Waiting for the Monsoon Read online

  WAITING

  FOR THE

  MONSOON

  THREES ANNA

  TRANSLATED BY

  BARBARA POTTER FASTING

  Copyright © 2010, Threes Anna

  First published in 2010 by Uitgeverij Signatuur, part of A. W. Bruna Uitgevers b. v.

  English translation copyright © 2012 Barbara Potter Fasting

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  This edition published in 2012 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

  Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4

  Tel. 416-363-4343

  Fax 416-363-1017

  www.houseofanansi.com

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Anna, Threes, 1959 –

  Waiting for the monsoon / Threes Anna ; translated by Barbara Potter Fasting.

  Translation of: Wachten op de moesson.

  eISBN 978-1-77089-047-3

  I. Fasting, Barbara II. Title.

  PT5882.1.N63W3313 2011 839.31’37 C2011-902443-8

  Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk

  Cover images: Woman: Luca Zampedri/Getty Images; Fabric: Gallo Images/Getty Images;

  Ornamental details: HiDesignGraphics/iStockphoto; Interior image: Jasmine flower: Gizele/Shutterstock

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  To my dear father, who never had to fight in a war.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  IF HER SOUL had been as spotless as her lawn, she would not have died that year. She was like the old Lloyds. For years it was the only electric lawnmower for miles around: the fact that it was still functioning was thanks to the brand and not to love.

  The machine hummed softly as she pushed it along. On the horizon the sky began to colour, and the electrical cable came to the end of its reach. With a jerk, Charlotte steered the Lloyds to the left and began to push it in the direction of the house. This was even more arduous, since it was uphill and she had to be careful not to run over the cable. She was panting. Again she had barely made it. In the distance she heard the bus starting up for the first run of the day. In one of the houses at the bottom of the road a light came on; the crickets had fallen silent and the birds were still in dreamland. India was slowly awakening.

  Charlotte pushed the Lloyds into the shed and began to rein in the cable, which consisted of a series of extension cords strung together. Every time she had gone to New Delhi the gardener asked her to get an extra cord, so that he could go farther down the hill. Until one morning six months ago, when he didn’t wake up.

  She had been jealous of the mali’s peaceful death. It was still dark when they came to get her, just like now. Against the back wall of the shed, next to the old Lloyds, stood his simple bed, knocked together out of wood and rope. The old man was out on the bed: he was wearing a long white shirt, his hands were folded on his chest, and his feet were slightly apart. His rib cage was visible through the thin material and his eyes were closed. It was as if he were praying. “You have a better god than I do,” she’d whispered.

  After breakfast, three of the gardener’s nephews whom she’d never seen before had arrived to claim their uncle. Charlotte was always amazed at how fast news spread. The men rolled the body in a length of cloth and placed it on a bamboo stretcher. All of his earthly possessions were rolled up in another cloth and disappeared into a small bag. After Charlotte gave them money for the cremation, the men left, the body rocking slightly between their shoulders. The following week she had tried to sell the bed, but no one was prepared to pay money for the wooden affair in which the mali had died.

  She put the bundle of extension cords on the rickety bed. It was time for tea, before the sun began to scorch the land and only the cuckoo was willing to sing. In the kitchen, a building some twenty metres from the main house, a light went on. Charlotte snuck up the monumental staircase and quickly went inside and back to her bedroom. She didn’t want Hema to see her in her old work trousers.

  The butler’s real name was Hemavatinandan, which she found difficult to remember. So for twenty-nine years she had called him Hema, which was a girl’s name. But Charlotte, whose full name was Charlotte Elizabeth, didn’t know that. Just as she didn’t know that Hema had waited in the kitchen until she was finished mowing the lawn and putting the mower away before he turned on the light. He had made the necessary preparations in the dark, knowing that she would ring the bell for tea as soon she was back in her bedroom.

  Charlotte kicked off her slippers and got out of the trousers. She was still wearing her cotton nightgown. With a sigh she crept under the mosquito net and back into bed. The bedroom windows and shutters were wide open, and the sheets finally felt cool to the touch. Within a quarter of an hour the sun would make its appearance, cruel and merciless. She dreaded today, as she dreaded every Tuesday, and more than ever during the hot months. She pulled the cord hanging next to the bed. Outside, the sky had turned pink and the birds under her window twittered as a light morning breeze swept the last breath of nocturnal air from the room. She stretched and waited for her tea.

  IN THE KITCHEN, the bell sounded. Hema wiped the sweat from his forehead and laid the Calor gas bottle on its side. The fire beneath the kettle had already gone out twice, and he didn’t have a spare bottle.

  He’d tried to start a fire in the old fireplace in the corner, but the coals wouldn’t catch. Moving quickly, he went out to the shed. He pulled the battered portable stove the gardener had used from under the bed, and took it with him into the kitchen. Most of the English households had long since installed electric furnaces, but Charlotte had informed him that she didn’t like the taste of food that was prepared on such a modern furnace. Hema had no idea how she could taste the difference. He placed the tray with tea things next to her bed and poured her a cup.

  “Didn’t you hear the bell?”

  “Sorry, Charlotte memsahib.” He bowed his head. “Gas cylinder empty and no new cylinder.”

  “But there are still coals?”

  Hema nodded as he closed the bedroom shutters.

  “The old bobajee always cooked on coals,” came the reply from the bed. The fact that the old cook never kindled the fire himself but always called on the gardener for help was something else that Charlotte did not know. She took a sip of her tea and smiled. “Fortunately, your tea tastes better than the old bobajee’s.”

  Hema pulled the curtains across the shutters and the room was completely dark again. There was a rumbling sound, a light bulb was illuminated, and the fan on the ceiling began revolving. Charlotte looked at the man’s back as he walked over to the window again.

  “Ma’am?” Hema smoothed the curtains with his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I buy new gas bottle?”

  “Why don’t you use the coals?”

  Hema bowed his head low. “Yes, ma’am, but very busy.”

  “I know, Hema, but I would still prefer that you finish the coals before buying a new bottle.”

/>   The old man walked to the door in his bare feet, his head still bowed, as he mumbled, “Of course, Charlotte memsahib, of course.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes. The first of the morning heat seeped through the cracks in the shutters and entered the bedroom. She heard Hema open the bathroom door and turn on the faucet.

  “You won’t forget to shut the upper windows in the nursery?” she called after him.

  THE CLOCK ON the landing struck six. A pigeon scurried around outside the attic window, searching for a way to get in, and Hema took the key that was hanging from a nail next to the nursery. Everyone tried to make the most of the early hours of the day, before it got so hot that no one wanted to move. Charlotte opened her eyes and saw that there were blades of grass clinging to her feet. She hoped that Hema hadn’t noticed. There were a lot of things Charlotte didn’t know, but she was certain about one thing: Hema’s eyesight was still excellent. She reached under the mosquito net in the direction of the bedside table. Opening the drawer, she rummaged around among the medicine bottles, handkerchiefs, and various odds and ends until she found a small box in the corner. It was made of wood and had once been baby blue; now it was grubby and the paint was peeling. Charlotte picked it up and pulled it under the mosquito net. She hesitated for an instant, about to put it back. But then she opened it quickly: in the box lay a cigarette and a lighter. Her nostrils quivered slightly and the tip of her tongue flicked across her upper lip. The noises in the house died down, and outside the birds had ceased their dawn chorus. Slowly she brought the lighter to the tip of the cigarette, but just before lighting it, she paused. She took a deep drag on the unlit cigarette, filled her lungs with air, and then exhaled large imaginary smoke rings. She relaxed and flicked the ash into an imaginary ashtray next to her on the bed. She took another drag, deeper than the first. Then she pursed her lips and slowly blew out the smoke. The day had begun.

  CHARLOTTE HEADED DOWN the hill on her old Raleigh. Her hair and skirt billowed and her speed made the sand swirl around her. At the bottom of the path there was an old sign so rusted that no one knew it was a right-of-way sign. She crossed the road without looking to the right or left. A truck filled with watermelons was coming around the corner. The driver swore at her, but she didn’t hear him, since by that time she was already passing the vegetable stall, where a bandy-legged man was busy piling tangerines into a great heap. He raised his hand in greeting. She waved back at the man, who was good at repairing tire punctures. Her bike slowed, not because she braked, but because the hill had become a flat road leading to the outskirts of the city. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, her skirt clung to her legs, and her breathing accelerated. The dust that lent the air its greyish tinge clung to her skin. She could feel her knees creak and cursed the rattletrap she was sitting on. A car honked, and Charlotte glanced in the direction of the driver. Behind the chauffeur she saw the wife of Nikhil Nair, attired as always in pink, waving in her direction. Her lips were moving, but her voice was inaudible: no one would dream of opening a car window unless it was absolutely necessary. Charlotte lifted one hand from the handlebar and waved back. For a brief moment she hoped that the wife of the district director of the Eastern Indian Mining Company would offer her a lift, but the car drove on and she breathed in the exhaust fumes it left behind.

  If she hadn’t had stomach troubles three weeks before, she wouldn’t have missed the talk by the professor from Calcutta at their regular Tuesday-morning get-together. He had impressed on the ladies the importance of daily exercise in the battle against cellulitis. “Aha,” said one of the ladies, “hence the bicycle.” The others nodded. None of them had understood why Charlotte, who always drove to the meeting, had sold the Vauxhall and from then on came by bike. The car disappeared into the distance. She didn’t know what make it was, but that it was new, big, and expensive was no secret. What was a secret, however, was the fact that Nikhil Nair wanted to buy Charlotte’s clock, the large standing clock that had stood on the landing since her earliest youth. Her grandfather had carried it on a tandem bike as he crossed the Khyber Pass, with his wife walking behind him. Again a car horn sounded; this time it wasn’t a club member who honked, but the driver of the truck with watermelons. Charlotte glanced in passing at a storefront clock. The meeting would be starting in ten minutes. Today’s speaker was a doctor, a fingernail specialist. As a child, Charlotte had seldom been given fresh milk, and she was convinced that that was responsible for her weak nails. Today she had carefully filed her nails and painted them bright red, the only colour she had on hand, knowing that the club members would be certain to examine each other’s hands with extra interest.

  Suddenly a cow crossed the road. Charlotte barely managed to avoid the animal as it trotted off in the direction of a wooden cart with a large iron drum, parked at the side of the road. The cow began to butt the drum with its horns. A small boy sitting on the rim shouted something to the animal, dived into the water, and emerged with a bucket of water, which he poured over the animal’s head. The cow opened her mouth. The water sloshed down her throat and she drank greedily. In the distance Charlotte heard a piercing noise that was coming steadily closer. Her heart always missed a beat at the sound of a fire engine siren. She breathed a quick prayer that it wasn’t a big fire and that no one would die, especially not the firemen. The siren ebbed away and she was glad there was no sign of the large, red fire engine. The boy climbed out of the drum with a second bucketful of water and poured it into the animal’s open mouth. Charlotte was thirsty, too. When she arrived at the club, there would be a pitcher of ice water alongside the coffee and tea.

  She pedalled under the archway. The guard was sound asleep in the shadow of the guardhouse. In his hand he held an empty cola bottle, and beside him, under a blue and white umbrella, the secretary’s dog lay panting next to a water bowl. The lawn of the New Rampur Club was yellowed and arid, and the stream that once ran through the terrain had disappeared. The eucalyptus trees that lined the long driveway cast shadows on the road, providing a modicum of cool shade. Before her stood the clubhouse, built in classic English country style and surrounded by enormous old plane trees. She heard a car approaching behind her and moved to the side of the road. The widow Singh’s 1957 Ambassador went by at top speed, her elderly chauffeur at the wheel. Charlotte did not raise her hand, since the widow never waved. She was asleep. She was always asleep, in the car and during the presentations. Whenever she sat still for two minutes, her head would drop forward, and she’d begin to snore softly. Charlotte appreciated the breath of air created by the speeding car.

  THE BUILDING THAT housed the New Rampur Club was — to put it mildly — due for renovation, and the library was in even worse shape. Most of the thousands of books it housed had been attacked by small black beetles, and the mice had also helped themselves. Moreover, as a result of repeated leaks during a monsoon, the closely packed books on the topmost shelves had been transformed into lumps of pages pasted together, and they gave off a stale, musty odour.

  The Reverend Das, who was not often seen at the club, entered the library with a weighty pile of books. He had lost all of his hair at the age of twenty, and it was perhaps for this reason that his vanity was reflected in his moustache, which was very large and dyed black. He went over to the reading table, shoved the women’s magazines aside, and replaced them with his own books. The door to the room reserved for the ladies was half open and he heard the chatter from the Tuesday-morning club as the members introduced themselves to the guest speaker. Without even glancing inside, he closed the door softly. Peace and quiet returned to the darkened library.

  The minister began arranging his books. Above his head, the fan whirred at full speed, and the sole remaining fluorescent tube wheezed softly. Five months ago, he had himself been the guest speaker at the ladies’ club meeting. He preferred not to recall his talk on the subject of good causes. He had spent weeks working on his presentation; he collected be
gging-letters from all over India, which he kept in a plastic folder. He told the ladies about child labour, rural poverty, ritual killings, and the sacrifice of widows, but they decided that their annual club dues would go to a lapsed nun from Calcutta who wanted to set up a dog pound. The Reverend Das had no idea how the lapsed nun’s letter had got into his folder. He had never seen the application and suspected that the epistle — which was full of grammatical errors — had somehow been slipped into his folder when he wasn’t looking.

  Dusty and perspiring, Charlotte walked into the library. She had hoped to freshen up in the change room at the tennis court, but it was occupied, so she washed her hands and face in the ladies’ room, ran a comb through her hair, and brushed most of the dust from her dress. She was surprised to find Reverend Das at the table with ladies’ magazines. It was rumoured that he had become a member in order to keep a closer eye on his parishioners. Seeing how furtively he was going through the reading material on the table, the evil tongues may well have been right.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bridgwater. How are you today?” he inquired, in the same booming voice he used in church. The thought struck him that she was still worth looking at, despite her age.

  “Thank you, Reverend Das, a bit warm but in good health. And yourself?” Charlotte was about to walk away, but the clergyman stopped her.

  “Are you familiar with this book?” He pressed a book into her hands. The title was The Lord, My Shepherd Even When It Rains.

  “No, but we could certainly use some rain. And some cool weather.” Charlotte walked over to the whirring fan and stood directly under it.

  “It’s an excellent book. I just finished it. You must read it.” He lowered his voice. “It describes the problems of an immigrant family with . . . er . . . their demented father.”