Free Monsoon Memories by Renita D'Silva

she had not done this before, given in to impulse.
    But, like pulling a scab off a healing wound, she scrolled back to Deepak’s name, the three succinct lines describing who her brother was now—her big brother who could do no wrong, whom she used to follow everywhere like Mary’s little lamb from the nursery rhyme; the brother she used to tease about his Buddha-belly, sticking out from atop stick legs: a shaved brown coconut; the brother who’d begged her to befriend his crushes and who, when she introduced them to him, hid behind a shy smile and endearing muteness; the brother who’d sneaked up behind her and Anita, snatched the note: ‘Got you…’ His eyes devouring its contents, his face going still, a faint imprint of his earlier smile visible—just…
    The brother with whom she had, that gloomy monsoon evening eleven years ago... Don’t think about that.
    She tried to read between those three lines, picture him, swinging his briefcase—did he carry one?—as he walked briskly home. To his family. Don’t go there. To his wife: diminutive Preeti, pretty like her name. To his daughter…
    A shaft of pain.
    Blindly, she clicked on the X to close Internet Explorer, clicked on the Tanner document shortcut. Load, please load. It sprang up on the screen with a little ping like a sigh and Shirin immersed herself in it.
    She was eating a sandwich at her desk while browsing through her email when she heard Madhu’s voice—clear as the bell heralding devotees to the temple on the banks of the Varuna River—just above her right shoulder, punctuated with laughter: ‘I know you want a cricket team, Shirin, but let’s see how you feel after you have moaned and groaned and given birth to one!’
    And in a flash, she was twenty-five years younger, sitting cross-legged on the front stoop, feeling the gentle breeze rustle the coconut-tree fronds and caress her face...
    It was a hot muggy day in May, during the summer holidays. Shirin had stormed in after playing cricket with the neighbourhood kids, her clothes muddy, hair a tangled mess.
    ‘What’s cooking, Madhu? I could smell it in the fields and had to come home, even though we were winning...’
    Madhu turned from the stove, glanced at Shirin and launched into a tirade. ‘Look at the state of you! What will your mother say if she sees you like this? You are not a little girl anymore. How can you walk around with your hair loose and your clothes... Pah! Your clothes! Is that a tear in your salwar?’
    ‘It was already there.’ Shirin didn’t want Madhu dwelling too deeply on her ripped clothes. ‘I’m hungry.’
    Madhu melted, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m frying sweet-potato chips. After you’ve washed and changed you can have some. Where are Anita and Deepak?’
    ‘Still playing. I was drawn home by this wonderful smell. I told you before, but you weren’t listening...’
    Madhu laughed, the last of her frown disappearing as she made to swat at Shirin with the slotted spoon she was using to scoop up the chips. Shirin ducked and ran to the bathroom, but not before she had nicked a handful of chips, Madhu yelling, ‘Your hands are dirty. Wait till you’ve washed...’ at her retreating back.
    Afterwards, with the sweet potato warm in her full stomach, Shirin closed her eyes as Madhu’s gentle fingers massaged coconut oil into her hair and tenderly undid the knots.
    ‘Madhu,’ she asked, ‘did you ever want children?’
    Madhu’s hands stopped working Shirin’s hair. Her voice when it came was soft. ‘You, Deepak and Anita are like my children.’
    ‘I know,’ Shirin said, impatiently. ‘But did you not want any of your own?’
    ‘I had a baby once...’
    Shirin was intrigued. She had never given a thought to Madhu’s past before she came to live with them. She turned to look at Madhu. Madhu hated Shirin moving her head while she was combing her hair. It was one of the rules Shirin never broke as she got a thump