Waiting for the Monsoon (59 page)

“A cloud!” said the wife of Alok Nath. But as usual, no one heard her. She walked over to the edge of the terrace and pointed. Her husband thought she wanted to go home and, with a smile, he led her back to the dance floor. “A cloud,” she whispered into the goldsmith's ear, but the music was too loud and the whisky had clouded his powers of observation. He saw only the eyes of his lovely wife and the whirling dresses of her friends. “There are clouds in the sky. Really and truly!” She forced the words from her throat. The police commissioner, who was whirling past, picked up the message and looked up at the sky. But he was circling so fast that it took him three full rounds before he finally saw the clouds.

“The clouds have come.” His deep voice reverberated across the terrace.

The music stopped. Now everyone was moving toward the edge of the terrace. The moon had disappeared and the crowd of people pressing forward had to squint to catch a glimpse of the harbinger of the monsoon. They pushed and pointed, sighed with relief, and laughed at the buckets and their own superstition. The secretary of the club did something he'd never done before: he kissed his wife in public. She blushed and resolved to wear her dress more often.

“But . . .” The raised finger of Mister Nikhil Nair pointed to the colour differences in the sky. “. . . those can't be rain clouds.”

All the men began to examine the sky. Wrinkles appeared on foreheads and the corners of mouths turned down.

Adeeb Tata, who enjoyed the most prestige as a distant cousin of the immensely rich Ratan Tata, turned to the excited partygoers. “Those are clouds of smoke.” There was something denigrating in his voice, and the wife of the goldsmith, who deeply regretted having raised her voice, decided on the spot that she would never do so again, not even in an emergency.

“Oh no, not another fire . . . ,” sighed the wife of Nikhil Nair.

Minister Das began to pray aloud, and in the distance they heard the whine of sirens. Charlotte thought of Parvat, hoping that it wouldn't be a large fire. The band struck up another waltz, and the dancers returned to the floor. The commissioner of police, who had never danced with a white woman before, shyly asked Charlotte for the next dance. Although the commissioner was a very good dancer, Charlotte's mind wandered. She thought of the candle in the drawing room that was sometimes left burning, now that the electricity was so erratic. She hoped that Isabella would blow it out before she went to bed.

The waltz music gradually merged with the sound of the sirens, which were becoming steadily louder. The band saw the dancers move closer and closer to the edge of the terrace, from which an orange glow was visible on the horizon.

She didn't know who had said it was her house, or whose car she jumped into.
Father! Hema!
she thought.
Isabella!
She felt a strange kind of relief when she remembered that Madan had already left. They were still some distance away when she saw that it was her roof that was on fire: a giant beacon high on the hill.

THE HEAT, WHICH
for weeks had been unbearable, was nothing in comparison with the wall of fire that rose up in front as soon as she stepped out of the car. “Where is my father?” she called out. “And my niece! And Hema! Where are they? Where is everyone?”

Wherever she looked there were firemen wearing bright yellow helmets and carrying axes and ladders. They were all watching the flames shooting from the roof.

“Why aren't you doing anything?” she screamed.

The firemen looked at her in surprise.

“Because there's no water,” said the old fire chief with the row of medals across his uniform.

“No water?! But the fire!”

“It has to burn itself out.”

“But it's only burning upstairs!”

“It's our job to see that it doesn't jump over.”

Charlotte looked around desperately. She didn't see the flattened buckets and pulverized teacups, crushed by the broad tires of the red fire engines, or the sofa and the rolled-up carpet that the firemen had salvaged. She ran over to the kitchen building and called Hema's name. On the countertop there was a jerry can half full of water. She grabbed it and ran back to where the firemen were standing. “Where is Parvat?”

“He's inside,” said the old fire chief, and looked in surprise at the jerry can in her hand.

“Inside!”

“In the house. He's gone to get your father on the first floor.”

Parvat had gone to Father, who was locked in his room and strapped to his bed
. She didn't hesitate a second. She ran to the back of the house and slipped in through the servants' entrance.

The heat, which outside had been overpowering, was even fiercer inside. Next to the door hung Isabella's blue coat. Was she inside as well? She grabbed the jacket, throwing it over her shoulders for protection, and then opened the jerry can and doused herself with water. Then she opened the communicating door and stepped into the hall. It was as if she were being pierced by a thousand daggers. She gasped for air and shielded her face with her hand. She could hear the crackling of the wooden roof above her head. Through narrowed eyes she looked around. An unusual orange light shone on the bare space. On a narrow pillar stood the candle she had lit earlier that evening. The doors to the rooms were open and the few pieces of furniture had disappeared. She wanted to call the names of the people she thought were inside, but her hoarse cries were devoured by the seething air. She made her way through the thick, white-hot wall to her father's old study, where Isabella slept. The room was empty, and so was the bathroom. Where was her niece? Where was her son? Her father? Hunched down in an effort to escape the heat, she edged her way to the drawing room.

HER LITTLE BROTHER
is lying on the sofa. He is crying. Charlotte looks around for Sita, but she's nowhere to be seen. The boy, still a baby, starts to cry even louder and waves his tiny fists wildly in the air.

“Shush now, don't cry, or he'll get angry.” She picks him up and rocks him back and forth. He is heavier than she expected, and he's kicking his tiny feet. She has to hold him close to her chest so she doesn't drop him. “Shush now, I'm here with you.” Very softly she begins to sing. A made-up lullaby about angels and fairies, about sunbeams and stairways to heaven, about little children and tears. The boy is quiet now. She rocks him back and forth, back and forth. Her head moves in time with the song.

He looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes and snivels: “Ma-ma.”

She's about to smile at him and kiss him on the lips when she feels her father's swagger stick on her shoulder. He gives her a little tick, enough to make her look up.

“You're not a mother.” His voice is cool.

THE DRAWING ROOM
is empty. Where are they? Where is he? Is he upstairs? She wants to run up the stairs, but an unyielding wall of heat blocks the way.
I have to go upstairs, let me through!
she begs. It takes all her strength just to lift her foot and put it on the first step. She wants to call out again, but produces only a gurgling noise. She fights her way upward, through the invisible white-hot wall. The flames above her descend, devouring the dry wood of the walls, floors, and ceiling. The water she threw over herself has long since evaporated. Visibility, which was still clear near the orange glow shortly before, has made way for a penetrating fog that makes it impossible to breathe. She hears the clock start to chime its deep leaden voice. She stumbles up to the landing. She doesn't realize that she is crawling, that her knees are scraping the bare floor, that her hands are groping in the dark, or that her eyes are watering. She senses that the red dress she is wearing is protecting her.

The clock strikes for the second time. She finds the grooves of the nursery door, which is open. On hands and knees she continues her way, crossing the threshold she crossed so many times as a child, and entering the room where her life began.

The third stroke. She reaches the iron bed; the legs are white-hot and the mosquito netting has disappeared. Her hands go on searching. They find one of the leather straps, which dangles from the bed. But the bed is empty.
Where is her father? Where is Parvat? They must be here!

The fourth stroke. Panicking, she opens her mouth, but the smoke sears her throat. She feels her way across the floor, searching for the tires of the wheelchair, which always stands next to his bed.
Where is it? Why isn't the wheelchair here?

The fifth stroke. The smoke bores its way into her lungs, blocking her windpipe. She can no longer breathe, no longer see. Her arms thrash about. They must be there. It's been so long since he last asked to leave his room.

The sixth stroke. She bumps into the trunk where they used to keep their toys, and where Hema sets the general's tea tray down. She doesn't feel the pain, she must go back. Air! She has to breathe. She tries to stand up. She falls. She searches frantically for the door. Where is the way out?

The seventh stroke. She feels the doorsill, the door. But the hall, which before was filled with thick fumes, is now totally black. She coughs, and inhales the black smoke.

The eighth stroke tells her which direction she should crawl. The clock, which determines the rhythm of her days, fills the vacuum when no one speaks. It is her most faithful housemate, familiar with all her tears. It's calling to her.

Its ninth stroke.
No need to be afraid
, it says,
you're almost at the stairs, the way down, the steps your mother descended in her pale green dress, with the diadem in her hair.

Its tenth stroke. The hour when the night with Madan began, the night that made her forget all the lonely nights she'd spent in this huge house. The dress he made for her embraces her.

It strikes eleven. The searing heat presses against her, ushers her into its hell, its heaven. Her legs give way. Her hands rest on the floor. Charlotte hears the large standing clock strike twelve.

ISSY PUSHES THE
wheelchair up the path as fast as she can. She should never have gone that far. It had been hard enough to get her grumbling grandfather down all those stairs. What possessed her to walk all the way down the hill as well?

“Faster, faster!” the general shouts.

Huffing and puffing, Issy manoeuvres the wheelchair up the hill between the rows of buckets. She keeps thinking about the electric wire she managed to connect to her mobile phone and then insert into the socket in the salon.

“Faster, faster,” yells the general, clapping his hands.

Suddenly Hema appears between two fire engines. “General! Where were you?” He takes over pushing the wheelchair, but between the sand and the steep path, the going is much tougher than he expected. It has been years since he last went for a walk with the general. “Miss Isabella, all of a sudden you just disappeared!” he calls out. He is relieved, since he keeps thinking about the
beedi
he smoked on the sly behind the house.

“Faster! Faster! Get closer!” the general shouts. “This is the biggest fire I've ever seen!”

Issy stares in amazement at her grandfather as he shouts enthusiastically, and resolves never to tell anyone about the leather straps that confined him to his bed or the plug she stuck into the wall outlet.

~~~

MADAN IS SITTING
beside his bicycle on the outskirts of the city. He cannot bring himself to leave Rampur, to leave her. At first he doesn't believe that the flames are real. He thinks that he's dreaming and that she is fired by the same passion as he is. Until suddenly the smoke appears: confused wisps reaching for the sky. Her house, it's her house! He jumps on his bicycle and races back into the city.

~~~

PARVAT HEARS THE
clock on the landing strike twelve. He sees the smoke thicken through the glass window in his gas mask. The flashlight isn't strong enough to guide him. He enters the last room he has to check. He hasn't found anyone, yet the old man is always upstairs in his room. He knows that much from his mother. He cannot stay here any longer. The seat of the fire can travel faster than he can. His hands sweep across the last bed. It's empty except for the sheets. Then he feels something under the pillow. He pulls it out. It's a framed photo. He's about to toss it back onto the bed, but a sudden burst of orange light allows him to see it better. Although he has never seen it before, he immediately recognizes himself. It was taken long ago. He is still a baby, and he's being cradled in the arms of Aunt Charlotte, who is kissing him. A strange sensation shoots through his body. As if a tangled knot has suddenly come apart and the ends of the rope are lashing his body. Were the rumours he has heard true? He glances at the photo again. He wishes he hadn't found it. He doesn't want to know. He must forget what he saw. Parvat is aware that the clock has stopped chiming. He has to get out. He feels the fire coming closer. He throws the photo back on the bed and turns in the direction of the door, which he can no longer see. Feeling his way, he finds the door opening. He knows the stairs are to the right. He's familiar with the house, from all the visits to Aunt Charlotte when he was a child. His gloved hand glides along the balustrade. He doesn't have a second to lose.

As he is about to run down the stairs, his feet hit something. He recognizes the feeling: there is a body on the floor. He knows it wasn't there before. He quickly takes hold of the body, feeling for the head and the legs, and throws the fire blanket over it, smothering the flames. Above his head, the wood creaks. He hears and feels parts of the house crashing down around him. In one flowing movement, he picks up the body, swings it over his shoulder, and then staggers down the stairs. He has to get out. Away from the flames, away from the photo. He pushes against the heavy front door, but it won't budge. Behind him he hears the gigantic chandelier fall onto the once-gleaming white marble floor. He bangs on the door. He wants to shout, but with the gas mask on, he's the only one who can hear his call for help. Suddenly he looks down and sees the long white fingers hanging next to his leg: her thumb is long and her middle finger very short, just like his. He sees that her fingers are moving. Groping and searching. He gives the door a kick.
OPEN THE DOOR! LET US OUT!