Waiting for the Monsoon (17 page)

She hands him the perfume bottle, which is almost empty. Noiselessly, he deposits it in a box along with the other bottles and then disappears himself, without making a sound.

“Tomorrow I'm having the room painted green.” Her father stands in the door opening. “The smell of paint helps.”

He is gone before she can ask him what the smell of paint is good for. When he calls for a painter, his voice resounds throughout the house. Charlotte closes the door. She wants to be alone. She wants to ponder whether she's making the right decision. Should she stay or leave? And if she leaves, where should she go? Where can she go? The empty closets stare at her, just like the mirror where she used to see her mother's reflection.
The green dress, where is the green evening dress?
Suddenly she panics, jumps up, runs to the landing, and stops the first servant she sees. “Where are my mother's dresses? I want to see her green evening gown.”

The servant hasn't the slightest idea which dress she means, but he nods subserviently and walks on.

“A floor-length green gown. Pale green, with a low neckline.”

“I don't think it would be appropriate to go out tonight,” says the general, who is standing behind her. “You buried your husband today.”

“
COME ON, PETER
,
everyone's out in the street.” Charlotte gives the conjugal sheet a gentle tug, but Peter rolls himself even more tightly into his fetal position. “It's a celebration! They're all dancing and singing.” Peter pulls a pillow over his head and covers his ears. Charlotte sits down on the edge of their bed. Cautiously she puts her hand on his shoulder. She doesn't know whether to caress him or drag him out of the bed where he sometimes takes refuge. “Peter?” She hesitates. Of course, there's no reason why she can't simply leave, without asking him, and join in the festivities on her own. “Is it all right if I go to the club? I'd like to experience this historic day.” She can hear the shouting and rejoicing in the street below. A tremor goes through Peter's body. “Do you want me to close the window? Would you rather be alone?” She gets up from the bed, closes the windows, and turns the fan above their bed to the highest setting. The fan rotates, and a cool breeze descends on them. Charlotte strokes her husband's shoulder. “Are you sure you don't want to come along? Just this once? Nothing's going to happen . . . people are happy, everyone's smiling.” His whole body tenses. When he looks up, she sees the terror in his eyes. “I would so love to dance with you, just this once,” Charlotte whispers.

With a sudden sweep of his arm, Peter throws the pillow to one side. He shoots out of bed. “Can't you see I don't want to! Do I ask you to do things you don't want to do? I don't want to dance, I don't want to see the cheering masses. Before you know it, all those ‘happy' people will be murdering and raping each other, burning villages to the ground, just like in Punjab. Don't you realize what's going on? Can't you see? They are going to go on annihilating each other until there are no Indians left. Yesterday the streets were full of bodies, and you want to go dancing? We shouldn't be dancing, we should be running away. Celebrations! How dare you say the word? Whose celebration is it? Yours? Mine? Theirs?” He points to the street, and the exultant crowds. “Haven't you heard about the charred bodies of children? I fought for them. For them and for our fatherland. Our fatherland!” He spreads his arms. “I fought in the goddamned jungle, without rules, without laws. I know what people are like. What they're really like. I know what charred bodies look like, how they smell. I know what a crowd can do. I know why they're singing. I know their songs. I know them better than anyone. And I never want to hear them again. Never. If we don't get out of here, they'll start to think we're parasites. They'll murder us. Here in this room. In this very bed! Go ahead and celebrate, enjoy your gin and tonics at the club, and dance till you drop. I'm staying put!” He wraps himself in the sheet and curls up.

Charlotte lets the torrent of words rain down on her like a cold shower. And yet the outburst does not produce the effect he intended. Gradually she allows the words to sink in. This is the first time he's ever spoken of his war experiences. His secret terrors. She wants to ask questions, to tell him that he can share his past with her, but the sight of his back, turned so resolutely toward her, tells her that it's better to leave. And yet she doesn't get up. She sits there watching him, his rapid breathing and his bare feet full of scars protruding from under the sheet. “Where do you want to go?” she asks softly. “Do you want to go back to England?”

THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE
are standing in front of the palace and the crowd is still growing. The news that the maharaja is distributing food has reached even the most remote villages. Today there is free public transportation across all of India. More and more people are trying to reach the palace. Many of the cheering men are wearing the Ghandhi
topi.
He is their hero, but they also shout the name of the maharaja, and celebrate the independence of India.

From the window of the women's room, Chutki surveys the swarming crowd in the square below. She holds her baby brother in her arms. He's ill again. He's coughing and has a fever. If only Harris sahib were here. He always managed to solve the problem. He wasn't afraid of attacks of fever and coughing fits. He could always come up with a solution. Her sisters and aunts have already gone to the great hall. Today is a red-letter day and everyone is downstairs, except for Auntie Geeta, who's deaf and half blind. As always, she is lying on a couch, asleep. Even the
punkah-wallah
has left. Chutki lays the baby down next to the old woman. He coughs and wheezes, but Auntie Geeta doesn't wake up. Taking a candle, matches, and a stick of incense from a drawer, she goes into the spacious bathroom, which is empty. She takes down a bottle of eau de cologne from the shelf and a bit of cotton, rolling the objects up in a towel. She returns to the hall, walks to the end, and pushes open the heavy door leading to her father's rooms, where it smells of tobacco and coffee. She knocks on the door of his study, but there is no answer, so she gently opens the door and slips inside. On the desk that stands in the middle of the room, she finds a large box of cigars and takes two of them. In his bathroom she finds a sharp knife, which she hides inside the folds of her sari. Quickly she goes back down the long corridor, up the stairs, and into the working quarters. Along the way, she doesn't see any of the
mehtars
or other servants.

Chutki gives a start when she opens the door: the
darzi
is in his customary place at the sewing machine. “Aren't you going to the celebrations? They're for everyone. My father said so.”

He looks disconsolately at the richly embroidered jacket in his lap, sticks the needle into the fabric, and heaves a sigh: “This is for the celebrations.”

“Have you got a couple of straight pins for me?”

The
darzi
points to a bowl. “Help yourself.”

She runs back to the women's quarters and adds the pins to the objects in the towel. In the big room old Geeta is snoring away and the baby is still asleep. Gently she takes him in her arms. The child awakens and starts coughing. “Shush, baby, shush,” she comforts him. “I'm going to make you better.” Then she goes into the bathroom and lays the baby on the floor. The cool tiles startle him, but his high fever gets the upper hand. She unrolls the towel and lays out all the objects in a row. Then she lights the candle, drips a bit of wax on the floor and positions the candle. Then she lights the stick of incense and places it on the edge of the bathtub. Through the open window, she hears shouts of “
India zindabad!
” — the cry that for weeks has sounded on the roads and in the villages: Long live India! Kneeling down in front of the child, she closes her eyes and folds her hands in front of her chest. She begins to sing softly, in a barely audible voice. A monotone, slightly nasal song. The baby utters faint cries. She places her hands on his stomach and goes on singing. The crying stops. She moistens a cotton ball in eau de cologne and goes over the baby's hands and feet as she sings to him. Then she takes a pin, holds it over the flame, and then very slowly sticks it into the sole of the baby's foot. He immediately begins to howl and kick his legs. She pins the thrashing legs to the floor with one hand. For a moment she stops singing. “Hush now. I'm doing this for you, to get rid of Mama's curse on you. Hush now, baby . . .” The child begins to scream. She takes the knife and holds it over the flame. “You are going to be happy, I promise you. When she dies.” Then Chutki picks up the knife and holds it over the candle flame. In the corridor she hears women's voices, and sees that she didn't lock the door. Quickly she blows out the candle, throws a towel over the objects on the floor, pulls the pin out of the baby's foot, and picks him up. The door opens.

“Oh, here you are! Are you coming? It's already started.”

“I'm coming. As soon as I change the baby's diaper.”

“Can't the ayah take care of that crybaby?”

“The celebrations are for everyone, including her.”

“Oh, that's very sweet of you.”

“
WHAT'S TAKING YOU
so long, you little rat? Put the pants on.” Ram Khan looks down at Madan from his rickety lean-to in a side street of the bazaar. Madan doesn't have to be told twice and quickly pulls on the blue pants. “Here.” His grumpy boss hands him a shirt. The collar has to be repaired. The boy is astounded but takes the plaid shirt, which is much too big for him, and starts to put it on. “Hey, I don't want your filthy arms in those sleeves,” the man barks. “And I don't want blood all over that shirt. You're going to have to work: you bought a pair of pants from me and you're going to pay for them. Did you think I was the mosque or something? I can barely keep my own head above water, and I'm not planning on taking on yours as well!” Madan looks at the shirt. He has no idea what he is supposed to do with it. “Unpick it,” Ram Khan snarls impatiently, “there, on the collar. Can't you see there's a false seam that has to be undone? You ought to be able to manage that, even with those runny eyes of yours.”

Madan looks at the shirt. He doesn't see anything strange about it, except that the collar is torn. So he sticks his finger into the hole and pulls, making the tear even larger.

“Not like that, nincompoop!” Ram Khan jumps up from behind his sewing machine, smacks the boy, and snatches the shirt from his hands. “I have to repair the hole, dummy, can't you see that?” He takes hold of the collar and shoves it into the boy's face. A calloused finger with a torn nail points to the faulty seam. “I'm talking about that thread. That's the one that has to be pulled out.” He shoves the shirt back into Madan's hands. “Here's a straight pin: now unpick the seam. And don't get any blood on it or I'll give you a thrashing.”

Holding the shirt away from his body so he doesn't soil it, Madan carefully inserts the pin under the thread and pulls.

Ram Khan watches in fascination as Madan's tiny fingers scrupulously unpick the thread. Suddenly there's a sparkle in Ram's eyes. If his card buddies could have seen him at that moment, they would have been astonished by his ingenuity. In a single fluid movement, the tailor sweeps the pile of garments off the crate and drapes them over his stool. Then he overturns the wooden crate and opens it. It's full of old rags, pieces of lace, shoulder pads, and bags of buttons. From behind the crate he produces a burlap bag, into which he stuffs the sewing materials. He upends the crate, so that the opening is on the side and the lid forms a door. Then he takes the pile of garments from his stool and puts them on top of the crate. Madan, who needs all his powers of concentration to remove the thread neatly, doesn't even look up. Finally, with a sigh, the tailor places the burlap bag on top of the pile of clothes. His ramshackle shelter seems even fuller than before, as if any minute the whole thing might suddenly become detached from the wall.

Peering through his spectacles, Ram examines the collar and sees that the crooked seam has totally disappeared. “Next time give your paws a better wash.” He puts the shirt on the sewing machine.

Madan looks up at him hopefully. He is hungry.

“Don't think one piddling chore is enough to pay for your pants. Besides, you still owe me for the tea and the use of the washhouse.”

Madan looks at him in alarm.

“It's your choice: either pay me for everything now, or work it off.”

Madan opens his mouth; nothing comes out but a shrill throat-clearing sound.

“Oh, no! A mute!”

Madan shakes his head and gives it another try, but all he can produce is the same hoarse sound.

Ram Khan sighs: Why does all his luck have to be bad? The other stall holders in the bazaar have errand boys. When he finally finds someone who'll work for nothing, the kid turns out to be an idiot. Madan pulls at his sleeve. For a second it looks like the tailor is about to give him a clout on the head, but then he sees that the boy is pointing to the pile and smiling up at him.

“So you want to work. And it's a good thing, too, since it doesn't look like you've got any money.” Ram Khan, who's never had a servant before, immediately feels more important. He points to the crate. “That's your patch.”

Madan peers into the crate: if he pulls up his legs, he can just fit inside.

“When I call, you come. And when I don't need you, you keep the door closed.”

Madan, who has spent so many long, sleepless nights alone on the street, cannot imagine a better spot. He immediately crawls into the crate.