Waiting for the Monsoon (5 page)

“Don't leave me alone.”

“I have to fetch someone. A woman. I don't know what to do.”

Elizabeth's face is twisted in pain. William runs out of the room, down the steps, across the courtyard, out the gate, and into the street. He sees men in long coats. Nowhere does he see a woman. He runs down another street, he peers into tunnels and alleyways. Wherever he looks, he sees nothing but men. He runs back to the house. In the courtyard he knocks on the owner's door. The man with the long red beard opens the door. He drags the man up the stairs by his arm. Elizabeth is lying in bed, moaning softly. In desperation William points to her distended belly.

THE WOMAN IS
wearing a long black dress and a headscarf. After sending William out of the room, she bends over Elizabeth. The owner brings buckets of hot water up the stairs. William sets them down inside the room but is immediately sent away again. He sits down at the top of the stairs. He hears Elizabeth's weak cries.

The clock strikes nine. The woman comes out of the room. Her hands are covered in blood. William races in. Elizabeth is lying on the bed, deathly quiet, in a pool of blood. On her belly lies a baby covered in blood, still attached to the umbilical cord. His eyes go not to the child, but to the woman with whom he hoped to grow old, the woman he had intended to worship for the rest of his life. He knows at once. It is over. She has left him. He walks out of the room, and behind him he hears the baby's first cries.

CHARLOTTE BRIDGWATER STARES
in amazement at her arms.

“Auntie Ilse! Look! I have pimples all over my arms!”

“That's gooseflesh,” says Auntie Ilse. “It's because you're cold.”

Charlotte runs her hand over the pimples. She's never been this cold before. But once, when she was in the kitchen with Sita, she put her hands on a block of ice, so that it gradually turned to water.

“Go back to the cabin, put on two shirts and two pairs of underpants on top of each other,” orders Auntie Ilse, who's wearing a woollen sweater and a tartan skirt.

Charlotte tries to push the pimples back into her skin.

“Stop playing with yourself and put on your scarf. I didn't give it to you for nothing.”

The girl walks down the deck with Khushi, who is also wearing a scarf around her neck. She sees Ganesh standing at the door to the dining room.

“I have gooseflesh.” She proudly shows him her arm.

“You see? I was right. When you get to England, you'll see that everyone's wearing a scarf.”

“You're not.”

“I was born in the snow. I don't mind the cold.”

“Is it always cold in England?”

“No, only in spring, autumn, and winter. In the summer it slowly starts to warm up, and sometimes people even go around without a coat.”

“I don't have a coat.”

“Didn't your mother pack a coat in your suitcase?”

“I guess she forgot.”

“How about a sweater?”

Charlotte shook her head.

“Do you want to borrow one of mine?”

CHARLOTTE SKIPS AROUND
in a thick green woollen sweater — on her, a short skirt. Ganesh's grandmother spent a good many hours working on it. The sleeves are rolled up and he has tied a string around her waist. Ganesh is proud of the result. Charlotte looks like his little sister. When would he see her again? Would he ever see her again? On board not many people talk to him. Most of the passengers are British couples and military men heading home on leave. They play bridge and midget golf, or drink whisky at the bar, none of them things he's used to doing to pass the time.

“What shall we play?” Charlotte puts her doll on a chair and looks at him.

“Do you know blow-blow-I'll-catch-you?”

“Is it scary?”

“Sometimes. If you play it at night, when there's no moon.”

Ganesh spreads his arms as far as he can and bends over, while holding his head up. “Choose a wind.”

“A wind?”

“Yes, a hard wind or sharp wind, fat wind, soft wind, warm wind, cold wind, tickle wind, swivel wind, morning wind, or winter wind.”

Charlotte looks at him open-mouthed. “Do you know that many different winds?”

“In the mountains we have lots more winds. Feather wind, sand wind, snow wind, race wind, quiet wind, bride's wind, summer wind, dive wind, clap wind, fall wind, push wind, north, west, east, and south wind, and of course the dream wind. There are lots more, but those are the most important ones. First you choose a wind and make it blow. The other person has to guess which wind it is. If you guess right, you have to grab the wind and make a new wind blow. Do you get it?”

Charlotte nods. “I'll go first.” She spreads her arms wide, bends from the waist, narrows her eyes to slits, and whooshes around the deck.

“Hard wind?” Ganesh shouts.

She goes on blowing.

“Sharp wind? Race wind? Whirlwind?” Ganesh shouts the names of all the winds he knows, but the little girl isn't satisfied with any of them.

“No, no,” she shrieks.

“Night wind . . . dry wind . . . fleece wind . . . devil's wind . . . sun wind . . . ?” Ganesh calls out the names of more and more winds.

“It's a really easy one.”

“Top wind?”

She shakes her head.

“Finger wind . . . sulphur wind!”

She runs around him in circles, she laughs, arms wide open, her head bowed. “Wrong, wrong, all of them wrong. And all of them right.”

“That's impossible.”

“It's the wind of India,” she crows, “the wind that blows around our house just before the monsoon!” She hurtles past. “Now that you know the answer, you have to catch me.”

Ganesh runs after her, arms wide apart and head low, his steps becoming longer and faster than hers. With a sweep of his arm, he lifts her from the ground and swings her around and around. They're going faster and faster. And laughing harder and harder.

There is a hair-raising scream, and two hands pull her down. Charlotte lands on the deck with a smack. She cries out in pain. Auntie Ilse grabs her hand and jerks her to her feet.

“Help! HELP!”

People come running from all directions, shouting questions.

“He, he . . .” Auntie Ilse points to Ganesh. “He tried to steal my child!”

Two men grab him by the shoulders, drag him backwards, and push him against the wall. A tall man with a moustache punches him in the stomach. Ganesh doubles over. A man wearing brown boots gives him a kick.

Auntie Ilse pulls the sweater over Charlotte's head and throws it over the railing.

A shower of blows rains down on Ganesh, mercilessly, without stopping. “Brown rat, you'll pay for this.” He doesn't feel the blows, he doesn't feel anything. All he hears is Charlotte crying.

THE MAHARAJA'S SEVEN
daughters are gathered together in the silver room on the first floor. They are all attired in costly saris and jewels. Chutki, the youngest daughter, is bothered by the weight of the gold chains around her neck, wrists, and ankles, and the nose ornament, which her eldest sister had insisted upon, is uncomfortable. The girls peek through the openings in the heavy gold brocade drapes. Beneath the window, four-year-old Chutki sees her father's snorting elephants. They are decked out in jewels and expensive draperies, but they don't seem to mind. Seated on their backs are her uncles and other important men attired in glittering robes. All around the square in front of the palace where they live, musicians with gold turbans and large copper horns are stationed a metre apart. One of her sisters points to the left, where the village chiefs of their district are assembled on the stairs. And on the right the Royal Guard stands in readiness, wearing full dress and mounted on her father's jet black horses. Directly in front of her she sees the long driveway flanked by men in red britches. They stand perfectly still, each holding a shield in his hand. The road itself is covered with carpets, and in front of the great gate there are gold bowls filled with burning incense. The heavy scent penetrates the room.

Everyone is awaiting the arrival of Victor Alexander John Hope, the second marquess of Linlithgow and viceroy of India. In an hour Chutki, her sisters, and her mother, the maharani, are to have tea with the wife of the viceroy and her three daughters. Her father, Maharaja Man Singh, a great admirer of hunting and Sherlock Holmes novels, does not want his daughters involved in matters of state, only his sons. Chutki is jealous of her four brothers, who are wearing their official outfits, with new turbans. Her eldest brother, who is twelve, even has a sabre on his belt. The boys have already gone hunting and have seen their father shoot a tiger. Downstairs in the pink marble hall, next to the room where the reception will take place, her father's passion for hunting is clearly visible. The walls are covered with the stuffed heads of bisons, lions, tigers, and deer. And above the fireplace hangs the head of an elephant; the tusks are inlaid with gold, and on the forehead of the elephant there's a medallion with a photo of her great-grandfather encircled by diamonds.

Outside, the horns resound. Through the opening between the curtains she sees a long line of large black motor cars, rolling slowly across the carpets in the direction of the Great Gate. The roll of drums drowns out the horns. One of the elephants trumpets.

In the corridor she hears her father's dry cough. Chutki knows that cough well: she has it, too. As well as the permanent sore throat and the difficulty swallowing. No one understands why Chutki and the maharaja have chronic laryngitis while the other members of the family do not. They all live in the same palace and their food comes from the same kitchen.

For weeks now everyone in the palace has been especially busy. Extra palm trees have been planted near the Great Gate, and around the temple there are three new marble fountains in honour of Chutki's grandfather. Outside, cars are stopping. Chutki hears the large drum being struck and the sound of the trumpet, which means that her father has appeared on the steps. And when she hears the double horn, she knows that the viceroy is about to get out of his car. Chutki takes a sip of water, swallowing with difficulty. Her throat hurts. The servants know that she must always have a glass of water within reach; even on a day like this, they have not forgotten. Chutki watches. She doesn't enjoy talking. Talking hurts.

THE VICEROY AND
the maharaja are seated opposite one another at the long table. It is not the first meeting between the two men. They were officially introduced upon the viceroy's arrival in India and met again at his inauguration in April. Now, as then, the maharaja is ill. For the fifth time, his hand unconsciously goes to his swollen throat and he coughs: a dry, raw sound.

“I know a very good physician,” says the viceroy.

The maharaja nods, slightly taken aback by such a personal remark.

“A young man from Manchester,” the viceroy continues. “He's made throat problems his specialty.”

The maharaja coughs again; the servant standing behind him immediately pours cold water into his glass. He takes a sip and has to swallow several times. Never before has a viceroy adopted such a personal tone. The maharaja dislikes talking about his health, especially to an Englishman. “Please do not be concerned,” he says in a hoarse voice. “It's just a slight irritation. I believe it's what you call ‘a frog in the throat.'” He puts his glass down on the silver plate with slightly more force than necessary. It is clear that the subject is closed. “Are you fond of hunting?”

The viceroy's eyes take on a gleam. “I've been told that you have the largest continuous hunting ground in all of India.”

The maharaja smiles deprecatingly. “I believe there are some four thousand tigers in my area.”

The viceroy emits a good-natured grunt of approval. “Do you shoot elephants, too?”

“Only when they attack one of the villages.”

“Like that elephant in the hall?”

“That one didn't die during the hunt. It was my grandfather's favourite elephant.” The husky voice of the maharaja becomes still softer. “That's the elephant he rode when he went hunting. Nowadays I use horses. Elephants make it difficult to take immediate action. Hunting is speed, don't you agree?” He begins to cough.

The servant quickly exchanges his glass for one containing a brown liquid. The maharaja takes a sip and swallows with difficulty, but his fit of coughing does not abate. The viceroy is concerned and looks around him. The servants, a number of whom are standing against the wall, look straight ahead, except for the man in the green turban, who is positioned behind and to one side of the maharaja. Now the servant steps forward and hands the maharaja something from a small box, which he deposits behind a back tooth. Slowly the coughing subsides. The maharaja is wheezing and his eyes are moist.

“Shall I ask the throat specialist to drop by sometime?”

They hear screams from outside. An elephant trumpets. The man in the green turban runs to the window and then hurries back to the maharaja. He whispers something in his ear. Maharaja Man Singh stops coughing. After a quick glance to identify the source of the shrieks, he looks at the viceroy. Then he leans toward the man in the green turban and says something in a language the viceroy does not understand. The maharaja begins to cough again. As he struggles to suppress the coughing, he wheezes, “Would you like to shoot an elephant?”

The viceroy swallows. “An elephant?”

The maharaja motions toward the window, which is immediately thrown open. The sound of screaming enters the hall. From all directions men rush in, some of them carrying guns. The disciplined order that reigned supreme only a short time ago has disappeared, and servants are running and calling out. Still coughing, the maharaja motions to the viceroy to come outside with him. In the square in front of the palace an elephant is lashing about with his head and trunk. He is surrounded by men with sticks and ropes. The chair on his back has slipped to one side and a man in a long purple coat is trying desperately to hang on to one side as the elephant lithely flings his trunk backwards. Maharaja Man Singh is handed a spanking new hunting rifle, which he immediately passes on to the dumbfounded viceroy.