Waiting for the Monsoon Read online

  No. Just the opposite: it makes the material soft.

  “You see, he uses it to stiffen the material. So that it doesn’t wrinkle as easily,” she said to Hema, in an attempt to smooth things over.

  “But, memsahib, our sugar . . .”

  Madan shook his head. I bought my own sugar. He went to the kitchen and came back with a small bag of sugar.

  “Is that the sugar from the kitchen?” Charlotte asked Hema.

  He looked at the bag and shook his head. “But it’s the same colour.”

  “This sugar belongs to the darzi. I appreciate the fact that you were concerned, but now you can see that there isn’t really a problem. So you can go back to the kitchen without any cause for worry.”

  “Sugar on a dress. Sugar is for tea,” Hema grumbled. Then he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, still muttering to himself.

  On the landing above, the clock struck one. Then everything was quiet again. So quiet that Charlotte could still hear Hema complaining under his breath. Madan was standing in the middle of the hall holding his bag of sugar. He made no move to leave.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked.

  You haven’t found the fabric yet.

  “I looked for material for my dress today. I was positive that somewhere in the house there are really beautiful lengths of cloth lying around, but I can’t find them.”

  You would look lovely in red silk.

  “I seem to remember a piece of Italian silk that belonged to my mother. But it’s probably just disappeared after all these years . . .” Charlotte wanted him to stay, but she found it terribly awkward trying to carry on a conversation with someone who can’t speak.

  You understand me. Don’t be afraid. You hear everything I say.

  Then, like a bolt from the blue, a booming voice sounded from upstairs: “Discipline and order!”

  Charlotte looked straight into the eyes of her father, who was leaning over the balustrade on the landing. “Rules! They weren’t made for nothing!”

  She raced up the stairs. “Father! Father! Why aren’t you in your room?”

  “Rules! We have to abide by the rules, even if it means death. Straighten your backbone.”

  Charlotte grasped the handles of his wheelchair and tried to manoeuvre it back to the open nursery door. But he grabbed hold of the balustrade and pulled himself back to the edge. “You were standing there flirting with a darky,” he grinned. “I saw you. Brown women — bring ’em on! I’m ready and willing!”

  “Father! Calm down! That’s the tailor.”

  “They’re no slouches, those darkies. Especially if you keep them on short rations. Then they’ll do anything for you.”

  “Father! Please . . . stop!”

  Charlotte pulled at the wheelchair with all her strength, but the general had a tight hold on the railing. She was afraid to pull any harder, for fear he’d fall out of the wheelchair.

  “Go get the butler!” she shouted to Madan.

  “I don’t want any more yogurt! I want a woman! A woman!”

  “Calm down, Father. You can have whatever you need. Just calm down and I’ll take you back to your room . . .”

  Victor began to cry. “I want a cup of tea, he promised to bring me tea with extra sugar . . .”

  “Yes, yes. The tea is on its way. Are you coming? Then I’ll wheel you to your room.”

  “Don’t lie. You always lie. You’re a little sneak.”

  “Are you coming, Father?”

  Victor let go of the balustrade. “I’m thirsty. All day I’ve been so thirsty,” he sobbed, only to raise his voice again and shout, “You’re trying to starve me to death, you want to see me lying in my coffin, and then you’ll run off with my money . . .”

  She heard Hema storming up the stairs. He stood still when he reached the wheelchair, saluted, and gasped, “General sahib, do you feel like a cup of tea?”

  A broad grin appeared on her father’s face. “Ha, swaddy, the brew! Fill up my mug.”

  1943 Bengal ~~~

  THE JEEP IN front of him suddenly slows and then stops. He looks at his watch — they’re already an hour behind schedule. He gave clear orders not to make any more stops. A young officer gets out and goes to inspect the front of the vehicle. He shouts something that Victor can’t quite hear. Now the others are also getting out. One of them, a young soldier from Kerala, comes over to Victor’s car.

  “Major Bridgwater, we have a flat tire.”

  “Then get the hell back there and change it!” Victor snaps. “We can’t afford to stop here for a single minute!”

  The words are barely out of his mouth when an emaciated man steps out from behind the bushes nearby. He grabs hold of the soldier, who tries to walk away, but the man won’t let go of him.

  “Get out,” Victor barks at the men in his car. “Scare him off.”

  The soldiers get out of the jeep and go up to the man, with their weapons at the ready. He glances anxiously at their guns. But then he falls to his knees, reaches up, and tugs at the uniform jacket of one of the soldiers. From his car, Victor watches his subordinates’ attempt to deal with the man. The situation arose after a devastating hurricane passed over this part of the country, destroying all the rice and grain. But Victor doesn’t see that as the major cause of the famine. He is convinced that it’s the fault of the Japanese, who are now launching attacks from Burma. In this time of war, the British-Indian army simply doesn’t have the money or the manpower to deal with all the problems arising from the famine, no matter how pressing they are. In Victor’s view, it’s an example of the survival of the fittest in its purest form, and he finds some reassurance in the fact that only the strongest will survive. Which is ultimately a good thing, considering the extreme overpopulation in the area. The man is on his knees now, clutching one officer’s leg so tightly that he can’t move. The soldier attempts to extricate himself from the man’s grasp, while the others go about changing the tire, a process that is progressing much more slowly than it should. If we were at the front, this delay could have cost us dearly, Victor reflects as he toys with his swagger stick. The thought has barely taken shape when more men, women, and children emerge from the undergrowth. Most of them are skin and bones, and they fall upon the soldiers, all of whom are around twenty years old and have never missed a meal in their lives. He grasps his swagger stick. As their superior he ought to get out of the car, but then it occurs to him that it would be good for his men to solve this problem themselves. Later, when they come face to face with the Japs, they’ll look back on this incident as a piece of cake. The door he’s leaning against is suddenly opened from outside. He almost falls out of the car and only just succeeds in grabbing the back of the seat as his swagger stick falls to the floor. He is about to unleash a volley of oaths when he sees the girl who opened the car door. Although she’s emaciated and her eyes are sunken in their sockets, the promise of beauty is not entirely gone. She puts her hand to her mouth, gesturing to him that she is hungry. Victor knows that the crate behind him is filled with cans of meat, beans, flour, and even chocolate and coffee. But opening that crate would be an invitation for her fellow villagers to seize the vehicle and in the end there would be very little left of him and the jeep. He knows that he should push the girl away and close the car door, but there is something in her eyes that prevents him from doing so. She sees his hesitation and gives him a shy smile. He notices that her teeth are still flawless. Again she brings her hand to her mouth. Unobtrusively, Victor’s hand steals to his jacket pocket, where he finds a few coins, a box of matches, and a piece of candy. He wants to give the candy to the girl but has second thoughts. That would be just as dangerous as opening the crate. His hand closes around the piece of candy. The girl holds out her hand, with the palm up, and looks at him imploringly. He clutches the piece of candy. Her begging ha
nd enters the car. He smells the girl: there is a faintly sour odour coming from her mouth. Her skin is dry and the area around her lips scaly. Slowly the girl’s hand drops, in the direction of his crotch. He flushes. I must close the car door! She must leave! She places her hand on his fly. He breaks out in a sweat. He wants to take his hand out of his pocket, give her the piece of candy, and then close the car door, but he can feel that the candy is stuck to his hand and he cannot let go. He feels the faint pressure of her hand on his member. He starts to breathe faster. Outside there is shouting, followed by a shot, and another, and another. People disperse.

  There is panicked shouting: “Get the hell out of here.”

  Victor takes his hand out of his pocket and pushes the girl away. She sees the piece of candy sticking to his hand and tries to grab it. One of the young officers hits her on the jaw with the butt of his rifle, knocking her to the ground. Victor wants to toss the piece of candy in her direction, so that it’s within her reach, but the car door is slammed shut with a bang. The men jump into the car and take off at high speed. Victor looks at the sticky sweet in his hand. The girl must have been around the same age as Charlotte, whom he hasn’t seen in over six years. He shakes his head in annoyance. These are not the kind of thoughts he wants going through his head right now.

  “Two dead, Major Bridgwater,” the young officer calls out. “Two dead, but it was self-defence. You saw for yourself that it was self-defence. You did, didn’t you?”

  Victor puts the sweet in his mouth, nods, and bends down to pick up his swagger stick.

  1968 Rampur ~~~

  Dear Donald,

  On behalf of Father, I want to thank you for the wheelchair you sent. We could never have found one like that here. You’ve probably heard that we’ve come to a decision. Father didn’t find it difficult, but I did. In his view, it’s clear that we’re going to remain here in Rampur. In the end, I made the same decision, which means that both of us are now officially Indian citizens. At least we won’t have to make the long train journey every time we need a passport. I used to have to go all the way to the embassy in New Delhi. Actually, I’ve never really felt English. You do, though, don’t you? I guess that’s because you stayed in England after you finished school. And now that you and Patricia are married, you probably won’t ever come here to live. I really enjoyed the party. And what a big family she has! Patricia’s wedding gown was unforgettable . . . with the tiny roses along the neckline, so lovely. It’s a shame Father couldn’t be there. It would have been his first visit to England. But who knows, once he gets used to this wheelchair, he may come over by plane, now that travel has become so much easier. That must make me sound like an old lady, but it was really fantastic to get to another country in such a short time, and the stewardesses were so very sweet. How was your honeymoon? They say Portugal is a beautiful country. Could you send me some photos? Everything’s fine here. But we did have a lot of trouble with red ants in the drawing room. You remember, the big room next to the front door. Did I tell you that Father bought a new couch? It’s just as red as the red ants, which is why I didn’t see them at first. There’s a really nasty kind of poison that a special man comes and sprays all over the room. We weren’t allowed to go in there for a whole week, but since then we haven’t seen a single ant. We also have a new cook, since the old bobajee regularly suffered from bad attacks of malaria. He says he contracted it during the war, but I think it actually comes from here. There are so many people who suffer from it, because almost no one sleeps under a mosquito net. We’re very careful about that. Do you remember that apple tree we planted when you were here? It just produced its first apples. The new cook uses them to make apple pie, since they’re too sour to eat raw. I’ll stop now. It’s almost time to take Father to the club, and I have to drive because the chauffeur is visiting his relatives.

  Love — to Patricia too,

  Your sister Charlotte

  1953 Bombay ~~~

  MADAN PULLS HIS legs back into the crate for the tenth time that morning. He is finding it more and more difficult to work inside the narrow confines of the crate, not only because the heat makes it almost unbearable, but because he’s growing. A few weeks ago he tried to make this clear to his boss, but all Ram Khan said was that he still hadn’t paid off his debt and that his bill would keep going up as long as he polished off a pan of food every day. Now Madan is unpicking the seam of a pair of brown pants, but they keep getting caught on the inside of the crate and it requires a real effort to work at all. Without his noticing, his legs have slid forward and out of the crate. Ram Khan, who has noticed, picks up the stone that always lies next to him and drops it on Madan’s bare foot. With a hoarse cry, he pulls his foot back into the crate. Madan hears Ram Khan say, “Next time I’ll chop your foot off.” Then he hears a strange voice say, “The Lord has said: if your leg is a burden to you, chop it off. However, this child isn’t the one who’s bothered by the leg, but you. God has never given anyone the right to chop off someone else’s foot.” Slowly the white man in a long white robe walks over to Ram Khan. There is a crucifix hanging from his belt. The tailor, who is not often at a loss for words, stares in amazement at the young monk, who continues, “It is written, ‘Let the children play.’ Tell me why you lock this child in a crate?”

  “I can do whatever I want with my own child. Or would you argue with that?”

  “Your child?” The man reaches into the crate and gently pulls Madan out.

  Ram Khan jumps to his feet. The plank creaks under the sudden movement. “Keep your hands off my son.”

  “Your son,” the man repeats. “Then tell me how he got that scar on his throat.”

  Madan, who is now sitting half in and half out of the crate, makes himself small. His foot, on which the rock had just landed, is bleeding slightly, but in comparison with the old pain, it is nothing.

  “He had a fall once,” Ram Khan snaps.

  “This is not your child,” the man says.

  “And just who do you think you are?” Out of the corner of his eye, Ram Khan checks to see whether there are any policemen coming down the street.

  “I’m Brother Francis of the Congregation of St. Thomas. I walked past twice last week, and I saw how you treat this child. I know your name: you’re Ram Khan, you come from Punjab, and you don’t have any children. You’ve never even been married.”

  Ram Khan’s mouth falls open.

  “So I am taking this boy with me, and if you try to prevent me from doing so, I will call the police.”

  The tailor searches for words, for curses, for a solution. The only thing he can think of is: “My eyes are bad.”

  “Then buy a pair of glasses.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “That’s not the child’s fault.” Brother Francis of the Congregation of St. Thomas takes Madan by the shoulder. He hasn’t been able to get a good look at the boy, who was always scrunched up inside the crate. Now he sees that the child is quite good-looking: the set of his eyes, the broad mouth, the straight nose and curly hair. Only the angry wound under his chin is repulsive. The brother smiles at him, but Madan still doesn’t dare take the white hand extended in his direction.

  “You see? He doesn’t want to leave.”

  The brother goes down on one knee and looks Madan in the eye. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. There are a lot of boys like you in our house, some of them older and some younger. Every boy has a bed of his own, and we have a school where you can learn to read and write.”

  “He’s dumb,” says Ram Khan in a final attempt to hang on to the boy.

  With an encouraging nod in the boy’s direction, he turns back to the tailor. “We’re leaving.” He takes hold of Madan’s hand and pulls him gently to his feet.

  “He still owes me money,” Ram Khan sputters.

  “What for?”

  “For hi
s clothes, for his food, and for his room.”

  The brother takes a bill from his pocket and gives it to the tailor. “Thanks be to God,” he says, and pulls Madan along, down the street.

  Several streets away, where the bazaar ends, the brother stops. Nervously he takes a comb from his pocket, bends down, and combs Madan’s hair.

  Madan is suddenly reminded of his sister. He smiles.

  THEY WALK THROUGH an archway and into a square surrounded by a building with three storeys. Madan, his hair now neatly parted, doesn’t know where to look. Everywhere there are boys in short white pants and white shirts. Some are playing cricket; others are standing around chatting or shouting from open windows. One of them is lying asleep in the shade of a tree. Among the children, he notices men dressed like Brother Francis.

  The brother hasn’t spoken to Madan during their trip by rickshaw, but by means of gestures he tried to make it clear that he gave Madan’s boss money, so that Madan needn’t be afraid that Ram Khan might come after him, and also that he — Brother Francis — would take good care of him.

  Hand in hand, they walk into a hall with long tables. Brother Francis motions to Madan to sit down. Then he goes into the kitchen and comes back with a plate of food, which he sets in front of the boy. The young missionary watches in fascination as the boy wolfs down the cold rice with dal, as if he is afraid someone will snatch the plate away before he is finished.

  After taking the last bite, Madan sees that they’ve been joined by another brother, this one with a beard. He hears Brother Francis explain to the other brother that he found him in the bazaar, with a tailor who had locked him up in a crate. “The poor child is deaf and dumb!” he explains in a dramatic voice.

  The brother with the beard sits down opposite Madan. He points to his chest and says in a loud voice, “I’M BROTHER JOHN. I’M WITH THE SCHOOL.” Then he turns to Brother Francis and sighs. “How would you explain ‘school’ in sign language?”