The Monsoon Rain
Authors: Joya Victoria
The Monsoon Rain
Joya Victoria
Copyright © 2014 Joya Victoria
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1500372455
ISBN 13: 9781500372453
Prologue
IT WAS A
cold, dark, dull November evening in England. One of those. A typical dreary evening. Wrapped in coats and gloves, people were hurrying home from work. Wherever and however. And for those who had neither home nor work, where did they end up? The cold unfriendly streets of London, Manchester or one of the other cities plagued by cold indifference.
Rohit had often wondered why that cities had more homeless people than the rural areas? But enough of that for now.
A woman was standing at the window looking out. What was she looking at? It was so dark surely not much was visible from her perch. It was evening and the house was submerged in a cloud of darkness.
Miranda was sad. Very sad. Her husband, her closest companion, had been cremated that evening. The house was crowded with throngs of people, well wishers, friends, and relatives. Putting up a strong front had taken its toll on her. She was so tired.
The music at the funeral had been haunting. Shostakovich’s Waltz no. 2 had filled the hall of the crematorium. That was his wish, for that very waltz to be played at his funeral. He loved music. Now that waltz would always haunt her. There was hardly a dry eye at the funeral. Except hers, she thought bitterly.
“Ma, you OK?”
A loving arm encircled her. She laid her head on his shoulder. Her son, Rohit. The lovely young man. If it hadn’t been for him she would
not be here. Not only would she not be here, she wouldn’t have had the wonderful years together with Derek.
A tear slowly rolled down her cheek. Miranda did not try to wipe it off. Let it flow, let it flow, she thought. She had been unable to shed any tears for him, but now at last the floodgates had opened. Let it flow.
Her life was a long story. The last few days she had been pondering as she sat dry-eyed in her room, a solitary and sad figure.
The first meeting, the parting, and meeting again! What a saga! She smiled, a sad smile. She would never forget that day.
It was a bright day, rare in England. She was so young, so vibrant and full of life!
1
LONDON 1960
MIRANDA WAS HURRYING
along Leicester Square, rushing home. Running, walking, as fast as possible toward the Tube. But this was London, everybody rushed! Why and whereto and what for? It could be anybody’s guess. Shaftesbury Avenue, ah, not far from the Tube now! She rushed down the stairs, heading toward the northern line.
A confident young woman, it seemed as if she knew the world and the world knew her.
Confident, alert, and young, she was there to conquer the world. She let her light-brown shoulder-length hair fly in the wind; Miranda never tied her hair back, an indulgence of vanity.
Of course at work as a nurse, she had to abide by the rules, rules she found restrictive.
It was a lovely summer evening. Supper on the patio with mum awaited her, so lovely a thought that she felt slightly peckish, in fact, just thinking it.
And yet if she only knew what really awaited her. An ordinary telephone call, a telephone call that would change her life entirely.
Being a young woman from the suburbs, she carried on with life as any other youngster did. Meeting up with friends, going to the
cinema and on occasional dates—that was it. She had dated someone and been quite serious about it, but they broke up. Now she was single again. Life went on. Mira was quite upset at the time, but time healed all, as the saying went, and so here she was on a bright summer afternoon in the West End, briskly heading toward Leicester Square station, homeward bound.
She was impatient to hop on the next train as she wanted to get home early and tend to a few chores. One was volumes of writing for her work. Ah, here came the train, roaring down the tracks. She had to squeeze her way into one of the compartments where there was standing room only. She held onto one of the overhanging bars. The train started to roll.
It took slightly longer than expected to reach the green, leafy suburb of North London. Miranda lived with her mother in one of the terraced row houses London was so well known for. Their house was at the end of the terrace and was slightly larger than the ones in the middle, and her mother always referred to their property as semidetached.
Her father often gave her a history lesson about the terraced houses, as the first terraced house had been built after the Great Fire of London in Grosvenor Square, the very posh area of London.
The train was packed, the carriage silent. No one dared have eye contact with a fellow passenger—a cardinal sin. Everybody was so conscious of his or her own space.
She practically ran home, then dashed in with a quick peck on her mother’s cheek. The telephone rang, the shrill noise breaking the silence of the small terrace house.
“Oh, your friend has rung a few times—must be her again!” It was her mum, Molly, from the back of the house.
“I’ve been phoning you all evening! Where have you been?” were Charu’s first words of greeting, the words tumbling out.
“Calm down!” Miranda cut her off midsentence. “What are you trying to say?”
“Charles is coming home for a few days,” Charu said, carrying on without letting Miranda get a word in edgewise. “What took you so long, anyway?”
“What do you mean, what took me so long?” Miranda retorted, half laughing. Charu would never change! “I was on the train, my friend, and incidentally, in case you’ve forgotten, the Tube is not always on time. This is London!”
Charles was Charu’s boyfriend, and they had been going out for a long time. He was working abroad, somewhere quite exciting, Miranda could not for the world recall. Couldn’t care, wherever it was.
“So?” Miranda asked. Charles was coming, and Charu was happy; in fact, she was over the moon. But why should it matter to Miranda? Charles often came and went without Miranda being informed, so why should she be the recipient of this good news now?
“So?” she said again with mild irritation in her voice.
“Listen, Mira,” Charu continued, her voice becoming slightly conspiratorial, an octave or two lower than usual and calmer now. “A friend of Charles’s is in London. He works abroad and is in a bit of a loose end—I thought we could make a foursome and go out tomorrow evening,” she said all in one breath. Charu took it for granted Mira would agree—no if you can, what are you doing tomorrow evening, or are you free to join us.
Typical Charu! They had been friends from their school days. And Charu had always been the same, impatient and excitable. Miranda loved sleepovers at Charu’s. Her mum cooked such exquisite mouthwatering Indian dishes.
Miranda hesitated, noncommittal. “You know I detest blind dates,” she said with a slight edge to her voice.
“Oh come off your high horse, my dear. Only this time,” Charu coaxed. “I won’t bother you again, just this once. What’s the matter with you anyway?”
Miranda tried many excuses, but her friend was not budging. “Come on, Mira, be a sport. It is just for one evening. Please.”
Miranda agreed, reluctantly. Who was this friend of Charles? The least Charu could do was fill her in a bit more. The whole thing was typical of her friend. Why the hell couldn’t Charu leave her alone?
Miranda knew Charles well from the time Charu had started dating him. And it was wonderful that both sets of parents had no objection even though it was an interracial relationship, with Charu being of Indian heritage. London in the sixties was something quite different. Blacks were not allowed to buy houses in certain areas. Asians were not welcome. Interracial liaisons were frowned upon. An Asian girl and a white boy? What would people say? Would their friends accept it?
At first Charles’s parents did object, but after meeting Charu’s parents they gave in, albeit rather reluctantly.
The next day was a free day for Miranda. She did not have to go to the hospital, which was unusual. She typically worked on Wednesdays, but having filled in for a colleague she had this Wednesday off.
She was excited about the date, which she did not want to admit, even to herself.
What to wear the proverbial worry of women. Being slight in stature, Miranda was lucky she could wear anything and could carry it off beautifully. Her sleeveless knee-length crimson cotton dress was, she felt, quite appropriate for the occasion. A quick discussion with mum, and a seal of approval was given! Contrary to her usual habit, she pulled her hair into a ponytail. A matching bag completed her outfit. Nice and simple.
Evening slowly rolled in, but then six o’clock approached quickly and Miranda felt a knot in her stomach tightening up. “Oh God,” she said to herself. “Why ever did I agree to this?”
The doorbell rang, she said, “Bye, Mum,” and she was out the door.
Charu was standing at the front door, smiling. “You will like him, I know you will!”
Fate did play funny games sometimes. Miranda had not expected to meet this gorgeous hunk of a man standing by the car. She looked at him, and he stared at her with frank admiration. Miranda felt his eyes on her, sizing her up and unnerving her a bit.
She tried to brush it off, this feeling of apprehension, excitement, and a trifle bit of trepidation as she blushed ever so slightly. She nearly
stumbled as she walked toward the car. She always did that whenever she was nervous, and these sort of situations quite often unnerved her. Work was no problem, but meeting someone unknown, oh dear.
Charu introduced them, and the obvious pleasantries were exchanged. Hands were shaken.
“Derek, Miranda. Miranda, Derek,” Charu said, “Now let’s get moving.” Typical Charu always impatient, always on the go.
“Couldn’t catch the name, I’m so sorry,” Derek said, looking at Charu inquiringly, who by now was impatient to get away and had already slipped into the backseat with Charles.
“Mira, Mira,” Charles hastened to answer from the backseat. “Miranda really, Mira for short.”
Mira slid into the front seat, which was apparently taken for granted. Charu and Charles were ensconced in the back. Derek was driving. The Jaguar started to purr when Derek switched on the ignition and glided off slowly.
Derek Chowdhury was a very attractive man in his early thirties, nearly six feet in height, and muscular with dark hair and hazel eyes. His hair was cut very short in military fashion. He was easy to get on with right from the start and had this air of confidence about him—very amiable and full of
joie de vivre
. He had the air of nonchalance usually associated with people who had connections and/or money. Money hand in hand with good looks was an extremely desirable combination, and Derek had no dearth of female admirers. Being single, handsome, and well off made him a very eligible bachelor. He emanated money, style, and good living. Having been brought up partly on a tea farm in Assam, he was exotic, a bit rough on the edges but with style.
Derek could and did fit in equally at The Ritz and in the tea-garden coolie huts. He was known to be a fair and just man and consequently was well liked by his employees, the tea-garden babus, and the workers alike. The tea plantation was the world Derek loved and where he felt most at home. He loved the gardens, the
shikars
, the hunting, the life with the other planters, and overseeing the running of the
gardens. He spoke the local dialect perfectly and occasionally drank the local brew. That life was his. He was in his element there.
A few days in England, and Derek pined for the open life—the weather and the greenery and the tea bushes! London stifled him. The only reason he’d come to London was to see his parents who had decided to leave the running of the gardens to their only son and retire to the English countryside.
“where to?” he asked in a drawling tone addressed to no one in particular as he maneuvered the car out of the cul-de-sac where Mira lived.
“West End would be nice. What do you think, Charles?” Charu piped up, looking inquiringly at her boyfriend.
“Oh, yes, that would be super,” Charles replied in his public-school accent as he took Charu’s hand and gave it a light squeeze.
They were very much in love, those two. They had been neighbors, then became friends, and then one thing led to another. Charu was of Indian heritage, but London was her home.
“West End,” Charu piped up again, excited, happy.
“West End, it is,” Derek said, smiling. He felt very happy this evening and awfully carefree. The afternoon swim had revived him enormously. He felt he could take on the world.
Derek rarely felt happy in England. England was his home in name only. Assam, India, was his home where he was happy and could live as he pleased. He did not feel like he fit in Essex, where his parents had decided to settle.
