Waiting for the Monsoon (54 page)

CHARLOTTE STOOD IN
front of the door with her arms outstretched. She was determined that they would not enter the music room, but she wasn't sure how long she could keep up the barricade. The perspiring women clearly had no plans to leave.

“We're going to call in the police,” shouted the wife of Adeeb Tata, a distant cousin of the fabulously wealthy Ratan Tata. The fact that she had not yet paid for the fabric was conveniently forgotten.

“They'll arrest him and return our property,” the wife of Nikhil Nair predicted. She held her arms close to her body, since the wife of Ajay Karapiet had whispered in her ear that she had sweat stains under her arms.

Charlotte searched desperately for a solution that would prevent things from escalating still further. “Have you knocked on the door?”

The women looked at each other. The wife of Ajay Karapiet shook her head, abashed. One by one, they all lowered their eyes. Except for the wife of Nikhil Nair, who couldn't bear being corrected. She mopped her brow and rapped briskly on the door.

The door swung open and Madan greeted them with a welcoming wave of his hand.

Even by the light of the lone bulb, the room was a fairy-tale palace. On the walls hung the most gorgeous gowns. The women were overwhelmed by the sight of such beauty. There were sighs of disbelief and admiration. Madan took the gold brocade gown from the wall. The wife of Ajay Karapiet began to glow with pleasure: it was as if she were already wearing the dress. With a flourish, he flung it onto the table, where it came to rest in graceful folds. Charlotte thought she saw the radiant woman perform a pirouette. They all held their breath. Madan took the tails of the skirt and folded them inward. The wife of Ajay Karapiet could feel his fingertips running across her skin. He wrapped the garment in crisp paper and handed it to her with a bow. She looked at him admiringly, and clutched the package tightly to her bosom. She was sure she could smell wild orchids.

Next Madan picked up the gown ordered by the woman whose husband owned the coconut mill. She, too, underwent a metamorphosis when she saw her dress: it made her bosom seem to rise upward and outward, becoming infinitely more attractive. He wrapped the garment in paper and presented it to her. She clasped it in her arms as if it were a newborn baby.

One by one, Madan brought the gowns down from the wall and wrapped them carefully in paper. Sometimes a moan or murmur was heard, or a muffled sigh of longing, but otherwise everything was deathly quiet.

Without a word, the women departed, anxiously clutching their new garments to their chests or hiding them in the folds of their saris, since no one wanted the others to see her gown beforehand.

They faced each other. Except for the cabinet, which was still at an angle, there were no traces of the recent turmoil. The sewing machine was on the table with his scissors beside it, and on a chair against the wall lay the pile of fabrics that had belonged to Charlotte's mother, carefully folded, with the scarlet silk on top.

To Charlotte, the fabric was as intensely ablaze as her heart.

To Madan, the material was bleeding as profusely as his heart.

“And that's the material you're going to use for my dress, right?” Issy was standing in the door opening and pointing to the red fabric.

Charlotte looked from Issy to the length of silk. Was this why she had risen at daybreak to mow the lawn, rejected suitors deemed unsuitable, reluctantly spent her childhood at boarding schools in the cold English climate, and been locked in a closet for sampling her mother's perfume? Why she had spoon-fed her father and wiped his bottom after he pooped, read edifying books forced upon her by Reverend Das, repaired and remodelled all her dresses until they wore out, turned penny-pinching into an art form, searched for her mother's hand in the folds of her skirt but seldom found it, sold her grand piano and made do with an imaginary keyboard, buried her husband next to her mother, written to her brother for years without ever receiving a reply, taken all the burdens on her own shoulders without ever a thank-you? Why she had allowed herself to be swindled by second-hand dealers who paid next to nothing because they knew she had to sell, listened to the eternal gossip dished up by the wife of Nikhil Nair so as not to be alone, run a household without the necessary personnel, devoted her youth to a man who was damaged by the war, refused invitations to parties because women didn't go to parties on their own, and after the one time she did go to a party, given birth to her child in a bleak convent in the Himalayas, so that no one would know about it, had a son who didn't know she was his mother, and for years spent every Monday afternoon playing with him like a doting auntie? Why she had never cried because a Bridgwater doesn't cry, suffered hunger pangs so that others could eat, rolled the carpet out and back up a thousand times so it wouldn't wear and become less valuable, cared for her father alone because he'd driven all the nurses crazy, lost her pension because no one told her that it would be frozen if she gave up her British citizenship, never known love and for that reason was the object of gossip and slander, cycled to the club in the heat, stopped smoking because people held that women shouldn't smoke, fallen in love with impossible, unobtainable men, which was why she had to lie to be believed, peered in from the outside because she didn't dare to enter, endured endless floods of abuse and tried not to be hurt, stolen from her father because he no longer understood her, and suffered guests she hadn't invited? Was that why she was resigned to the fact that everyone had forgotten her?

“No,” she said, “the red fabric is for my dress.”

THE RAIN IS
pouring down. Madan doesn't like rain. People walk fast and don't give anything. In the past few years he's learned a lot about begging. And yet he calls himself not a beggar, but a tailor. All the money he doesn't need for food is set aside, so he can buy his own sewing machine. Whether he'll actually make it is something he prefers not to think about. Every morning he wakes up with the thought that it may be his lucky day. After all, he has already managed to buy a new spool with what he's earned by begging.

An umbrella comes sailing by — no doubt swept from someone's hands by the heavy rain — and he just manages to grab it. No one is looking for the umbrella, so he holds it above his head. Actually, he should try to find a more sheltered spot, since the rain is now bucketing down. He watches as the churning water seeks a path to the drains, which are becoming clogged by the accompanying rubbish. Madan crosses the street. The water comes up to his ankles now. He feels his slippers being snatched from his feet, but he grabs them in time, and wades farther in his bare feet.

The banknotes that he's collected in all these years are safely stored in three small plastic bags tied around his waist. There is also a piece of paper that says that he is looking for work, as well as the snippets of paper, now pasted together, that bear the address of Dr. Krishna Kumar. Not that he will ever go back there, but he cannot bring himself to throw the paper away. It is one of the few things from his past that he still has.

Madan walks into the alleyway where he's been sleeping, but the water is up to his knees. He sees that the piece of cardboard that had served as his bed has disappeared. A hard gust of wind snatches the umbrella out of his hands. He doesn't bother to watch it disappear, since the rain is now lashing him in the face. He was hoping to take refuge in the house where he was allowed to wash himself a few times, but he sees that the door is barricaded with sand sacks. The rain hurts, and the wind, which is becoming stronger and stronger, almost knocks him off his feet.
I have to find a place to shelter
, he thinks. He's afraid of the steadily rising tide of water gushing through the streets.

There are only one or two people battling the wind and rain, which are now increasing in force. His clothes are soaked through, and they slap against his body as the thundering power of the wind threatens to blow him away. On the other side of the street he sees a bowed old man clutching a small package. Suddenly the man is blown clear off his feet by the wind and disappears underwater.

Madan doesn't hesitate. Forgetting the wind, he takes giant steps over to the spot where he saw the greybeard disappear. Then something slides past his feet. The suction force of the water is enormous, and he's being pulled away. He bends down, feels around in the water, and pulls out a gasping and sputtering little man; the man is still holding the package in his hand. He weighs next to nothing, but Madan has to keep a firm grip on him so that the wind doesn't snatch him away. Madan throws him onto his back like a sack of flour. It takes all his strength to escape from the eddying maelstrom, but somehow he manages to reach the houses. He grabs one of the bars in front of a window and inches his way along, one step at a time. He finally discovers an open portico with a staircase. The water has now risen at least a metre. He climbs up the steps and lays the man, who is now coughing, on the floor next to him. Madan pats him cautiously on the back with the flat of his hand, for fear he might break.

After a bout of sputtering and coughing, the old man catches his breath again and is able to sit up alongside him. “I seem to have swallowed the wrong way,” he squeaks. “I just hope it isn't damaged,” he continues in a panicky voice. He tears away the paper, revealing an old book. “I must dry it. Now. Otherwise, the pages will stick together.”

Madan motions toward the rain, which continues to come thundering down, obscuring their view of the street.

“But at least I've found it at last. It was missing for years.”

Madan looks at the man next to him. There's something familiar about him . . . his voice? Or is it his hands? The nervous gestures . . . Then he recognizes him. He's much greyer and more stooped, and his face is full of wrinkles, but outside of that, he hasn't changed. It's Mister Patel. He wants to give him a hug. Never before has he been reunited with someone from his past, and he regards his old prison mate as family. Enthusiastically, Madan points to his face, but Mr. Patel is so flustered because his book is all wet that he doesn't notice. Then Madan takes the old man's hand in his own two wet hands, brings the gnarled old hand up to his forehead.

Mister Patel stops in the middle of his sentence. He stares, peers, screws up his eyes. Searches his memory.

Madan moves his lips, and gestures that he cannot speak.

“Son,” whispers Mister Patel.

They're sitting next to each other on the stairs. The lashing rain is still bucketing down, and the wind is gaining in force. Mister Patel is silent. Madan has the book
Genetic Metamorphosis in Single-Celled Organisms
on his lap. He blows gently between the pages before turning over the next one.

“Do you still pray?”

Madan nods.

“I don't. I'm afraid to.”

Madan turns another page and blows onto a drawing of a paramecium.

“I should never have left you behind. I didn't even know who that man was. I went back, but you were gone. Where were you? Where have you been?”

How can Madan tell the old man about the years in Mister Chandran's weaving factory? Or his lessons on the hidden power of spices, flowers, and trees, his crush on Mister Chandran's daughter, his friendship with Subhash, the oiler, or the years he spent in Dr. Krishna Kumar's atelier? He pulls the new spool out of his pocket and shows it to Mister Patel.

“You're a tailor?”

Madan nods.

“Where?”

Madan stares at the rain, an army made up of millions of arrows boring into the ground. He understands Mister Patel, he understands why he left. He has never blamed him.

Mister Patel puts his arm around him. “Will you come home with me, my son?”

Then Madan also puts an arm around the fragile old man.

Together they stare out at the rain.

MADAN SPREAD THE
red silk on the table. The windows and shutters were open, but the sought-after cool of the evening failed to glide over the windowsill and into the room. Charlotte was sitting in the chair against the wall, watching him. Tiny droplets of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. Up until then he had seemed impervious to the heat. A measuring tape hung around his neck. Without taking her measurements, without even looking at her, he took the scissors to the fabric, like a slender boat slicing through the glassy surface of a lake. The scissors navigated, cutting lines and curves. The table was turned into a map full of red islands. Outside, crickets chirped, and in the living room Isabella complained loudly about her telephone, which was still giving her problems. Slowly Charlotte became aware of the distant sound of a fire engine siren racing past. Her heart missed a beat. She never knew whether Parvat was on duty or not. The monsoon would have to start pretty soon. Each successive day increased the chance of fires. Both trees and houses were dry as dust. There was not a drop of moisture in the entire city. The wood lice and other vermin that favoured clammy surroundings had buried themselves so deep in the earth that people were convinced they wouldn't reappear for at least a year.

We'll have to put the buckets outside. Then the rain will come.

Do you really believe that?

It's not just me . . . everyone believes it. Haven't you seen all the bowls and buckets?

She had seen the pots and pans in front of Sita's house and in the narrow streets leading to her house. She got up, still looking doubtful. But as she walked out of the house, she thought,
Why not? If only to ensure that Parvat does not die in a fire
.

THE LIGHT WAS
on in the kitchen, but Hema was nowhere to be seen. On the shelf above the sink she found a stack of nested pans, and on the floor stood two bright green plastic buckets. She knew that he'd be upset if she borrowed a pan or bucket from his kitchen without asking, so she headed for the
mali
's shed. Just as she was about to go in, Madan emerged carrying a pile of battered zinc buckets. He smiled and handed her one. She put it down on the ground.