Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  “He probably doesn’t have any idea what a school is, so don’t bother. First I’ll have to take him to see Brother Augustine. The last thing we need right now is more disease among the boys.” He reaches out and Madan puts his small hand in his.

  That large, warm hand leads him into another part of the building, past big rooms furnished with tables and chairs, shelves full of books, and wall charts with pictures of animals. Behind a large door sits Brother Augustine. He’s wearing spectacles with thick lenses. Behind him, there is a shelf with glass jars filled with skulls and dead animals.

  “Ah, a new boy,” he says cheerfully.

  “He’s deaf and dumb,” volunteers Brother Francis.

  Brother Augustine’s eyes sparkle. Every new boy who enters the school represents a task awaiting him: not only a physical and intellectual task, but above all a spiritual one. If within a year this little boy has come to see God as his shepherd, then his future will be a lot rosier. That’s one thing the brother is sure of. He raises his hand and says, “Hello!”

  The skull just behind the brother’s head has large hollow eyes and a hole where the nose ought to be. It looks a bit like the brother. Madan hesitates but then he raises his hand. The brother gestures for him to come closer. One tiny step at a time, he approaches the table. When he is standing directly in front of him, the brother picks up a wooden cross that hangs from his belt and holds it against Madan’s forehead. He can feel his heart thumping in his throat. The brother closes his eyes and begins to murmur softly.

  Brother Francis surveys the situation with a pang of envy. How could he have forgotten what Father Prior had told him so often: receive each new boy with an Our Father.

  After the “Amen,” Brother Augustine makes the sign of the cross, then takes hold of Madan’s hand and helps him cross himself. Then, without any warning, Brother Augustine opens his mouth as wide as he can. The ravaged teeth, brown from years of smoking cigars, encircle a wet tongue. Then he snaps his jaws shut, and points to Madan’s tightly closed jaw. Not until he has exposed his wasted teeth for the third time does Madan cautiously open his mouth, revealing a mix of milk teeth and permanent teeth. The brother, who has a spoon in his hand, turns it around, places the back of the cold metal on Madan’s tongue, and presses down. The boy begins to gag and a terrified squeak escapes from his throat. The brother quickly removes the spoon, remembering another recent spatula test when a new boy couldn’t keep down the meal he had just been given. Continuing his examination, the brother casts a practised eye over the scar on Madan’s neck, his eyes, and his ears. Then he runs his hand through the boy’s hair, listens to his heart and lungs, and taps each knee with a small hammer.

  “A healthy little boy, but I still can’t figure out what in the name of heaven they’ve done to him. It’s as if someone has deliberately made him dumb. The way they sometimes gouge people’s eyes out or break their arms and legs, in order to make them lucrative beggars.” Meanwhile he walks over to Brother Francis and whispers in his ear: “If you ask me, there’s nothing wrong with his hearing.” Then, raising his voice, he announces that the boy needs a bath and clean clothes.

  Madan walks down the long corridors holding Brother Francis’s clammy hand. They stop at a large statue of a man hanging from two wooden planks. Brother Francis kneels down and gestures to Madan to do the same. He folds his hands and fixes his eyes on the crucified man, and then mumbles just like Brother Augustine. A shiver runs down Madan’s spine when he sees that there are nails hammered through the hands and feet of the statue. The man looks down at him beseechingly. The mouth is open and it is obvious that he is thirsty. Ram Khan’s crate was cramped and uncomfortable, but the thought of being nailed to a cross like this man terrifies him.

  “Amen,” says Brother Francis. He looks at Madan and smiles. “I’ll bet they call you Mukka, don’t they?”

  Madan has no idea how the man suddenly knows that he can hear. Did the other man, the one who looked into his head, tell him so? He wonders if they also know what he is thinking.

  “We have a much better name for you: we’re going to call you Joseph, just like the father of the man on the cross.” With a broad smile, he points to the statue of the man with the nails through his feet. “Come along, Joseph, it’s time for you to wash.”

  The brother leads him into a grubby shower room. There are rusty pipes with showerheads running across the ceiling and taps on the wall.

  “Take off your clothes, Joseph,” Brother Francis says in a friendly tone.

  Madan stands still, without moving a muscle. Brother Francis is no longer sure if Brother Augustine was right about the boy’s hearing, so he gestures to Madan to take off his clothes and shows him that water will come down from the ceiling and that he’s to wash himself. He hands him a wet piece of soap. In the distance a church bell begins to chime. Brother Francis crosses himself and turns his back to Madan. Drops of water are coming out of the showerheads. Madan takes off his pants and shirt and turns on one of the big taps. There’s a rumbling sound and then water comes gushing out. Never in his life has he felt so much water streaming over his body. It’s deliciously warm, as if he’s walking through the rain. Madan forgets about the brother, the man with the nails, and Ram Khan. He even forgets about his sister. He closes his eyes and spreads his arms wide. He opens his mouth and lets the water stream in.

  He can’t see that Brother Francis is watching him in the mirror. Looking at the hair that clings to his neck, the water that runs out of his mouth, the hairless armpits and the fragile rib cage, the small penis that hangs between his legs. Brother Francis cannot take his eyes off the small member. He feels his own penis getting harder. He knows he ought to leave the shower room or turn off the water or close his eyes, but he doesn’t want to. His skin is tingling, and his tongue is dry.

  Madan feels the water streaming over him. It takes all of his thoughts with it, into the hole in the floor. It tickles his hair, cools his back, and slakes his thirst. It washes away all the dust and all his worries.

  Suddenly Brother Francis calls out “Stop!” and then turns off the water with a jerk. Madan opens his eyes. With a radiant expression on his face, he looks at the brother, who comes over to him with a towel in his hand, kneels down, and starts to dry him off.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  HIS MOUTH OPENED effortlessly and Charlotte spooned in the yogurt, deftly scraping up the drips and depositing them in his mouth. There was classical music coming from a small tape recorder. By the light of the single fluorescent tube, her father looked old, and the imposing dignity he had radiated all his life had disappeared. For Charlotte, watching the way he sucked on the spoon brought home to her that she had never spoon-fed a child of her own. As usual, Hema had disappeared after fastening the leather straps. Her father had escaped from his room that morning because he had fallen into a deep sleep after his bath and Hema had been unable to properly anchor the slack body in the wheelchair. It remained a mystery how the sly old fox had managed to work the brake loose, but seeing that he had escaped from the Burmese jungle, he wouldn’t have had too much trouble undoing a strap. What Charlotte failed to understand was how Hema could have forgotten to lock the door. Nor did she buy the story that he had been too busy because the electricity went off just as his tea water came to a boil. There had indeed been a period of an hour or so when there was no electricity, but it still seemed like a lame excuse. Father could have wheeled himself out to the top of the stairwell, and he would certainly not have survived a fall from that height. She had rigorously erased from her memory the fact that she herself once left the door open in the hope that that would happen. Humming along with the Schubert, she put the next spoonful into the old man’s mouth. Her gaze drifted to the large linen closet.

  The general followed her gaze. He spat out the yogurt and shouted, “Just what are you planning to do?”

  “Nothing, Father. I just t
hought I’d take a look inside the linen closet.”

  “It’s my linen closet!” he yelled. “You stay out of there!”

  “Do you happen to remember if Mother’s silk fabrics are still in the chest?”

  “They’re mine! Not yours!” he thundered. His eyes started to roll and his shoulders shook.

  “Calm down, Father. There’s nothing to get upset about.”

  “I’ll have you shot, if I catch you at it. And I see everything. Everything!” he shouted.

  She removed the bib, wiped his chin, moved the tape recorder out of his reach, double-checked to see that the tires and the brake were properly anchored, and left the room with the leftover yogurt. She locked the door and, with a sigh, put the key back on the nail.

  IN THE DISTANCE a dog howled, the crickets chirped in reply, and the moon was a wafer-thin sickle. Madan took the bucket from the drainboard and soundlessly went out through the open kitchen door. The heat of the day had made way for nocturnal scents, and he noticed that there were new ones since he had started watering the plants. The shrivelled jasmine had regained some of its old vigour, and the withered petals of the mimosa weren’t quite as limp as the day before. The roses, which had appeared to be dead, now displayed tiny pink dots that signalled new life, and the leaves of the caper plant no longer crackled.

  As he poured the water onto the flower beds that bordered the house, he sensed that someone was watching him. His eyes immediately went to Charlotte’s bedroom window, but there was no one there. He glanced from window to window, but saw only curtains, shutters, and the reflection of the sickle moon in the glass. Turning around, he found himself looking straight into the eyes of Hema, who was standing in the open kitchen doorway. Madan wondered if he’d awakened him. Or perhaps the general dogsbody had had another exciting dream — something that was always audible in the adjoining room. He emptied the bucket and the earth thirstily drank in the few remaining centimetres of water. Without seeking eye contact with the other man, he walked back to the shed, filled the bucket, and returned to the border. Hema had disappeared, and the door was closed. He smiled and went on watering the parched plants. When the fifteenth bucket had been emptied, he returned to the kitchen building, carefully put the bucket down next to the door, and went into the old shed. It was pitch black inside, and he felt his way to the mali’s old bed, put the bundle of extension cords on the floor, lay down, and fell asleep.

  WHEN HEMA RETURNED from the big house carrying the morning tea tray, Madan was at his sewing machine. Hema picked up the bucket and slammed it down on the drainboard. Madan didn’t look up. Last night, it had become overly clear that the darzi was trying to get rid of him. The week the mali died, Charlotte asked Hema to take over some of the dead man’s chores, saying that she didn’t expect a profusion of flowers, as before, but only wanted him to see that the borders were neat. As for the grass, she said she would find someone. Hema had nodded politely, as he was expected to do. But he was of the opinion that now that she no longer employed a dhobi, there were no coolies in her employ, and the mehtarani and even the cook had departed, his memsahib could not expect him to do the gardening, alongside the laundry, the sweeping, the cooking, and all the heavy work, while also caring for her father. Refusing to water the garden was his silent protest; now he’d been made to look a fool by the hateful darzi. He poured new water into the pan. Or was it perhaps to his advantage? he asked himself. Hema was not someone who thought things through. Something either was or was not. But wherever possible he avoided dilemmas, argumentation, and other complicated things. Suddenly it occurred to him that his antipathy toward the darzi might backfire. So he called out in the direction of the other room, “Coffee or tea?” forgetting that the tailor couldn’t speak. Madan looked around the corner, and with a smile pointed to the pan for tea. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture that Hema interpreted as “thank you,” and returned to his work.

  But I’m not putting any sugar in it, Hema resolved.

  1966 Rampur ~~~

  SHE IS AWAKENED by an unfamiliar sound. From her window Charlotte sees five deeply tanned men, stripped to the waist, digging a hole at the bottom of the driveway. They thrust their shovels into the ground, throwing the gravel and dirt behind them. The sun isn’t up yet and she hasn’t heard her father’s heavy footsteps.

  After a wait of six and a half years, during which they filled in an endless number of forms and sent letters to the municipality, the state, and even the minister, all of which remained unanswered, the men have started work on a sewer system — something which her father refers to as “becoming part of modern India.”

  She didn’t tell him that she paid the contractor under the table. Charlotte has had her fill of lugging buckets of water to the big house, not to mention the pumps that stall and the leaking vats up in the attic.

  She hears heavy footsteps in the hall, and her door flies open.

  “They’ve started!” Victor announces. He is standing at the door with his pyjama top open, his muscular chest revealed. He is well rested and brimming with energy.

  Charlotte herself, by contrast, has not slept well. At supper the previous evening he informed her that he has had enough of retirement and that after the monsoon, when the land is green again and the flower beds are in bloom, he will be leaving. When she asked him where he was planning to settle, he replied, “England.” “You’re going to England!” She was astonished. He has always said that he didn’t intend to breathe his last in that dank land of bacon and grey peas. “No,” he thundered. “I’m going to stretch my legs! Walk from Rampur to London and back.” And then, pointing out the window, he said, “But I’m not leaving until the sewer system is finished.”

  “I’ll make sure everything’s up and running by the time you get back,” Charlotte says with a smile.

  He laughs so hard that the workmen at the bottom of the hill hear him and look up, trying to identify the sound.

  “Out of the question. That trench will be finished by next week.”

  He stalks off, taking huge strides. She always knows where her father is in the enormous house, since everything he does makes noise. In the past she didn’t really notice, but as he got older, she guesses, he felt a greater need to make his presence known. Through his footsteps, his voice, his opinions, his ideas. Charlotte looks at him. His gait is clearly that of a military man. He’ll make it to London, she thinks to herself, and without a hitch, too. And then a sudden wave of frustration comes over her; she thinks about all the years in Rampur. Year after year her desire to go to college, get a job, and start a new life has been dismissed by her father. But there might yet be hope for her, now that Father has travel plans of his own.

  Nine years before, Charlotte met a charming German engineer, but Victor made the man’s life impossible by criticizing every single thing he did. After a year of daily fault-­finding and nitpicking, even Charlotte could find no redeeming feature in the man and finally broke off their engagement. Several years later, an Irish teacher whose idealism had brought him to India met the same fate as the German engineer. After that, the possibility of romance was banished to the furthest corners of her mind. She concluded that the man for her simply did not exist, and that she would probably never have children. That was something she found very hard to accept, and only the piano was capable of mitigating her disappointment. Now she watches as her father walks down the driveway, head held high and back ramrod straight. She gets up, straightening her own back, and in that split second, she makes her decision: I’m leaving, too!

  The sky begins to turn orange, her father greets the men at the gate, and the new butler with the unpronounceable name appears from nowhere bearing a tray with cups of tea. The men talk, drink, and gesture. Her father’s voice can be heard above all the others. One man, presumably the foreman, listens with a doubtful expression on his face, and then shakes his head. Victor points to the hole at his
feet and then to the great house. Suddenly all the men are looking at her. She feels naked in her lace nightdress, and quickly steps away from the open window.

  “A month! The man claims it’ll take them a month to dig the trench! And then they’ll still have to lay the pipes! We won’t be able to reach the front door by car for months, and all that time the weeds will be choking the driveway. I could have finished the job in a morning with a couple of men from my battalion! A month! Do you know what that costs? A month! And he calls himself a contractor! An unprofessional tinkerer, that’s what he is. A month for a simple trench! The ground’s too hard, he says. Why not rent a machine? They’re in use all over the civilized world these days! Not him . . . says he’ll make do with his men, a bunch of weaklings and pansies in bare feet. How do you drive a shovel into the ground with your bare feet? Will you tell me that?”

  Charlotte is familiar with his tirades: if she doesn’t stop him, he’ll go on for hours. She says, “Maybe you ought to tell them that it would be easier if they were wearing shoes.”

  “Don’t think I’m planning to furnish his men with shoes: I’m not the army.”

  “No, I only meant that you could mention it to him. . . . Who knows, he might see something in the idea.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not planning to pay a bunch of barefoot diggers for a whole month!”

  The general puts on his favourite boots. He feels more affection for them, the boots, than for any human being. They know where he has been, where he says he’s been but hasn’t, the people he’s obeyed and those he’s humiliated, together with all those he has seduced, embraced, kicked, and trampled. Those are the boots he’ll be wearing on his grand hiking tour. The boots he regards as his best friends.

  At the bottom of the hill the men are working in their bare feet, shovelling the earth to one side of the driveway. They scrape and root around in the ground until the dirt is loose enough to remove. The retired soldier watches the men. He is seething inwardly, but he knows he has to contain himself. If he flies into a temper in the driveway of his own house, he won’t get off as easily as he did before his retirement from the army. He slows his pace, takes a deep breath, and holds it in. Silently he counts to ten, very slowly, before exhaling. Again he holds his breath, and repeats the exercise. On the count of ten he reaches the end of the driveway, close to the hole in the ground. The workmen, who were served tea that morning, sense the tension and do not look up. They continue to dig. Their callused feet, with broken toenails, rest on the sharp gravel. One of them, a young man with a cloth wound around his head, hasn’t noticed the arrival of the general and goes on singing. He gives a rendition of a popular film song in a high-pitched voice while rooting in the soil with his shovel. The general grabs the shovel from his hands, pushes him to one side, and takes his place in the row. He then inserts the shovel into the ground and bears down on it as hard as he can. He realizes at once that it’s almost impossible to get the shovel into the ground in one go. He takes a deep breath, the sole of his foot poised. When he exhales, he generates power. The shovel plunges into the ground. Triumphantly, he tosses the shovelful of earth onto the pile. Again he stamps the shovel into the ground, this time deeper and more fiercely. And again and again. Beads of perspiration form on his forehead, and his arms begin to tremble slightly. His body creaks and strains: he’s no longer used to physical labour. He refuses to acknowledge these sensations: all he wants to do is to dig his shovel into the earth, and to show those weaklings what real work is like. Gradually the men stop working. They stand there, watching the tall, elderly Englishman who that morning had seemed so distinguished and who was now carrying on like a madman. Again and again, he plunges the shovel into the ground, digging deeper and faster.