Waiting for the Monsoon (23 page)

“Another one?” he asks.

Madan nods enthusiastically.

From their hiding place, they peer into the alleyway. Halfway down, there's a woman with a bucket on her head, and at the far end a man is busy loading a cart. They crawl out of their hiding place and walk cautiously back in the direction they came from. When they turn onto the main street, Abbas starts to limp.

On the corner there's a fruit stall where a woman is making her purchases.

“
Baksheesh
,
baksheesh
,” entreats Abbas as he limps along. He is also extremely cross-eyed.

The woman continues her negotiations as if oblivious to the child beggar standing at her elbow.

With longing in his eyes, Madan also looks up at the woman, as he slides his hand underneath her bag in the direction of the crate of apples.

“Out of here, you two!” shouts the man in the stall.

Holding up their hands, they work their way along the row of stalls. Then they dash into the first alleyway they see and dissolve into laughter. Again, Madan pulls a large apple out of his pocket, this time a green one. Abbas is just about to take a bite when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He freezes. A dirty claw appears at the level of his nose. Reluctantly he places the apple in the hand.

“If I ever find you working my street again,” says a boy with a large scar above one eye, “I'll break your legs.”

Dear Donald,

Just a line this time. You know all about the idiotic decision taken by the English government. We don't understand any of it. We've written several letters to various authorities, but when we finally get an answer it's always the same. There's nothing they can do for us! They should have told us that when we chose to give up our British citizenship. It's absurd that we have to hear about it this way. My widow's pension is small, but sufficient for the time being. Father's pension from the army is still good, since the cost of living is much lower here than in England, but you can imagine what the future consequences are for us. We argue sometimes, because we're so worried. Don't let on to Father that I've written to you about this, but his legs are not good right now. They're infected again. But every time I hire a live-in nurse for him, he sends her packing within a couple of days. He spends all his time writing to authorities here in India, but they don't even answer his letters. Sometimes it's as if he does nothing but write letters, just as I'm writing to you now, because I know that you are acquainted with Sir Whethamstede. If it's not too much trouble, would you ask him if he can inquire at the Department of Army Pensions about the regulations for inhabitants of the former colonies, and find out if there isn't something that can be done about the freeze on pensions? Is everything all right with you and Patricia? I sincerely hope so.

Love from your sister Charlotte

P.S.: The apples are just as sour as last year.

THE CROWS PECKED
the soil listlessly. They wouldn't find any worms until the rains came, and they were already two weeks later than normal. Anyone who could summon the energy to talk was discussing the only topic of interest: the water shortage in the Rampur reservoir.

Charlotte wiped the sweat from her forehead and looked around inquiringly. Something was different, but she didn't know what. Then her nose told her. She sniffed the air. It wasn't the grass, which at this time of year was odourless, but the jasmine bush next to the shed that gave off a faint scent. There weren't any flowers yet — they wouldn't appear until after the rain — but there was a subtle aroma coming from the bush itself, and the branches and leaves. It put her in a good mood. No doubt it was an omen, a sign that the monsoon was not far off. She looked up at the sky, but it was cloudless.

Rays of sunlight shone through the roof of the shed. She noticed immediately that someone had slept in the old
mali
's bed. She'd have to have a serious talk with Hema about this. Had he again offered one of a hoard of distant second cousins a roof over his head? Like every head servant, Hema wanted to reign supreme in his own kingdom, but because his empire had shrunk to one man, he was sometimes moody, and that annoyed her. He'd “forget” to empty the wastebaskets, iron her blouses, unclog the sewer pipes every week, and water the borders, although he had perhaps taken care of the last chore. His relationship with the tailor was also a concern. It might be better if she arranged for the
darzi
to work in the music room. She felt herself blush and shook her head in an effort to banish the colour from her cheeks. Her bicycle was standing next to the
mali
's bed, and she saw at once that one of the tires was flat. Her blush intensified, but this time it was one of annoyance. The man who repaired tire punctures could come by only after closing his shop, and she had relieved Hema of that task after several unsuccessful attempts. But this was an emergency. She couldn't afford to miss the Tuesday-morning get-together, since that would mean that all the inquisitive club members would have to come by, one by one, not only to check on the progress of their dresses, but also to peek and pry, and to establish whether her house was really as empty as the gossip would have them believe. So she adjusted her straw hat and pretended that the heat didn't bother her. At the bottom of the path, on the very spot where her father had stood for the last time, she would hail a rickshaw. After all, she still had a good portion of the money from her Wedgwood service, although it was going faster than she had hoped. Worrying about unpaid bills was one of the things that Charlotte was very good at postponing. She had urged her father to find a smaller house, but he refused to sign on the dotted line. Her latest attempt had given rise to such an unholy row that she had finally given up hope.

The sun burned straight through her hat, and perspiration poured from her face. The street at the bottom of the hill, normally full of traffic, was deserted except for a cow grazing absently and a truck full of bananas. No one wanted to spend a minute longer than necessary outdoors in this heat, and she was wondering whether many of the club ladies might not show up when she heard a familiar car horn. The shiny vehicle stopped and the door flung open.

“Come on, jump in,” called the wife of Nikhil Nair.

Charlotte was only too happy to comply. “I've got a flat tire,” she said as she flopped down next to the portly woman in the shocking pink blouse.

“You shouldn't be cycling at all in this weather. Don't you have the Vauxhall anymore?”

Charlotte smiled. “Cycling keeps me fit.”

The air conditioning was on high. Charlotte shivered slightly.

“Is he making progress?” inquired the wife of Nikhil Nair. “I simply cannot wait to see my American dress.”

“He's hard at work,” Charlotte replied. She had a clear recollection of the pink dress that hung from the ceiling, dancing gently above the bent figure of the tailor.

“I do hope it turns out well. What if I had to take my silk to a third
darzi
? It doesn't bear thinking about! And run the risk of someone cutting off another half a metre.”

“According to the butler, he's making great strides.”

“The man doesn't do his sewing in the kitchen, does he? I don't want my dress smelling like masala and roast chicken.”

“No, of course not.”

“Fabrics absorb odours, you know. The
darzi
who made my wedding outfit worked on it next door to the room where my uncle kept a secret stash of liquor, and the whole day I smelled like a brewery. We tried to get rid of the odour by hanging it outside for a night, but I was afraid someone might steal it. My mother sprinkled it with eau de cologne. Not that that helped . . .” Everyone knew that her tailor back then was a notorious alcoholic, and that by the time the celebrations began, her uncle was already short twelve bottles of whisky.

“He only uses a bit of sugar to stiffen the collars.”

“Sugar!”

“That's what he said.”

“You mean you can converse with him?”

“No, but the butler saw him doing something with sugar and assumed that it was our sugar he was using. I had to intervene.”

“I hear he's a bit strange.”

“How do you mean, strange?

“My chauffeur saw him buying flower seeds at the market. What on earth does he need flower seeds for? You can't eat them and there's no use sending them home, since it's the wrong season, so I thought maybe . . . You haven't asked him to do the gardening as well, have you? You still don't have a new gardener?”

There was a touch of disdain in her voice; Charlotte pretended not to notice it.

“He probably saw something he fancied.”

“Well, it's still strange. Keep an eye on him. I certainly don't want to end up with a row of sunflowers embroidered on my collar.”

When they arrived at the club, all the ladies were anxious to hear how the tailor was progressing with their festive outfits, and Charlotte had to move heaven and earth to convince them to leave the tailor — and more particularly, herself — in peace. “When he's finished,” she said, “he'll come straight to each of you. I'll see to that.”

~~~

“
HAVE YOU HEARD
anything?” sighed the wife of Ajay Karapiet over the phone. She hadn't attended the Tuesday-morning gathering because she was in bed and running a high fever. She was still too ill to listen to the commentary from her friend with the penchant for pink.

“It's really too pathetic for words. I'm almost afraid to tell you, but she was
on foot
, in this weather. Imagine! There was no one on the street, of course, and I noticed a strange odour in the car, so I gave her one of those modern eau-de-cologne tissues, that was the least I could do.” The wife of Nikhil Nair rattled on.

“Who?” groaned the wife of Ajay Karapiet, throwing off the blanket she had just pulled up over her shoulders.

“Charlotte Bridgwater, of course! Apparently not a single outfit is finished, and he sprinkles sugar on our fabrics. And the butler, who's actually more of a general dogsbody — although she always calls him the butler — was also against it and they ended up fighting, he and the
darzi
, and she had to get between them, she told me herself. Just imagine him walking into your servants' quarters, you certainly wouldn't have had the courage . . . although I sometimes wonder whether it was such a good idea, that man in her house . . .”

The wife of Ajay Karapiet knew that her friend was waiting for her to say “How do you mean?” or “What are you suggesting?” but her head was pounding and her ears were ringing. She was longing for a glass of cold water and wanted to go back to sleep, so she just groaned faintly, which was interpreted as a question.

“I have a suspicion — but this mustn't go any further — that she's using him as a gardener as well!”

Even with a head full of mucous and a temperature of
39.4
, the wife of Ajay Karapiet pricked up her ears. “The tailor! A gardener?” she panted.

“My cook saw him buying a crate of flower seeds at the market. You don't use flower seeds to make clothes, do you? She hasn't had a gardener since her
mali
returned to his cycle of reincarnation, and I know that her handyman hates gardening. I heard that from my chauffeur's brother. And . . .” Her voice dropped, building up the suspense. “. . . someone has seen her cutting the grass before it gets light. Imagine! Cutting the grass herself! The mistress of the great house!”

That news was enough to make the wife of Ajay Karapiet sit straight up in bed. “She mows her own grass?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“Of course, she doesn't want anyone to know, that's why she goes out before dawn. But if you put those three things together, then the conclusion is clear. Plus the fact that he hasn't produced a single dress. I'm absolutely positive that the tailor — who is supposed to make sure that in a couple of weeks all of us look absolutely fabulous — does the gardening!”

There was a plaintive sigh at the other end of the line. The patient fell back onto the pillows.

“I'm glad you agree with me and, just between the two of us . . . isn't this an example of old-fashioned colonial behaviour?”

The wife of Ajay Karapiet let out a faint croak. She had never really understood what colonial behaviour was. In her eyes, the English were the people who brought both the railroad and the postal service. Both of these institutions were still doing incredibly well, and she and her children, who had decided to continue their studies in faraway cities, were enthusiastic users.

“We have to do something. We can't let this happen. We have to go and see for ourselves.”

The wife of Ajay Karapiet groaned.

“Are you really that sick?”

“Come and fetch me,” said the wife of Ajay Karapiet. She knew that her friend would go on badgering her until she got up.

~~~

CHARLOTTE HEARD A
car coming up the path, which hadn't been called the “driveway” for years. The hole her father dug had remained open for two years. After the ambulance drove off, the sewer workers had grudgingly helped to load the pipes back onto the truck before leaving. The ground was too hard, they said. Her father was moved to a rehabilitation clinic, where he learned to move about with his useless limbs, and after the monsoon she had hired a new contractor, who reviewed the situation and came to the conclusion that it was much faster and easier to lay the pipes from the other side of the hill. And the contractor was right. His men had no trouble digging a deep trench through the garden. The first time Charlotte positioned herself on the modern flush toilet, it was one hundred and eight years to the day since Queen Victoria had tried out her new toilet. When Charlotte asked the men to fill the hole at the bottom of the driveway, the foreman laughed and said, “You call this rut a driveway?” From then on, everyone referred to it as “the path,” and when her father came home for the first time in two years, the garden and the house had deteriorated to such an extent that the term stuck.