Waiting for the Monsoon (37 page)

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.”

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.

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.

“I'll help you,” Sita says softly. “You know that.”

Dear Donald,

It's almost impossible to describe just how beautiful it is here. The mountains look exactly like the paintings in Father's study, except that they're much more beautiful, higher and more imposing. I've never seen anything as enchanting as these mountains. Sometimes I spend the whole day out on the terrace, watching the clouds that seem to bump right into the side of the mountain, and the waterfall that comes splashing down all day and all night, and the eagle that circles high in the sky, the sun that shines on the peaks, and the monks in their red habits who pass by so silently, and the donkeys with the huge crates on their backs making their way along the narrow paths, and the village children playing on the grass. Now, of course, you're thinking how very lazy I am because I just sit there the whole day, but actually I do go for walks as well. But not too long, since my feet have been giving me a lot of trouble. But the doctor here says they'll get better. All I have to do is rest a bit more, and take alternating hot and cold baths at night. That's why I've taken up knitting again, something I haven't done since boarding school. My first attempt was a scarf. It didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped, since I'm a bit rusty, but if the next one turns out better, I'll send it to you. Father doesn't need it in Rampur. I can always wear the first one myself, since it's nice and warm. The room I've rented here is simple but adequate. My window overlooks a valley, with a river running through it. Apparently the river becomes quite wild in spring, but I won't be staying here that long. There are lots of apple trees, planted by the British. The other day I was walking toward the old part of town and as I was crossing the bridge, a young Englishman spoke to me. He asked me if I wanted to be happy. A rather odd question to ask a perfect stranger! I told him that I was very happy, and then I walked on. It wasn't until later that I heard who the boy was. There's a plant that grows here, and people use it to make something that's supposed to “expand your consciousness.” That's what he wanted to sell me. There aren't many Europeans here, but apparently all of them come for that stuff, and not for a vacation, like me. It is so beautiful here. I'm eating well and getting plenty of sleep, and if my second scarf turns out better, I'll send it to you.

Regards from your sister,

Charlotte

~~~

CHARLOTTE IS SITTING
in the big chair next to the window; she's wearing the red socks she knitted herself, which are tight around her swollen ankles. Sita is on her knees in a corner of the room, doing her
pudja
. Charlotte, who is not a regular churchgoer, would love to look inside her head, to see whether her prayers really give her strength. Charlotte herself is increasingly fearful of what lies ahead.