Waiting for the Monsoon (16 page)

“Him?” says the
chai-wallah
as he effortlessly plucks the coin out of the air. He looks down in surprise at the small, grimy figure standing next to him.

The card player, Ram Khan, is no longer listening to the vendor. He pulls a card from his hand, throws a king onto the pile, and exults: “Gotcha!” With a big grin on his face, he gathers the stack of cards. “Another round?”

They check the time, confer, and finally shake their heads no. The cards are gathered up and returned to the box. “See you tonight, then,” says the man, who has just shoved the cards into his pocket. His words are greeted with gruff assent.

Ram Khan walks back to his shop with his stool in his hand. His workspace consists of a kind of cabinet, which is mounted on the wall, in between a man selling kitchen utensils and a coppersmith. He pulls up the cloth he had let down to protect his possessions and places his stool in front of a sewing machine. He picks up a shirt that needs mending from the pile in front of him.

Madan, who has followed his benefactor, watches as the man steps into a kind of closet. On a plank supported by two blocks of wood stands a treadle sewing machine, and behind it there's a large pile of clothes. The man sits down in front of the machine. On the back wall hang several religious prints and a pair of scissors. There isn't room for anything else. The man presses his foot down on the pedal and starts to sew. On the ground, behind the man's feet, is a small pan. Madan isn't sure whether it's empty or holds something he's saving for the evening meal. He decides to stay put and wait.

It's not long before Ram Khan notices that someone is watching him. He peers over the rim of his glasses to the other side of the street, where a young tramp is sitting and smiling at him. Ram Khan has no time for tramps; they have diseases and they steal. He knows that from experience. He gestures to the kid to make himself scarce and returns to his work. Ram Khan was wearing his reading glasses during the card game, and he doesn't recognize the boy sitting opposite him as the one he bought tea for. When he looks up again, he sees that the boy is still there. He picks up the stone he uses to sharpen his needles and throws it as hard as he can in the boy's direction. Ram Khan has never played cricket and the stone misses its target. Madan, whose hunger is stronger than his fear, stays put. Annoyed, the tailor gives the shirt a jerk, but when he presses down on the pedal, the stitching is crooked. He yanks the garment out from under the foot. Peering through his glasses he tries to pull out the stitches, but he has trouble finding the thread in the plaid fabric. Ram knows that his eyesight is deteriorating and that he needs much stronger lenses, but new glasses are expensive. If he messes up on this shirt, he won't even have enough money to buy food for tonight. With his bent fingers, he searches for the beginning of the thread. He's becoming more and more irritated by the boy's stares. He looks around to see if there's something else he can throw at him, but except for his scissors and his slippers, there is nothing at hand.

Madan squats and waits silently.

“Hey, Ram!” One of the card players walks by, carrying a heavy box. “Have you finally got yourself an assistant?”

“What?” growls Ram Khan. He has just found the beginning of the thread and does not want to look up because he is afraid of losing it again.

“Your errand boy.”

Ram Khan looks up in surprise. He glances from his friend to the boy across the street. “That little rat has nothing to do with me!”

“If you ask me, he's looking for more. You'd better watch out, before you know it, he'll grab that pan from under your feet. Don't forget . . . if you feed a rat sugar you're asking for trouble.”

“Give him a kick,” Ram Khan snarls. “Can't you see I'm busy?”

Madan makes himself smaller but continues to stare at the tailor. He's sure that he threw the stone past him on purpose. The man with the box continues on his way, muttering to himself, and in his cubicle the tailor stares at the shirt on the table in front of him with an angry look on his face. Again his gaze is drawn to the filthy child, who continues to stare at him. The boy is wearing a grimy undershirt, and he's covered in dried blood.

Suddenly Ram Khan stands up and walks into the alleyway next to the coppersmith. Madan watches him expectantly. The tailor motions him to follow. He scurries after the man, taking small, quick steps. At the end of the narrow passageway, the alley curves to the left. It's dark, and there is a stench of filth and urine. What little light there is comes from a narrow shaft between the buildings. The man looks threateningly at the boy as he walks up to him. The street noises have disappeared. In front of a decaying door stands a bucket half full of water. Ram Khan points to the bucket. Madan's thirst has not abated after the cup of sweet tea an hour ago, and he goes down on his knees to drink.

Ram Khan gives him a kick. “Don't drink, wash!” With one hand, he grabs a rusty can out of the bucket and empties it over the child. “Wash. Your shirt, too. And when you're clean, come out to the street.” He throws the can back into the murky water and strides off.

When the man is out of sight, Madan bends over the bucket and begins to drink. He slurps greedily. The water tastes strange, but it quenches his thirst. Then he throws a can of water over his head and rubs his hands over his arms.

Not clean, but at least wet, he again stands in front of Ram Khan. The man doesn't look up, but continues sewing. Madan waits stock still, watching the man's hands pull the blue cloth through the machine. It's the same shade of blue as his sister's coat. The tailor turns the material twice. Then he picks up his scissors and trims the threads. Without looking, he throws the garment in Madan's direction; the boy picks it up and sees that it's a pair of pants that may fit him.

“
A MAN DOES
not simply die. A man only dies by choice . . .”

Through her black veil Charlotte looks at her father: he is in uniform, on the other side of Peter's open grave. The casket has just been lowered and the small group of mourners, heads bowed, are listening to the general's words. Charlotte wants to protest, she wants to tell her father that he's wrong, but she knows that it's true. In this case.

“Peter Harris was a good doctor,” Victor continues, looking down at the casket that holds the remains of his son-in-law, “but a wounded human being.” Peter's officer's cap lies on the casket, together with a small bouquet of yellow flowers. “I never expected that you would give my daughter back so soon. But . . .” Victor picks up a handful of earth. “I promise you that I shall care for her as if she were my own wife.” He throws the earth onto the coffin. It lands with a dull thud.

The others follow, one by one. Charlotte wants to put her fingers in her ears so that she doesn't have to listen to the hollow thud that sounds on the casket and its contents. The thought of burying Peter fills her with despair, now that she is closer to understanding the cries for help triggered by his dreams. Peter was wounded and terrified of suffocating in those dark depths. Why didn't she bury him in New Delhi? Why did she want him to lie next to the mother she had never known? Why hadn't she gone back to England? Why did she return to Rampur? The small group of mourners look in her direction, waiting for her to take a handful of earth and throw it onto her husband's coffin. But she is unable to move. Now she, too, feels the hand that gripped Peter's throat every night during those final months. Her mouth is dry as dust, and she feels as if the breath is being squeezed from her lungs. She gasps for air, fresh air, clean air. She has to get away from this place, away from death and gravestones. Her father clears his throat and looks at her encouragingly. No one can see her face behind the veil. The veil! It's the veil! She pulls the widow's veil from her hat and gasps for air. She feels the eyes focused on her. She bites her lip. Stooping down, she takes a handful of earth from the pile next to the grave and throws it. Half of it hits the edge of the grave; the rest lands on the grass. Fortunately, she didn't hit his coffin.

THE ASHTRAY IS
full of half-smoked cigarettes, and a grey haze fills the room. She's ordered the shutters to be kept closed, and her suitcases are still standing in the corner. The old nursery hasn't changed. Her bed with the pink spread is still under the window, and her brother's bed, with the blue spread, is in exactly the same spot as it was seventeen years ago: against the wall of the bathroom. The mat Sita used to sleep on is rolled up and lies underneath the wooden bench, as if she slept on it last night. Charlotte is happy that Sita was at the funeral, even though she stood at the back and didn't speak. She was there. She had always been there during difficult times. If only she could walk into the room now, sit down next to her, and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. The familiar scent of the coconut oil that Sita rubbed into her hair every morning comforted her. Charlotte longs for a ginger lozenge, a delicacy that the ayah drew from the folds of her sari to treat a skinned knee or a nosebleed. She remembers how the girl used to brush the tangles out of her hair at bedtime: at each stroke she whispered the name of a dream elf. But her father sent Sita away and now she is alone.

Charlotte gets up and walks over to the wardrobe she shared with her brother. It's in the same place, next to the balcony door. And the toy chest still stands in the middle of the room. She lights another cigarette. The familiar objects from her past have a soothing effect. She was flustered by the panic attack at the graveside. Is it possible that Peter's legacy consists of his own demons? She senses that what happened next to the grave was rooted in what he himself went through every night. Could he be floating somewhere above her, trying to tell her that he loves her? Or perhaps he never loved her, and this was her punishment for not having children. She hears a knock. Before she can say “Go away,” the door opens.

“What a stink hole!” her father blusters. Without slowing his pace, he strides across the room and throws open the shutters. The setting sun casts its rays onto the bed. “Get out of bed and on with life, that's the only remedy. Sitting around and snivelling about someone who's not coming back won't get you anywhere.” He gives the cord on the wall a yank. “I'll see that this room gets a good airing. . . . That'll chase away the worries going round and round in your head.”

“Father?” There's a catch in her voice. The general stares at his daughter as if he's seeing her for the first time in her black widow's weeds, sitting on her childhood bed, a cigarette in her hand.

There's so much Charlotte wants to tell him. That the shutters must be closed, that there aren't any “worries” going round in her head, that she has to fight to keep back her tears, that Peter may have been afraid but it wasn't his fault, that she didn't know what he'd gone through in Burma but her father might well know, that she is terrified at the thought that she may have inherited Peter's terrors, that she doesn't know where to go, that there's not a single spot on earth for her except perhaps this room, which hasn't changed since her childhood, that she misses her mother, or at least she misses the time when she had a mother, that she doesn't know what the word “family” means, that she doesn't even know what it is to have a husband, that the passionate night of love in Bombay was never repeated, that she did her best to seduce him but that she never succeeded, that Peter seemed more devoted to his patients than to her, that she feels as if her youth has been stolen from her although she doesn't know by whom, that she is afraid, terribly afraid, of becoming even more lonely than she already is, that when she looks in the mirror she sees a woman she doesn't know, that she . . . “Did you cry when Mama died?”

Victor looks at his daughter in amazement. No one has ever asked him such a personal question in his entire life. He is astounded, and for a moment he wonders if he misunderstood her, but looking at his daughter's face, he knows that he heard her correctly. “Cry? Me cry?” He smiles derisively. “The man or woman who's seen me cry has yet to be born. No, Charlotte, a true Bridgwater doesn't cry. Ever.” He is about to add, “Not even when he sees his father jump into a ravine,” but he swallows his words. Why burden a child with futilities from the past that are best forgotten?

“I didn't cry when she died either,” Charlotte said.

“You see . . . you're your father's child.”

“Because I didn't know that she was dead. Because you didn't write and tell me until six months later,” says Charlotte.

For a moment it is quiet. Outside a bird is singing and the shrill voice of the samosa vender sounds.

“There was no sense in writing you any sooner,” says Victor emphatically, “no sense at all.” Then there's a knock. He looks in the direction of the door. “Just as it makes no sense to sit here and mope in the dark. Come in!” The last words came out louder than he had intended.

A servant in a spotless uniform enters the room. “Did you ring, sahib?”

“Take my daughter's suitcases to the yellow room.”

WHEN SHE OPENS
the little perfume bottle, she smells her mother's scent. Behind her, the servants are emptying the cabinets in the yellow room. Bags filled with dresses and boxes of women's shoes disappear in the direction of the attic and the nursery. The old closet is now filled with scarves and shawls her mother collected and piles of fabric in different colours. Every drawer, cabinet, and shelf is scrubbed. Charlotte cannot bear to watch. She doesn't want to cry now — fifteen years later — over the loss of her mother. Her father is right. She can't bring her back, no matter how hard she cries.

“Ma'am, should I throw away that bottle, too?” asks one of the servants shyly.