Waiting for the Monsoon Read Online Free PDF Page A

and he wondered how she had become a member of a club for Indian ladies. There were almost no British citizens left in his country, which had shaken off the yoke of the Raj several decades ago. Her dress was just as unappealing as those of the other women, except that hers bore a Scottish tartan pattern while all the others had opted for a floral or botanical design. Clearly the late tailor was no great talent when it came to the design and fabrication of women’s clothing.
    â€œI know a very good tailor,” he said suddenly.
    It was a while before the message got through to the women, but then they began bombarding him with questions. Where did the man live? Was he expensive? Had he ever worked with Chinese silk before? Did he have more than one pattern? What was his family background? Did he have his own sewing machine? When could he start? etc.
    â€œI’ve never met him myself,” the nail specialist stammered.
    There was a collective sigh of disappointment.
    â€œBut my first cousin on my father’s side says he’s an absolute master.” The man looked at the group of women in their tent dresses. “He has several different patterns and apparently he’s not expensive. But . . .” Here he hesitated.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” the women wanted to know.
    â€œHe’ll only come if he really wants to.”
    â€œIf he wants to,” sneered the wife of Nikhil Nair.
    â€œHe’s . . . well . . . different from other darzis .”
    â€œLike the fashion designers in Paris,” cooed the wife of Adeeb Tata, who liked to remind the other ladies that she’d seen more of the world than they had.
    â€œYes, perhaps something like that,” the nail man said as he put the artificial hand back in its case.
    PANTING AND DAMP with perspiration, Charlotte parked the bicycle in the shed. The piercing rays of the sun streamed through the holes in the roof. She resolved to move the Lloyds and her bicycle into the music room as soon as the monsoon began. She seldom went in there now that the piano was gone. She shuffled off to the house, where the heat that had plagued her the entire morning was even more intense, and saw to her relief that Hema had closed the upper windows in the nursery. In the distance, the siren began to wail. And again her heart skipped a beat. She looked around to see if there was smoke anywhere, but the sky was clear and cloudless.
    Inside, the heat had not been tempered by the closed shutters, curtains, windows, and doors. Charlotte turned on a lamp, set the fan on “high,” and lay down on the sofa positioned beneath it. Her legs throbbed and her feet were swollen. She wished that Hema was there: he would have brought her a bucket of cold water. But the butler had gone to the town centre to shop, since she could no longer buy on credit in the neighbourhood stores. She looked at the sideboard filled with the Wedgwood china service, which had been a wedding present. A month ago, there had been a dealer prepared to buy it, but the price he quoted was ridiculously low. In the end he left with only the silver soup spoon, one of her parents’ wedding gifts.
    Charlotte rose from the sofa, trudged up the stairs to the bathroom, and filled the tub with a layer of water. She began to relax when her feet reached the cool water. She looked at her veined feet in the old cast iron tub. They bore clear traces of wear and tear. Her big toe toyed with the black string attached to the plug. She remembered that when Donald was little he insisted on pulling it out because he thought the string was some kind of animal. He was afraid of snakes and spiders and insects as well. It had been a long time since she’d heard from him. Her last letter, written at Christmastime, had elicited only a beautiful card with New Year’s greetings, but no news. Was he still having problems with his back? And did his wife still suffer from