Free The Monsoon Rain by Joya Victoria Page A

rolled down, the dust would clog your nostrils. And if the windows were up, it was hot and steamy. You could not win either way.
    The Ambassador, a car very much in vogue in India, made its way across the dusty roads, meandering in between cows, humans, cars, and chickens. Miranda sat in the back, enthralled by what she saw: the street hawkers, the rickshaws, the small roadside shops. She lapped it all up. So many people! The car could not go very fast as people and traffic clogged the roads. There was so much color, she mused. Everywhere she looked was color. No matter how poor the people were, still they wore colorful clothes and smiled.
    Dogs, cows, and people! Even the cows, considered sacred animals in India looked happy, sitting under whatever tree was there beside the dusty roadside and swatting flies lazily with their tails. Miranda noticed that many of the cows had vermillion marks on their heads. She made a mental note to ask her uncle about this.
    “We will be staying on in Calcutta for the next couple of days,” Tom said, turning around in his front seat. Miranda did not reply, she was busy soaking up her new experience. New country, new sky—it was all so different. The sky was so blue, so bright.
    The car stopped for a brief moment as a policeman directed traffic. He must be awfully tired, she mused. In no time at all, a few children had surrounded the car with their little hands outstretched.
    “Memsahib, memsahib!” they cried in unison. At the same time they were looking in wonder at the people inside the car. They looked different!
    So this was India, she kept thinking to herself, most intrigued and fascinated.
    The people were smiling, laughing. They did not have much, one could see that. But they had laughter in them. She noticed they spoke with their hands and their heads, nodding from side to side. People were cooking on the pavement, sleeping on the pavement, washing their clothes on the pavement. It was so hot that the pavement was radiating heat. It was as if the air itself was so thirsty it was crying out for water. How strange it all was! Never in her life could she have fathomed India to be like this.
    “Lord, they are cooking on the pavement!” Miranda said, appalled.
    “The people you see, dear girl,” said Uncle Tom as he turned around in his seat to address Miranda, “most of them have lost theirhomes in the partition of India. It is very sad as many had to flee from their place of birth overnight with only the clothes on their backs. All this happened in the name of religion.”
    “What do you mean religion?” Miranda was very curious.
    “When India was divided into India and Pakistan, the Muslims left for Pakistan, though not all, and Hindus, most of them, fled to India. It was decided by a handful of people to divide India. So Jinnah became the prime minister of Pakistan, and Nehru became the prime minister of India. Many rich and wealthy landowners lost all and came over and of course vice versa. So where we are based at the moment, Assam, is sandwiched in between East Pakistan and Burma. We fly over East Pakistan and in their airspace to reach home. It’s all rather complex,” he added, chewing on his pipe.
    Miranda was taking time to absorb all this information. What a complex country, and how sad for all these people. They must have had homes and places to live. To leave all and never to see their homes again—Miranda could not comprehend the complexity of the situation. They were approaching the hotel by this time, and as usual in India, so many people came out to help.
    She wondered if it was always like this.
    The hotel was a very modern hotel, set apart from the humdrum of the city. When the car turned into the hotel enclave the noise of the city was visibly dulled. What she needed was a cool bath and a nap. It was already late afternoon, so there was plenty of time before supper. She followed her aunt and uncle to the third floor, where they were in adjoining rooms.