Waiting for the Monsoon (48 page)

He, the sly dog, is standing behind the wall, watching the men head for home, one by one, and when the girl comes out, he, the lovelorn, begins to sweat. From the moment their eyes first found each other, they have exchanged glances when no one was looking, or passed each other more slowly than necessary. In his dreams he, the hankerer, is in love with her and they never stop talking. For weeks he, the debased, has thought and thought, searching for a way that he, the blunderer, could approach her. He, the orphan, has no father, uncle, or brother who could go to the family, and he, the serf, does not dare ask Dr. Krishna Kumar to take that role upon himself, for what father would want his daughter to marry a man with no background, no family, and thus no future? She doesn't realize that he, the insignificant, is following her as she regularly disappears into a crowd, and he, the tribeless, sees nothing but the flapping tip of her sari. He, the lovesick, has often dreamt of doing this. He, the casteless, doesn't know where she lives. Dr. Krishna Kumar has never told him, and he, the coward, has never dared ask her. She turns into a street where there's a small market and she buys some vegetables at one of the stands. He, the non-existent, sees that she's haggling, and he, the spy, can tell by the look on the seller's face that she is a regular visitor. With the vegetables under her arm, she turns into an alley that he, the pursuer, has never seen before. The alley leads to a busy street, and he, the fearful, is happy that he, the invisible, can again disappear into the hustle and bustle. She is in no hurry. Does she perhaps sense that he, the spy, is following her? If only he, the remorseful, could simply return to his room in the courtyard. He, the futureless, wishes that he, the tyrant, had never been made boss of the store cupboard. It was the first key that he, the unpropertied, had ever had in his life. If only he, the guard, could throw the key into the sea. The sea where the sun rises rather than sets, as in Bombay. He, the lost, wishes he could sink between the paving stones; he, the infatuated, doesn't want to walk behind her; he, the passionate, longs to walk beside her, take her hand in his, and ask her to marry him, Mukka, the dumb tailor. She goes into a house. She doesn't close the door. There is no greeting, no conversation. All is quiet. Time passes. The street noises fade away. Night falls.

He walks up to the house. A dog barks. He knocks, and he hears her clear voice. He pushes the door open. She is startled. She hadn't expected him. They look at each other. She lowers her eyes. He wants to leave, close the door behind him, disappear, forget everything. He doesn't want to go in, but he realizes that if he doesn't, he won't be able to go back to Dr. Krishna Kumar. He must carry out his mission. He has to know. He has to know that it's not her. In front of her lies the missing pair of scissors. She pulls the flap of her sari over the sewing basket, but the sari is too short. On the mat, where she's working, lies a white blouse, half-finished, alongside a pile of finished blouses, all of them white. The roll of cotton is leaning against the wall. She is breathing fast. So is he. They don't move. They both look at the gleaming pair of scissors. He remembers the shiny apples and the sweet mangoes that disappeared into his pocket with lightning speed. He bends over. His hand reaches for the implement, which in his eyes has suddenly become absurd. Two pieces of metal that glide past one another in order to cut something in two, to divide, irreparably separate the pieces. He doesn't pick up the scissors. His hand floats above them, purposeless and uncertain. He smells her breath. He knows that she's afraid. Does she have a father? A brother? A cousin? Where is the rest of her family? She pulls the elastic out of her hair. Her long hair falls over her shoulders. He picks up the scissors and lays them on the table. He sits down next to her on the floor. He has a thousand questions, all of them the same as his fears. Glistening drops appear on her forehead. She stops breathing. She opens her mouth. She wants to say something, but then she closes it again.

Don't say anything. Please don't say anything. I already know. You don't have to say anything. I won't betray you. Stay with me. Stay with me forever. I'll take you with me. We'll leave this place. Don't be afraid. I love you. I've loved you from the first moment I looked into your eyes. Believe me. Trust me. I'll take care of you. Protect you. For the rest of my life I want to wake up next to you. Come . . . sleep in my arms.

Slowly she takes her hand in his. Her hand is cooler. He shivers. He is becoming aroused. He doesn't want her to see, and pulls up his knees. She strokes his arm. Very slowly. With the tip of her finger she touches the hairs on his skin, one by one. The throbbing in his lower abdomen turns to pounding. The blood races through his veins.

Aren't you afraid of me? Don't you think I'm scary? Where is your father? Where is your brother?

She bends forward. Her breath brushes his cheek. He wants to take her in his arms, kiss her, but his entire body is as stiff as the part of his body that he hates. She begins to laugh and pushes him backwards into the pile of blouses. She shakes her wild hair loose. He can see her teeth. Illuminated only by the faint light of the bulb that hangs next to her, she's like a lioness about to pounce. She dives forward, throwing herself on him. He feels his shirt tear and her nails scrape across his chest, while her tongue flicks his ear, and her laugh rings out as he seeks her mouth, feels her breasts, which are the exact size that he had imagined them, and her hands seek his hands and guide them to her hips, then she wraps her arms around him, bites him, licks him. She exudes a scent that is foreign to him, which doesn't remind him of any flower he has ever smelled. The pain he feels is not pain, and her panting sounds like a song as she becomes entangled in her hair and her laugh rings out. She is naked and he doesn't know how he became naked, her skin glides over his skin, makes him shudder and tingle, stuns him, as if nothing else exists in the world except for the woman he has worshipped for months, the woman he has fantasized about. The reality is much more titillating, more overwhelming than in his dream. When he realizes that she won't break under his weight, he takes the lead, discovers and explores every hollow of her body. Her laugh gives way to a voluptuous groan, and he feels that he's crying but doesn't understand why, since he has never been this happy. She licks away his tears and climbs onto him and tickles him with her long hair, and for the first time in all those months she speaks to him: “It's all right . . .” And that makes him cry even harder. She puts her mouth to his, her tongue searches his wordless cavern, he finds her and they throw their arms around each other, and outside the dog barks again. She starts, and quickly pulls one of the blouses toward her. He doesn't understand why she's suddenly stopped. She ties her sari around her waist and gathers her hair into a knot. Then she gets up and motions to him to get up, too.

He sees the scissors on the table. The sewing basket that stood next to her has overturned on the floor. He sees the snaps, the tracing wheel, the ripper, the thimble, and the gold band. She snatches his clothes from the floor and turns off the light. He understands that he must get dressed as fast as he can, that what happened is over. He hears footsteps, the door opens, and a man's voice asks why the light is out. She doesn't reply but shoves him against the wall, and he senses that the man is entering the house, and then she lets go of him and springs in the direction of the other man, calling out “Peekaboo.” Again he hears her laugh, merry and ringing, and then a grumbling voice. He searches for the door, feels that it isn't shut, and dashes out of the house, leaving behind her strident laughter. He hears the man tell her to keep her voice down.

The dog barks.

Madan runs back into the street.

At the end of the street he feels that his bobbin, which he always keeps in his pants pocket, has disappeared. He is twenty-seven years old as he walks in the direction of the station. He will never see Dr. Krishna Kumar again.

HE WALKS DOWN
the road that the man said leads to Hyderabad. “If you put on some speed, you can make it three weeks or so,” the man joked.

Madan never expected to leave the city just as poor as when he arrived. Even poorer, since after a couple of hours the implacable ticket collector unceremoniously threw him off the train. Embarrassed, he follows the newly paved road while cars pass him at full speed. He hopes one of the trucks will stop and pick him up. The destination makes no difference to him, as long as it's far away from here. One truck passes so close to him that a ricocheting stone hits him in the leg. He is happy that the piercing pain temporarily distracts him from the other pain.

He limps away from the street and drops down on a fallen tree limb. He isn't hungry or thirsty. All he feels is the cold. His leg is bleeding. He tries to clean the wound with his finger and some spit.

Next to his foot he sees two small red beetles. They are gnawing away at the tree trunk he's sitting on. A third beetle crawls out from under the bark, hobbles off slowly in the direction of the other two, and then climbs on top of one of them. The beetle underneath doesn't seem to notice and goes on gnawing on the wood, while the male on her back does his best. She crawls farther in search of a fresh morsel, and discovers a budding shoot. Madan gazes in admiration at the male beetle. He doesn't lose his head but continues what he was doing. Then along comes the other beetle, who until now has not interfered in the activities of his fellow insects. He climbs onto the female's head and continues in the direction of the male on her back. He also joins in the fun. Madan stares in amazement at the lack of interest displayed by the female, who goes on eating while on her back the future of the species is being secured. He wishes he were a beetle.

“
AUNTIE!
”
ISSY'S VOICE
resounded throughout the house. “Auntie Charlotte! There's no toilet paper!”

Charlotte had no idea whether there was any toilet paper in the house, or if there was even anything that could serve as an alternative. She hadn't bought paper in years: like everyone else in India, she used a jug of water. On her way upstairs she noticed that the indefatigable heat had found its way into the house. Her blouse clung to her back. She took the key from the nail and went into the nursery.

Her father sat in his wheelchair, the sweat pouring down his face. He gave her a stern look. “What are you here for?”

“Is there any toilet paper?”

The general began to sigh and groan. Charlotte went into the bathroom and searched the cabinets. Behind her, she heard her father filling his diaper. Why hadn't her brother written that she was coming? Or called? How long would the girl be staying? What was she going to feed her? Was there food on hand, or should she send Hema to the market? If only she didn't ask for white bread, which was frightfully expensive. Charlotte would like nothing better than to crawl into the cabinet under the washbasin, the way she did when she was little and Sita wanted to put her to bed. Then suddenly she saw her father's gold watch lying on the washbasin. Hema must have forgotten to put it back after bathing him, since it always hung on the wall opposite him. How much would it fetch? She picked it up, noting that it was quite heavy, and then slid it into the pocket of her skirt. In the hall, the voice sounded again: “Auntie!”

MADAN TRIED TO
concentrate on the bust seam of the dress destined for the wife of the manufacturer of coconut oil, but the girl's voice distracted him. Something about her reminded him of someone, but he couldn't recall who. It wasn't her uncombed locks or wild manners. He'd seen plenty of hippie girls from Europe, and this was something different. He turned the wheel of his sewing machine. The humming sound was soothing. If the girl hadn't appeared, would they have kissed? he asked himself, and for the third time he saw that he'd set the sleeve incorrectly. He pulled the silk garment from under the machine, and for the first time wondered whether deep purple was the right colour for the portly Indian lady. Even after he had treated it with the peel of a ripe mango, it didn't have quite the graceful, elegant effect he had envisioned. And if they had kissed, would he still be sitting here, or would everything have simply collapsed? He drew the thread out of the fabric with the utmost precision, but the tiny holes from the needle were still visible. Or — if they had kissed — would he now be sitting on his bicycle with his sewing machine on the luggage rack? He wound up his spool again, the one he'd bought in Hyderabad with the first money he'd made by begging. Or would she have come over and sat down next to him, and would he now be working on her dress? He put the spool back into the machine and gave the wheel a turn as he tried again to shape the bust line in such a way that the sagging breasts of the wife of the manufacturer of coconut oil would be shown off to advantage.

“Hi.” Issy walked into the music room. She was wearing her blue jacket again, clearly with nothing else underneath. “Do you have time to make something for me?” She rummaged around in the pile of fabric Madan had placed on the table. “These colours are pretty hip. Did you buy them here? I should never have shopped in New Delhi, they had absolutely nothing, I don't understand why the travel guide made it sound like there are all kinds of fabulous things for sale.” She pulled the scarlet length of silk from the pile. “This is the one I want,” she said, looking inquiringly at Madan. He did not look up, as he had already seen which piece she'd picked out. “That's okay, isn't it? You have lots of other reds.” She tossed the length of cloth back on the table, walked over to the window, and drew the curtain aside. “Why on earth do all of you keep the rooms so dark? It's really bad for your eyes. You don't want to go blind, do you? If you open the window, at least you get some fresh air.” She pulled the window open and shoved the shutters aside. The blinding sunlight poured into the room. She blinked. A stifling wave of heat poured into the room. “Jesus Christ, how can you people stand it here? Now I understand why Dad went to live in England. This can't be real! It's not only bad for your eyes, but for your skin, too.” Within seconds, large drops of perspiration had appeared on her face and were running down her cheeks like a dripping candle.