Waiting for the Monsoon Page 29

  “We’re leaving. Have you packed your things?”

  “You mean right now?”

  “Yes, the train leaves in an hour.”

  “But . . .” Charlotte has gone to great pains to make contact with the women, and she doesn’t want to leave. She’s finally enjoying herself.

  “You must take a look at this sweet little boy,” she says. “He has the same ailment as Chutki and the maharaja.”

  Peter, who normally displays the utmost dedication to all his patients, picks up the little boy, tells him to open his mouth, and takes a quick look at his throat. Then he nods and hands him back to Chutki. “Next time I’ll bring my instruments with me. Charlotte, would you pack your suitcase now? We can still make the train.”

  A COOLIE AND one of the palace chauffeurs are the only other people on the platform. They left so quickly that there was no time to organize an official farewell at the railroad station. The sombre mood that has taken possession of Peter is even more impenetrable than usual. Charlotte can smell the perfume she applied when she heard that the men were on their way back from the hunt. Now she wraps her shawl tightly around her shoulders, to hide the décolletage she had been so proud of. The makeup that one of Chutki’s sisters applied now seems overdone.

  “What happened?” she asks, after Peter had sat in the train compartment for an hour without moving a muscle.

  “I shot an animal dead,” he whispers. “A living animal.”

  1985 Rampur ~~~

  “CAN’T YOU SLOW down a bit? When you go so fast, I feel as if I have to pee.”

  Charlotte pushes her father across the parking lot behind the club. With a dexterity that makes it clear that they’re not doing it for the first time, she and the chauffeur help the old man out of the wheelchair and into the car. The chauffeur then folds up the wheelchair he detests and places it in the boot. Charlotte waves to Priya Singh, who has just arrived in her shiny 1957 Ambassador, and gets into the old Vauxhall next to her father.

  “When did you last wash this car?” thunders the general.

  “This morning, sahib.”

  “Then why doesn’t it shine?”

  “It’s old, sahib.”

  “That Ambassador is even older.”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Yes, sahib, no, sahib . . . Why can’t you get this car to shine?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  Charlotte gives her father a nudge.

  He gives her an angry look. “Well, would you call this car clean?”

  “I hear a fire engine.”

  The general rolls his window down. “You’re right. I must be going deaf.” He turns to the chauffeur, and says, “If he comes by, follow him!”

  The chauffeur laughs.

  “Father, you said you wanted to go home.”

  “You don’t think I’m going to miss a chance to watch a fire. A really good blaze is headier than a beautiful woman.”

  The sound of the sirens is getting closer. “Don’t let him get away!” he says to the chauffeur, who is all set to take off.

  The bright red Ashok Leyland truck races past. The chauffeur hits the gas pedal. The general is laughing, and so is the chauffeur. But Charlotte is petrified that they’re going to go off the road.

  “Women don’t belong in cars,” the general mutters to his chauffeur.

  The heavy emission of smoke is visible from some distance. By the time they draw to a stop behind the fire engine, flames are shooting from the roof. The general throws open the door. For an instant Charlotte thinks he’s forgotten that he can’t walk, but he waits impatiently as the chauffeur hurries to unfold the wheelchair.

  “Father, you mustn’t do this. You’re going to get in the way of the firefighters.”

  “How could I get in anyone’s way?”

  Next to their car, the hoses are being unrolled. The senior fire officer, who has a row of medals on his chest, comes over to the general and they shake hands. “Everything in order, General?”

  “Ah, Commandant, you wouldn’t know anything about getting old. My memory is failing and the lower half isn’t getting any better. But outside of that, I can’t complain.”

  The hoses are connected to the water tank and the pump is soon going at full power. The chauffeur helps the general into his wheelchair. The fire officer excuses himself: he has a fire to fight. Charlotte is still in the car. She feels the heat of the fire, even with the window closed. She takes no pleasure in watching a fire, and fails to understand her father’s fascination. Once, when she was little, he took her to see a huge warehouse blaze, and he was angry when she kept her hands over her eyes the whole time. Not because she didn’t want to watch the fire, but because he mustn’t see that she was crying.

  Then her heart skips a beat when a young fireman carrying an axe walks past the car. He hasn’t seen her, but she recognizes him immediately. He nods in the direction of the general, goes up to the front of the burning house, and buries his axe in the door.

  She wants to jump out of the car, tell him not do it, tell him that it’s a dangerous situation and he mustn’t go in there, that he can become disoriented by the heat and the smoke and might not be able find the exit. That he can suffocate or the smoke can be poisonous, that his lungs can burn up and his suit can catch fire, even though it’s a real fireman’s suit. That he doesn’t have to rescue anyone, that that’s the work of the senior fire officer with all the medals, who has more experience. Why did he have to become a fireman in the first place, the most dangerous job there is? Why him?

  The young man doesn’t hear her prayers. He hacks a hole in the door, pulls his mask over his face, and, without hesitation, steps inside. She wants to close her eyes, but instead she stares without blinking at the hole in the wrecked door. Now flames are also shooting out of the windows, and the inside of the car is becoming stiflingly hot. She implores all the gods she knows. She curses herself for her cowardice, her sneakiness. She wants to turn all the clocks back in time, especially the large grandfather clock on the landing. Why doesn’t anyone else go in, why is he the only one? Someone has to help him. Maybe he’s lost his way, or is unable to breathe. Can’t anyone hear him shouting? He’s on fire. Charlotte can’t stand it any longer, and opens the car door. The heat drives her back into the car. She can barely stand on her own two feet. She is about to shout at the commandant when she sees a pair of gloved hands holding a little girl appear in the hole in the door. The fire chief grabs the child and the young man climbs out of the opening. No one is looking at him. All eyes are on the little girl.

  THE AMBULANCE DOORS are closed and one of the orderlies jumps behind the wheel and drives off.

  “That was close,” says the general.

  “Yes, we’re lucky it didn’t take any longer,” says the fire officer. “I hope all this doesn’t give her nightmares.”

  The fire officer looks at the man in the wheelchair. He cannot fathom why the old English soldier always turns up to watch fires.

  “Parvat is a real asset,” says the general.

  “Indeed he is . . . and he has great courage.” The fire officer nods to the boy, who has just picked up a heavy rubber hose and is aiming it at the house. “He looks a bit like you.”

  The general beams, thinking back with contentment on his medals.

  AS THEY HEAD up the driveway and the general sees the great house, he turns to Charlotte. “That fire officer said that the ayah’s son resembles me. That was nice of him, wasn’t it: to say something like that to an old, handicapped bloke like me.”

  “Yes, he looks like you.”

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  IT BEGAN AS a gentle ticking, then it gradually became a hammering sound, and it ended up as a thumping noise that did not stop. He wondered how Charlotte and the general dogsbody could sleep through all the racket.
Madan put down the dress he was working on, took the candle from the table, and went up the stairs. The electricity was off again, and the oppressive heat clung to his body like a sticky blanket, even with the windows open. Madan had never been upstairs before, and for the first time he got a good look at the gigantic chandelier that hung in the stairwell, with its countless drippings like candle-wax stalactites, and at the large standing clock whose hourly chimes he could hear from the music room. He had no trouble determining the source of the racket. Next to the door there was a large, old-fashioned key hanging on a nail on the wall. The door of what he knew was Charlotte’s bedroom was ajar. Surely she couldn’t help but hear the din emanating from the other room, unless she wasn’t there. It was quite possible that Madan hadn’t heard her leave the house. He had been completely absorbed in the gala outfit for the wife of the president of the club, who had impressed on him that she wanted to be the most beautiful woman at the party. He took down the key and inserted it in the lock. What he had originally taken for frenzied shouting turned out to be a male voice belting out “Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, oh, my da-arling Clementine!”

  In the middle of the room sat the old man with snow-white hair whom he had previously glimpsed at the top of the stairs. His wheelchair was anchored to the floor by an iron rod. His legs were also strapped down, and there was a bib around his neck. His upper body was naked and he was wearing a worn pair of pyjama bottoms. In one hand he held a metal bowl, which he was banging against the tray of his wheelchair, and in the other a spoon. All around him there were globs and spatters of yogurt on the floor, and there was a puddle underneath his chair. On the walls behind him hung a huge set of antlers, a tiger head with long tusks, the head of a cheetah, a brown bear with his tongue hanging out, and various smaller specimens of billy goats, deer, and wildcats. Madan felt as if he had just entered some distant past.

  “You are lost and gone forever! Dreadful sorry, Clementine,” sang the man with evident pleasure, slamming the dented bowl down with extra vigour at the word “sorry.” When he caught sight of Madan, he switched effortlessly to a different repertoire and sang even louder: “Ye’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye. But me and my true love will never meet again. On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond . . .” The bowl resounded against the metal side panel of his wheelchair. “Come on, buddy, sing along!” he called out to Madan, who was also wearing nothing but a pair of thin pants.

  Madan put the candle down beside him and tried to clap to the rhythm of the unfamiliar song. The general raised his spoon, by way of baton, and kept time. “It’s three-quarter time, buddy, can’t you hear that?” He kept time by banging the bowl on his wheelchair as he again broke into song. Then, in the middle of a sentence, he suddenly began to shout: “Take cover! Take cover!” He threw his arms over his head, holding the bowl in front of his face, like a kind of shield.

  Madan did not react. Not because the word “cover” was unfamiliar, but because he had no idea what was going on.

  The general peaked through his arms at Madan, who was still standing near the door. A smile appeared on his face. “You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘fear,’ chappie. Right?” There was admiration in his voice. The general beckoned him to come closer, pointing to the chair that was just beyond his reach. “Sit down.”

  Madan did as he was told.

  “Do I know you?” the general asked.

  Madan shook his head.

  “Did they hire you to keep an eye on me?” He gestured with contempt toward the floor below.

  Madan shook his head.

  “Oh, you’re the new cook,” said the general, relieved. “It’s about time. The food they give me here is foul. We ate better during the war. Maybe they think I’m some kind of swine, someone who’ll be satisfied with leftovers, but all the swine get from me is a bullet. One bullet. Right here,” he said, pointing to the spot between his eyes. “This is where you aim. Then the lights go out quickly: no mess, no moaning, just a shot and then . . . dead.”

  Madan shook his head again.

  “Hey, buddy, open your trap, will you? I don’t hold with all those mysterious goings-on. Name, rank, and regiment.”

  Madan shook his head again.

  “Playing dumb with an old geezer, is that how you get your kicks?”

  “I’m the tailor.” It had been years since Madan had tried to use his vocal cords. He was startled by the shrill, unintelligible squeaking sound that came out of his mouth.

  The general stared at him in amazement and then began to laugh uproariously.

  Madan was used to being cursed, rejected, ignored, and even manhandled when he tried to use his voice, but never before had someone laughed irrepressibly at his handicap. The general’s laugh was so contagious that Madan began to laugh himself. It started as a cautious smile, but turned into a real laugh. Soon he was shaking with laughter, hiccupping, and clapping his hands.

  The general waved the bowl in the air, sprinkling the remaining yogurt all over the room. The general’s laughter made way for song and he began belting out “My Bonnie lies over the ocean, My Bonnie lies over the sea. My Bonnie lies over the ocean. Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me, to meee . . . Bring back, bring back . . .” He banged the bowl as hard as he could against the side panel of the chair, which was already full of dents as a result of previous excesses. “Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me. Bring back, bring back. Bring back my Bonnie to me . . .”

  Neither one of them knew how long they’d been singing and laughing, but after a while the general’s voice was hoarse and Madan’s hands hurt from all the clapping. Panting, they sat across from each other, enjoying the afterglow.

  “We should do this more often,” the general croaked.

  Madan nodded, got to his feet, and picked up the candle, which was almost burned down. He shook hands with the general, who saluted in return, and walked back to the landing. He locked the door, hung the key on the nail, and went down the steps. He saw that the door to Charlotte’s room was still half open. He wondered where she could be. Until now he’d had the impression that she retired early or in any case shut herself up in her bedroom. He was about to go outside to see where she was when he heard her come in the front door. He blew out the candle quickly and went straight into the music room and closed the door. Then he grabbed a pile of fabrics and crept under the table. He had to make sure she couldn’t read his thoughts.

  1966 Simla ~~~

  Dear Donald,

  Thank you for your letter, which I have received. Three weeks ago I arrived in the “former British summer residence,” as Father always refers to Simla. It’s a magnificent city, full of English houses built on the hills. It’s so steep that if it starts to rain here, I’m afraid all the buildings will simply slide down the hill! Driving is a bit scary, since the roads are really narrow and full of hairpin curves that my chauffeur usually can’t make in one go. Sometimes I think I’m back in England, especially when I walk past the half-timbered houses or go down the big shopping streets. The best thing is that it’s nowhere near as hot. In the evening I sometimes have to wear a cardigan. I eat a lot, too. It’s probably the fresh air that gives me an appetite. In two days’ time I’ll be moving on. I want to see the real mountains, I can only catch a glimpse of them from here. I understand that Father is doing well — I call Hema every Friday morning — I hope the same goes for you. I’ll write again when I’m actually in the Himalayas.

  Greetings from your sister,

  Charlotte

  ~~~

  “ARE YOU READY to go? The car is waiting downstairs,” says Sita.

  “Already?” Charlotte buttons her coat so that her belly disappears. No one in Rampur knows that Sita is travelling with her. The lodging-house keeper in Simla thinks that Sita is her personal servant. And in a sense, she is. Every morning, after Charlotte
takes her bath, Sita massages her belly with a vegetable extract to reduce the chances of developing stretch marks. In the beginning it tickled, and Charlotte couldn’t stop giggling. But now that she’s used to it, she is content to entrust her physical well-being to a woman who apparently knows everything there is to know about being pregnant. The nosebleed she had last night is apparently part of it, as are her swollen feet and ankles, her unpredictable mood swings, crying bouts, headaches, and back pain. There is also the sensation in her belly when the tiny creature that is growing inside her begins stirring, which often happens just when she’s trying to get some sleep.

  “You wanted to get there before dark.” She closes the large suitcase and puts it down next to the bed.

  “Sita?”

  “Are you starting to worry again?”

  Charlotte unbuttons her coat and loosens her blouse. Her swollen breasts protrude from her bra, now much too small. “Look . . .” She points to the wet spots in the cotton fabric.

  “That’s drip milk,” Sita says. “There’s nothing wrong. A lot of milk means a big baby. Big babies are healthy. You have to eat well. And that means eating a lot.” Sita smiles. “Otherwise there won’t be enough milk for the baby.”

  “Sita?” Charlotte has already asked a thousand questions, but not the one that’s been going round and round in her head and keeping her awake at night, the question that plagues her whenever she momentarily forgets that she is pregnant, the question that makes her feel insecure and ultimately sends her into a panic.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Sita says. “Everything’s going to be all right. Don’t be afraid.”

  Charlotte buttons her blouse and coat. She’s not worried about travelling into the mountains, and she isn’t afraid of the cold or the delivery or the pain. She’s afraid of what comes afterwards. Not a word has been said about what happens afterwards. It is as if the world will cease to turn when the child is born. While actually that will be the beginning of everything.