Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  “Here you are, son,” whispers Mister Patel; he is the only one who doesn’t call him Mukka or rat. He slides his bowl in Madan’s direction: there are at least four spoonfuls of rice left. “You’re still growing. And I’m not.”

  Madan looks at him gratefully and quickly polishes off the rice. Even Mister Patel can have second thoughts.

  “When we get out of here, son, you must come and have dinner with me sometime. I’m a good cook, if I do say so myself.”

  There’s nothing Madan would like better. He’s accustomed to eating irregularly — bad food and very little of it — but even Ram Khan gave him more to eat than he gets in the prison. Some of the others think that Mister Patel is his grandfather. Even Ibrahim, who is violent and abusive to everyone, has thus far left the old man in peace.

  “That time will come, my son. I know it will. And then I’ll make dal for you, with as much rice as you can eat.” Mister Patel turns over and closes his eyes. Madan listens to his incomprehensible prayer. Sometimes Mister Patel prays for an hour at a stretch. And when he’s finished there’s always a serene expression in his eyes, something that none of the other men seem to have, not even after their prayers.

  “Do you ever pray?” Mister Patel asks as he tries to pick the dirt from under his fingernails.

  Madan shakes his head.

  “Have you never learned to pray? Or aren’t you a believer?”

  With an effort, Madan can dredge up a few vague memories: once he was taken to a temple where bells were ringing and incense was burning, and he remembers the holy pictures where Ram Khan did his pudja every day, and Brother Francis, who knelt down next to him and took hold of his hand to point to the man on the cross. He shrugged.

  “Do you want to learn how to pray?”

  The serenity that Mister Patel radiates after finishing his prayers appeals to Madan, but he’s afraid that if he prays, Mister Patel’s god will get into his head and reproach him for forgetting Abbas. Even though he hasn’t. But that’s hard to explain.

  Mister Patel sees the hesitation in Madan’s eyes. “You don’t have to do it the way I do, using real words. You can pray in your head. Did you know that?”

  Again, Madan nods his head. Praying inside his head is something he does all day long. He doesn’t call it praying, of course, but talking.

  “It’s not just talking inside your head,” Mister Patel says. “When you pray, you start by emptying yourself and concentrating. Then you can start your prayers.”

  Madan’s mind reels: emptying yourself and concentrating. He doesn’t have the faintest idea what Mister Patel is referring to. But he nods earnestly, and Mister Patel continues.

  “We are all part of Cosmic Awareness. You don’t have to understand everything, but it’s good for you to know that. The aim of prayer is to show respect, to make a request, or to guide your own thoughts and emotions. I pray to Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. But if you aren’t yet acquainted with those gods, then as long as you’re here you can also talk to the god inside you. Do you understand a bit of what I’m saying?”

  The god inside him? He hasn’t the faintest idea.

  “Your god is part of you.”

  Abbas! Suddenly he understands what Mister Patel means. So that’s what Mister Patel does: he talks to someone he loves very much. Abbas is always with him, every minute, every hour he thinks of him, and yet he’s never dared to talk to him.

  “I can see that you understand,” says Mister Patel with relief. This is really something, he thinks to himself: an innocent prisoner in a filthy prison, trying to teach a deaf boy to pray.

  1995 Rampur ~~~

  THE DOORBELL RANG for the fifth time that day. Hema had brightened visibly in his active role as butler, but Charlotte retired to her bedroom; she was annoyed with the women from the club, who had not kept their part of the bargain. The last time they had this many visitors was four years ago, when her father turned ninety. She hadn’t planned to celebrate his birthday, but a steady stream of servants and former personnel had come to congratulate the general, in the hope of receiving a gift. It was a tradition that he had initiated on his seventieth birthday, when he gave generously to all and sundry, and one that he had attempted to equal on his eightieth. Charlotte had run up to the attic dozens of times that day, in search of items that could serve as gifts. She had cursed her father for initiating a tradition that they could no longer afford. Looking at the empty sideboard, it suddenly occurred to her that her father might very well live to be a hundred. She heard Hema open the front door and ask someone to wait. He knocked on her door.

  “Come in.”

  “Mrs. Nath is here to see you.”

  “Ask her in.”

  The wife of the goldsmith, Alok Nath, had never been inside the large house on the hill, so she looked around with interest. Charlotte had always had a problem with the goldsmith’s wife, since she had the ridiculous idea that speaking very softly was the hallmark of chic. She also ate very little, because she regarded being fat as bourgeois.

  “W . . . t,” she whispered.

  Charlotte couldn’t make out what she said but welcomed her amiably and asked if she’d like a cup of tea. That was another problem. Her normal supply of tea lasted one month, but now it was almost gone after just three days. The same was true of the sugar and milk. She’d also had to buy extra biscuits, since tea can’t be served without a biscuit.

  Hema, who was waiting by the door, was of the same mind, except that he was delighted that at long last there was shopping to do. He’d visited five different shops before he found the right biscuits, and he enjoyed the rare luxury.

  Charlotte sent him off to make tea and to let the tailor know that the wife of Alok Nath was there. As she uttered the word “tailor” a blush came over her cheeks. The wife of Alok Nath didn’t notice, since white people always colour in such stifling heat. She’d seen people who had blisters on their sunburned skin or who developed a sty. Such extreme temperatures always gave her a headache, which was exacerbated by the interminable cries of the cuckoo and the barking of wild dogs. As those sounds were not audible inside the great house, she happily sank back into her chair and asked Charlotte how her father was doing. Charlotte was under the impression that her guest had commented on the weather, so she lamented the fact that the monsoon was so long in coming and the level of water in the reservoir was exceptionally low. This was interpreted by the wife of Alok Nath as an indication that her father wasn’t doing well and that she shouldn’t pursue the subject. Suddenly the room went dark.

  “Oh, no, not the electricity again!”

  “B . . . l.”

  Charlotte felt her way to the window, drew the curtain aside, and opened the shutter a fraction of an inch. A light shot into the room through the narrow slit, together with the searing heat that inundated the room like some kind of oily liquid. She heard the back door open and then close. Her heart began to beat faster. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and ran a hand through her hair. There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Madan entered with a length of cloth that belonged to the wife of Alok Nath. The heat, until then almost unbearable, became even fiercer. Charlotte felt the blush on her cheeks spreading all over her body.

  Madan bowed his head slightly and held up the length of cloth. It’s not finished yet.

  “It’s not finished yet,” said Charlotte, who had vowed the evening before not to listen to the voice.

  “M . . . g,” whispered the wife of Alok Nath.

  What did she say?

  You can’t understand her either? Charlotte felt the beginning of a smile.

  “A . . . . . . . . . l,” the wife of Alok Nath continued.

  I’ve never heard anyone speak so indistinctly!

  That’s the way she always talks, Charlotte replied, witho
ut looking at him. I answer her and just hope that I got it right.

  But you can understand me. He didn’t look at her either.

  Charlotte’s blush deepened and the tingling sensation in her belly intensified. She didn’t want to think, but the thoughts came anyway. She wasn’t sure if he was actually answering her or if his replies were a figment of her imagination. The sentences she heard in her head were so unashamedly direct that they couldn’t possibly come from him.

  You’re not sure.

  Charlotte nodded.

  The wife of Alok Nath was under the impression that Charlotte had just agreed with her: the choice of fabric was wrong and she ought to buy new material. Charlotte looked on in surprise as the woman took the cloth from Madan’s hands and stuffed it into her bag. She nodded to Madan in a friendly manner.

  “H . . . . . . f.”

  Well, I’ll be going.

  Stay. The thought came faster than the self-control she’d always thought she possessed. Startled, she looked at Madan. No, just go. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I don’t understand this. It’s never happened to me before. She covered her face with her hands.

  The wife of Alok Nath concluded that Charlotte had suddenly been overcome by the heat, and for the second time in her life Charlotte heard what she said: “Call the butler!”

  Mechanically, Charlotte rang the bell.

  “Don’t . . . well?” The gaunt woman walked over to her.

  “I’m fine,” said Charlotte. She heard the door open and then close, and she knew that Madan was gone. A bullet made up of long-concealed emotions shot through her body with such power that she gasped. She was immediately filled with fear. Her body was shaking.

  The wife of Alok Nath looked at her anxiously and breathed a sigh of relief when the fan over her head began to rotate again and the lamp came back on. “G . . . . . . s,” she said as she closed the shutter and drew the curtain.

  Hema arrived with the tea tray and began to pour. The wife of Alok Nath declined the biscuit, and Charlotte decided then and there that she’d have to find another workplace for the tailor — and that she’d be wearing an old dress to the party.

  WALKING BACK TO the kitchen, Hema caught sight of Madan sitting in the shadow of one of the big acacia trees. While he was pouring the tea, he’d overheard that memsahib Nath had taken back the material for her dress. It annoyed Hema that at the very first setback the man had gone into the garden to sulk. But what irked him most was the fact that he couldn’t order the tailor around as he’d done with the other servants. For the fourth time that day he wished that memsahib had never taken the man into the house, and for the fourth time he took back his wish: if it hadn’t been for the darzi, he would never have been able to do so much shopping.

  Madan leaned against the tree and closed his eyes. I don’t see how she can hear my thoughts. Up to now, you were the only person who understood me. Other people never understand me — you know that. How is it possible that she does? He opened his eyes and looked at the house with the closed shutters. She hears all my thoughts, even the ones that last only a second. It’s as if she can look into my mind. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled through his lips. It’s because of her that I suddenly say whatever comes into my head. You’re not supposed to say what you’re thinking, but inside your head you don’t have to be polite. How can she hear my thoughts? He opened his eyes and looked at the house. She thinks I’m cheeky. And that I don’t respect her. He closed his eyes again. But I do respect her, in my head as well, really and truly. But I can’t think in a servile way, and if I have to talk in my head the way other people talk with their voice, where can I do my real thinking? He heaved another sigh. I’ll have to stop talking to her. If only I hadn’t taught myself that I can say anything in my prayers. I’m going to do my best not to think about her, even when she’s not there. A deep frown line appeared on his forehead above his closed eyes. In the distance a peacock screamed. But when I look at her hands, the way she walks and moves, and smell her scent . . . I feel that I’m safe. Please, tell me how I can stop all this, I don’t know how. I think about her the whole day, even when I don’t want to. Tell me. I don’t want to be sent away, I want to stay here. I’m afraid. It’s as if I have to protect her. Madan opened his eyes and shook his head. He got up and walked back to the kitchen, head bowed. Only then did he hear the scream of the peacock. He hoped it was dancing: that meant that the monsoon was coming.

  HE WENT TO the faucet to fill up a bucket, but only a thin trickle of water came out. All the windows of the big house were thrown wide open. There were no lights on, and perfect calm reigned, even in the kitchen. The sound of the water trickling into the bucket was drowned out only by the sound of thousands of crickets, taking advantage of the cool of the night to serenade their lady loves. Madan stared at the open window on the first floor and tried not to think, because he was afraid that his voice, like a real voice, could be heard in the bedroom. He picked up the bucket, which was half full, and walked away from the house as fast as he could. When he got to the apple tree, he stopped. He sniffed the bare trunk. The scent of apple wood was returning, and that reassured him.

  1955 Bombay ~~~

  AT THE END of the long corridor there is another barred gate. This time it’s opened by a guard with rotten teeth.

  “So, sonny, did you come to pick up your grandpa?” he sniggers. The smell from his mouth is even more nauseating than the odour that came from behind the curtain after Ibrahim had relieved himself.

  Mister Patel takes Madan’s hand; they bow their heads, stare at their toes, and say nothing. They have learned that silence sometimes minimizes the number of blows, although it was no guarantee where Ibrahim was concerned — if he lost something, he’d give everyone in the cell a good thrashing. The guards also beat them when they didn’t return the metal bowls fast enough after meals, or the toilet bucket overflowed. The fact that they are being set free together comes as a total surprise. Since the interrogation at the police station, neither of them has seen anyone except their fellow prisoners. At one point Madan heard from one of the guards that he was charged with raiding a shopkeeper who was a second cousin of the commissioner. Mister Patel told him that he had a shifty landlord who was also a distant relative of the commissioner. Several of their fellow prisoners had also fallen foul of one of the man’s relatives. But not Ibrahim: he’d murdered three men who he was certain had looked at his wife. And he was proud of what he’d done.

  “Has the little guy come to pick up his grandpa?” says the guard as he breathes into their faces. Then he turns the key and the gate opens with a creaking sound. “These days people do what they damn well please. It was different during the Raj. Back then you could tell the good guys from the bad guys, but now . . .” The stench from the man’s mouth is revolting.

  Madan wants to hold his nose, but he doesn’t take his hand out of Mister Patel’s. Slowly they walk toward the next door. He feels the urge to run.

  The guard opens the large wooden door.

  On the other side, they see cars on the street, and a bus honks its horn.

  “Don’t I get my money back?” Mister Patel holds up his hand.

  The guard gives him a stony look, accompanied by a blast of foul breath. “Did you fill out the form when you came in?”

  “No, I wasn’t given a form. They took away all my money.”

  “Write a letter to the director. It’s not my department.”

  Madan, who arrived and is leaving clad in nothing but a pair of torn shorts, tugs gently at Mister Patel’s hand. Mister Patel continues to protest, but when the guard pushes the heavy gate shut, they have to jump back in order to avoid being hit.

  THEY WALK SIDE by side, still holding each other’s hand. After all that time in a small, dark space, they are alarmed by the hustle and bustle of traffic and the peop
le walking in all directions. They turn a corner and enter a quieter neighbourhood, with the occasional small shop displaying its merchandise out front. On the sidewalk, next to a chair under an umbrella, stands a cart overflowing with apples. Madan sees it from a distance, but Mister Patel does not notice until they are quite close. Mister Patel’s hand tightens around Madan’s, as if he is reading his thoughts, and he doesn’t relax his grip until they’ve turned the corner.

  The streets are broader now and there is more traffic. Madan recognizes the neighbourhood. It’s an area where he and Abbas often begged. And suddenly he misses his friend more than he did during all those months in the cell. Unconsciously he begins to limp. “Does it hurt, my boy?” Mister Patel points to Madan’s leg. Madan shakes his head and quickly adjusts his pace. He knows he must go back to the harbour to see if the body is still there. He owes it to his friend. But not today. Mister Patel walks into a narrow alleyway and stops in front of a low gate. All around them there are dark stairways. He lets go of Madan’s hand for the first time.

  They walk to the end of the alleyway and climb a narrow flight of stairs. Some of the steps are missing, and the handrail has also disappeared. Madan is glad that it’s dark here. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes and burned his bare torso. They walk along a rickety gallery, and beneath them Madan sees that there are courtyards in between the housing blocks, where craftsmen have their workplaces. The smell of paint rises from below. Mister Patel knocks at a door with a carpet out front. They hear thumping noises coming from inside, like objects being shifted, and then a heavy-set man opens the door.