Monsoon Memories

by Renita D'Silva

  They hardly, if ever, thought of Walter, the man behind the parcels. A pleasant, mild-mannered man who visited every alternate summer, a bit older each time. Once he was gone, promptly forgotten. Remembered briefly, gratefully, when the parcels arrived. Cursed heartily the last Friday of each month when they were forced to write a letter each—Jacinta insisted it had to be at least a page long—detailing their progress at school, their achievements: ‘Dearest Daddy, I came seventh in class in the mid-term exams. Sister Shanthi praised me for singing nicely in the choir. A python got into Beerakka’s chicken coop and ate all seven of the chickens she was fattening for Mari Habba. Nagappa caught it. It was very long, longer than Ananthanna’s field even. But it fit in a gunny bag (where it vomited two of the chickens, Nagappa said). I won the high jump. With lots of love, Craving your blessings, Shirin.’

  Her father. A stranger.

  A headache loomed. One of the bad ones, pressing against her skull. As she made herself a cup of coffee—strong, black—to take to her desk, Shirin tried to picture him. Walter. The soft-spoken man who stayed for the summer every two years; whose presence guaranteed feast food—chicken sukka, pork bafat, pickled sardines, mackerel fry, mutli, panpole—every single day; who made her mother smile, hum and even blush a couple of times; the man who tickled Shirin till she begged him to stop, who allowed Deepak to beat him at cards, who sat Anita on his lap and read Bible verses to her while she bunched his sparse hair with rubber bands and decorated it with aboli flowers. He drank at least five litres of water a day—Shirin had counted once—and lost it all in perspiration which permanently beaded his face and arms. He wore only a lungi and no shirt, had springy, curly hair on his chest which Shirin, Deepak and Anita had tried to straighten while he slept by weighting each hair down with pebbles, and a potbelly larger than a pregnant woman’s that he let them bounce and slide on. He snored when he slept, even louder than Grandpa and Grandma used to, and sometimes he sputtered to a stop, his mouth open, and Shirin worried he was dead. He had hair growing out of his nostrils and dimples that merged onto his double chin.

  However hard she tried, Shirin couldn’t quite remember his face. She tasted the familiar bittersweet tang of regret at the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, relegated the sudden yearning to see her father—to pluck him out of her past and look at him, memorise his features until they were branded in her brain as insurance against ever forgetting them again—to that secret corner of her heart which housed other yearnings, other regrets: a corner of her heart that was forever expanding.

  Her father had accompanied her to Bangalore for her wedding and neither of them had known what to say to each other. If only she had known then that this was the last chance she had to get to know him, the last time she would see him...

  Unless...

  She went back home someday.

  Despite her promise to herself, she checked Outlook once more. And, once more, there were plenty of emails requiring her attention but not the one she was looking for.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hand Stretched to Infinity

  ‘Rinu, you look tired. How was your day?’

  ‘I got told off for daydreaming during the Kannada lesson.’

  Aunt Anita giggled, the sound like temple bells. ‘I hated Kannada too. The grammar...’

  ‘I know, so much to remember! What about you? What did you do?’

  Reena and Aunt Anita were walking back to the apartment. Her aunt had been waiting for her outside the gate to their apartment block again, sitting as usual on the mound of mud, wearing a salwar kameez, the kind that film actresses wore, with a short, pale green sequinned top and matching, flared trousers which showed off her long legs and thin waist to perfection.

  She could get used to being picked up at the gate, Reena decided, but not to being accosted at school by the older boys and asked question after question about Aunt Anita. The fact that she was married and almost twenty years older than them did nothing to dent their enthusiasm. Even Raj, whom she had thought was a decent sort, and whom she secretly had a crush on, seemed besotted by Aunt Anita.

  She had decided that being accosted by the boys was worse than the name-calling and teasing. The girls in her class, Divya included, were annoyed that the boys were paying her so much attention and they were even cattier to her than before.

  The bus driver had slowed down dramatically when he spotted Aunt Anita waiting for Reena at the entrance to the apartment block; usually he took off before Reena had time to get off the last step, but today he took his time. The boys had started whistling as romantic Hindi film music started blaring suddenly out of speakers that Reena had not even known existed in the bus. The driver combed his sparse oily hair in the mirror above the steering wheel as Reena climbed off and then turned to flash Aunt Anita a smile that was even oilier. The queue for bidis at the little hut across the road was longer than the previous day, and the customers, instead of facing the shop, were staring at Aunt Anita with grins so wide they looked like performing monkeys.

  When Reena and Aunt Anita turned to walk inside there was a chorus of groans from the men and boys. Aunt Anita laughed and waved the bus away to a wild crescendo of cheers. The bus driver’s off-key rendition of Hindi film music faded into the distance.

  ‘We went shopping,’ Aunt Anita said, ‘to a mall. I think it’s only been a couple of years since I last visited Bangalore, but, my God, the difference! This city is booming! Malls and flyovers popping up all over the place.’

  Reena smiled, pleased to see Aunt Anita so animated. She was not depressed all the time anymore. She had stopped wearing sunglasses constantly. Staying with them seemed to be doing her good.

  ‘We had a great time,’ Aunt Anita continued, ‘I bought some clothes. Your mother got pillow covers, of all things. Then we ate at one of those exclusive eateries inside the mall, where it costs three times the price outside. We each had a masala dosa and some tea. That came up to four hundred rupees! It’s all these rich young software engineers that are making all the difference: the nouveau riche with their nuclear families; the pampered society wife, the spoilt children.’ She stopped, suddenly realising what she had said, and blushed. ‘Not you of course. You are the exception to the rule.’ She reached across and cupped Reena’s cheek in her palm. ‘So, have you been reading Shirin’s letters? What do you think?’

  They were by the pool. The sky, a brilliant cloudless blue, was reflected in its depths. The water shimmered and sparkled like the sequins in her mother’s best ghagra choli. In the distance, beyond the flats, Reena could just make out the top of a banyan tree, the branches swaying slightly in the mild breeze. As she watched, a V-shaped formation of birds flew past, regally swooping across the horizon like a hand stretched out to infinity. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Reena?’

  She heard the question in her aunt’s voice.

  ‘I... I read the first letter.’ The words she really wanted to ask were at the tip of her tongue. Why? Why shun her? What did she do that was so bad? Did she marry someone unsuitable? Was that it? But so did you. Why was she punished and not you? But she was afraid her aunt would get annoyed and ask for the letters back. So she cleared her throat and said instead, ‘They are in English.’ Super Sleuth, where’s your courage?

  Her aunt smiled. ‘That’s your Mai’s fault. She made sure we wrote our letters in English—to Da, to each other. “We pay so much money to send you to English medium school, you might as well practise it,” she used to say when we grumbled.’

  ‘I am getting a sense of who she was. Thank you for sharing the letters, for sharing your Shirin with me.’

  Aunt Anita beamed. It was like the sun breaking through clouds after a monsoon shower. And Reena suddenly understood why men went weak-kneed and crazy for her aunt, why they fell under her spell.

  ‘You’re welcome, sweetie. It’s nice to talk about
her with someone after all this time.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Madhu said!’ A pause while she gathered up courage. I am not going to let Aunt Shirin remain invisible anymore. ‘Aunt Shirin... She seems so nice, so kind. I cannot imagine her doing anything to warrant all of you shunning her; her own mother pretending she never existed.’

  Aunt Anita flinched. ‘Please, Reena. Just leave it—okay?’

  Don’t push it, Reena, don’t. ‘Why?’

  Aunt Anita pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes. ‘I... It will cause hurt all round.’ She cupped Reena’s face in her palm. ‘Look at me.’ Her voice was soft. ‘Read the letters; get to know Shirin. Leave the rest be. It’s maddening, I know. But it’s for the best.’

  Not what you said before. Are all adults so fickle or just you? Reena looked away, up at the sky. The birds were gone. The sky seemed bereft. ‘I hate being a child. Everyone talks down to you...’ Rogue tears pricked at her eyes.

  ‘Reena...’

  She picked up her satchel and dragged it up the stairs. She stormed into the flat, ignored Preeti: ‘Rinu, guess what, I packed you the rava dosa from Sukh Sagar.’; ran to her room and banged the door shut.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ she heard a perplexed Preeti ask.

  ‘She got told off for daydreaming during her Kannada lesson,’ Aunt Anita lied effortlessly. She was, Reena noted with grim pleasure, panting from trying to catch up with her.

  All the adults in her life seemed skilled at lying, Reena seethed. She lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, picturing a lonely girl who yearned to fall in love, sitting on the veranda in Taipur, missing her siblings. She lay there until she could no longer ignore the hungry calls of her stomach, and when her mother banged on her door for the third time: ‘Come on out, Rinu; Mr Shastri is not worth it. You’ll feel better after eating your dosa,’ she went to the dining table and devoured her snack while studiously avoiding Aunt Anita’s eye.

  Afterwards, while her mother was in the kitchen washing up, she flopped onto the sofa beside her aunt who was flicking through channels.

  ‘There’s nothing good to watch at this time, is there, Reena?’ Aunt Anita said.

  ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper,’ Reena mumbled, staring at the TV. ‘And I wasn’t being fair to you. You are one of the few adults who treat me as an equal. Well, most of the time anyway.’

  Aunt Anita laughed. ‘You are something, you know that?’

  ‘You’re not angry with me?’

  ‘Why? For showing some spirit? ‘ She reached across and tousled Reena’s hair. ‘You’re a niece to be proud of, that’s for sure.’

  Reena blushed, feeling unworthy. ‘Do you regret giving me the letters?’ Now why on earth did you ask that? Serve you right if she takes them back.

  ‘No. And I won’t ask for them back, don’t you worry, until you have read them all. I’d like you to get to know the person Shirin was before...’ A pause. Aunt Anita stared past the television at something only she could see.

  Whew, Reena thought. Golden rule of detection: Think before you speak. If she had taken the letters, where would Super Sleuth Reena Diaz be?

  ‘When you meet Shirin,’ Aunt Anita met Reena’s gaze, held it, ‘and one day you will, she’ll say the same thing I bet. That you’re a...’ she looked away, ‘a niece to be proud of.’

  Why? Why had Aunt Anita looked so discomfited when she said that last bit? Why couldn’t she meet her eye?

  * * *

  That evening after dinner, instead of watching a Hindi movie with her mother and aunt, Reena excused herself saying she had a maths test the next day, lying as easily as the rest of her family. Perhaps it ran in the blood. Once in her room, she locked the door, reached for the bundle of letters, opened the next one and started to read.

  Letter 2: Extracts:

  1.In this extract, subject guesses about Uttam.

  Anu, this Uttam you keep mentioning in your letter, is he in your class? He sounds very interesting. And you seem to really like him. And respect him. I don’t think you’ve ever really respected a boy before. They tend to make a nuisance of themselves around you. So, is Uttam just a friend or something more, perhaps?

  NOTE: When she was younger, did subject yearn to be a detective as well? She would have been good at it. Perhaps she found something she shouldn’t have and that was the reason she was shunned? This detective hopes that is not the case. If this detective discovers the cause of rift, will she be shunned too?

  2.Aha, Eureka, Abracadabra. THE CLUE.

  In your letter, you asked me about my post-graduate college, how I am finding it, and if it is any good. It is. I enjoy it. And, Anu, you’ll never believe this: Tariq is here, doing an MS in Electronics and Communications.

  I thought, after everything that happened, he would not want anything to do with me. But…

  The first morning, after induction, I was in the canteen eating chattambades and catching tantalising glimpses of the sea shimmering beyond the teachers’ mess when a familiar voice, very close, whispered, ‘Hello.’ I turned and found myself looking into his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes I had only ever thought I’d see in my dreams. ‘Your hair’s grown back,’ he said.

  NOTE: Shirin says, ‘After what happened, he would not want anything…’ What happened? Something to do with her hair? And who is this Tariq of the beautiful brown eyes?

  3.This detective knows now why Aunt Anita gave her the letters to read. They contain the explanation, the clues to what happened. She meant for this detective to find out; she recognised the potential in this detective.

  He loves me, Anu. He loves me. Still. Despite everything.

  We were sitting on the rocks behind the Hindu temple, watching the tiny specks that pass for boats bobbing gently up and down at the point where the sky meets the sea. On the beach, a lone vendor selling baby cucumbers liberally coated with chilli powder and chaat masala did brisk business. The sea breeze raised goosebumps on my skin as the faded curtain of dusk fell on the golds and the orangey-reds and the pinks: the sun’s last act. And he leaned towards me, his spicy breath warm on my cheek, and told me he loved me. He asked me to run away with him.

  And I did run. The coward that I am, I ran like hell to catch the last bus home. (I know, I swore. Don’t tell Sister Maya.)

  NOTE: So she didn’t run away with him. Not this time. Why does she need to run away with him? Mai does not approve perhaps. But why? Tariq. The name sounds Muslim. Aha. Marrying a Muslim is worse somehow than marrying a Hindu. Perhaps that was it. Eloping with a Muslim is far worse than marrying a high-born Brahmin, even today…

  NOTE 2: Shirin keeps referring to something that happened before. What happened?

  4.Even though this extract makes this detective want to shake the subject, hard, (Golden rule of detection: Do not allow personal feelings to get in the way of detection—so not the hallmark of a good detective), a picture is beginning to form:

  In other news, Aunt Winnie came over yesterday with a proposal for me. Boy is from Bangalore. Wealthy family. Has one older brother who refuses to get married: first love gone sour put him off for life according to Aunt Winnie. Ma was very excited about the proposal: ‘From Bangalore, really? Wait till the parish committee hears about it!’ (you know what she’s like). She’s worried about the older brother and kept asking Aunt Winnie all sorts of questions about him. Aunt Winnie harrumphed and said, ‘If you want to be like that, Jessie…’ Ma placated Aunt Winnie with jackfruit and paan and gave her one of those horrible CVs she made containing all relevant information about me—my vital statistics, my qualifications, my hobbies—to pass on to them. She also included that unflattering picture of me, taken in Benny’s studio when I turned nineteen.

  Remember?

  Remember how Ma decided when, after a year of rigorous groom-hunt
ing I was still on the marriage market and no one had shown the slightest interest in me, that what was missing was a full-length photograph. She was convinced that once she circulated a picture along with the CV, offers for my hand would pour in. Poor Ma!