Waiting for the Monsoon Read online

  “Who?” groaned the wife of Ajay Karapiet, throwing off the blanket she had just pulled up over her shoulders.

  “Charlotte Bridgwater, of course! Apparently not a single outfit is finished, and he sprinkles sugar on our fabrics. And the butler, who’s actually more of a general dogsbody — although she always calls him the butler — was also against it and they ended up fighting, he and the darzi, and she had to get between them, she told me herself. Just imagine him walking into your servants’ quarters, you certainly wouldn’t have had the courage . . . although I sometimes wonder whether it was such a good idea, that man in her house . . .”

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet knew that her friend was waiting for her to say “How do you mean?” or “What are you suggesting?” but her head was pounding and her ears were ringing. She was longing for a glass of cold water and wanted to go back to sleep, so she just groaned faintly, which was interpreted as a question.

  “I have a suspicion — but this mustn’t go any further — that she’s using him as a gardener as well!”

  Even with a head full of mucous and a temperature of 39.4, the wife of Ajay Karapiet pricked up her ears. “The tailor! A gardener?” she panted.

  “My cook saw him buying a crate of flower seeds at the market. You don’t use flower seeds to make clothes, do you? She hasn’t had a gardener since her mali returned to his cycle of reincarnation, and I know that her handyman hates gardening. I heard that from my chauffeur’s brother. And . . .” Her voice dropped, building up the suspense. “. . . someone has seen her cutting the grass before it gets light. Imagine! Cutting the grass herself! The mistress of the great house!”

  That news was enough to make the wife of Ajay Karapiet sit straight up in bed. “She mows her own grass?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Of course, she doesn’t want anyone to know, that’s why she goes out before dawn. But if you put those three things together, then the conclusion is clear. Plus the fact that he hasn’t produced a single dress. I’m absolutely positive that the tailor — who is supposed to make sure that in a couple of weeks all of us look absolutely fabulous — does the gardening!”

  There was a plaintive sigh at the other end of the line. The patient fell back onto the pillows.

  “I’m glad you agree with me and, just between the two of us . . . isn’t this an example of old-fashioned colonial behaviour?”

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet let out a faint croak. She had never really understood what colonial behaviour was. In her eyes, the English were the people who brought both the railroad and the postal service. Both of these institutions were still doing incredibly well, and she and her children, who had decided to continue their studies in faraway cities, were enthusiastic users.

  “We have to do something. We can’t let this happen. We have to go and see for ourselves.”

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet groaned.

  “Are you really that sick?”

  “Come and fetch me,” said the wife of Ajay Karapiet. She knew that her friend would go on badgering her until she got up.

  ~~~

  CHARLOTTE HEARD A car coming up the path, which hadn’t been called the “driveway” for years. The hole her father dug had remained open for two years. After the ambulance drove off, the sewer workers had grudgingly helped to load the pipes back onto the truck before leaving. The ground was too hard, they said. Her father was moved to a rehabilitation clinic, where he learned to move about with his useless limbs, and after the monsoon she had hired a new contractor, who reviewed the situation and came to the conclusion that it was much faster and easier to lay the pipes from the other side of the hill. And the contractor was right. His men had no trouble digging a deep trench through the garden. The first time Charlotte positioned herself on the modern flush toilet, it was one hundred and eight years to the day since Queen Victoria had tried out her new toilet. When Charlotte asked the men to fill the hole at the bottom of the driveway, the foreman laughed and said, “You call this rut a driveway?” From then on, everyone referred to it as “the path,” and when her father came home for the first time in two years, the garden and the house had deteriorated to such an extent that the term stuck.

  The wife of Nikhil Nair got out of the car wearing her bright pink blouse, accompanied by the wife of Ajay Karapiet, who had put on a cardigan. Hema ran out of the kitchen, across the grass, through the servants’ entrance, and into the hall, just managing to get to the front door in time to open it when the doorbell rang. He left the ladies in the bare hall and went into the drawing room. Memsahib, who was already aware of the visitors, was kneeling on the floor. Without saying a word, Charlotte and Hema rolled out the carpet and shoved the chairs around so that the room appeared slightly fuller. Charlotte smoothed her skirt, wiped her forehead, and nodded to Hema that he could usher the ladies in. Hands were shaken and courtesies exchanged. The wife of Ajay Karapiet had bright red cheeks and perspiration was pouring down her face. Charlotte didn’t know that she was running a temperature of close to 40 degrees, and considered it inappropriate to inquire, now that everyone was suffering from excess perspiration.

  “We were in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in. I hope it’s not an inconvenient time?”

  “No, of course not.” Charlotte surreptitiously flattened an upturned corner of the rug with the toe of her shoe.

  “We’d like to go by and see the darzi. Would that be all right?”

  Hema, who was hanging about, waiting for orders to make tea or coffee, was sent to fetch the tailor. Charlotte knew that if they saw the tailor at work in the room next to the kitchen, the complaints about odours would start up again. The fan was going at full speed, and an uncomfortable silence fell. Charlotte had been caught unexpectedly by the two busybodies. The wife of Ajay Karapiet could think of nothing but her bed. The wife of Nikhil Nair had difficulty disguising her curiosity: she looked around the room, which appeared much less shabby than she had expected. She was most surprised to see that the costly Persian rug was still there. But she didn’t know that the bank owned the oriental, as well as the chair she was sitting in, the side table where her purse lay, and the dresser (which did seem a trifle bare), together with the rest of the furniture in the room. The door opened and the darzi walked in, his head slightly bowed in deference. He was carrying two dresses over his arm, one pink and the other gold brocade. The wife of Nikhil Nair jumped up with a squeal and raced across the room to take possession of her new outfit. She began to crow with delight, snatched the dress from his hands, and danced around the room. The wife of Ajay Karapiet also beamed with delight when she was given her gold dress.

  They are truly beautiful, thought Charlotte.

  Yours is going to be even more beautiful. If I can find the right material.

  You’ll find it.

  Charlotte looked at Madan, who was looking at the two women. She felt uncomfortable: it was as if he was answering her thoughts.

  “I simply must try it on,” the wife of Nikhil Nair cooed.

  Oh, God, no! Charlotte thought. Then they’ll see that all the rooms are empty.

  They can try the dresses on at home and then bring them back. They’re almost finished.

  They can take them home?

  Madan nodded.

  Charlotte looked at him in surprise.

  Her confusion was dispelled by the wife of Nikhil Nair: “Do you have a room where we can try them on?”

  “You can take the dresses with you and try them on at home.” She was surprised to hear the words coming out of her mouth. She glanced uncertainly in Madan’s direction, but he immediately agreed with her proposal.

  “It would be better if we could try them on here.”

  Madan nodded, and motioned that that was not a problem.

  “I want to try mine on now, in case the waist isn’t quite right, or the darts are too high . .
. ,” she insisted. “I always seem to have problems with new dresses.”

  As if it was already understood, Madan and Charlotte walked to the door together.

  “Use this room,” Charlotte said. “It’s cooler in here.”

  They stood side by side in the vast, empty hall. They didn’t dare look at one another.

  The dresses are perfect.

  How do you know that for sure?

  Those dresses will fit perfectly.

  You seem pretty certain.

  Yes.

  Tailors are never sure of themselves. The thought went through her head before she was actually aware of it, and she realized that repressing her thoughts was more difficult than holding her tongue.

  Madan stood looking at her.

  Charlotte wanted to apologize, but then the door flew open and the wife of Nikhil Nair rushed into the hall. The pink evening dress concealed all the bulges in her corpulent body. She proclaimed the tailor a “genius” and announced that she had never before had a dress that fitted her as perfectly as this one. In the drawing room, the wife of Ajay Karapiet wheezed and perspired as she tried to work her way into her new dress, but her friend was too busy to notice.

  1954 Bombay ~~~

  HIS LEFT LEG drags along the ground and he uses the handle of an old umbrella as a cane. Madan tries to imitate his friend Abbas, who is a master at limping. Looking at Abbas, people are convinced that he is really a cripple, with a crooked hip joint and a lame foot. The side of his foot is calloused and filthy from dragging it along the street. And the white outfits, which were given to them six months earlier by the brothers of the St. Thomas congregation, are neither white nor in one piece. Madan found a piece of cloth that was once red and has tied it around his waist like a belt. This is where he keeps his money. Abbas has a deep pocket on the left side of his pants: that way no one can hear the coins jingle when he limps. But both the belt and the pocket are empty. Without making eye contact, they hobble in the direction of the taxi. “Baksheesh,” Abbas groans and crosses his eyes until he’s not sure whether there is one man alighting from the taxi or two.

  The gentleman does not even deign to look at the two boys. His only goal is the door of the restaurant, from which delectable odours emanate. Lamb curry, he muses. Or shall I have the shrimp curry today?

  Madan, who has seldom had a full stomach since the day he lost his sister, grabs the man’s sleeve. He, too, appeals for baksheesh, but only a raw, animal noise comes from his mouth. The man is startled out of his culinary musings by the terrifying sound. Filled with repugnance, he pushes Madan away and without looking at him, shoves a coin into the proffered hand. In a fraction of a second, the coin disappears into the belt around Madan’s waist.

  Abbas has pointed out that the sounds he utters when he tries to speak work wonderfully well when he’s begging. Almost better than walking with a limp and looking cross-eyed. It is a simple fact that people give more money to a maimed bag of bones than to an ordinary child. So all day Madan utters his horrific cries. He discovers that women give more when he uses high tones, which resemble a baby goat that’s lost its mother. Men tend to be more generous when he makes use of lower tones, which are reminiscent of a movie hero whose throat is being cut. Madan has also learned that he gets more money from older women when his cries are uttered slowly, while younger women prefer faster and softer sounds. He also knows that men give him money almost immediately when he approaches them from behind, and that the opposite is true in the case of women. Since he cannot explain all these techniques to Abbas, he simply makes use of them while experimenting with new ruses to bring in more money.

  His stomach rumbles. Yesterday none of his tricks worked, and the boys made almost nothing. He doesn’t think about the man who in a half-hour will be coming out of the restaurant with a full stomach. His eyes search the street for their next victim. Then he hears screams, and a woman with a bucket on her head comes running out of an alleyway. “Help,” she shouts. “Help!” Abbas looks at Madan and Madan at Abbas. Yesterday the proprietor of the vegetable stall shouted just like that when they stole a carrot, but this time they’re innocent. The woman is still shouting, as she heads in their direction. “Help!” The boys try to figure out who she’s running after, but they both know for sure that no one has come racing past them with an apple or a pear. “Help!” The pail of water falls to the ground, but the woman keeps running.

  Then a small dog comes racing out of the alley. By then the woman has disappeared into one of the houses. The dog is a thin, nervous animal and it’s running in their direction, panting heavily. Abbas, who has often told him that his only memory is of his beloved dog Bala, who was run over by a police car, now forgets all about his crippled hip and goes down on his knees. The dog is running straight at him.

  He’s foaming at the mouth! Madan tries to scream, but his friend interprets his cry of panic as encouragement. Don’t touch him. Get away! Madan jumps behind a tree. His friend opens his arms wide. The dog jumps up and bites him. In disbelief, Abbas pushes the mangy animal away. His ear begins to bleed profusely. It is then that he sees the terrified eyes, the crooked head, and the foam around the dog’s mouth. He grabs the umbrella handle, which Madan had dropped amidst all the turmoil, and hits the dog. The animal cowers in fear. He brings down the handle again. Madan wants to shout that he must stop, but it is as if the wordless cries only encourage his friend, who is two years older and much stronger. With the strength of an adult, which Madan has never witnessed before, Abbas continues to beat the whimpering dog.

  His father jumps up from the table where he’s been sitting motionless all day. Not once has he stood up or even moved a muscle. His mother, who left for the fields early in the morning, comes in with a pitcher of milk and a few vegetables. His father picks up the poker next to the fireplace and strikes. The dog howls. His mother falls to her knees, and the milk spreads across the floor. And again the poker comes down on her head. The dog whines. His mother opens her eyes wide and looks at the iron poker, which again comes down hard. Something cracks inside the dog. A bone breaks. Her face is lying in the milk, which turns pink. Mercilessly the poker comes down on his mother’s head. Otherwise there is not a sound. The iron poker lands on the scrawny body. The dog whines. His father appears to hesitate an instant. A sigh escapes from his mother’s mouth. And again the poker comes down at lightning speed. The dog groans. His mother lies dead on the floor. His father is crying. The dog whines: a soft, beseeching whine. Saliva drips from its muzzle, like the blood from his mother’s mouth. His mother . . . Abbas turns his back on his father and goes to the door. Abbas turns around. The dog lies there, bleeding. He closes the door behind him. He does not look back.

  Madan doesn’t know what to do. Farther up the street people are standing around staring at them. Through the window of the restaurant, he sees the man enjoying his dinner. He didn’t see what happened outside.

  Abbas walks away. His ear is bleeding. He forgets to limp.

  Madan looks at the dog lying motionless in the pool of blood. He isn’t afraid of blood. He’s afraid of eyes that watch but don’t see anything. He is afraid for his friend, who is walking away with blood all over him, holding the umbrella handle. He is afraid of the man who’s sitting at the window, having his dinner. Afraid of the bucket lying in the middle of the street, afraid of the people standing around watching. A police car turns into the street. He runs after his friend and pulls him into an alleyway.

  Don’t leave me alone!

  ~~~

  IN THE HARBOUR, between two dilapidated sheds, Madan has discovered a dark crevice; if he holds his breath, it’s possible to squeeze in sideways. This brings him to a narrow space between two tall wooden houses that gets even narrower toward the end. There is a gentle but constant sea wind from faraway lands where there are no dogs that attack people and no children who have lost their parents or left t
hem behind. Madan is busy cleaning their hiding place, where he found the remains of rats long since dead. He shoves the bones and skulls farther into the narrow passageway. Using old newspapers, he tries to make a bed of sorts for his sick friend. The patient isn’t hungry, and Madan tries not to think about eating. He wants to stay with him, especially after Abbas told him that he hurts all over and his whole body itches.

  He finds a crate full of empty bottles outside a shop at the end of the quay. Just before it gets light, he picks up the crate without a qualm and fills the bottles in one of the sheds. He takes them back to their new hiding place. The crate is too big, so he takes all the bottles out and puts them next to his friend.

  The boys lie alongside each other. Abbas pants and moans; his eyes are closed. Madan looks up at the narrow strip of blue sky that dissects the darkness: a radiant path leading to a new place, a new land. He wishes that Abbas wasn’t ill. Ever since he beat the dog to death, he’s been angry and short with him. Everything Madan did was wrong, until they crawled into the passageway. Since then he’s been calmer and he’s stopped swearing. But his breathing is irregular, he twitches, and once in a while he suddenly begins to pant. Then Madan strokes his arm and thinks about tomorrow or the day after, when they’ll be walking through the city again, stealing apples and maybe a coin from a woman doing her daily shopping.

  “My mother is dead . . . ,” Abbas says in a hoarse voice. “Just like that . . . one day . . . dead.” He is panting, and now and then he moans softly. “No one knows why.” He opens his eyes. Fresh saliva dribbles from the corners of his mouth. “For no reason . . .” He moans and gasps for air. “She was a good . . . a good cook.” His eyes sparkle. “Every morning . . . she washed . . . her hair . . . and rubbed it with . . .” His eyes roll, and he sniffs as if he’s looking for her. “. . . with coconut oil . . .” Panting, he falls back onto his bed of newspapers. His breathing becomes more rapid and irregular. Madan stretches out his hand, but before he can calm his friend, Abbas continues: “She combed . . . carefully . . . so very carefully . . .” Abbas’s hair is damp and tangled. Madan resolves to look for a comb the next day. “She had . . . she had a braid . . . hanging down her back.” His voice becomes fainter and fainter, and it is only with great difficulty that he is able to continue. He closes his eyes. “In the sun . . . the sun . . . her head was like . . . a shining ball . . .” Then he begins to scratch his ear. Gently Madan pulls his hand away. He doesn’t want the wound to reopen. “It stings,” his friend groans. “My cheek stings . . . cold . . . my face . . . everything stings, Mukka . . .” He stretches his neck and makes a sudden motion with his arm, as if he’s lashing out, but Madan can tell by the look on Abbas’s face that he’s equally as surprised. “I’m . . . thirsty . . .” Madan hands him one of the bottles. The boy groans as he raises himself slightly and tries to drink. Most of the water runs down his neck, and only a few drops reach his mouth. He begins to gag, and pushes the bottle away from him with such force that it falls to the floor and breaks. Madan takes a new bottle and brings it to his friend’s lips. With great care, he pours the water into his mouth. At once Abbas begins to retch, gasping and shaking. His head lolls around. Madan only just manages to grab the bottle before it, too, crashes to the ground. Panting, Abbas says that he doesn’t want any water, that he’s choking, and then he falls back onto the old newspapers. But a few seconds later he groans that he’s thirsty again. This time, when Madan picks up the bottle and brings it to his friend’s lips, Abbas panics. His whole body shudders and shakes. He stretches his neck and his eyes roll. Madan lays a hand on his arm and strokes him. The boy becomes quieter. He closes his eyes and groans softly. His lips are parched and the dried saliva around his mouth has formed yellow scabs. The wound on his ear is inflamed. His hair is damp with sweat. Again Madan looks up at the long strip of blue. He doesn’t know what to do.