Monsoon Memories

by Renita D'Silva

  She had listened enough to her parents’ laments after they watched the news or read the paper. Her mother would shake her head sadly and say to Mrs. Gupta next door, ‘Did you hear about the poor woman being attacked and left for dead in her flat for hours? Everything taken, even the dog’s bowl it seems.’

  ‘Arre Baap re,’ Mrs. Gupta would moan, ‘I am sure it was the servants. You have to be very careful, Preeti. They are very sly, these lower-class people. Once they know where you keep your keys, God help you...’ One of Mrs. Gupta’s hands would be clutching her right breast dramatically, checking to see that the keys she kept tucked inside her bra were safe. Reena was sure Mrs. Gupta was aiming for the ‘tragic heroine’ look, but with her long pointy nose and evil face, she was anything but.

  Murli, Mrs. Gupta’s cook and Reena’s friend, regaled her with horror stories about crimes that went unchecked in his village. In Murli’s version, it was the rich people, the employers, who were the villains.

  All this only served to make Reena more determined to be a detective. It would have helped if she had a book starring an Indian detective as a guide. The India she knew didn’t have moors, gorse, secret islands and open spaces like the England of the Famous Five books, except maybe at her grandmother’s house. But the open spaces in Taipur were populated with mud, mosquitoes and snakes. She couldn’t find a single book, fiction or otherwise, with an Indian girl, boy or adult detective. She had even braved asking the Scrooge of a librarian at her school, who had looked down her nose at Reena with her ogre-like eyes and pinched-together face and asked, ‘Who wants to know?’ Reena was a tiny bit ashamed of the fact she had fled. But, she reasoned, detectives needed to keep a low profile. They couldn’t afford to blow their cover...

  In the beginning she had been all for forming a club like in the Famous Five or the Secret Seven and had spent ages concocting names and passwords. She had given up when she realised that she had names aplenty but a scarcity of friends or siblings who could be coerced to join. Then she started reading Nancy Drew and bingo, she realised that she could go it alone. She spent hours practising her signature in her notebook, adding flourishes and titles. She personally liked ‘Reena Diaz, Super Sleuth’ best. It had a nice ring to it. She decided she would be the first Indian girl detective. All that remained was to find a mystery. The only problem was that once Reena decided to become a detective, there were no mysteries to be found. No murders or burglaries were reported in the local newspapers or on the TV channels. Even Murli didn’t have any more horror stories of unsolved crimes to impart. Her life, Reena was fast coming to the conclusion, was extremely mundane. Nothing thrilling ever happened in it.

  And now, thanks to Chinnu, she seemed to have stumbled on something exciting, even if it wasn’t the murder she’d been hoping for as her debut case.

  Before proceeding any further with the discovery, and wanting to prolong the sense of mystery as much as possible, Reena glanced furtively around her, as she imagined Nancy Drew would. Chinnu was sitting under the wooden bench in the corner cleaning her whiskers busily with her paw.

  Her grandmother, Mai, was having her afternoon siesta. She lay on the mat by the front door. Her mouth was open and little snores escaped it from time to time. Her sari was slightly askew, the pink skirt she wore underneath showing. The steady hum of rain relentlessly beating down on the tiles and the steps leading down from the front door served as a familiar lullaby.

  Outside, the coconut trees stood out in relief against the blanket of rain which muddied the courtyard that Madhu had diligently swept and tidied just that morning. Dirty little puddles had formed everywhere.

  Her parents were out visiting with her father’s old school friends. They had tried to get Reena to go but these friends of her dad’s did not have any children and nothing could persuade her to venture out into the blinding rain, get wet and muddy only to sit in their house, stare at their walls and listen to her father reminisce about the good old days. Looking at yellowing photographs of people she didn’t know to the accompaniment of Mai’s snores, while eating hot golibhajis dipped in coconut chutney and sipping cardamom tea was much better.

  At least she was dry.

  She went to the kitchen, ostensibly to get a tumbler of water, but in reality to check on Madhu. Madhu was sitting beside the hand grinder which she used to pound spices into thick masala for her curries, preferring it to the new electric grinder, which she insisted didn’t make a smooth enough paste. Her knees were drawn up, and she was resting her head on them. Strands of grey escaped her bun and obscured her lined face. She was wearing the stained, old apron that she was never without around her sari. She was fast asleep. The kitchen door was wide open and sprawled across the entrance was Gypsy. She was fast asleep as well.

  Reena hurried back into the living room. Luck was on her side. Her parents were not due back for a while yet. And it was as if an epidemic of sleep had struck the rest of the household. Even Chinnu was asleep now, lying on her side under the wooden bench, paws stretched out.

  Slowly, Reena pulled out whatever it was that was peeking out from beneath the picture she had been looking at—and sighed in disappointment. Just her luck! It wasn’t a mystery at all but another black-and-white photograph. It must have slipped behind the other one by mistake. Like the others, this one too was yellowed with age. And, like the others, rot had begun to eat away at it.

  She pulled it closer for a better look—and noticed something different. Unlike the other pictures she had spent the afternoon flicking through, this one was creased and worn, as though someone had run their fingers across it many times and then folded it and tucked it away. It was a picture of three children, all of them smiling what were obviously false smiles for the camera. The youngest—the little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair in bunches, flashing dimples—Reena recognised as Aunt Anita, from the countless pictures she had seen of her as a baby and toddler. The boy in the photograph, tummy sticking out, adorable gap-toothed grin, awkward stance, was her father, Deepak, as a child.

  It was the other girl in the picture who captured Reena’s attention. She was chubby and dark-complexioned. She wore seventies-style churidars and her long thick hair was in pigtails and tied neatly with matching ribbons behind her ears. She had a kind face and an open smile. And she looked very much like Reena herself...

  * * *

  Lying on the deliciously cool floor, staring at the photograph, Reena remembered packing her clothes into her case the evening they left Bangalore to come here, desperately hoping for a mystery to sink her teeth into…

  Reena’s parents had not meant to visit Taipur in September. They had already been in June during the summer holidays. And they did not like visiting during the monsoons anyway.

  As her mother, Preeti, had put it to Mrs. Gupta from the flat opposite, the evening they were leaving for Taipur, her nose crinkling disdainfully: ‘Stuck in that house all day, nowhere to go, what with the relentless rain. Can’t even watch television...’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Mrs. Gupta, curiously. ‘Doesn’t your mother-in-law own one?’

  ‘Oh, no, no...’ Preeti hastened to reassure her. She did not want Mrs. Gupta—who always slipped her husband’s royal and hallowed ancestry into any conversation—to think that Deepak’s family did not measure up. Deepak wouldn’t be pleased. ‘They have a very big house and are one of the oldest and most respected families in Taipur. And they have one of those big televisions. Deepak’s father brought it back from the Gulf. It’s huge, really, almost like being in a cinema hall. But you never get to watch. It’s the power cuts, you see. Because it is a village, there is no power, either all day long or all night long. And the mosquitoes and all those insects...’ Preeti gave a practised little shudder, ‘Ohhh... the monsoons attract the worst sort of bugs. And the humidity...’

  ‘I don’t see why you go at all then, Preeti,’ said Mrs. Gupta, de
licately taking a sip of her tea, and immediately embarking on a coughing fit.

  Reena gulped down a giggle. Mrs. Gupta always did this and any minute now...

  ‘Murli!’ Mrs. Gupta called shrilly, summoning her harassed cook, who arrived, head bowed and apologising contritely.

  ‘Is it the tea, ma’am? Too much sugar is it?’

  ‘Too little, Murli. Too little. Pah! The cooks nowadays—you pay them a thousand rupees a month and they don’t even know how to make tea! Get me another cup right away. You have made a fool of me in front of my guests. If it happens again, I will sack you. I mean it, Murli.’ She waved Murli away and turned to face Reena and Preeti. ‘The servants these days...’

  ‘I know,’ Preeti murmured sympathetically even though she didn’t have a servant, had never needed one.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Preeti, why do you go at all?’

  As Murli bent to take Reena’s cup, he made a face at Mrs. Gupta behind her back and winked. Reena giggled out loud, unable to hide it this time.

  ‘What’s so funny, Reena?’ asked Mrs. Gupta, interrupting Preeti who was explaining more to herself than anyone else why they had to go to Taipur during the monsoons.

  ‘Nothing,’ mumbled Reena, fiddling with her top, her face lowered so Mrs. Gupta could not see the glee on it.

  Her mother continued talking as if she hadn’t been interrupted.

  ‘It’s the Bandh you see. I can’t believe they are having yet another strike! They need an excuse, don’t they, to shut down the city. You whisper the word ‘Bandh’ and the whole of Bangalore shudders to a halt. It’s disgraceful, really...’

  Mrs. Gupta made sympathetic sounds of agreement.

  ‘So, Reena’s off school and Deepak just delivered a release well ahead of time and he’s due some time off. You know how he’s been working all those long hours and weekends. Some days he’s even slept at the office! You are lucky your husband comes home at a decent time, Nupur. You are lucky he runs a business and doesn’t work in software, full stop. Anyway, Deepak feels guilty, now that his mother is getting so old and frail, especially after his father died. And of course Anita never visits...’

  ‘You should put your foot down.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I should...’

  ‘And where is Anita nowadays?’

  ‘Oh, you know her. She flits around like a butterfly, never in one place long enough...’

  ‘And what about her husband? Doesn’t he get annoyed with her travelling everywhere?’

  ‘They are a modern couple,’ Preeti said as if that explained it all.

  Reena sighed inwardly. Her mother’s comment was like holding a red cloth in front of a raging bull. Now Mrs. Gupta would embark on a monologue on the state of the country and the wantonness of its youth: her second favourite topic after the despicable laziness of servants—and there would be no stopping her.

  And sure enough...

  ‘Modern couple...’ Mrs. Gupta sniffed loudly, making it clear to all and sundry what she thought of modern couples. ‘All those young girls strutting around showing their belly buttons, boys hanging on their arms! No values, nothing. No respect for elders. I saw a couple kissing each other—on the mouth, Preeti, in full view of everyone! Chi! I swore loudly and spat on the street right next to them but they didn’t even notice. Too busy tasting each other’s lunch, they were...’ Mrs. Gupta shuddered. She paused to take a breath and her narrowed gaze settled on Reena. ‘I hope you don’t go about behaving like that, Reena, when you grow up...’

  ‘No, Aunty,’ Reena mumbled, eyes down, suitably demure.

  ‘What is this country coming to? Politicians corrupt, young people with loose morals...You know what it is, don’t you, Preeti? It’s the influence of the West. Our impressionable young blindly following what they see on TV, all those half-naked women...’

  Reena noticed her mother’s eyes start to glaze over. Preeti had come round to Mrs. Gupta’s for her daily fix of gossip but none seemed forthcoming. Silently, Reena willed her to interrupt Mrs. Gupta’s rant, and for once she did.

  ‘My God, is that the time? Reena, we should be going. We’ve got the packing to do. Thanks for the tea, Nupur. It was lovely.’

  With that they were saying their goodbyes and were out of Mrs. Gupta’s flat, across the landing and inside their own.

  In the living room, Preeti collapsed onto the sofa and reached for the phone. ‘Rinu, go and pack what you want to take with you, sweetie. The bus is at 10 o’clock tonight. Why they don’t have a proper train line connecting Bangalore and Mangalore I don’t know. I hate going in that bus; it always gets stuck in the ghats...’

  Leaving her mother still grumbling, Reena escaped to her room, lay down on her bed and stared out of the window, not really seeing the blue of the swimming pool which the peon was half-heartedly cleaning, or the landscaped gardens, or the little playground in the centre. ‘I liked that plot we saw in Dasarahalli, Deepak,’ her mother had said when they came to view this flat. ‘We could build a two-storey house and still have some land left over for a garden and it’s a quarter of the price of this one.’

  ‘Ah, Preeti,’ her dad had beamed, standing in the shade of the palm trees by the swimming pool, and Reena knew then that his mind was made up, ‘Ma will be voted president of the parish council when word gets around that we are buying a flat in the same apartment complex as Shivarajkumar. A pat on the back for the Taipur Diazes.’ Status meant so much to her dad.

  ‘He’s like Mrs. Gupta that way,’ her mother had said once, laughing conspiratorially. ‘Good job he works the hours he does. If he and Nupur had a family pedigree contest, it would result in a tie…’

  Reena had not wanted to move here, despite the fact she was going to have, as her father had said, his eyes sparkling, ‘Your own room, Rinu, as big as our entire flat in Hosur Road.’

  ‘But I like our flat, Dad,’ she had protested. ‘My best friend, Divya, lives nearby. Here I will have no friends.’

  ‘You will make some. Who would not like to be friends with you?’ her dad had beamed.

  Most people, she had wanted to say. I am not that popular, you know.

  She sighed deeply, worrying the tassels on her pillow cover. She missed Divya sorely, her once best friend who still lived in the old apartment complex. She used to knock on Divya’s door and they would walk together to the bus stop. And then Reena had moved to this apartment complex where film stars lived, and where her school bus had to make a special detour just to drop her off. There were hardly any other kids living here and the ones who did went to very expensive schools at the other end of the city and would not deign to talk to her. Paradoxically, her classmates, including Divya, assumed that she was too snooty now that she was keeping company with the stars, and would not talk to her either. What use is status if you have no one to share it with, Dad?

  A lone bird flew past her window—a fan-shaped shadow against the peaceful azure sky, framed by a couple of lazy clouds. Reena wished she could fly too, back to her old flat, to her friend. But then, she mused, she wouldn’t have Murli.

  She hoped Mrs. Gupta had not meant what she had said about firing Murli. Every time Reena visited Mrs. Gupta with her mother, there was always a little fiasco with her tea. Murli hadn’t been sacked yet. Surely that was a good sign.

  ‘Why do you do that? What do you put in her tea?’ she’d asked Murli once. She was off school, recovering from the measles, miserable and bored. Murli had come to visit with chicken soup. It was the most heavenly thing she had ever tasted.

  ‘I can’t tell you all my secrets, little one,’ Murli had chuckled, eyes twinkling. ‘Let’s just say it’s my revenge...’

  ‘But it might get you fired!’

  ‘Oh, she wouldn’t dare fire me. No one knows how to make Dal Makhani to her satisfaction quite like me. The
y are empty threats. She wants to show off in front of her friends. You’re sweet to worry about me.’

  ‘I wish she’d treat you better, though. If you left, who’d get non-vegetarian food for me when I am ill?’ Reena had said, making Murli laugh. She was on a strict diet on account of the measles. ‘How did you manage to smuggle it past my mother, Murli?’ she had asked curiously between mouthfuls.

  ‘Oh, I told her it was soup. She assumed it was vegetarian. I didn’t lie or anything...’ He’d winked at her, his bony face lighting up when he smiled. He was perched on the chair beside her bed, a little slip of a man, wearing a worn white mundu, the bones sticking out of his bare torso, looking at her with such tenderness.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid you’ll get the measles too?’

  ‘I already had them when I was little. I’m immune to them. You’re sweet to care about me. I hope my little girl is growing up with a kind heart just like yours,’ Murli had said, a wistful look in his eyes.

  Murli’s wife and two children lived in a village on the outskirts of Bangalore. Murli saw them once a year, when Mrs. Gupta grudgingly allowed him a week off work. The first time Murli had met Reena, he’d told her that she reminded him of his little girl, who was her age.

  ‘Don’t you miss her, Murli?’ Reena had asked.

  ‘Oh, I do, Reena, so much.’

  ‘Then why do you stay so far away?’

  ‘I have to. There is no work in our village. My family lives in a mud hut like the ones you see in the slums in Rajendra Nagar.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Yes. I save the thousand rupees Mrs. Gupta gives me every month and send it to my wife. This way they can afford to eat and my children can go to school. English Medium, like you. Fees—eight hundred rupees. I want them to get good jobs and live in a big house like you, Reena, when they grow up. If they are educated, not illiterate like me, they can do anything, go anywhere, be anyone...’ And Murli’s face would glow with his dreams of a better future for his children.