Waiting for the Monsoon (19 page)

HER FOOTSTEPS SOUND
hollow in the large marble hall. Every ten metres there are gigantic crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and paintings of the forefathers on the walls. They are holding sabres, and their turbans are adorned with precious gems. Charlotte pauses in front of a painting of a young boy. He is holding a sabre almost as big as he is, but his turban makes him look slightly taller.

“That's my father . . .”

She starts: the maharaja is standing behind her. She didn't hear him coming.

“. . . on his wedding day.”

“His wedding day? But he's only a child!”

“He was ten and my mother was five when they married.”

Charlotte does her best to conceal her horror.

“I was twelve when my parents decided that I was old enough to marry,” the maharaja continues. “I swore that none of my children would marry before they turned sixteen.”

Charlotte nods. She herself is sixteen and newly married.

“My plan was to have my last and youngest daughter marry next year, but . . . eh . . .” He hesitates.

“Chutki? What's the problem? Doesn't she want to get married?”

“It's not a question of wanting to or not wanting to. The man I had in mind for her suddenly married someone else.”

“Just like that? Without any warning?”

The maharaja nods.

“But that's terrible. Is Chutki awfully upset?”

“She didn't know.”

“She didn't know?”

“I was still making the arrangements. The man himself didn't know either.”

“Really?”

“For years I was so convinced that he was . . . well, the right one. And he was making no effort to look for a wife . . . until suddenly . . .”

For an instant Charlotte and the maharaja look each other in the eye. Then the maharaja turns away and looks back at the painting of his father. They stand side by side in silence. Neither of them moves. It's as if they are holding their breath.

“Are you angry with me?” Charlotte asks suddenly.

“No.”

“Or with Peter?”

“No.”

THE BOSS ARRIVES
with a bunch of clanging keys, puts down the pan, and unlocks the door just as he has done every morning for the last few months. This is the moment when Madan's world becomes the world of his boss. With his customary sigh, Ram Khan pulls aside the wooden hatch. Madan jumps out of the crate and helps him lean the hatch against the wall. Then he makes a beeline to the end of the alley, takes a deep breath, and enters the pitch-black space that his boss once referred to as the “washroom.” He holds his breath, doing his best not to slip and fall. Madan squats over the hole in the floor. Sometimes, but not often, he succeeds in relieving himself without taking a breath. The washroom, which is used by all the shopkeepers on the block, has never been cleaned, but none of the men appear to mind. Nor does Madan. Like the others, he washes his feet at the bucket outside. Back in the street, he sees that his boss and the coppersmith are in discussion. The coppersmith has a device in his hand that Madan has never seen before. He places it against Madan's crate and turns it on. Scraps of wood fall to the ground and minutes later there is a hole in the crate. He then drills four more holes in the side of the crate. “That's enough,” Ram Khan growls. Madan looks up at him inquiringly. “For light. Otherwise you'll ruin your eyes and then you won't be of any use to me.”

It is much easier to work inside the crate now, because he can see what he's supposed to do. He sits on the floor, bent over, with his knees pulled up; on his lap is the pair of pants with a seam that needs to be unpicked. Using a straight pin, he wiggles the stitches back and forth. Suddenly he can see what's going on outside. The man farther down the street who writes letters for people walks past with his little suitcase, which contains a typewriter. An old woman who comes from outside the city spreads out a cloth and then deposits a gigantic pile of coriander onto it. She won't leave until she's sold every last bunch, even if it takes her days. The coppersmith's errand boy comes back with a purchase. Everyone is on the go. Carts drive past. Dogs sniff at everything and each other.

“Mukka! Thread!”

Madan crawls out of his crate. Bending over the sewing machine, he takes the end of the broken thread, gives it a gentle tug, and then pulls it through the eye of the needle without a hitch.

“Are those pants done?” the boss grunts.

Madan shakes his head.

“You were probably looking outside the whole time. Do I have to block the holes?”

Penitently, Madan looks down at his feet.

“I've got another pair of pants for you, so make it snappy.”

Madan dashes back into the crate and gets to work.

~~~

“
IS IT BETTER
now?” Charlotte lays a hand on Peter's arm and feels that he's trembling again. “We'll just have to wait.”

“I'm tired of waiting. I want to leave.”

“Just one more day. You can manage one day, can't you?”

Peter begins to tremble even more.

“Shall we go for a walk?”

He looks up with a start. She can tell by the look in his eyes that the terror is mounting inside of him. She's afraid that one day it will be unleashed, with violence.

“Maybe just a stroll?”

He curls up like a child, with his arms around his head. Charlotte strokes him gently, but the trembling only gets worse. The house they moved into six months ago is far more luxurious than the one in New Delhi. When he accepted an appointment to the staff of the academic hospital in Bombay, she still had some hope that things would improve. But from the moment they unpacked their suitcases, the situation has only deteriorated.

“They said that walking is good for you. Let's give it a try. It'll also make the time pass more quickly.”

Peter looks at her imploringly. Charlotte puts his hand on hers and gets up from the bed. She doesn't exert any pressure. She just waits. Very slowly Peter stands up, his back bent, his eyes fixed on the floor. In the six years they've been together, he has changed from a handsome captain into an old man. His hair has started to fall out, his eyelids tremble constantly, and they haven't slept in the same bed for a long time. She often thinks back to that one night of love, when it all started. If her father hadn't caught them, she probably wouldn't have married him. It would have ended that same night, and they would have gone their separate ways.

The servants look surprised to see their memsahib leading the doctor outside. Charlotte puts her arm through Peter's and, one step at a time, they venture onto the sidewalk. Peter is breathing heavily, and from time to time he moans softly. The sun has almost set, and a cool sea wind begins to blow toward the city. A tram passes.

“I should never have married you,” Peter says suddenly.

They continue walking. The remark hurts her more than she expected. It's a thought that has occurred to her on innumerable occasions, but she's never dared to speak the words.

“I've made you unhappy. I know it. I can tell.”

The street seems endless, and she finds the dark trees overhead oppressive. She wants to see light from the last bit of afternoon sun. Without either of them directing their steps, they turn into a side street. The houses are lower, and here and there laundry is hanging from an open window. The pressure on her arm becomes lighter, as if Peter's confession has brought him a kind of relief. There are tradesmen sitting in front of their stores, smoking or chatting with their neighbours. The first gas lanterns are being lit. At a leisurely pace, they walk down one street and then turn onto another. They continue in silence.

“Do we have coriander on hand?”

Charlotte is momentarily taken aback, then she shakes her head no. Peter walks over to an old woman sitting behind an enormous pile of fresh coriander. Charlotte can scarcely believe her eyes. He picks up a bunch from the pile and smells it. He exchanges a few words with the woman. Then he searches his pants pocket for a coin and pays her. The woman wraps the bunch in a piece of newspaper and hands it to him.

“Shall we go home now?” His voice suddenly sounds tired. He takes hold of his wife's arm and pulls her along.

“Did you see that?”

“What?” he asks. His voice has lost all its colour.

“Oh, never mind.” Charlotte realizes that the improvement was short-lived and that he would probably not have been shocked by what she had just seen: a young child at work inside a tiny crate at the feet of a fat tailor.

SOMEWHERE IN THE
house there must be a length of cloth. She was sure of it. It was no use asking Hema. He'd only say that everything was gone and that it was a waste of time searching the house. She stood in the middle of the large hall and looked up. There was nothing in the attic. She'd already carried out a thorough search there, and also in her bedroom, the music room, the dining room, and the drawing room. The study, which had been her father's, was empty except for a spring mattress. The blue room, for years reserved for guests, was empty. Then she turned to the door of the only remaining room, the nursery. But she couldn't search there until the monsoon came, when she would be forced to empty the room due to the leaking roof. That is, if the monsoon ever arrived. Where were the clouds and the wind? Everyone was longing for relief from the heat: the plants, the birds, the whole city.

Suddenly the door flew open and Hema stormed into the hall. She didn't know he could move that fast.

“What's the matter?”

“He . . . that man . . . he's . . .” He was gasping for breath.

“He's what?”

“Memsahib, terrible, dreadful, he . . .”

“What's happened? Tell me!”

Hema spread his arms wide and looked upward with a dramatic expression on his face. Charlotte followed his gaze.

“No, memsahib, in the kitchen . . .”

“Is he injured?”

“No, no. It's worse than that.”

“He isn't . . . ?”

“He's putting sugar on a dress!”

“He's doing what?”

“The
darzi
is putting sugar on a dress. Sugar is expensive. And the sugar's almost gone. The sugar is only for tea and for the sahib's yogurt. Not for a dress. Sugar belongs in the kitchen! The sugar —”

“Calm, calm . . .” The last time she'd seen Hema so distraught was when he caught a thief red-handed in the shed.

“There!” Hema pointed furiously at the door. In the opening stood the tailor. A faintly sweet odour accompanied him.

“What's the problem?” she asked Madan.

“He put sugar on a dress!” Hema repeated his accusation.

“Is that true? Did you sprinkle sugar on a dress?”

Madan nodded.

“Do you hear that, memsahib? I wasn't lying, I never lie,” Hema cried.

“Why did you do that?” Charlotte continued her interrogation.

It's important for the person who's going to wear it.

“Do you use sugar as a kind of starch?” she continued.

No. Just the opposite: it makes the material soft.

“You see, he uses it to stiffen the material. So that it doesn't wrinkle as easily,” she said to Hema, in an attempt to smooth things over.

“But, memsahib, our sugar . . .”

Madan shook his head.
I bought my own sugar.
He went to the kitchen and came back with a small bag of sugar.

“Is that the sugar from the kitchen?” Charlotte asked Hema.

He looked at the bag and shook his head. “But it's the same colour.”

“This sugar belongs to the
darzi
. I appreciate the fact that you were concerned, but now you can see that there isn't really a problem. So you can go back to the kitchen without any cause for worry.”

“Sugar on a dress. Sugar is for tea,” Hema grumbled. Then he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, still muttering to himself.

On the landing above, the clock struck one. Then everything was quiet again. So quiet that Charlotte could still hear Hema complaining under his breath. Madan was standing in the middle of the hall holding his bag of sugar. He made no move to leave.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

You haven't found the fabric yet.

“I looked for material for my dress today. I was positive that somewhere in the house there are really beautiful lengths of cloth lying around, but I can't find them.”

You would look lovely in red silk.

“I seem to remember a piece of Italian silk that belonged to my mother. But it's probably just disappeared after all these years . . .” Charlotte wanted him to stay, but she found it terribly awkward trying to carry on a conversation with someone who can't speak.

You understand me. Don't be afraid. You hear everything I say.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, a booming voice sounded from upstairs: “Discipline and order!”

Charlotte looked straight into the eyes of her father, who was leaning over the balustrade on the landing. “Rules! They weren't made for nothing!”

She raced up the stairs. “Father! Father! Why aren't you in your room?”

“Rules! We have to abide by the rules, even if it means death. Straighten your backbone.”

Charlotte grasped the handles of his wheelchair and tried to manoeuvre it back to the open nursery door. But he grabbed hold of the balustrade and pulled himself back to the edge. “You were standing there flirting with a darky,” he grinned. “I saw you. Brown women — bring 'em on! I'm ready and willing!”

“Father! Calm down! That's the tailor.”

“They're no slouches, those darkies. Especially if you keep them on short rations. Then they'll do anything for you.”