Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  Madan walks into the alleyway where he’s been sleeping, but the water is up to his knees. He sees that the piece of cardboard that had served as his bed has disappeared. A hard gust of wind snatches the umbrella out of his hands. He doesn’t bother to watch it disappear, since the rain is now lashing him in the face. He was hoping to take refuge in the house where he was allowed to wash himself a few times, but he sees that the door is barricaded with sand sacks. The rain hurts, and the wind, which is becoming stronger and stronger, almost knocks him off his feet. I have to find a place to shelter, he thinks. He’s afraid of the steadily rising tide of water gushing through the streets.

  There are only one or two people battling the wind and rain, which are now increasing in force. His clothes are soaked through, and they slap against his body as the thundering power of the wind threatens to blow him away. On the other side of the street he sees a bowed old man clutching a small package. Suddenly the man is blown clear off his feet by the wind and disappears underwater.

  Madan doesn’t hesitate. Forgetting the wind, he takes giant steps over to the spot where he saw the greybeard disappear. Then something slides past his feet. The suction force of the water is enormous, and he’s being pulled away. He bends down, feels around in the water, and pulls out a gasping and sputtering little man; the man is still holding the package in his hand. He weighs next to nothing, but Madan has to keep a firm grip on him so that the wind doesn’t snatch him away. Madan throws him onto his back like a sack of flour. It takes all his strength to escape from the eddying maelstrom, but somehow he manages to reach the houses. He grabs one of the bars in front of a window and inches his way along, one step at a time. He finally discovers an open portico with a staircase. The water has now risen at least a metre. He climbs up the steps and lays the man, who is now coughing, on the floor next to him. Madan pats him cautiously on the back with the flat of his hand, for fear he might break.

  After a bout of sputtering and coughing, the old man catches his breath again and is able to sit up alongside him. “I seem to have swallowed the wrong way,” he squeaks. “I just hope it isn’t damaged,” he continues in a panicky voice. He tears away the paper, revealing an old book. “I must dry it. Now. Otherwise, the pages will stick together.”

  Madan motions toward the rain, which continues to come thundering down, obscuring their view of the street.

  “But at least I’ve found it at last. It was missing for years.”

  Madan looks at the man next to him. There’s something familiar about him . . . his voice? Or is it his hands? The nervous gestures . . . Then he recognizes him. He’s much greyer and more stooped, and his face is full of wrinkles, but outside of that, he hasn’t changed. It’s Mister Patel. He wants to give him a hug. Never before has he been reunited with someone from his past, and he regards his old prison mate as family. Enthusiastically, Madan points to his face, but Mr. Patel is so flustered because his book is all wet that he doesn’t notice. Then Madan takes the old man’s hand in his own two wet hands, brings the gnarled old hand up to his forehead.

  Mister Patel stops in the middle of his sentence. He stares, peers, screws up his eyes. Searches his memory.

  Madan moves his lips, and gestures that he cannot speak.

  “Son,” whispers Mister Patel.

  They’re sitting next to each other on the stairs. The lashing rain is still bucketing down, and the wind is gaining in force. Mister Patel is silent. Madan has the book Genetic Metamorphosis in Single-Celled Organisms on his lap. He blows gently between the pages before turning over the next one.

  “Do you still pray?”

  Madan nods.

  “I don’t. I’m afraid to.”

  Madan turns another page and blows onto a drawing of a paramecium.

  “I should never have left you behind. I didn’t even know who that man was. I went back, but you were gone. Where were you? Where have you been?”

  How can Madan tell the old man about the years in Mister Chandran’s weaving factory? Or his lessons on the hidden power of spices, flowers, and trees, his crush on Mister Chandran’s daughter, his friendship with Subhash, the oiler, or the years he spent in Dr. Krishna Kumar’s atelier? He pulls the new spool out of his pocket and shows it to Mister Patel.

  “You’re a tailor?”

  Madan nods.

  “Where?”

  Madan stares at the rain, an army made up of millions of arrows boring into the ground. He understands Mister Patel, he understands why he left. He has never blamed him.

  Mister Patel puts his arm around him. “Will you come home with me, my son?”

  Then Madan also puts an arm around the fragile old man.

  Together they stare out at the rain.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  MADAN SPREAD THE red silk on the table. The windows and shutters were open, but the sought-after cool of the evening failed to glide over the windowsill and into the room. Charlotte was sitting in the chair against the wall, watching him. Tiny droplets of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. Up until then he had seemed impervious to the heat. A measuring tape hung around his neck. Without taking her measurements, without even looking at her, he took the scissors to the fabric, like a slender boat slicing through the glassy surface of a lake. The scissors navigated, cutting lines and curves. The table was turned into a map full of red islands. Outside, crickets chirped, and in the living room Isabella complained loudly about her telephone, which was still giving her problems. Slowly Charlotte became aware of the distant sound of a fire engine siren racing past. Her heart missed a beat. She never knew whether Parvat was on duty or not. The monsoon would have to start pretty soon. Each successive day increased the chance of fires. Both trees and houses were dry as dust. There was not a drop of moisture in the entire city. The wood lice and other vermin that favoured clammy surroundings had buried themselves so deep in the earth that people were convinced they wouldn’t reappear for at least a year.

  We’ll have to put the buckets outside. Then the rain will come.

  Do you really believe that?

  It’s not just me . . . everyone believes it. Haven’t you seen all the bowls and buckets?

  She had seen the pots and pans in front of Sita’s house and in the narrow streets leading to her house. She got up, still looking doubtful. But as she walked out of the house, she thought, Why not? If only to ensure that Parvat does not die in a fire.

  THE LIGHT WAS on in the kitchen, but Hema was nowhere to be seen. On the shelf above the sink she found a stack of nested pans, and on the floor stood two bright green plastic buckets. She knew that he’d be upset if she borrowed a pan or bucket from his kitchen without asking, so she headed for the mali’s shed. Just as she was about to go in, Madan emerged carrying a pile of battered zinc buckets. He smiled and handed her one. She put it down on the ground.

  No, no. You’re supposed to invite them.

  Who?

  The rains.

  He picked up the bucket and placed it on the crumbling pillar at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the front door.

  Entice them.

  He placed the second bucket on the opposite pillar. The architect had designed the pillars to bear statues, but the statues had never materialized.

  And on the steps.

  Charlotte remembered parties from the past, when a red runner was laid out on the stairs and there were two servants in blue tunics and gold-coloured berets on each step. They held plumes that flanked the approaching guests. Charlotte and Madan positioned their buckets with precision.

  Yes! she heard Madan exclaim.

  He ran back to the shed. There was an enormous clatter, and he emerged covered in dust and carrying another stack of pails, which they set out beside the path alongside the driveway, where torches had burned.

  We’re going to need more buckets, she thought,
infected by his enthusiasm. More signs to line the desiccated borders, and coax the rain to break loose.

  HEMA HEADED UP the hill, lugging two heavy jerry cans. He was pleased that he’d managed to buy water for the same price as yesterday, now that prices were going up almost by the hour.

  From a distance, he saw the memsahib and the darzi running around with buckets. A huge smile appeared on his face, and the hill, which he had so often cursed, suddenly seemed as straight as an arrow. He himself hadn’t dared to ask the memsahib, since he knew that she abhorred Indian superstitions, but the darzi had! Five years before, when the monsoon had been equally slow in coming, theirs was the only house in the neighbourhood where there were no buckets standing outside. The entire population of Rampur had been convinced that that was the reason the drought lasted a whole week longer.

  Charlotte, who saw Hema carrying the heavy jerry cans, got the impression that he was upset. But she hadn’t taken any of his pans or bowls. She saw him duck into the kitchen and feared that any minute he would emerge in a grouchy mood. Instead, he reappeared with the pile of pans and the two bright green plastic buckets, which he then began to place in a large circle around the kitchen.

  She had no idea where he had found them all, and was amazed that there were so many objects in the house that could be used to collect water. But an hour later they were everywhere you looked: plastic and earthenware bowls, serviceable and leaky buckets, all the pots (including Hema’s favourite pan and the deep-fat fryer basket no one else was allowed to touch), all the serving dishes and vases from the salon that hadn’t been sold, plastic containers that had held plants, the fruit bowl, two watering cans (which were given a place of honour on either side of the door, like trophies), a cracked aquarium, a soap dish, a set of wine glasses positioned in a circle around the apple tree, a chalice that no one had ever seen before, ashtrays, jam jars, cans intended for old nails, a container for Dutch rusks that had been empty for months, a collection of rusty coal scuttles that had never been used, an aluminium mortar, a red wastepaper basket with an embroidered cover, the orange tub where the mali stored his herbicides, and his wheelbarrow, a colander lined with a piece of plastic, the feeding trough of a goat that had once lived on the property, the garbage cans that stood at the bottom of the path, the ash bucket without the ash, all the cups and saucers and mugs (including the one with Mickey Mouse on it), the beaker without a handle that Charlotte used for her toothbrush, a series of shot glasses that no junk dealer was interested in, a cracked toilet bowl . . . Charlotte had her doubts about the latter, but Hema and Madan figured the more the better. So she put the teapot, which had been glued back together, smack in front of the door.

  They had just paused to catch their breath when Issy came out of the house — still complaining, and dragging behind her the cables she’d been fooling around with all evening.

  “What on earth are you guys doing?”

  “We’ve put all the buckets outside.”

  “Why?”

  Confronted by her English niece, Charlotte suddenly felt quite foolish for allowing herself to be tempted by that idiotic Indian superstition. She began to redden.

  “To entice the rain!” cried Hema.

  Issy nodded quite seriously as she surveyed the colourful jumble of receptacles. She ran back into the house and returned with her grandfather’s chamber pot. “He’s wearing a diaper anyway,” she said, when she saw the startled faces.

  1977 Hyderabad ~~~

  IT WAS ON the same day the violent rain and wind burgeoned into a cyclone, raging across the Krishna River delta, swallowing up villages and settlements, sweeping people along on a wave of churning water, destroying harvests, killing or carrying off ten thousand people, and making three and a half million homeless that, for the first time in his life, Madan found a home.

  The tiny room is only big enough for two small tables; at one of them Mister Patel is working on his dissertation on native urban plants, and at the other Madan is using a third-hand Singer sewing machine that he was able to buy with the help of Mister Patel. On the shelf, next to the piles of books belonging to Mister Patel, there is a small box of thread, and when the door is open, there is just room enough on the floor to lay out a garment or cut fabric. Madan sweeps the floor three times a day and Mister Patel does the cooking. Although it falls far short of Dr. Krishna Kumar’s atelier, to Madan it is the most beautiful workplace he has ever known.

  The two men are completely absorbed in their work. Mister Patel enjoys the whirring sound of the sewing machine in the background, which calls up all manner of new insights, while Madan listens contentedly to the mutterings and sighs that accompany Mister Patel’s writing, and that transport him into worlds he has never visited before. In the evening they shove the tables and stools against the wall, one on top of the other, roll out the sleeping mats, and lie down underneath, as close to one another as they were in prison.

  This sheltered domesticity is in sharp contrast to the situation outside. The number of people drifting around without a place to sleep is growing by the day. All over the city, men and women sleep against buildings or among the carts on the street. They are searching for work, something to eat, and their missing loved ones. They have lost all their possessions, and some are barely clothed. Mister Patel’s upstairs neighbour, widow Sethi, feels lonely and useless now that her last daughter has left to get married. She has decided to donate all of her late husband’s clothes, her own leftovers, and everything left behind by her children to the homeless.

  The sound of feet on the stairs is audible in Mister Patel’s room. The long line of people extends from widow Sethi’s front door, down the steps, past Mister Patel’s door, and onto the street, right up to the baker on the corner. Everyone waits patiently.

  Above their heads, the wooden floor creaks: the house has never had this many visitors at once. Mister Patel’s sighs also sound different. When there’s a knock at the door, he grumbles under his breath. He was just immersed in a difficult paragraph dealing with the pollen tube that leads from the grain of pollen through the pistel to the seed bud in the ovary, and he does not want to be disturbed. “Oh, Mister Patel, I’m so sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency! If I understood correctly, you have a tailor staying with you?” says widow Sethi. She is not as young as she used to be, and she’s puffing slightly.

  “This is my son. He’s an excellent tailor,” says Mister Patel, and shows her his new shirt.

  “Oh! Your son! I didn’t know!” Her shrill voice fills the room. “Could he possibly help me with these trousers?”

  Madan gets up and goes over to where Mister Patel is standing.

  “He doesn’t look at all like you.” She sees a deep wrinkle appear in Mister Patel’s forehead, and she hastily adds, “But actually my Sarika doesn’t look like me either.”

  Madan takes the trousers from her hand. Mister Patel sighs.

  “I’ve pinned them — they’re way too big — but the pins are so sharp and of course I don’t want to prick anyone. As if those poor people don’t have enough trouble as it is.”

  Madan motions that he’s going upstairs with her. He hands her the pants, picks up his sewing machine, and ushers her gently out the door.

  “Thank you, son,” whispers Mister Patel, and returns to his books.

  The stairs are populated by half-naked men, women, and children. Most of them are just sitting and staring in front of them; some have their eyes closed but are not asleep. Madan and widow Sethi have to crawl over them to get to the top floor.

  The room is twice as large as Mister Patel’s and a hundred times fuller. There are cupboards and cabinets overflowing with clothes and linens, and an array of baubles, idols, and other treasures. On and around the bed lies a display of the clothes she wants to give away. And in the corner that serves as a kitchen, there’s such an assortment of plates and cups that it r
esembles a second-hand shop. In the middle of the room stands a shy young man wearing nothing but a torn piece of cloth around his hips. The man, who was a fisherman, has lost his family, his hut, and his boat, because his wife went to the market to sell the catch instead of him. He stands with his head bent. Madan sees at a glance that the trousers won’t fit him, and points to the one table in the room, which is piled high with indefinable female garments.

  “Does all that have to be moved?” sighs widow Sethi.

  Madan nods. She begins by shoving the junk under her bed, where there’s scarcely any room left. Madan observes the fisherman. It was not that long ago that Madan himself was living on the street and had nothing. Now he’s holding his pride and joy, a Singer sewing machine, in his hands. With great care, he places it on the table. The widow hands him a stool and flops down on the pile of clothes on her bed. The fisherman is still staring at his bare feet. Madan removes the pins, turns the trousers inside out, and places them under the foot of the sewing machine.

  “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” she says. “All these poor people who have nothing, absolutely nothing left. Look at this boy, a strong young man. . . . Suddenly he’s lost everything, and when you’re half-naked, it’s not easy to find work, so that you’re forced to beg. And then the line of people waiting at the door, I can’t send them away while we’ve had wind and rain, but not the floods, I mean, and the waves, there was a leak, but that’s nothing compared to what’s happened to them. . . . I hope that you won’t, I mean . . . er . . . you won’t . . .”

  Madan looks up inquiringly.

  “You’ll do it for nothing, won’t you?”

  Madan nods and returns to his work.

  A little later he hands the trousers to the fisherman. He looks at him expectantly, and widow Sethi turns her head away. The moment he pulls the pants up over his hips something happens. The man, who until then had stood shyly, head bowed, is suddenly a powerful young fellow who radiates energy. Even the grief that was etched in his features has softened. Widow Sethi blinks, and a smile appears on Madan’s face.