scissors are not there. He's looked everywhere, even under his own table.

“I have a feeling that things have recently begun to disappear from my atelier,” Dr. Krishna Kumar says, with a serious expression on his face. I know for certain that I had one long green zipper and a short yellow one, and now they're nowhere to be found.”

Madan, who has been in charge of the store cupboard for the last year and a half, is missing even more items: a new box of hat pins, a tracing wheel, a ripper, the package of darning needles, a thimble, a roll of elastic, gold band, and a small bag of red buttons. A lot of snaps have also disappeared from the bin, but even worse, a roll of white cotton is missing.

Krishna Kumar looks him in the eye. Madan feels nervous under the gaze of his boss.

“Take care of it,” he says, as he strides out of the workshop. Madan has some idea of where the missing items are, but he's been praying for days that he's mistaken and that no one will notice.

He has trouble getting to sleep that night, and when he finally dozes off, he dreams of two female arms that caress and embrace him until the arms suddenly turn into a boa constrictor that is about to strangle him. Suddenly, he's wide awake and he realizes that he has an enormous erection.

At the end of each day they all have to clear their work tables and sweep the floor. Madan has made it clear to the man who sits next to him that he has to leave early, and asks him to lock the door of the atelier and give the key to Dr. Krishna Kumar.