Waiting for the Monsoon (60 page)

MADAN HEARS HER
voice.
Come back! Come and get me! Come back!
He pedals up the hill as fast as he can, up the path flanked by shattered bowls and basins, past the silent fire engines. He throws his bicycle to the ground, heedless of his sewing machine on the carrier. He sees the firemen staring helplessly at the immense sea of fire, axes idle in their hands. Some of them are sitting despondently on the rolled-out carpet. He sees the two empty buckets on the columns next to the stairs. He sees the old man in his wheelchair, clapping his hands and shouting enthusiastic cries of encouragement, while an old firefighter with rows of medals on his chest looks at him with compassion. The handyman is comforting the sparsely clad niece, who is sobbing uncontrollably.
Come!
Her voice is despairing.
Come and get me!
He doesn't understand why no one is doing anything.
Why are they standing there, watching? They have to go in. She's still in there! They have to save her.
He sees portions of the balcony fall to the ground, blocking the front door.

Parvat wades through the flames that clutch at him, searching for the small side door. He advances through the burning debris, cradling her in his strong arms as tenderly as she held him in the photo. Tongues of fire lick hungrily at his legs. She must not die. Not now, not here, not in his arms. Then, surrounded by flames, he sees a figure approaching. He has no protective clothing. No mask. What kind of idiot has the courage to brave this sea of flames?

Madan wants to move forward, but it's impossible. The merciless flames force him back. He wants to fight, he feels no fear, but the scorching flames bar the way. The wall of fire is impenetrable. He no longer hears her voice, but he's certain that he did hear her, and that she called out to him.

Charlotte!
he calls, without realizing that this is the first time he has spoken her name.
Charlotte, where are you?

They emerge from the devastating curtain of flames. He doesn't recognize them. All he sees is a vague smudge, which seems to be moving, and the quivering contours of what might be a body.

They stagger outside. Away from the fire. Away from the house. Away from that raging hell. Parvat pushes Charlotte's limp body into Madan's arms and pulls off his mask. He sees how the man takes the woman in his arms. Embraces her. Kisses her. Embarrassed, the tall fireman watches the passionate caresses.

It's dark inside the wardrobe, the door won't open, even when I push, I smell the sweet scent of Mother's dresses, my hand brushes the soft velvet, I'm afraid, I know for sure they've forgotten me.

Madan's legs give way. The strength he had is gone. Charlotte's head sinks onto his lap. He strokes her face, her straight nose, her red lips, her long hair. He is crying. But it's not his tears that are falling on her face.

I hear the raindrops bouncing off the hood of the pram, my legs are bare, and my arms are uncovered, I don't know where they are, I'm outside, I'm alone, the rain is lashing me harder and harder, it hurts, I can't stop crying.

Above them, the sky breaks open. The drops plunge into the flames with a hissing sound. They're not afraid: in their millions they simply let go, allow themselves to fall, more and more of them, faster and faster. The rain rinses the soot from her face, and her translucent skin glows.

The tears carry me along, like a churning river, I am dragged into the jungle, I hear the rustling of the trees, I see the blood streaming down the trunks, I feel the fear of the silent column that plods along. Where are they heading? Where did they come from?

He closes his eyes and remembers Charlotte bending over him. Again he smells her scent. Again he hears the words she whispered then:
Stay alive!
She runs her fingers through his hair. He remembers the pain in his throat. She tells him that it's going to be all right. She kisses him. He opens his eyes and blinks. Through a haze, he sees that she is smiling at him.

We're dancing, our feet no longer touch the ground, our bodies touch only each other, we have no need for words, we have said everything, we have felt everything. The loneliness, the silence, and the fears have disappeared.

She looks at him, eyes wide open. Then her head falls to one side. A crashing bolt of lightning illuminates her broken smile. Above the hill, the thunder rumbles. The scent of jasmine rises.

THE FIRST PERSON
I want to thank is Barbara Hershey, for the question that she asked me on the last day of filming
The Bird Can't Fly
and that ultimately led to this novel. I am also grateful to Nameeta Premkumar Nair, and to her family, friends, and assistants in Bombay, Chennai, Coonoor, New Delhi, and Shimla. During my investigative travels across India, they helped me find the right people and the right situations. My special thanks goes to Gopinder Vatsayayen in the foothills of the Himalayas, and Harmesh Rangaiah and his wife Rakhi in the hills of Coonoor, who arranged meetings that were decisive in determining the direction of this story. During my research I spoke with a maharaja, veteran soldiers, firemen, dozens of tailors, an elderly butler, retired servants, former nursemaids, street children, journalists, writers, and historians, as well as British citizens — and their descendents — who remained in India after independence was declared in 1947. I also visited former British clubs, palaces, orphanages, hospitals, workplaces, and a number of colonial villas. Nonetheless, all the characters and situations in this book are fictional: together they form a mosaic made up of the thousands of tiny pieces, which I discovered along the way.

I am also grateful for the help and hospitality of the former Dutch consul in Mumbai, Hans Ramaker, and journalist Rafique Baghdadi, who showed me what Bombay was like during the fifties.

In the Netherlands, my thanks go to Major General Germ Keuning and his network for providing the proper military terminology; Dick Plukker, who advised me on the correct Hindu terms; and Bargerhof Farm for the loan of its colourful pots and pans. My gratitude also goes to my four critical readers: Moniek Kramer, Helga Pranger, and my brothers Flip and Marc Schreurs — the latter also served as impromptu editor — as well as Linda Visser and Marleen Schoonderwoerd, who dotted the last “i”s and crossed the last “t”s. I thank my publisher Nelleke Geel, because she is different from all the other publishers in the Netherlands and a source of inspiration. But above all I thank my beloved, Adriaan Krabbendam, who read this book in serial form every day after dinner, encouraged me, and has been my editor for years.

THREES ANNA
is
a writer and director of film and theatre. She is the author of five critically acclaimed novels, and her debut film,
The Bird Can't Fly
, premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival. She is currently working on the film adaptation of her novel
The Silent City
. She lives in the Netherlands.

BARBARA POTTER FASTING
is an American translator specializing in fiction and literary nonfiction. Her previous translations include the novel
Unknown Destination
by Maya Rasker and
Disturbances of the Mind
by Douwe Draaisma. She lives in the Netherlands.

• aloo gobi — potato with cauliflower
  
• ayah — native nursemaid
  
• baksheesh — alms
  
• beedi — thin cigarette filled with tobacco flake and wrapped in a tendu leaf tied with a string
  
• bobajee — cook
  
• brew — tea (British army usage)
  
• burra-peg — liquor (usually whisky)
  
• chai — tea
  
• chai-wallah — tea seller
  
• chapati — unleavened Indian flat bread
  
• chota-sahib — junior sahib, son of the sahib
  
• dal — collective term for lentil dishes
  
• darzi — tailor
  
• dhobi — man who does the laundry
  
• Diwali — Indian feast of light
  
• Holi — Hindu spring festival, during which people throw coloured powder and coloured water over each other
  
• India zindabad! — Long live India!
  
• kurta — long shirt worn by men
  
• longhi — piece of material which men tie around their waist, often ankle-length; sometimes pulled up between the legs and tucked into the back collar
  
• maharaja — title of inland ruler
  
• maharani — wife of the maharaja
  
• mali — gardener
  
• masalchee — kitchen help, dishwasher
  
• mehtar / mehtarani — male / female sweeper
  
• memsahib — respectful form of address for a woman
  
• namastÈ — customary greeting (I bow before you)
  
• paneer — Indian cheese, similar to cottage cheese
  
• pudja — Hindu ritual performed on various occasions, to pray to or show respect for God, gods, and the guru
  
• punkah-wallah — man who operates the punkah (fan made of cloth or palm leaves) by constantly pulling on a rope
  
• Raj — British rule over India
  
• sahib — term of address for a European in India
  
• salwar kameez — traditional dress for women and men in South Asia; the salwar resembles pyjama pants, and the kameez is a tunic or long shirt
  
• sarkar — term of address for an authority or sovereign
  
• swaddy — soldier (British military)
  
• swagger stick — cane
  
• topi — small white cap
  
• viceroy — Governor General, head of the British colonial government in India
  
• zenana — separate part of a house reserved for the women of the household
  

1. What similarities and differences do you see between Charlotte and Madan? Between Charlotte and Victor?
   
2. In the opening lines of the novel Charlotte is compared to the electric lawnmower: “She was like the old Lloyds. For years it was the only electric lawnmower for miles around: the fact that it was still functioning was thanks to the brand and not to love.” How does the last statement apply to Charlotte's life?
   
3. What does Madan gain from his friendship with Abbas?
   
4. When Victor announces that he plans to return to England Charlotte thinks, “He'll make it to London, and without a hitch, too.” How true is Charlotte's assessment of her father?
   
5. Describe the relationship between Madan and Mister Patel. Do you think Mister Patel felt obligated to take care of Madan? Why do you think he made the decision to leave Madan with Chandan Chandran?
   
6. What is Hema's role in the book? How do other people react to him?
   
7. Why do you think Charlotte agrees to take Madan in? Do the ladies of the New Rampur Club influence her decision? Do they influence her in other ways?
   
8. Charlotte's great-grandmother Elizabeth Elphinstone whispers, “The clock is the future,” as she crosses the Khyber Pass. What does the big grandfather clock symbolize for Charlotte in the past and present?
   
9. After giving birth, Charlotte tells Sita “From now on, this is your child.” Why do you think Sita agrees to take the baby?
   
10. Victor says to Charlotte, “A true Bridgwater doesn't cry. Ever.” What impact does this statement have on Charlotte throughout her life?
    
11. In what ways does Peter's war trauma impact his marriage to Charlotte? Why do you think he keeps this trauma from Charlotte? Why can't he move past it?
    

House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi's commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada's pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”