Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  His wife closes her eyes devoutly and begins to hum a song he’s never heard before. A high, shrill song. Then she presses her gloved hands to her heart and gazes at the only painting in the room that has not been covered. The painting is of Madan with a sabre that is almost as tall as he is. She calls out words that he has never heard, pulls off her gloves, and throws them at the wall. They fall behind the painting. She looks at her husband and says, “Open the shutters.”

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  AT THE INSISTENCE of her aunt, Issy tried on the red dress. She had no idea why Charlotte was crying. There weren’t that many parties in Rampur, and Grandfather had been singing cheerfully all day. Even the butler was in high spirits, after his accident with the teapot and the discovery that the tailor was gone. Issy herself was not in a good mood. She had hoped that the tailor would make a dress for her, preferably very short with a bare back. But she had to admit that her aunt’s dress was quite lovely, considering it was designed for an older woman. She pulled it on over her head.

  “You can keep it on. I don’t want it anymore,” her aunt said as she walked out of the room.

  As soon as Issy zipped up the dress and felt it close around her body, she found it difficult to breathe. The fabric seemed to become tighter with every breath she took. She wanted to take off the dress as fast as she could, but no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to unzip it.

  Hema, who had just arrived with the tea, gazed at the girl in admiration as she danced around.

  “Help me!” she gasped. “Undo the zipper!”

  Hema was shocked at such an impertinent request from a white girl. Surely she didn’t mean for him to undo the zipper and run the risk of accidently touching her skin?

  “Help me!” she shrieked.

  Charlotte, who was in the hall, came running when she heard her niece’s voice. She found her standing in the middle of the room, gasping for breath. She ran over to her and unzipped the dress.

  Before Hema could beat a retreat, the girl had pulled off the dress and stood there in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but her panties.

  “What a fucking dress!” she cried, kicking it away from her.

  “Isabella!” Charlotte looked around for something to cover the girl with.

  Hema shot out the door and, for the second time that day, the hot tea splashed over his hands. But this time he felt no pain, absorbed as he was in the spectacle of those firm young breasts.

  Charlotte reached for the girl’s T-shirt and held it in front of her as the door closed.

  “Hema is a man!” she said.

  “And I’m a woman!”

  Charlotte picked up the dress and immediately found herself caressing the fabric.

  “That dress is bewitched!” said Issy.

  “Nonsense,” she said dreamily. “It’s just an ordinary dress.”

  “Then you put it on.”

  “No, I’m not going to the gala.”

  “I’m not talking about the gala. I’m talking about the dress.”

  Charlotte felt the soft folds of the silk glide through her fingers. It was just as she had imagined his skin would feel. Still holding it in her hand, she unbuttoned her worn housedress and slipped the garment on over her head. Charlotte slid into the dress like a snake crawls out of its skin. She put one arm through the armhole and glided into a space that was already familiar to her, while her other arm easily found its way. The crimson material flowed past her breasts, her belly, her back, and her hips. She couldn’t tell whether it was her skin that drew the fabric to it or the silk that embraced her. It was not a second skin, but something much more intimate: it gave her the same strength as the bark of a tree, the same protection as the cocoon surrounding a larva, the same safety as the arms of a mother or the membrane surrounding the most delicious fruit. . . . She felt years younger, stronger, prettier, fuller, richer. The yearning in her heart was gone and the tears she had shed were forgotten. She knew that he loved her.

  Upstairs the clock struck eight.

  “Go to the gala . . . ,” said Issy, who had noticed the transformation in her aunt. “I’m not in the mood.”

  But her aunt hadn’t even heard her — Charlotte slipped on a pair of evening shoes and walked out the door without uttering a word.

  Hema caught sight of his employer leaving the house in her beautiful dress. She seemed to be floating rather than walking. He wanted to call out to her to wait, that he would call a taxi for her, but she danced off in the direction of the road. He overtook her, manoeuvring around the buckets and pans lining the driveway. At the gate, he jumped into the street, waving with all his might in order to attract a taxi, but they were all occupied by elegantly clad ladies and gentlemen on their way to the gala.

  He heard a car horn, then a door flung open, and Mr. Nikhil Nair stepped out of his gleaming limousine.

  “Mrs. Bridgwater . . .” It was several seconds before he found the right words. “May I have the honour?” He bowed deeply and held the car door open for her. Charlotte seated herself next to his wife, who was quite radiant in her new pink dress.

  Before Hema had a chance to wish her a pleasant evening, the car drove off in the direction of the city, where all the streets were lined with bowls, basins, tubs, and anything else that was capable of holding water, leaving only a narrow corridor for traffic.

  NOW THAT EVERYONE was gone, it was boring in the big house. Quieter and emptier than during the day. Even the butler failed to appear when she rang. After the car drove away, Hema went off to the neighbours’ butler, to tell him about the breasts he’d seen. So Issy poured herself another cup of tea and tried for the umpteenth time to find the right cable to charge her mobile phone. That afternoon she’d found a pile of old cables and extension cords that everyone had apparently forgotten about. Maybe there was something there she could use.

  She dropped the tangle of wires on the floor and pulled out one with dismantled scraps of copper at both ends. With a piece of sticking plaster she fastened one end of the wire to the rods of the plug that she would normally insert into the wall outlet. With great care — since she knew that electricity was dangerous — she put the two ends into the outlet. The tiny screen on her mobile phone lit up, and the symbol for “battery is charging” began to flicker. With a sense of accomplishment, she looked at her phone and said, “You see? I told you I’m perfectly capable of travelling on my own.” She fell backwards onto the couch.

  There was a loud bang. The bulb over her head flickered and then the power went out.

  ~~~

  THE ORCHESTRA WAS playing a waltz. The large covered terrace had been cleared for dancing. There were torches at regular intervals around the perimeter, silver streamers that reflected the light hung from the ceiling. Ladies who were usually shy and preferred to sit in a corner now whirled around the dance floor. Those who’d always been considered fat were more slender than they had ever been. Those who had always been as thin as a rail had developed magnificent bosoms, while the most colourless individuals radiated a veritable joie de vivre. And for the occasion, the loudmouths who were universally disliked had a kind of poetic bonhomie about them. There was even a bewitching quality about the unbearable heat that held the entire city in its grip and intensified by the minute.

  But the most beautiful of all was Charlotte, who whirled across the dance floor like an incandescent flower surrounded by buzzing bees. She laughed and danced with Mr. Karapiet, who kept telling her that he had never before seen so many beautiful women together in one place; she danced with Alok Nath, the goldsmith, who wanted to design a necklace for her because he found her beauty overwhelming. She danced with Adeeb Tata, a distant cousin of the wealthy Ratan Tata, who whispered in her ear that she was lovelier than any of the women he had met in Paris. She danced with the manufacturer of coconut oil, who said that he was intoxicated
by her perfume, although she was not wearing any. And of course she danced with Mr. Nikhil Nair, who could not take his eyes off her, and even asked her for a second dance. She respectfully declined in order to avoid any possible discord with his wife. Charlotte was conscious of the fact that she was radiant, that all the festivities she had missed in the past were nothing compared with this one. The waiters went around with enticing delicacies on Wedgwood plates, some of which she recognized. But even that did not cause her pain. Just as the covetous glances in her direction did not embarrass her but made her feel happy.

  “A cloud!” said the wife of Alok Nath. But as usual, no one heard her. She walked over to the edge of the terrace and pointed. Her husband thought she wanted to go home and, with a smile, he led her back to the dance floor. “A cloud,” she whispered into the goldsmith’s ear, but the music was too loud and the whisky had clouded his powers of observation. He saw only the eyes of his lovely wife and the whirling dresses of her friends. “There are clouds in the sky. Really and truly!” She forced the words from her throat. The police commissioner, who was whirling past, picked up the message and looked up at the sky. But he was circling so fast that it took him three full rounds before he finally saw the clouds.

  “The clouds have come.” His deep voice reverberated across the terrace.

  The music stopped. Now everyone was moving toward the edge of the terrace. The moon had disappeared and the crowd of people pressing forward had to squint to catch a glimpse of the harbinger of the monsoon. They pushed and pointed, sighed with relief, and laughed at the buckets and their own superstition. The secretary of the club did something he’d never done before: he kissed his wife in public. She blushed and resolved to wear her dress more often.

  “But . . .” The raised finger of Mister Nikhil Nair pointed to the colour differences in the sky. “. . . those can’t be rain clouds.”

  All the men began to examine the sky. Wrinkles appeared on foreheads and the corners of mouths turned down.

  Adeeb Tata, who enjoyed the most prestige as a distant cousin of the immensely rich Ratan Tata, turned to the excited partygoers. “Those are clouds of smoke.” There was something denigrating in his voice, and the wife of the goldsmith, who deeply regretted having raised her voice, decided on the spot that she would never do so again, not even in an emergency.

  “Oh no, not another fire . . . ,” sighed the wife of Nikhil Nair.

  Minister Das began to pray aloud, and in the distance they heard the whine of sirens. Charlotte thought of Parvat, hoping that it wouldn’t be a large fire. The band struck up another waltz, and the dancers returned to the floor. The commissioner of police, who had never danced with a white woman before, shyly asked Charlotte for the next dance. Although the commissioner was a very good dancer, Charlotte’s mind wandered. She thought of the candle in the drawing room that was sometimes left burning, now that the electricity was so erratic. She hoped that Isabella would blow it out before she went to bed.

  The waltz music gradually merged with the sound of the sirens, which were becoming steadily louder. The band saw the dancers move closer and closer to the edge of the terrace, from which an orange glow was visible on the horizon.

  She didn’t know who had said it was her house, or whose car she jumped into. Father! Hema! she thought. Isabella! She felt a strange kind of relief when she remembered that Madan had already left. They were still some distance away when she saw that it was her roof that was on fire: a giant beacon high on the hill.

  THE HEAT, WHICH for weeks had been unbearable, was nothing in comparison with the wall of fire that rose up in front as soon as she stepped out of the car. “Where is my father?” she called out. “And my niece! And Hema! Where are they? Where is everyone?”

  Wherever she looked there were firemen wearing bright yellow helmets and carrying axes and ladders. They were all watching the flames shooting from the roof.

  “Why aren’t you doing anything?” she screamed.

  The firemen looked at her in surprise.

  “Because there’s no water,” said the old fire chief with the row of medals across his uniform.

  “No water?! But the fire!”

  “It has to burn itself out.”

  “But it’s only burning upstairs!”

  “It’s our job to see that it doesn’t jump over.”

  Charlotte looked around desperately. She didn’t see the flattened buckets and pulverized teacups, crushed by the broad tires of the red fire engines, or the sofa and the rolled-up carpet that the firemen had salvaged. She ran over to the kitchen building and called Hema’s name. On the countertop there was a jerry can half full of water. She grabbed it and ran back to where the firemen were standing. “Where is Parvat?”

  “He’s inside,” said the old fire chief, and looked in surprise at the jerry can in her hand.

  “Inside!”

  “In the house. He’s gone to get your father on the first floor.”

  Parvat had gone to Father, who was locked in his room and strapped to his bed. She didn’t hesitate a second. She ran to the back of the house and slipped in through the servants’ entrance.

  The heat, which outside had been overpowering, was even fiercer inside. Next to the door hung Isabella’s blue coat. Was she inside as well? She grabbed the jacket, throwing it over her shoulders for protection, and then opened the jerry can and doused herself with water. Then she opened the communicating door and stepped into the hall. It was as if she were being pierced by a thousand daggers. She gasped for air and shielded her face with her hand. She could hear the crackling of the wooden roof above her head. Through narrowed eyes she looked around. An unusual orange light shone on the bare space. On a narrow pillar stood the candle she had lit earlier that evening. The doors to the rooms were open and the few pieces of furniture had disappeared. She wanted to call the names of the people she thought were inside, but her hoarse cries were devoured by the seething air. She made her way through the thick, white-hot wall to her father’s old study, where Isabella slept. The room was empty, and so was the bathroom. Where was her niece? Where was her son? Her father? Hunched down in an effort to escape the heat, she edged her way to the drawing room.

  1935 Rampur ~~~

  HER LITTLE BROTHER is lying on the sofa. He is crying. Charlotte looks around for Sita, but she’s nowhere to be seen. The boy, still a baby, starts to cry even louder and waves his tiny fists wildly in the air.

  “Shush now, don’t cry, or he’ll get angry.” She picks him up and rocks him back and forth. He is heavier than she expected, and he’s kicking his tiny feet. She has to hold him close to her chest so she doesn’t drop him. “Shush now, I’m here with you.” Very softly she begins to sing. A made-up lullaby about angels and fairies, about sunbeams and stairways to heaven, about little children and tears. The boy is quiet now. She rocks him back and forth, back and forth. Her head moves in time with the song.

  He looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes and snivels: “Ma-ma.”

  She’s about to smile at him and kiss him on the lips when she feels her father’s swagger stick on her shoulder. He gives her a little tick, enough to make her look up.

  “You’re not a mother.” His voice is cool.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  THE DRAWING ROOM is empty. Where are they? Where is he? Is he upstairs? She wants to run up the stairs, but an unyielding wall of heat blocks the way. I have to go upstairs, let me through! she begs. It takes all her strength just to lift her foot and put it on the first step. She wants to call out again, but produces only a gurgling noise. She fights her way upward, through the invisible white-hot wall. The flames above her descend, devouring the dry wood of the walls, floors, and ceiling. The water she threw over herself has long since evaporated. Visibility, which was still clear near the orange glow shortly before, has made way for a penetrating fog that makes it impossible to breat
he. She hears the clock start to chime its deep leaden voice. She stumbles up to the landing. She doesn’t realize that she is crawling, that her knees are scraping the bare floor, that her hands are groping in the dark, or that her eyes are watering. She senses that the red dress she is wearing is protecting her.

  The clock strikes for the second time. She finds the grooves of the nursery door, which is open. On hands and knees she continues her way, crossing the threshold she crossed so many times as a child, and entering the room where her life began.

  The third stroke. She reaches the iron bed; the legs are white-hot and the mosquito netting has disappeared. Her hands go on searching. They find one of the leather straps, which dangles from the bed. But the bed is empty. Where is her father? Where is Parvat? They must be here!

  The fourth stroke. Panicking, she opens her mouth, but the smoke sears her throat. She feels her way across the floor, searching for the tires of the wheelchair, which always stands next to his bed. Where is it? Why isn’t the wheelchair here?

  The fifth stroke. The smoke bores its way into her lungs, blocking her windpipe. She can no longer breathe, no longer see. Her arms thrash about. They must be there. It’s been so long since he last asked to leave his room.

  The sixth stroke. She bumps into the trunk where they used to keep their toys, and where Hema sets the general’s tea tray down. She doesn’t feel the pain, she must go back. Air! She has to breathe. She tries to stand up. She falls. She searches frantically for the door. Where is the way out?

  The seventh stroke. She feels the doorsill, the door. But the hall, which before was filled with thick fumes, is now totally black. She coughs, and inhales the black smoke.

  The eighth stroke tells her which direction she should crawl. The clock, which determines the rhythm of her days, fills the vacuum when no one speaks. It is her most faithful housemate, familiar with all her tears. It’s calling to her.