Waiting for the Monsoon Read online

  “What?” growls Ram Khan. He has just found the beginning of the thread and does not want to look up because he is afraid of losing it again.

  “Your errand boy.”

  Ram Khan looks up in surprise. He glances from his friend to the boy across the street. “That little rat has nothing to do with me!”

  “If you ask me, he’s looking for more. You’d better watch out, before you know it, he’ll grab that pan from under your feet. Don’t forget . . . if you feed a rat sugar you’re asking for trouble.”

  “Give him a kick,” Ram Khan snarls. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Madan makes himself smaller but continues to stare at the tailor. He’s sure that he threw the stone past him on purpose. The man with the box continues on his way, muttering to himself, and in his cubicle the tailor stares at the shirt on the table in front of him with an angry look on his face. Again his gaze is drawn to the filthy child, who continues to stare at him. The boy is wearing a grimy undershirt, and he’s covered in dried blood.

  Suddenly Ram Khan stands up and walks into the alleyway next to the coppersmith. Madan watches him expectantly. The tailor motions him to follow. He scurries after the man, taking small, quick steps. At the end of the narrow passageway, the alley curves to the left. It’s dark, and there is a stench of filth and urine. What little light there is comes from a narrow shaft between the buildings. The man looks threateningly at the boy as he walks up to him. The street noises have disappeared. In front of a decaying door stands a bucket half full of water. Ram Khan points to the bucket. Madan’s thirst has not abated after the cup of sweet tea an hour ago, and he goes down on his knees to drink.

  Ram Khan gives him a kick. “Don’t drink, wash!” With one hand, he grabs a rusty can out of the bucket and empties it over the child. “Wash. Your shirt, too. And when you’re clean, come out to the street.” He throws the can back into the murky water and strides off.

  When the man is out of sight, Madan bends over the bucket and begins to drink. He slurps greedily. The water tastes strange, but it quenches his thirst. Then he throws a can of water over his head and rubs his hands over his arms.

  Not clean, but at least wet, he again stands in front of Ram Khan. The man doesn’t look up, but continues sewing. Madan waits stock still, watching the man’s hands pull the blue cloth through the machine. It’s the same shade of blue as his sister’s coat. The tailor turns the material twice. Then he picks up his scissors and trims the threads. Without looking, he throws the garment in Madan’s direction; the boy picks it up and sees that it’s a pair of pants that may fit him.

  1953 Rampur ~~~

  “A MAN DOES not simply die. A man only dies by choice . . .”

  Through her black veil Charlotte looks at her father: he is in uniform, on the other side of Peter’s open grave. The casket has just been lowered and the small group of mourners, heads bowed, are listening to the general’s words. Charlotte wants to protest, she wants to tell her father that he’s wrong, but she knows that it’s true. In this case.

  “Peter Harris was a good doctor,” Victor continues, looking down at the casket that holds the remains of his son-in-law, “but a wounded human being.” Peter’s officer’s cap lies on the casket, together with a small bouquet of yellow flowers. “I never expected that you would give my daughter back so soon. But . . .” Victor picks up a handful of earth. “I promise you that I shall care for her as if she were my own wife.” He throws the earth onto the coffin. It lands with a dull thud.

  The others follow, one by one. Charlotte wants to put her fingers in her ears so that she doesn’t have to listen to the hollow thud that sounds on the casket and its contents. The thought of burying Peter fills her with despair, now that she is closer to understanding the cries for help triggered by his dreams. Peter was wounded and terrified of suffocating in those dark depths. Why didn’t she bury him in New Delhi? Why did she want him to lie next to the mother she had never known? Why hadn’t she gone back to England? Why did she return to Rampur? The small group of mourners look in her direction, waiting for her to take a handful of earth and throw it onto her husband’s coffin. But she is unable to move. Now she, too, feels the hand that gripped Peter’s throat every night during those final months. Her mouth is dry as dust, and she feels as if the breath is being squeezed from her lungs. She gasps for air, fresh air, clean air. She has to get away from this place, away from death and gravestones. Her father clears his throat and looks at her encouragingly. No one can see her face behind the veil. The veil! It’s the veil! She pulls the widow’s veil from her hat and gasps for air. She feels the eyes focused on her. She bites her lip. Stooping down, she takes a handful of earth from the pile next to the grave and throws it. Half of it hits the edge of the grave; the rest lands on the grass. Fortunately, she didn’t hit his coffin.

  THE ASHTRAY IS full of half-smoked cigarettes, and a grey haze fills the room. She’s ordered the shutters to be kept closed, and her suitcases are still standing in the corner. The old nursery hasn’t changed. Her bed with the pink spread is still under the window, and her brother’s bed, with the blue spread, is in exactly the same spot as it was seventeen years ago: against the wall of the bathroom. The mat Sita used to sleep on is rolled up and lies underneath the wooden bench, as if she slept on it last night. Charlotte is happy that Sita was at the funeral, even though she stood at the back and didn’t speak. She was there. She had always been there during difficult times. If only she could walk into the room now, sit down next to her, and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. The familiar scent of the coconut oil that Sita rubbed into her hair every morning comforted her. Charlotte longs for a ginger lozenge, a delicacy that the ayah drew from the folds of her sari to treat a skinned knee or a nosebleed. She remembers how the girl used to brush the tangles out of her hair at bedtime: at each stroke she whispered the name of a dream elf. But her father sent Sita away and now she is alone.

  Charlotte gets up and walks over to the wardrobe she shared with her brother. It’s in the same place, next to the balcony door. And the toy chest still stands in the middle of the room. She lights another cigarette. The familiar objects from her past have a soothing effect. She was flustered by the panic attack at the graveside. Is it possible that Peter’s legacy consists of his own demons? She senses that what happened next to the grave was rooted in what he himself went through every night. Could he be floating somewhere above her, trying to tell her that he loves her? Or perhaps he never loved her, and this was her punishment for not having children. She hears a knock. Before she can say “Go away,” the door opens.

  “What a stink hole!” her father blusters. Without slowing his pace, he strides across the room and throws open the shutters. The setting sun casts its rays onto the bed. “Get out of bed and on with life, that’s the only remedy. Sitting around and snivelling about someone who’s not coming back won’t get you anywhere.” He gives the cord on the wall a yank. “I’ll see that this room gets a good airing. . . . That’ll chase away the worries going round and round in your head.”

  “Father?” There’s a catch in her voice. The general stares at his daughter as if he’s seeing her for the first time in her black widow’s weeds, sitting on her childhood bed, a cigarette in her hand.

  There’s so much Charlotte wants to tell him. That the shutters must be closed, that there aren’t any “worries” going round in her head, that she has to fight to keep back her tears, that Peter may have been afraid but it wasn’t his fault, that she didn’t know what he’d gone through in Burma but her father might well know, that she is terrified at the thought that she may have inherited Peter’s terrors, that she doesn’t know where to go, that there’s not a single spot on earth for her except perhaps this room, which hasn’t changed since her childhood, that she misses her mother, or at least she misses the time when she had a mother, that she doesn’t know what the word “family” means, that s
he doesn’t even know what it is to have a husband, that the passionate night of love in Bombay was never repeated, that she did her best to seduce him but that she never succeeded, that Peter seemed more devoted to his patients than to her, that she feels as if her youth has been stolen from her although she doesn’t know by whom, that she is afraid, terribly afraid, of becoming even more lonely than she already is, that when she looks in the mirror she sees a woman she doesn’t know, that she . . . “Did you cry when Mama died?”

  Victor looks at his daughter in amazement. No one has ever asked him such a personal question in his entire life. He is astounded, and for a moment he wonders if he misunderstood her, but looking at his daughter’s face, he knows that he heard her correctly. “Cry? Me cry?” He smiles derisively. “The man or woman who’s seen me cry has yet to be born. No, Charlotte, a true Bridgwater doesn’t cry. Ever.” He is about to add, “Not even when he sees his father jump into a ravine,” but he swallows his words. Why burden a child with futilities from the past that are best forgotten?

  “I didn’t cry when she died either,” Charlotte said.

  “You see . . . you’re your father’s child.”

  “Because I didn’t know that she was dead. Because you didn’t write and tell me until six months later,” says Charlotte.

  For a moment it is quiet. Outside a bird is singing and the shrill voice of the samosa vender sounds.

  “There was no sense in writing you any sooner,” says Victor emphatically, “no sense at all.” Then there’s a knock. He looks in the direction of the door. “Just as it makes no sense to sit here and mope in the dark. Come in!” The last words came out louder than he had intended.

  A servant in a spotless uniform enters the room. “Did you ring, sahib?”

  “Take my daughter’s suitcases to the yellow room.”

  WHEN SHE OPENS the little perfume bottle, she smells her mother’s scent. Behind her, the servants are emptying the cabinets in the yellow room. Bags filled with dresses and boxes of women’s shoes disappear in the direction of the attic and the nursery. The old closet is now filled with scarves and shawls her mother collected and piles of fabric in different colours. Every drawer, cabinet, and shelf is scrubbed. Charlotte cannot bear to watch. She doesn’t want to cry now — fifteen years later — over the loss of her mother. Her father is right. She can’t bring her back, no matter how hard she cries.

  “Ma’am, should I throw away that bottle, too?” asks one of the servants shyly.

  She hands him the perfume bottle, which is almost empty. Noiselessly, he deposits it in a box along with the other bottles and then disappears himself, without making a sound.

  “Tomorrow I’m having the room painted green.” Her father stands in the door opening. “The smell of paint helps.”

  He is gone before she can ask him what the smell of paint is good for. When he calls for a painter, his voice resounds throughout the house. Charlotte closes the door. She wants to be alone. She wants to ponder whether she’s making the right decision. Should she stay or leave? And if she leaves, where should she go? Where can she go? The empty closets stare at her, just like the mirror where she used to see her mother’s reflection. The green dress, where is the green evening dress? Suddenly she panics, jumps up, runs to the landing, and stops the first servant she sees. “Where are my mother’s dresses? I want to see her green evening gown.”

  The servant hasn’t the slightest idea which dress she means, but he nods subserviently and walks on.

  “A floor-length green gown. Pale green, with a low neckline.”

  “I don’t think it would be appropriate to go out tonight,” says the general, who is standing behind her. “You buried your husband today.”

  1947 New Delhi ~~~

  “COME ON, PETER, everyone’s out in the street.” Charlotte gives the conjugal sheet a gentle tug, but Peter rolls himself even more tightly into his fetal position. “It’s a celebration! They’re all dancing and singing.” Peter pulls a pillow over his head and covers his ears. Charlotte sits down on the edge of their bed. Cautiously she puts her hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t know whether to caress him or drag him out of the bed where he sometimes takes refuge. “Peter?” She hesitates. Of course, there’s no reason why she can’t simply leave, without asking him, and join in the festivities on her own. “Is it all right if I go to the club? I’d like to experience this historic day.” She can hear the shouting and rejoicing in the street below. A tremor goes through Peter’s body. “Do you want me to close the window? Would you rather be alone?” She gets up from the bed, closes the windows, and turns the fan above their bed to the highest setting. The fan rotates, and a cool breeze descends on them. Charlotte strokes her husband’s shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come along? Just this once? Nothing’s going to happen . . . people are happy, everyone’s smiling.” His whole body tenses. When he looks up, she sees the terror in his eyes. “I would so love to dance with you, just this once,” Charlotte whispers.

  With a sudden sweep of his arm, Peter throws the pillow to one side. He shoots out of bed. “Can’t you see I don’t want to! Do I ask you to do things you don’t want to do? I don’t want to dance, I don’t want to see the cheering masses. Before you know it, all those ‘happy’ people will be murdering and raping each other, burning villages to the ground, just like in Punjab. Don’t you realize what’s going on? Can’t you see? They are going to go on annihilating each other until there are no Indians left. Yesterday the streets were full of bodies, and you want to go dancing? We shouldn’t be dancing, we should be running away. Celebrations! How dare you say the word? Whose celebration is it? Yours? Mine? Theirs?” He points to the street, and the exultant crowds. “Haven’t you heard about the charred bodies of children? I fought for them. For them and for our fatherland. Our fatherland!” He spreads his arms. “I fought in the goddamned jungle, without rules, without laws. I know what people are like. What they’re really like. I know what charred bodies look like, how they smell. I know what a crowd can do. I know why they’re singing. I know their songs. I know them better than anyone. And I never want to hear them again. Never. If we don’t get out of here, they’ll start to think we’re parasites. They’ll murder us. Here in this room. In this very bed! Go ahead and celebrate, enjoy your gin and tonics at the club, and dance till you drop. I’m staying put!” He wraps himself in the sheet and curls up.

  Charlotte lets the torrent of words rain down on her like a cold shower. And yet the outburst does not produce the effect he intended. Gradually she allows the words to sink in. This is the first time he’s ever spoken of his war experiences. His secret terrors. She wants to ask questions, to tell him that he can share his past with her, but the sight of his back, turned so resolutely toward her, tells her that it’s better to leave. And yet she doesn’t get up. She sits there watching him, his rapid breathing and his bare feet full of scars protruding from under the sheet. “Where do you want to go?” she asks softly. “Do you want to go back to England?”

  1947 Grand Palace ~~~

  THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE are standing in front of the palace and the crowd is still growing. The news that the maharaja is distributing food has reached even the most remote villages. Today there is free public transportation across all of India. More and more people are trying to reach the palace. Many of the cheering men are wearing the Ghandhi topi. He is their hero, but they also shout the name of the maharaja, and celebrate the independence of India.

  From the window of the women’s room, Chutki surveys the swarming crowd in the square below. She holds her baby brother in her arms. He’s ill again. He’s coughing and has a fever. If only Harris sahib were here. He always managed to solve the problem. He wasn’t afraid of attacks of fever and coughing fits. He could always come up with a solution. Her sisters and aunts have already gone to the great hall. Today is a red-letter day and everyone is downstairs, except for Aunti
e Geeta, who’s deaf and half blind. As always, she is lying on a couch, asleep. Even the punkah-wallah has left. Chutki lays the baby down next to the old woman. He coughs and wheezes, but Auntie Geeta doesn’t wake up. Taking a candle, matches, and a stick of incense from a drawer, she goes into the spacious bathroom, which is empty. She takes down a bottle of eau de cologne from the shelf and a bit of cotton, rolling the objects up in a towel. She returns to the hall, walks to the end, and pushes open the heavy door leading to her father’s rooms, where it smells of tobacco and coffee. She knocks on the door of his study, but there is no answer, so she gently opens the door and slips inside. On the desk that stands in the middle of the room, she finds a large box of cigars and takes two of them. In his bathroom she finds a sharp knife, which she hides inside the folds of her sari. Quickly she goes back down the long corridor, up the stairs, and into the working quarters. Along the way, she doesn’t see any of the mehtars or other servants.

  Chutki gives a start when she opens the door: the darzi is in his customary place at the sewing machine. “Aren’t you going to the celebrations? They’re for everyone. My father said so.”

  He looks disconsolately at the richly embroidered jacket in his lap, sticks the needle into the fabric, and heaves a sigh: “This is for the celebrations.”

  “Have you got a couple of straight pins for me?”

  The darzi points to a bowl. “Help yourself.”

  She runs back to the women’s quarters and adds the pins to the objects in the towel. In the big room old Geeta is snoring away and the baby is still asleep. Gently she takes him in her arms. The child awakens and starts coughing. “Shush, baby, shush,” she comforts him. “I’m going to make you better.” Then she goes into the bathroom and lays the baby on the floor. The cool tiles startle him, but his high fever gets the upper hand. She unrolls the towel and lays out all the objects in a row. Then she lights the candle, drips a bit of wax on the floor and positions the candle. Then she lights the stick of incense and places it on the edge of the bathtub. Through the open window, she hears shouts of “India zindabad!” — the cry that for weeks has sounded on the roads and in the villages: Long live India! Kneeling down in front of the child, she closes her eyes and folds her hands in front of her chest. She begins to sing softly, in a barely audible voice. A monotone, slightly nasal song. The baby utters faint cries. She places her hands on his stomach and goes on singing. The crying stops. She moistens a cotton ball in eau de cologne and goes over the baby’s hands and feet as she sings to him. Then she takes a pin, holds it over the flame, and then very slowly sticks it into the sole of the baby’s foot. He immediately begins to howl and kick his legs. She pins the thrashing legs to the floor with one hand. For a moment she stops singing. “Hush now. I’m doing this for you, to get rid of Mama’s curse on you. Hush now, baby . . .” The child begins to scream. She takes the knife and holds it over the flame. “You are going to be happy, I promise you. When she dies.” Then Chutki picks up the knife and holds it over the candle flame. In the corridor she hears women’s voices, and sees that she didn’t lock the door. Quickly she blows out the candle, throws a towel over the objects on the floor, pulls the pin out of the baby’s foot, and picks him up. The door opens.