Waiting for the Monsoon Read online

  Hema knew his mistress better than she knew herself. He had filled the tub in the nursery with water, as well as the one in the guestroom and the barrel outside the kitchen door. Charlotte had told him she would fill her own bath, since she would be busy in her bedroom all morning, but she had forgotten to do so. Hema had initially expressed his concern over the amount of water the tailor used, but it appeared that he succeeded in washing himself from top to bottom with a single bucket, a feat that had always been beyond Hema.

  There seemed to be no end to the procession of people carrying buckets. Not only the reservoirs were empty, but also the river. The only water available was thirty kilometres away, where there was a small lake. The local landowner was selling the water at exorbitant prices, so they wouldn’t be going there. All they could do was dig pits in the river bedding until they hit groundwater.

  The siren faded into the distance. Charlotte forgot about the music and crept down the stairs as quietly as she could. She heard the whirr of the sewing machine coming from the music room.

  She didn’t take the path down to the road but went in the opposite direction, into the garden and past the apple tree. Outside it was just as hot as indoors. She noticed that it was much less arid than a few weeks before. It even occurred to her that there might be a new natural source on their property, but her father had explored that possibility on several occasions. The only well that had ever been dug had produced water that stank to high heaven. After two years, even the mali refused to use it, claiming that it “made the flowers sad.” The only good thing about the drought was that without rain, the lawn didn’t have to be mowed and the Lloyds didn’t have to be repaired.

  She walked past the shed where the old mali had lived and down a gentle slope, until she came to a small, arid woodland at the bottom of the garden. When the rains came, these trees would be in flower within a week. Their honey-sweet scent would attract birds whose song would keep her awake for weeks. She made her way through the shrubbery. There was a path there that no one else ever used. She had to push away a branch, which was so dry that it snapped in her hand.

  Anyone watching her would have noticed that she moved quite differently than she did during the day, when she went about her chores or visited the club dressed in a presentable outfit. Then she carried herself with a refined reserve that she had unconsciously developed over the years. She held her head ever so slightly to one side, and at each step she put her feet down so carefully that one might think she was afraid of falling into a hole. Now her gait was different, lighter, and there was eagerness in her step.

  She arrived at the wall surrounding the garden, a wall that was as tall as a man. She always had to search for it, but then she placed her foot in a small hole in the wall. There were also hand holes in the wall that she’d made use of in the past. There was no longer any trace of her usual respectable gentility, and, puffing slightly, she climbed over the wall. It was clear that not only the heat but also her age had begun to take its toll: she didn’t have the litheness she’d had in her younger years, yet she made it over the wall. Out of breath but determined, she turned onto a narrow alleyway that became a small road leading up a hill and away from town. Fifteen minutes later she arrived at a clump of trees that looked much less healthy than her own apple tree. Beyond the trees the road led down to an intersection, where a small house stood. She opened the door without knocking.

  “Oh, it’s you!” The tiny Indian woman rose from her chair to embrace Charlotte. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  “Sita, I could never forget you.”

  “It’s been three weeks since I last saw you.”

  “I’ve been terribly busy.”

  “Oh, really? Have you eaten?” Sita put her hands around Charlotte’s waist. “You’re way too thin. Way too thin.”

  “Ah, it’s the heat . . .”

  The former ayah opened the refrigerator and pulled out a whole battery of stainless-steel containers. “I have some shrimp curry and a piece of fried fish.” She removed the lid from another container and looked inside. “Oh, and these tomatoes are delicious!” She dipped one finger in the sauce and gave Charlotte a taste. She closed her eyes and smiled. “The chickpeas are too spicy for you, but you’ll like the aloo gobi and the dal.” She had already filled a plate when she turned and asked, “You do feel like something to eat, don’t you?”

  Charlotte’s mouth was watering. It was only then that she realized she was hungry. With her mouth half full, she gave Sita a rundown on the coming gala evening at the club, and recounted contritely how she’d forgotten to fill her bathtub. She also talked about Hema, who had been upset with her, about her father, who ate nothing but yogurt and yet was making plans to attend the gala at the club, about the puncture she still hadn’t repaired, about the minister and the devotional books he tried to interest her in, about the coming renovation of the library, about the wife of Alok Nath the goldsmith, whom she could never understand, about the water jug that had been reduced to smithereens, about the old tailor who had died and the fact that the electricity regularly conked out while the thermometer registered forty-four degrees, about the special homemade cookies produced by the wife of Nikhil Nair, about the lengths of fabric that had belonged to her mother and that she had rediscovered in the wardrobe in the nursery, about the delicious tea that Hema made, and about the apple tree, the jasmine bush, and the roses that hadn’t wilted, about . . .

  “You’re in love,” said Sita.

  1966 Rampur ~~~

  THE DHOBI HAS left four freshly laundered and ironed pairs of pyjamas on the hall table; she’ll take them up to her father later on. And the mali has left behind a bouquet of flowers. Charlotte knows that her father doesn’t want flowers in his hospital room, so she puts them in a vase near the radio, which she has just turned on and then off again for the fifth time. She’s still completely off balance, as are all the servants. Since the day of the accident, all the rituals and habits have been at sixes and sevens. The mehtarani, who normally works inside the house before moving on to his chores outside, absent-mindedly sweeps all the dust into the house; the punkah-wallah, who for years has followed her father around like a shadow, now dogs her footsteps because there’s no one else around who needs the cooling breezes he creates. The cook has burned the evening meal for the third time, and the old chauffeur is smoking so much that the mali has asked permission to buy an ashtray, since all the cigarette butts are ruining his borders. The only exception is the new butler with the long name, whom for convenience’s sake she has christened Hema. He is always on time, and the entire day he races up and down the stairs making sure everything is in order, which sets everyone else’s nerves on edge. As if that wasn’t enough, Charlotte doesn’t feel well. This morning she’s already thrown up three times, and if she’s not in the bathroom because she has to throw up, then she is there because she has to pee.

  “Charlotte?” She hears Sita’s voice. Sita hasn’t been employed by the family for many years, but she always drops by at the most impossible times.

  “I’m coming!” Charlotte wouldn’t shout a reply from the toilet to anyone but Sita. Although they may not see each other for weeks, their bond is very special. When she threw herself onto Peter’s grave in total despair, Sita was there to comfort her, just as she had done throughout Charlotte’s childhood. Sita was well acquainted with her father’s dictatorial behaviour, her brother’s indifference, the heartache of Peter’s war trauma, and her unfulfilled yearning for a child. Although Charlotte often shared her longings and doubts with her, Sita never judged or condemned her. She listened and prayed that one day everything would be different.

  Sita knocked on the bathroom door. “Is anything wrong?”

  She wanted to reply, but a wave of nausea interfered.

  “Open the door.” Sita, who’s used to dealing with dirty diapers, wet sheets, and bibs full of puke, pulls open t
he unlocked door. She is startled to see Charlotte hanging over the toilet seat, deathly pale. She manages to cajole her out of the bathroom with pet words from her childhood. In the bedroom, she moistens a towel and pats Charlotte’s face, which is bathed in perspiration. Then she unbuttons her soiled blouse, revealing two large, dark nipples which stare proudly back at her. Sita, who will be forty-six next month, has two married daughters who live with their in-laws, and a husband who three months ago paid her his annual visit. He’s still paying off the dowry of the youngest daughter, so he has moved to New Delhi, where he has a day job as a rickshaw driver and at night works as a shoemaker in a factory. Sita looks her straight in the face and says, “You’re pregnant.”

  A deathly silence fills the room, but Charlotte is aware of a thunderous din in her head as she realizes what Sita has just said. In the midst of this deafening cacophony, there falls a brief moment of icy silence in which she says to herself that it’s not true, that it cannot be true. But this is only because of her conviction that she would never bear a child. Slowly she lays both hands on her slightly bulging belly.

  Sita looks at her with her usual humble expression. Charlotte knows she’s now expected to tell her who the father is. The scent of tobacco smoke burns in her nostrils, a sweet taste returns to her lips, and she remembers the calluses on his fingertips, the passionate embrace, the candle that went out by itself, the call of an owl. As the sun rose she had walked home and in the garden she had picked a huge bouquet of flowers. There was no vase large enough to hold them, so she had put them in the water jug. She had had her morning tea and written a letter to her brother with an urgent request to call her. It was not until six weeks later that he had telephoned, by which time their father’s condition was no longer critical and the nurses in the hospital were being driven out of their minds by her father’s tirades. She hadn’t even noticed that her period hadn’t come, and she’d blamed her nausea on the fact that the cook was so upset.

  All she said was, “I don’t even know his name.”

  ~~~

  Dear Donald,

  Father is improving. He was operated on again two weeks ago. According to the surgeon, it’s a miracle that he survived it all. His kidneys are still working, and that’s one of the things they were very concerned about. He’ll never be able to walk again, of course, but I haven’t told him yet. I’m afraid that once he knows, he’ll lose the will to get better. Peter used to say that a patient who believes he’ll get better recovers faster. The sisters take very good care of him. I couldn’t do any more for him myself. He’s still on a drip, and now they’ve got him in a full-body cast, which doesn’t make things any easier. What bothers him the most is that he has to drink from a bottle with a nipple that the sister puts in his mouth. I make sure I’m out of the room before the bottle arrives. He gets so angry and then he starts cursing and everything. I’m also writing you to let you know that I’m leaving Rampur for a while. The last few weeks have taken their toll, and now that I know Father’s being well cared for, I can get away for a while. Of course, I’ve discussed this with the doctor, and he agrees. All my life, I’ve wanted to see the Himalayas. Tomorrow I’m taking the train to New Delhi, then on to Kalka, where I catch a taxi that will take me to Simla. At first Father said I should wait until he was better, because he wanted to go along. But I promised him that after he gets out of the hospital, we’ll go again. I’ve given the staff some time off, except for the mali, of course, and the butler. They’ll make sure that everything is kept clean and in good condition. I’ve taken the car to a garage, and I can leave it there as long as I like. If you suddenly decide to vacation in India, then you’re welcome to stay at the house. Hema has all the keys, except the one to the safe, which I’ve already taken to the bank. But I assume that you’re too busy with the new job. Is everything going well? I hope so. I’ll write to you when I get to the mountains.

  Greetings from your sister Charlotte

  1951 Grand Palace ~~~

  PETER IS SO pleased that he is about to see the maharaja again that he takes giant steps, fairly dragging her up the stairs. Charlotte is excited. The moment he sees his old friend, the constant trembling of his hands and the sombre, withdrawn look disappear as if by magic. He strides toward the large door, where the maharaja greets him like he is a brother and they have been reunited after years of separation.

  “You are more lovely each time I see you,” the maharaja says to Charlotte. She blushes and replies that in a month she will turn twenty-one. “Twenty-one,” the maharaja exclaims. “The most beautiful time of our lives! I wish I were still twenty!” He throws a friendly arm around Peter’s shoulders and leads him away. Charlotte follows them to a large hall where all the women, attired in magnificent saris, await their arrival.

  “Doctor sahib,” they coo and call, as they bow in greeting. Among the female voices directed mainly at Peter, she also hears “Charlotte memsahib, welcome.” She sees Chutki, the youngest daughter of the maharaja, with a little boy at her side, among the group of women attired in colourful saris. They wave to each other enthusiastically. Drinks are passed around, and dishes filled with delectable hors d’oeuvres are brought in by servants in magnificent uniforms.

  “To the hunt!” the maharaja toasts.

  Peter smiles and raises his glass. Charlotte, who didn’t know that there was to be a hunt, turns to Peter in surprise. He admits with a smile that it’s news to him as well but that he is delighted at the prospect of a day in the saddle together with the maharaja.

  “And how about me?” Charlotte asks. “Can I come along?”

  “No, of course not. It’s only for men,” Peter whispers.

  CHARLOTTE AND CHUTKI are lying in a large double bed in the women’s quarters, eating cookies, with Chutki’s baby brother, who is whimpering. The girl points to Charlotte’s belly.

  “And?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” Charlotte says. “Not yet.”

  “But you’re very pretty.”

  “Peter is always so busy.”

  “Doctor sahib better not wait too long,” Chutki giggles and covers her mouth with her hand.

  “Why?” Charlotte asks.

  Chutki rolls her eyes. She pats her little brother, but he continues to whimper.

  Charlotte is shocked. “Oh, no. I only want Peter’s baby.”

  “Why is doctor sahib so busy?”

  “There’s so much work for him at the hospital.”

  “He’s going to cure my little brother.”

  “Does he have the same thing as you and your father?”

  Chutki nods and pulls the toddler onto her lap. “I’m going to get married and pretty soon I’ll have a baby of my own.” She gives the boy something to drink and he quiets down. Then she looks at Charlotte roguishly and says in a low voice, “Is doctor sahib affectionate?”

  “Yes, he’s affectionate.”

  “Really affectionate?” And her hand goes from the child to her breasts, which she fondles. “Is he affectionate?” she asks again.

  Charlotte cannot lie, and the expression on her face speaks volumes.

  “Oh!” Chutki cries. “So he’s not affectionate?”

  The occupant of the bed beside them, an older aunt, is listening in and echoes her cry: “Oh, oh, doctor sahib is not affectionate . . .”

  Within seconds the other women have climbed onto the double bed and it is so full that Charlotte cannot even move her legs. The shocking cry is repeated: “Doctor sahib is not affectionate!” This is followed by a disapproving hiss.

  “You should try this perfume,” says a woman with an armful of jangling bracelets, pressing a tiny bottle into her hand.

  “Do you always make sure you’ve brushed your teeth?” says a woman with long earrings, as she pulls up Charlotte’s lip.

  The women nod in agreement.

  �
�And he should eat a raw egg,” giggles a woman with dark circles around her eyes.

  “Serve dinner early, otherwise he’ll be too tired. And he should eat the eggs during the day, then they’re sure to work,” stresses a woman in pyjamas.

  “Wear a dress with a deep décolletage,” advises another woman, and she presses her breasts together, forming a provocative cleavage.

  “Is there another woman?” The question comes from the adjacent bed.

  All the women break into laughter. Charlotte is aghast: she’s never considered that possibility. He always comes home late and goes straight to bed.

  “Don’t worry,” Chutki reassures her. “Doctor sahib loves you. But there are things he has to learn.”

  The women are howling with laughter. “Doctor Sahib can operate but he can’t make babies.”

  The child begins to wail again, in reaction to the exuberant laughter.

  “When is the doctor going to perform the operation?” sighs the woman in pyjamas. “He’s always crying.”

  “Isn’t that the little boy I saw just after he was born?” Charlotte asks, pointing to the toddler in Chutki’s arms.

  Suddenly, all of the women fall silent. Some get up from the bed, looking embarrassed, and some turn away and begin new conversations. And when Charlotte turns to Chutki, expecting an explanation, the girl avoids her eyes. The little boy on her lap is only a crying baby with red-rimmed eyes and a glob of snot hanging from his nose.

  “Peter’s going to operate on him. He told me so himself,” Charlotte says, even though Peter has never mentioned the maharaja’s son to her. “And if he should happen to forget, I’ll remind him.”

  “Really?” Chutki asks.

  Charlotte nods.

  PETER BRIEFLY PRESSES his cheek — unshaven for days — against Charlotte’s: it isn’t exactly a kiss. Chutki gives her a wink. Charlotte feels like Ava Gardner in the new dress the darzi has made for her. With her arms she presses her breasts together and gives her husband a sultry look. “Can you smell my new perfume?” she asks in a low voice.