by Threes Anna
Its ninth stroke. No need to be afraid, it says, you’re almost at the stairs, the way down, the steps your mother descended in her pale green dress, with the diadem in her hair.
Its tenth stroke. The hour when the night with Madan began, the night that made her forget all the lonely nights she’d spent in this huge house. The dress he made for her embraces her.
It strikes eleven. The searing heat presses against her, ushers her into its hell, its heaven. Her legs give way. Her hands rest on the floor. Charlotte hears the large standing clock strike twelve.
ISSY PUSHES THE wheelchair up the path as fast as she can. She should never have gone that far. It had been hard enough to get her grumbling grandfather down all those stairs. What possessed her to walk all the way down the hill as well?
“Faster, faster!” the general shouts.
Huffing and puffing, Issy manoeuvres the wheelchair up the hill between the rows of buckets. She keeps thinking about the electric wire she managed to connect to her mobile phone and then insert into the socket in the salon.
“Faster, faster,” yells the general, clapping his hands.
Suddenly Hema appears between two fire engines. “General! Where were you?” He takes over pushing the wheelchair, but between the sand and the steep path, the going is much tougher than he expected. It has been years since he last went for a walk with the general. “Miss Isabella, all of a sudden you just disappeared!” he calls out. He is relieved, since he keeps thinking about the beedi he smoked on the sly behind the house.
“Faster! Faster! Get closer!” the general shouts. “This is the biggest fire I’ve ever seen!”
Issy stares in amazement at her grandfather as he shouts enthusiastically, and resolves never to tell anyone about the leather straps that confined him to his bed or the plug she stuck into the wall outlet.
~~~
MADAN IS SITTING beside his bicycle on the outskirts of the city. He cannot bring himself to leave Rampur, to leave her. At first he doesn’t believe that the flames are real. He thinks that he’s dreaming and that she is fired by the same passion as he is. Until suddenly the smoke appears: confused wisps reaching for the sky. Her house, it’s her house! He jumps on his bicycle and races back into the city.
~~~
PARVAT HEARS THE clock on the landing strike twelve. He sees the smoke thicken through the glass window in his gas mask. The flashlight isn’t strong enough to guide him. He enters the last room he has to check. He hasn’t found anyone, yet the old man is always upstairs in his room. He knows that much from his mother. He cannot stay here any longer. The seat of the fire can travel faster than he can. His hands sweep across the last bed. It’s empty except for the sheets. Then he feels something under the pillow. He pulls it out. It’s a framed photo. He’s about to toss it back onto the bed, but a sudden burst of orange light allows him to see it better. Although he has never seen it before, he immediately recognizes himself. It was taken long ago. He is still a baby, and he’s being cradled in the arms of Aunt Charlotte, who is kissing him. A strange sensation shoots through his body. As if a tangled knot has suddenly come apart and the ends of the rope are lashing his body. Were the rumours he has heard true? He glances at the photo again. He wishes he hadn’t found it. He doesn’t want to know. He must forget what he saw. Parvat is aware that the clock has stopped chiming. He has to get out. He feels the fire coming closer. He throws the photo back on the bed and turns in the direction of the door, which he can no longer see. Feeling his way, he finds the door opening. He knows the stairs are to the right. He’s familiar with the house, from all the visits to Aunt Charlotte when he was a child. His gloved hand glides along the balustrade. He doesn’t have a second to lose.
As he is about to run down the stairs, his feet hit something. He recognizes the feeling: there is a body on the floor. He knows it wasn’t there before. He quickly takes hold of the body, feeling for the head and the legs, and throws the fire blanket over it, smothering the flames. Above his head, the wood creaks. He hears and feels parts of the house crashing down around him. In one flowing movement, he picks up the body, swings it over his shoulder, and then staggers down the stairs. He has to get out. Away from the flames, away from the photo. He pushes against the heavy front door, but it won’t budge. Behind him he hears the gigantic chandelier fall onto the once-gleaming white marble floor. He bangs on the door. He wants to shout, but with the gas mask on, he’s the only one who can hear his call for help. Suddenly he looks down and sees the long white fingers hanging next to his leg: her thumb is long and her middle finger very short, just like his. He sees that her fingers are moving. Groping and searching. He gives the door a kick. OPEN THE DOOR! LET US OUT!
MADAN HEARS HER voice. Come back! Come and get me! Come back! He pedals up the hill as fast as he can, up the path flanked by shattered bowls and basins, past the silent fire engines. He throws his bicycle to the ground, heedless of his sewing machine on the carrier. He sees the firemen staring helplessly at the immense sea of fire, axes idle in their hands. Some of them are sitting despondently on the rolled-out carpet. He sees the two empty buckets on the columns next to the stairs. He sees the old man in his wheelchair, clapping his hands and shouting enthusiastic cries of encouragement, while an old firefighter with rows of medals on his chest looks at him with compassion. The handyman is comforting the sparsely clad niece, who is sobbing uncontrollably. Come! Her voice is despairing. Come and get me! He doesn’t understand why no one is doing anything. Why are they standing there, watching? They have to go in. She’s still in there! They have to save her. He sees portions of the balcony fall to the ground, blocking the front door.
Parvat wades through the flames that clutch at him, searching for the small side door. He advances through the burning debris, cradling her in his strong arms as tenderly as she held him in the photo. Tongues of fire lick hungrily at his legs. She must not die. Not now, not here, not in his arms. Then, surrounded by flames, he sees a figure approaching. He has no protective clothing. No mask. What kind of idiot has the courage to brave this sea of flames?
Madan wants to move forward, but it’s impossible. The merciless flames force him back. He wants to fight, he feels no fear, but the scorching flames bar the way. The wall of fire is impenetrable. He no longer hears her voice, but he’s certain that he did hear her, and that she called out to him.
Charlotte! he calls, without realizing that this is the first time he has spoken her name. Charlotte, where are you?
They emerge from the devastating curtain of flames. He doesn’t recognize them. All he sees is a vague smudge, which seems to be moving, and the quivering contours of what might be a body.
They stagger outside. Away from the fire. Away from the house. Away from that raging hell. Parvat pushes Charlotte’s limp body into Madan’s arms and pulls off his mask. He sees how the man takes the woman in his arms. Embraces her. Kisses her. Embarrassed, the tall fireman watches the passionate caresses.
It’s dark inside the wardrobe, the door won’t open, even when I push, I smell the sweet scent of Mother’s dresses, my hand brushes the soft velvet, I’m afraid, I know for sure they’ve forgotten me.
Madan’s legs give way. The strength he had is gone. Charlotte’s head sinks onto his lap. He strokes her face, her straight nose, her red lips, her long hair. He is crying. But it’s not his tears that are falling on her face.
I hear the raindrops bouncing off the hood of the pram, my legs are bare, and my arms are uncovered, I don’t know where they are, I’m outside, I’m alone, the rain is lashing me harder and harder, it hurts, I can’t stop crying.
Above them, the sky breaks open. The drops plunge into the flames with a hissing sound. They’re not afraid: in their millions they simply let go, allow themselves to fall, more and more of them, faster and faster. The rain rinses the soot from her face, and her translucent skin glows.
The
tears carry me along, like a churning river, I am dragged into the jungle, I hear the rustling of the trees, I see the blood streaming down the trunks, I feel the fear of the silent column that plods along. Where are they heading? Where did they come from?
He closes his eyes and remembers Charlotte bending over him. Again he smells her scent. Again he hears the words she whispered then: Stay alive! She runs her fingers through his hair. He remembers the pain in his throat. She tells him that it’s going to be all right. She kisses him. He opens his eyes and blinks. Through a haze, he sees that she is smiling at him.
We’re dancing, our feet no longer touch the ground, our bodies touch only each other, we have no need for words, we have said everything, we have felt everything. The loneliness, the silence, and the fears have disappeared.
She looks at him, eyes wide open. Then her head falls to one side. A crashing bolt of lightning illuminates her broken smile. Above the hill, the thunder rumbles. The scent of jasmine rises.
Acknowledgements
THE FIRST PERSON I want to thank is Barbara Hershey, for the question that she asked me on the last day of filming The Bird Can’t Fly and that ultimately led to this novel. I am also grateful to Nameeta Premkumar Nair, and to her family, friends, and assistants in Bombay, Chennai, Coonoor, New Delhi, and Shimla. During my investigative travels across India, they helped me find the right people and the right situations. My special thanks goes to Gopinder Vatsayayen in the foothills of the Himalayas, and Harmesh Rangaiah and his wife Rakhi in the hills of Coonoor, who arranged meetings that were decisive in determining the direction of this story. During my research I spoke with a maharaja, veteran soldiers, firemen, dozens of tailors, an elderly butler, retired servants, former nursemaids, street children, journalists, writers, and historians, as well as British citizens — and their descendents — who remained in India after independence was declared in 1947. I also visited former British clubs, palaces, orphanages, hospitals, workplaces, and a number of colonial villas. Nonetheless, all the characters and situations in this book are fictional: together they form a mosaic made up of the thousands of tiny pieces, which I discovered along the way.
I am also grateful for the help and hospitality of the former Dutch consul in Mumbai, Hans Ramaker, and journalist Rafique Baghdadi, who showed me what Bombay was like during the fifties.
In the Netherlands, my thanks go to Major General Germ Keuning and his network for providing the proper military terminology; Dick Plukker, who advised me on the correct Hindu terms; and Bargerhof Farm for the loan of its colourful pots and pans. My gratitude also goes to my four critical readers: Moniek Kramer, Helga Pranger, and my brothers Flip and Marc Schreurs — the latter also served as impromptu editor — as well as Linda Visser and Marleen Schoonderwoerd, who dotted the last “i”s and crossed the last “t”s. I thank my publisher Nelleke Geel, because she is different from all the other publishers in the Netherlands and a source of inspiration. But above all I thank my beloved, Adriaan Krabbendam, who read this book in serial form every day after dinner, encouraged me, and has been my editor for years.
About the Author
THREES ANNA is a writer and director of film and theatre. She is the author of five critically acclaimed novels, and her debut film, The Bird Can’t Fly, premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival. She is currently working on the film adaptation of her novel The Silent City. She lives in the Netherlands.
About the Translator
BARBARA POTTER FASTING is an American translator specializing in fiction and literary nonfiction. Her previous translations include the novel Unknown Destination by Maya Rasker and Disturbances of the Mind by Douwe Draaisma. She lives in the Netherlands.
Glossary
aloo gobi — potato with cauliflower
ayah — native nursemaid
baksheesh — alms
beedi — thin cigarette filled with tobacco flake and wrapped in a tendu leaf tied with a string
bobajee — cook
brew — tea (British army usage)
burra-peg — liquor (usually whisky)
chai — tea
chai-wallah — tea seller
chapati — unleavened Indian flat bread
chota-sahib — junior sahib, son of the sahib
dal — collective term for lentil dishes
darzi — tailor
dhobi — man who does the laundry
Diwali — Indian feast of light
Holi — Hindu spring festival, during which people throw coloured powder and coloured water over each other
India zindabad! — Long live India!
kurta — long shirt worn by men
longhi — piece of material which men tie around their waist, often ankle-length; sometimes pulled up between the legs and tucked into the back collar
maharaja — title of inland ruler
maharani — wife of the maharaja
mali — gardener
masalchee — kitchen help, dishwasher
mehtar / mehtarani — male / female sweeper
memsahib — respectful form of address for a woman
namastÈ — customary greeting (I bow before you)
paneer — Indian cheese, similar to cottage cheese
pudja — Hindu ritual performed on various occasions, to pray to or show respect for God, gods, and the guru
punkah-wallah — man who operates the punkah (fan made of cloth or palm leaves) by constantly pulling on a rope
Raj — British rule over India
sahib — term of address for a European in India
salwar kameez — traditional dress for women and men in South Asia; the salwar resembles pyjama pants, and the kameez is a tunic or long shirt
sarkar — term of address for an authority or sovereign
swaddy — soldier (British military)
swagger stick — cane
topi — small white cap
viceroy — Governor General, head of the British colonial government in India
zenana — separate part of a house reserved for the women of the household
Questions for Discussion
What similarities and differences do you see between Charlotte and Madan? Between Charlotte and Victor?
In the opening lines of the novel Charlotte is compared to the electric lawnmower: “She was like the old Lloyds. For years it was the only electric lawnmower for miles around: the fact that it was still functioning was thanks to the brand and not to love.” How does the last statement apply to Charlotte’s life?
What does Madan gain from his friendship with Abbas?
When Victor announces that he plans to return to England Charlotte thinks, “He’ll make it to London, and without a hitch, too.” How true is Charlotte’s assessment of her father?
Describe the relationship between Madan and Mister Patel. Do you think Mister Patel felt obligated to take care of Madan? Why do you think he made the decision to leave Madan with Chandan Chandran?
What is Hema’s role in the book? How do other people react to him?
Why do you think Charlotte agrees to take Madan in? Do the ladies of the New Rampur Club influence her decision? Do they influence her in other ways?
Charlotte’s great-grandmother Elizabeth Elphinstone whispers, “The clock is the future,” as she crosses the Khyber Pass. What does the big grandfather clock symbolize for Charlotte in the past and present?
After giving birth, Charlotte tells Sita “From now on, this is your child.” Why do you think Sita agrees to take the baby?
Victor says to Charlotte, “A true Bridgwater doesn’t cry. Ever.” What impact does this statement have on Charlotte throughout her life?
In what ways does Peter’s war trauma impact his
marriage to Charlotte? Why do you think he keeps this trauma from Charlotte? Why can’t he move past it?
About the Publisher
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”
