Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  Your sister Charlotte

  1952 Bombay ~~~

  MADAN AND SAMAR lie close together underneath their rag. They take turns keeping watch and trying to get some sleep. Madan, who is now on watch, falls asleep. A fat brown rat sniffs at his hand. It finds the piece of bread in his clenched fist and starts to nibble at it. Madan opens his eyes, sees the rat, and screams, but the sound that comes from his throat is no more than a shrill groan. The rat scurries off. Madan looks anxiously at his friend, who’s asleep, his head resting on a stone. He sits up, afraid of dropping off again. The spot they discovered, behind a wall in an empty shop, cannot be seen from the street. Madan picks up the stick that his new friend found that afternoon and grasps it tightly. He’s afraid that rats can smell blood and that they’ll bite him. He puts one hand on the wound in his neck, just above his chain. It still hurts, but the bleeding has stopped.

  There is the sound of voices. Madan dives to the ground. Samar has told him that no one must see them. He scrambles back under the rag. Still as a mouse, he lies there next to his friend as the voices and footsteps come closer. Keep on going, keep on going. He edges closer and closer to his friend, pushes the chain around his neck under the bandage, and closes his eyes as tightly as he can. The men stop; they’re laughing, and they speak a language that Madan doesn’t recognize. He hears someone light a cigarette, the match falls to the ground and someone spits. Then they move on. He senses that Samar is now awake as well: his whole body is suddenly hard and tense. The voices disappear, and it’s quiet again. The boys are afraid to move. They hold their breath and cling to one another.

  After two minutes that seem to last a whole night, Samar whispers, “They’re gone.” He crawls out of the hiding place and looks around to see whether the street is really empty. When he crawls back under the rag, he whispers, “Mukka, we were really lucky. If the police had seen us, they would have taken us away and thrown us into jail. If that happens, we’re dead.”

  ~~~

  UNDERNEATH THE STATION is a narrow corridor reserved for the railroad workers, but if they hold in their bellies, Samar and Madan can just manage to slide underneath the gate. After the lights go out and the men close off the entrance with a large padlock, they crawl under the gate and into the corridor. Halfway down, they discover a crate full of rags, and for the first time in weeks Madan sleeps the way he remembers sleeping — not on the hard ground, but on something soft.

  He wakes in the middle of the night. Where is Samar? He looks over the side of the crate, but it’s too dark to see anything. He waits and listens. He hears a few noises, but nothing that sounds like Samar breathing or peeing. Madan checks the bottle of water near his head; it’s full. Did Samar get hungry and decide to go out and look for something to eat? Surely he wouldn’t do that without him. Madan climbs out of the crate. Where are you? He feels along the ground to see if his friend is lying there. Maybe he doesn’t like sleeping on rags. On the floor he finds only a few planks and a wheel. Cautiously, to avoid bumping into anything, Madan feels his way back to the exit. As he gets closer he hears more and more noises that weren’t audible in the corridor. A car goes by, a dog barks, and in the distance there’s the sound of a ship’s horn. Samar, where are you? He slides under the gate on his stomach.

  The alleyway on the other side of the gate is empty except for a cow chewing her cud. Some distance away, a rickshaw passes. Madan walks to the street and looks around. His friend is nowhere to be seen. He goes back to the alleyway with the gate, and slides back inside. He’s probably back in the crate. He crawls back down the corridor until he reaches the crate. Are you there? He feels around. There’s nothing there but a mass of rags. No Samar. He calls out: “Samar, where are you?” A high-pitched moan fills the corridor. Madan climbs back into the crate. He doesn’t know what to do. He finds the bottle and takes a drink of water. He doesn’t want to drink too much. When his friend comes back, he’ll probably be thirsty. He puts his hand to his neck. His chain, which according to Samar is made of gold, is gone. He realizes that his friend is not coming back.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  MADAN’S SEWING MACHINE was back on the table, and the rose-coloured Chinese silk was spread out in front of him. He made tiny chalk marks on the fabric and examined the result. His fingers glided over the fabric, as if it could tell him what kind of dress it wanted to be. Sometimes he pulled the material toward him and adjusted one of the chalk marks. Then he picked up the scissors and started cutting. Not slowly and cautiously, but confidently and at breakneck speed. He tossed the pieces in the direction of the sewing machine.

  Hema, who was trying to rekindle the fire, glanced in the direction of the tailor in the adjoining room. Memsahib had been furious with the butler, but the mute was deliriously happy as he took the sewing machine from the shed and put it back on the table in the music room. And after lunch, when everyone else had succumbed to the paralyzing heat and sought a cool place to sleep, the mute had gone on working. Now it was almost dark, and Hema was blowing on the coals. To his relief, he saw them catch fire. He heated the blackened pan over the fire. His memsahib favoured tea the way he made it, from an old family recipe. He filled the pan with water and put it on the burner. He saw the mute sit down at his sewing machine and watched as he started turning the wheel. Like the neighbours’ butler, Hema looked down on tailors. But after seeing the mute at work, he couldn’t help but feel a certain respect for the man in the green shirt. He worked quickly and without hesitation, while Hema had to stop and think before each operation. The water came to a boil; he added the milk and then reached for the sugar bowl. There was very little left. He would have to ask memsahib to pay Mr. Anand the shopkeeper; otherwise he wouldn’t give him any sugar. He carefully sprinkled half the sugar over the white liquid and began to stir to the rhythm of the whirring sewing machine. He heard footsteps on the path. Probably a coolie — several of them had already come by that day, sent by members of the club to deliver extra thread or trim. Some were just curious, hoping for a cup of tea. Nowadays memsahib disliked visitors, while in the past she used to enjoy it when friends came by.

  Charlotte walked into the kitchen. She noted that it was unchanged, although she could not remember when she had last been there. Hema jumped to his feet and began rushing around. She told him to calm down and go back to what he was doing. Then she walked into the adjoining room, saying, “I just want to make sure the darzi has everything he needs.”

  Madan didn’t hear her come in. It was only with the utmost concentration that the pale pink silk allowed itself to be formed into tiny pleats above the shoulder. With his left hand he exerted the necessary pressure, and with the right he turned the wheel at just the right speed. The “American” evening gown he was making for the wife of Nikhil Nair had nothing to do with America. He knew only that it was a country where everyone had a car and that an American had once landed on the moon, although he wasn’t sure whether that was actually true. So he listened to the material and called to mind the figure of the woman who lived in the house with the red door. He would camouflage her protruding stomach and sagging breasts with the pale pink silk.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Madan looked up and saw Charlotte leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. She stepped into the room.

  “Do you have enough light? Or should Hema see that you get a stronger bulb?”

  Hema listened to the words of his memsahib with growing amazement. That same bulb had been hanging from the ceiling for years and everyone who had lived or worked in the room had made do with the light it provided. How did she expect him to come up with more light? She had sold all the extra lamps, and if he tried to replace it with a stronger bulb, the fuse would surely blow.

  Madan nodded.

  Charlotte couldn’t tell whether that meant that he would like some tea or that he had enough light.

  He pointed to the ceiling and gestu
red that the light was fine. She turned to Hema. “A cup of tea for the darzi,” she said.

  Hema looked at the white mass in the pan, stirring slowly. Was he supposed to give the memsahib’s tea to the darzi or was the tea for her? And did she want her tea there or in the big house? Hema always made the tea so that there was a cup for him, too. But he was afraid to do so in front of his memsahib. He cast a furtive glance into the room and saw how memsahib picked up the fabric from the table and let it run through her fingers. Now that the piano was gone, she was usually in her bedroom at this time of day. Hema had no idea what she did there. He assumed that she slept or read a book. When it got dark and life resumed at the bottom of the hill, she always wanted a cup of tea with a biscuit. Then he opened the shutters and the curtains, so that she could enjoy the evening air and the sounds that rose from the city to the house on the hill. She said something to the mute that he didn’t quite catch. Why had she come? Why hadn’t she simply called him, as she always did, and asked if the tailor had everything he needed? She would — and he knew this for certain. . . . Hema gave a cry of pain. The pan was boiling over onto his hand. Charlotte came into the kitchen and saw her butler squatting next to the furnace with a small fire on the ground in front of him. “What happened?” she asked in a concerned voice. “Nothing, memsahib, the tea is hot.”

  “Would you bring me a cup, too?” As she strode back to the house, she made a mental note never again to go to the kitchen unannounced.

  1952 Bombay ~~~

  AT FIRST LIGHT he crawls under the gate, with the empty bottle in his hand. Yesterday he saw where Samar filled it, but without his friend, he cannot find the faucet. He knows it isn’t far from the spot where they slept, but every time he thinks he’s found it, it turns out to be a hollow pipe sticking out of the ground, or a pole, or a rod of some kind. But not a faucet. If he had a choice, he’d go back to the crate under the railroad tracks. But by now there would be workmen there, with hammers.

  An old man with a pushcart almost runs him down and then starts cursing him. A boy carrying a crate on his head casts a friendly glance in his direction. Madan is naked except for his blood-stained shirt and the bandage. He has no idea where to go. He stays close to the walls of the tall buildings, peering into each and every alleyway, hoping to catch sight of Samar, who would know where to find something to eat and drink.

  “Freshly baked cakes,” a man on a bicycle calls out, “fresh cakes!”

  Madan sniffs the enticing scent emerging from the crate on the back of the bike and feels his stomach contract. The man puts his bicycle on the stand and calls out even more loudly, “Cake! Fresh cakes! Bargain prices!” A well-dressed man wearing a hat and carrying a walking stick buys a bag of cakes. A woman with a long braid stops and also buys a bag. Madan approaches the seller and looks at the crate on the back of his bicycle.

  “Scram,” he hisses. “Get lost. You’re ruining my business!”

  A shiny car stops, and the window is rolled down. All smiles, the baker sells another two bags of cakes to the passenger in the car, but as the car drives off he snarls at Madan to make himself scarce.

  ~~~

  A GOAT IS greedily devouring potato peelings from a pile of garbage. A crow pecks around in the sour-smelling tip. Some distance away, four men are playing cards on an upturned bucket.

  “Chai-eeeeee! Chai-eeeee!” the chai-wallah calls out. He swings his woven basket full of glasses around and around without spilling a single drop.

  One of the card players holds up his hand. The chai-wallah hands each man a glass. There are two glasses left in the basket. Madan, half hidden by a pile of boxes, stares longingly at the remaining milk tea. He can already taste its creamy sweetness. The voice of the chai-wallah sounds again, as he is eager to get rid of the last glass before it gets cold. Madan, who hasn’t had anything to eat or drink for three days, cannot take his eyes off the glasses. A man with a basket full of oranges stops. The boy watches the tea disappear into his stomach in a single gulp. Now there is only one glass left in the basket. The voice of the chai-wallah continues to blare through the street. Madan looks left and right. There are no police uniforms in sight. He goes up to the tea seller.

  The man is so busy hawking his wares that he doesn’t notice the grimy little boy looking up at him so longingly. “Chai-eeeee! Chai-eeeee!” he calls out to the mattress maker, who is busy combing out his cotton and isn’t interested in tea.

  “Chai-eeeee!” the chai-wallah calls. This time he tries to attract the attention of a sugar-cane buyer, but he has his own drink and isn’t planning on spending money on tea. He calls out to the man who’s repairing a punctured tire and the bricklayer carrying a sack of cement on his head. “Chai-eeeee . . .”

  “Can’t somebody shut that guy up?” grumbles one of the card players. “How am I supposed to think, with him bawling the whole time?”

  “Chai-eeeee . . .”

  Suddenly the card player turns around to face the chai-wallah, who is just opening his mouth again to sing the praises of his tea. Seeing the card player glaring at him, he grabs the last glass of tea and holds it up. The man shakes his head.

  Madan, who is standing right next to the chai-wallah, looks up at the glass in his hand.

  “Chai-eeeee . . . !”

  “Give the tea to the kid and shut your mouth!” He tosses a coin in the direction of the chai-wallah and goes back to his cards.

  “Him?” says the chai-wallah as he effortlessly plucks the coin out of the air. He looks down in surprise at the small, grimy figure standing next to him.

  The card player, Ram Khan, is no longer listening to the vendor. He pulls a card from his hand, throws a king onto the pile, and exults: “Gotcha!” With a big grin on his face, he gathers the stack of cards. “Another round?”

  They check the time, confer, and finally shake their heads no. The cards are gathered up and returned to the box. “See you tonight, then,” says the man, who has just shoved the cards into his pocket. His words are greeted with gruff assent.

  Ram Khan walks back to his shop with his stool in his hand. His workspace consists of a kind of cabinet, which is mounted on the wall, in between a man selling kitchen utensils and a coppersmith. He pulls up the cloth he had let down to protect his possessions and places his stool in front of a sewing machine. He picks up a shirt that needs mending from the pile in front of him.

  Madan, who has followed his benefactor, watches as the man steps into a kind of closet. On a plank supported by two blocks of wood stands a treadle sewing machine, and behind it there’s a large pile of clothes. The man sits down in front of the machine. On the back wall hang several religious prints and a pair of scissors. There isn’t room for anything else. The man presses his foot down on the pedal and starts to sew. On the ground, behind the man’s feet, is a small pan. Madan isn’t sure whether it’s empty or holds something he’s saving for the evening meal. He decides to stay put and wait.

  It’s not long before Ram Khan notices that someone is watching him. He peers over the rim of his glasses to the other side of the street, where a young tramp is sitting and smiling at him. Ram Khan has no time for tramps; they have diseases and they steal. He knows that from experience. He gestures to the kid to make himself scarce and returns to his work. Ram Khan was wearing his reading glasses during the card game, and he doesn’t recognize the boy sitting opposite him as the one he bought tea for. When he looks up again, he sees that the boy is still there. He picks up the stone he uses to sharpen his needles and throws it as hard as he can in the boy’s direction. Ram Khan has never played cricket and the stone misses its target. Madan, whose hunger is stronger than his fear, stays put. Annoyed, the tailor gives the shirt a jerk, but when he presses down on the pedal, the stitching is crooked. He yanks the garment out from under the foot. Peering through his glasses he tries to pull out the stitches, but he has trouble finding the
thread in the plaid fabric. Ram knows that his eyesight is deteriorating and that he needs much stronger lenses, but new glasses are expensive. If he messes up on this shirt, he won’t even have enough money to buy food for tonight. With his bent fingers, he searches for the beginning of the thread. He’s becoming more and more irritated by the boy’s stares. He looks around to see if there’s something else he can throw at him, but except for his scissors and his slippers, there is nothing at hand.

  Madan squats and waits silently.

  “Hey, Ram!” One of the card players walks by, carrying a heavy box. “Have you finally got yourself an assistant?”