Free Waiting for the Monsoon by Threes Anna

were old-fashioned and unpopular, the white was not as creamy as it should be, and over the years the porcelain seemed to have lost its transparency. Charlotte could not have said exactly what was going through her mind when she took the topmost plate from the pile and fixed the dealer with a piercing look. She had placed the plate casually on her outstretched hand, as if it wouldn’t bother her if it fell and broke. “My good man,” she had said, “you obviously know very little about valuable china services.” He had laughed scornfully. Still balancing the plate on her open palm, she had delivered a brief lecture on the qualities of the costly ceramic. She had explained how it was possible to make the material hard and translucent at the same time, that bone ash was added to the clay of the original Wedgwood to make it even stronger, that it was odourless and tasteless, that even after lying at the bottom of the sea for a century it had barely discoloured, and that if he was not prepared to make her a reasonable offer, he could leave the house immediately, since her situation was not as hopeless as he seemed to think. And still staring him straight in the eye, she had spun the plate in her hand. The buyer could not take his eyes off the plate, which began to twirl faster and faster. Then Charlotte tilted her hand and it described a graceful arc in the direction of the floor. But before it could hit the ground, the buyer had taken a dive toward the plate and managed to catch it.
    â€œWedgwood doesn’t break that easily,” Charlotte said. Now she was the one laughing.
    He had hurt his knee when he dived for the plate. But it was worth it. He knew that he could charge a lot more for a complete service than for one that was missing a plate.
    â€œWell?” Charlotte took the plate from his hands and placed it carefully on the stack. “You know my price.”
    The man walked back over to the dresser, rubbing his knee. He picked up the plate again, held it up to the light, and squinted.
    Was it his lank hair, his neat suit, his taut lower lip? Charlotte couldn’t say, but she had never driven such a hard bargain. In the end he paid her three times his original offer. Charlotte knew that he already had a buyer, and probably in Rampur. She just hoped it wasn’t one of the ladies from the Tuesday-morning club.
    ~~~
    THE AIR CONDITIONER hummed. The wife of Nikhil Nair, the district director of the Eastern Indian Mining Company, and the wife of Ajay Karapiet, whose husband owned a hotel and two cinemas, were having tea in Nikhil Nair’s beautifully decorated sitting room.
    â€œOne-third Assam, two-thirds Darjeeling,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair.
    â€œI should have guessed! You always have such delicious mixes,” squeaked the wife of Ajay Karapiet, who took much more milk in her tea than the wife of Nikhil Nair.
    â€œThat manicure doctor with the plastic hand . . . has he contacted you about the tailor?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you?”
    â€œYou never tell me anything.”
    â€œI’m sure I told you.”
    â€œAre you suggesting that I’m becoming forgetful?” snapped the wife of Nikhil Nair.
    â€œHe’s agreed to come.”
    â€œWhen?”
    The wife of Ajay Karapiet sighed. “I don’t know.”
    â€œWhy don’t you know?”
    â€œBecause the nail doctor didn’t know.”
    â€œHe can ask, can’t he?”
    â€œHe says the tailor is on his way.”
    â€œWhy isn’t he here yet?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou never know anything.”
    â€œWell, I know that he’s coming, don’t I?”
    The wife of Nikhil Nair took a bite of her biscuit. The crumbs fell onto her lap. She was crazy about the biscuits that her cook baked for her every other day. She’d eat at least two whenever she got the chance — and that was reflected in her figure.
    The wife of