Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  Peter presses the back of his hand against the girl’s forehead and prays that all will go well, that he will be able to meet the high expectations, and that there will be no permanent scar on her neck, so that when she marries, she will wear the family jewels with pride. Peter suspects that the maharaja is using his daughter as a guinea pig. This powerful man will agree to be operated on himself only if she recovers. Glancing at the rickety construction supporting the table, he regrets that he did not insist that the operation take place in an official hospital. But then Peter nods to Aziz, his assistant, and with even more precision and concentration than usual, he tilts the girl’s head backwards. During the mirror examination he saw just how serious the condition of the larynx was. Aziz paints the girl’s throat with an antiseptic and covers it with a cloth. There is an opening in the cloth on the exact spot where the young throat specialist will make the incision.

  THE MAHARAJA, WHO is not accustomed to taking orders, strides out of the palace. He would rather have gone straight to his study to oil one of his guns, but he is unable to concentrate on anything but Chutki. Although she isn’t his favourite daughter, she’s a good dancer and he doesn’t want to lose her. He slows his pace as he approaches the stables. He has not yet met the taxidermist whom he summoned from Bangalore. The abattoir, which on his father’s initiative was covered with Delft blue tiles straight from Holland, and where the English throat specialist declined to operate, has for several days been the domain of the man charged with mounting the elephant head for the viceroy. Maharaja Man Singh has already decided that he will only make the viceroy a present of the head if he survives his coming operation. The heavy door of the abbatoir creaks open. There are large hooks hanging from the ceiling and draining racks along one wall. The elephant’s head lies on a large round table in the middle of the high-ceilinged room.

  The taxidermist, who is kneeling on the ground, does not look up when the maharaja enters. The Indian prince waits in amazement. In his palace, people jump to their feet as soon as he appears. For a moment he considers dismissing the man, but instead he sits down on the long wooden bench against the wall. He watches as the blade of the scalpel slowly sinks into the elephant’s neck. Then the head is quickly separated from the body, together with the accompanying loose ends. The maharaja puts his hand to his throat. With great precision, the razor-sharp knife slices through the thick grey hide.

  THE GIRL MOANS softly. Doctor Harris finishes bandaging her neck. Gradually he becomes aware of the sounds from outside. He is thirsty. His trusted assistant is already at his elbow with a glass of water, which he downs in one gulp. He’s done it. Chutki will never be an opera singer, but provided she doesn’t whisper, cough, clear her throat, or drink too much water during the coming forty-eight hours, she will be able to speak without pain and her sore throat will be a thing of the past. The men sit down and watch as the little girl slowly wakes up. A daughter, Peter thinks to himself, that’s what I want, too.

  ~~~

  HE LONGS FOR the peace and quiet of his room. The interminable dinner is by no means over: new dishes filled with unfamiliar fare are continually being brought in. The punkah-wallah pulls impassively on the rope, and above their heads the enormous fans are doing their work. Peter Harris is not used to Indian food. His landlady in Delhi served only English fare, and the spicy dishes paralyze his taste buds and set his mouth on fire.

  The maharaja, a bandage around his throat, claps his hands and the various conversations fall still. “Harris sahib,” he begins with a slight bow in Peter’s direction. “My voice is still weak, but my happiness is great.” He snaps his fingers.

  The man in the green turban comes forward. He is carrying a walnut chest, which he places at Peter’s feet. Softly the maharaja begins to speak, choosing his words with care. He praises Peter for his great expertise and the British people for their advanced developments in the field of medical science. Peter gestures deprecatingly and smiles in embarrassment. But the maharaja, clad in a silk suit, dismisses the surgeon’s modesty, stressing that he will be in his debt for all eternity and expressing the hope that their paths will often cross. While the gift that his youngest daughter has selected is in no way comparable to what the doctor has given him, he hopes that this token of esteem will be accepted.

  Chutki, who is sitting next to her mother and for the first time in her life has been allowed to attend a dinner, points to the chest: “Open it!”

  Peter Harris, somewhat flustered by all the attention, lifts the lid. On a black velvet cushion lies a magnificent crystal lampshade. Sparkling rubies hang at a distance of one centimetre apart, each on its own fine gold chain.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  HEMA DID NOT trouble himself with things that were beyond his field of vision. He never went near the top of a cabinet, did not like attics, and was not in the habit of looking up at the ceiling. Which explains why he never noticed that every once in a while a ruby disappeared from the lamp in the deserted music room. Charlotte, who had always acted in secret for fear someone would find out about her treasure, was no longer worried, now that she had cut off the last of the jewels. While she had to maintain the large house and pay the usual living costs, like all the other women who belonged to the New Rampur Club, she wanted a new dress for the upcoming festivities.

  Hema helped her down from the wobbly structure, and as he picked up the photo albums from the floor and returned them to their plastic jackets, he inquired if she wanted her supper. The house search he had just carried out had not dulled his hunger. Charlotte shook her head and told him she wanted to get some sleep, which was not entirely true. She was still elated about the successful sale of the Wedgwood service and the costly ruby in her hand.

  The dealer who had come to look at the Wedgwood had initially been uninterested, even condescending. Floral motifs were old-fashioned and unpopular, the white was not as creamy as it should be, and over the years the porcelain seemed to have lost its transparency. Charlotte could not have said exactly what was going through her mind when she took the topmost plate from the pile and fixed the dealer with a piercing look. She had placed the plate casually on her outstretched hand, as if it wouldn’t bother her if it fell and broke. “My good man,” she had said, “you obviously know very little about valuable china services.” He had laughed scornfully. Still balancing the plate on her open palm, she had delivered a brief lecture on the qualities of the costly ceramic. She had explained how it was possible to make the material hard and translucent at the same time, that bone ash was added to the clay of the original Wedgwood to make it even stronger, that it was odourless and tasteless, that even after lying at the bottom of the sea for a century it had barely discoloured, and that if he was not prepared to make her a reasonable offer, he could leave the house immediately, since her situation was not as hopeless as he seemed to think. And still staring him straight in the eye, she had spun the plate in her hand. The buyer could not take his eyes off the plate, which began to twirl faster and faster. Then Charlotte tilted her hand and it described a graceful arc in the direction of the floor. But before it could hit the ground, the buyer had taken a dive toward the plate and managed to catch it.

  “Wedgwood doesn’t break that easily,” Charlotte said. Now she was the one laughing.

  He had hurt his knee when he dived for the plate. But it was worth it. He knew that he could charge a lot more for a complete service than for one that was missing a plate.

  “Well?” Charlotte took the plate from his hands and placed it carefully on the stack. “You know my price.”

  The man walked back over to the dresser, rubbing his knee. He picked up the plate again, held it up to the light, and squinted.

  Was it his lank hair, his neat suit, his taut lower lip? Charlotte couldn’t say, but she had never driven such a hard bargain. In the end he paid her three times his original offer. Charlotte knew that he already had a buyer, and probably i
n Rampur. She just hoped it wasn’t one of the ladies from the Tuesday-morning club.

  ~~~

  THE AIR CONDITIONER hummed. The wife of Nikhil Nair, the district director of the Eastern Indian Mining Company, and the wife of Ajay Karapiet, whose husband owned a hotel and two cinemas, were having tea in Nikhil Nair’s beautifully decorated sitting room.

  “One-third Assam, two-thirds Darjeeling,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair.

  “I should have guessed! You always have such delicious mixes,” squeaked the wife of Ajay Karapiet, who took much more milk in her tea than the wife of Nikhil Nair.

  “That manicure doctor with the plastic hand . . . has he contacted you about the tailor?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You never tell me anything.”

  “I’m sure I told you.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m becoming forgetful?” snapped the wife of Nikhil Nair.

  “He’s agreed to come.”

  “When?”

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “Because the nail doctor didn’t know.”

  “He can ask, can’t he?”

  “He says the tailor is on his way.”

  “Why isn’t he here yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never know anything.”

  “Well, I know that he’s coming, don’t I?”

  The wife of Nikhil Nair took a bite of her biscuit. The crumbs fell onto her lap. She was crazy about the biscuits that her cook baked for her every other day. She’d eat at least two whenever she got the chance — and that was reflected in her figure.

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet didn’t like the biscuits. They stuck to her dentures.

  “Did you get that piece of brocade back?” the wife of Nikhil Nair asked her friend.

  Again the wife of Ajay Karapiet heaved a sigh. “What’s left of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a feeling that someone’s cut off a piece.”

  “I have the very same feeling. I’m positive I gave him five metres of that expensive pink Chinese silk. Yesterday I had the girl measure it, and she says it’s only four and a half metres.”

  “And I’m missing a metre.”

  “Are you positive?”

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet nodded.

  “If the new tailor is just as big a cheat as Sanat was, then . . .”

  “Darzi Sanat was honest. It’s that servant of his who’s a cheat.”

  “The new darzi . . . where is he going to work?”

  “In Sanat’s workplace, of course.”

  “The workplace belongs to a bookbinder now.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “What will you do with the cinemas when your husband dies?”

  The wife of Ajay Karapiet had once confided to the wife of Nikhil Nair that she hated films but that her husband must never know. She lowered her eyes, ignoring the question. “Perhaps an exception can be made, so that he can work at the club.”

  “Of course! In the shed next to the tennis court. I’ll call the secretary right away.” She picked up the receiver. “When does he arrive?”

  “I already told you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “He’s on his way.”

  ~~~

  CHARLOTTE WAS WEARING a low-cut evening gown made of pale green silk and had a gold tiara in her hair. As she descended the staircase, her train glided over the carefully polished steps. Her earrings caught the light from the candles in the chandelier. Classical music wafted in from the salon. She was beautifully made up, and her scarlet lips glistened. At each step she took, the music from the salon swelled. In the hall there were servants in livery. Each of them held a tray bearing a pair of evening shoes. Her bare feet, with their scarlet toenails, were visible beneath the hem of her gown. Each servant had a different pair of shoes on his tray: there were various colours and styles, but all of them had very high heels. Charlotte sat down on a chair on a low platform and extended her foot. The first servant knelt before her and put the shoe on her foot. It was too small. Then the next servant knelt down: he had exquisite golden mules on his tray. But they didn’t fit her either. Another servant knelt down. This one held out a pair of shoes with glass heels. Her foot slipped effortlessly into the shoe.

  “How dare you!” bellowed a voice from above.

  Charlotte looked up at her father, who stood at the top of the stairs in his uniform. Before she could say a word, the general called out, “Slut! You have sullied the reputation of the family!”

  Charlotte awoke with a start from her dream, bathed in perspiration and tangled in the sheet. She freed herself and got out of bed. Going into the bathroom, she held her wrists under the faucet. The water streamed with force over her hands. Her nails were still scarlet. She looked into the mirror and saw her sweaty, sleep-worn features. She splashed water over her face and dried herself off. Walking across to the nursery in her bare feet, she stopped to listen. In the distance, crickets were chirping, but otherwise all was quiet. She went back to her room and lay down under the mosquito net. Above her head, the fan was still whirring. She lay still, with her eyes open. Very slowly a tear formed, rolled down her cheek, and dropped onto her pillow. It was absorbed by the pillowcase, which had already survived a thousand washings.

  1946 Bombay ~~~

  ALL AROUND HER, people are hugging and kissing one another, shedding tears of joy or sadness. Her eyes dart from left to right. Where is her father? Or has he sent someone else, someone who won’t recognize her? Her little blue hat is askew and she’s hot. After ten years in England, she is no longer used to the oppressive heat. She wipes her forehead and adjusts her hat. She is standing next to her trunk. Men with red cloths wrapped around their heads walk back and forth, balancing suitcases and crates on their heads. She’s already sent three of them away. Charlotte has no idea where to have her suitcase taken. She has only one address in India and that is her parental home in Rampur, a two-day trip. She listens to the characteristically accented English, which she hasn’t heard for so many years, and watches the affirming nodding of heads. Nearby stands an English soldier, a captain, whose uniform inspires confidence. Could he have been sent by her father? She catches his eye and smiles somewhat awkwardly. The handsome captain looks down and blushes.

  There is almost no one else left on the quay but Charlotte and the captain. The former boarding school girl walks over to the officer.

  “Have they forgotten you, too?”

  The man smiles shyly.

  “Me, too.”

  They stand side by side, without speaking. The last of the lading is tackled from the ship, divided up, and loaded onto handcarts.

  “Do you know Bombay?”

  “I’ve been here once, but that was before the war,” are the first words spoken by the man, who is older than Charlotte.

  “Me, too. When I had to leave,” Charlotte says softly. The memory of the last time she saw her mother appears clearly in her mind. The waving hand, the handkerchief, her slight figure. “I’ll write every week!” she had called out. But there were no more monthly letters. Six months later she received a letter from her father announcing that her mother had died suddenly. “I was in England,” she says. “At boarding school. I wanted to go back, but my father thought it would be better for me to spend the whole war in England.”

  The man nods. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and offers her one. She looks around somewhat nervously and takes a cigarette from the pack. He gives her a light. Charlotte breathes in the smoke.

  They smoke in silence and watch as the last handcar rolls down the quay. The doors of an enormous shed are closed with a chain and padlock. A barefoot
boy walks by with a crate of carrots on his head, singing as he goes. In the distance a ship’s horn sounds, and overhead a flock of twittering birds flies by. It’s the first cigarette she has smoked since leaving England. She hopes that she’ll never have to return to that country, where it rained constantly, the houses were cold and dark, and no one ever laughed.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, a bit,” Charlotte says. She skipped breakfast because she was so excited to be back in India at last. She picks up her suitcase and says, “But I think I ought to go by the shipping office first. Otherwise, when my father gets here, he won’t know where I am.”

  Behind the counter sits a greying man in thick glasses, surrounded by thousands of fat folders full of yellowed pages. “Put a note on the bulletin board,” he says, pointing to a large notice board near the entrance. It is already plastered with messages from lost travellers and those who came to meet them. Charlotte adds her message to the others.

  THEY WALK ALONGSIDE one another. The captain, who has a slight limp, carries her suitcase. He’s afraid to look at her, and vice versa. She notices that he is missing a little finger, but outside of that she finds him quite attractive. He has dark eyes, a straight nose, and a cleft chin like Cary Grant. She’s aware of a delicate scent she has never smelled on a man before. Not that she’s had much opportunity to compare men’s scents at boarding school: the regime was too strict, except perhaps for the long, lonely school vacations.