Free Waiting for the Monsoon by Threes Anna Page A

Ajay Karapiet didn’t like the biscuits. They stuck to her dentures.
    â€œDid you get that piece of brocade back?” the wife of Nikhil Nair asked her friend.
    Again the wife of Ajay Karapiet heaved a sigh. “What’s left of it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI have a feeling that someone’s cut off a piece.”
    â€œI have the very same feeling. I’m positive I gave him five metres of that expensive pink Chinese silk. Yesterday I had the girl measure it, and she says it’s only four and a half metres.”
    â€œAnd I’m missing a metre.”
    â€œAre you positive?”
    The wife of Ajay Karapiet nodded.
    â€œIf the new tailor is just as big a cheat as Sanat was, then . . .”
    â€œDarzi Sanat was honest. It’s that servant of his who’s a cheat.”
    â€œThe new darzi  . . . where is he going to work?”
    â€œIn Sanat’s workplace, of course.”
    â€œThe workplace belongs to a bookbinder now.”
    â€œThat’s not possible.”
    â€œWhat will you do with the cinemas when your husband dies?”
    The wife of Ajay Karapiet had once confided to the wife of Nikhil Nair that she hated films but that her husband must never know. She lowered her eyes, ignoring the question. “Perhaps an exception can be made, so that he can work at the club.”
    â€œOf course! In the shed next to the tennis court. I’ll call the secretary right away.” She picked up the receiver. “When does he arrive?”
    â€œI already told you.”
    â€œNo, you didn’t.”
    â€œHe’s on his way.”
    ~~~
    CHARLOTTE WAS WEARING a low-cut evening gown made of pale green silk and had a gold tiara in her hair. As she descended the staircase, her train glided over the carefully polished steps. Her earrings caught the light from the candles in the chandelier. Classical music wafted in from the salon. She was beautifully made up, and her scarlet lips glistened. At each step she took, the music from the salon swelled. In the hall there were servants in livery. Each of them held a tray bearing a pair of evening shoes. Her bare feet, with their scarlet toenails, were visible beneath the hem of her gown. Each servant had a different pair of shoes on his tray: there were various colours and styles, but all of them had very high heels. Charlotte sat down on a chair on a low platform and extended her foot. The first servant knelt before her and put the shoe on her foot. It was too small. Then the next servant knelt down: he had exquisite golden mules on his tray. But they didn’t fit her either. Another servant knelt down. This one held out a pair of shoes with glass heels. Her foot slipped effortlessly into the shoe.
    â€œHow dare you!” bellowed a voice from above.
    Charlotte looked up at her father, who stood at the top of the stairs in his uniform. Before she could say a word, the general called out, “Slut! You have sullied the reputation of the family!”
    Charlotte awoke with a start from her dream, bathed in perspiration and tangled in the sheet. She freed herself and got out of bed. Going into the bathroom, she held her wrists under the faucet. The water streamed with force over her hands. Her nails were still scarlet. She looked into the mirror and saw her sweaty, sleep-worn features. She splashed water over her face and dried herself off. Walking across to the nursery in her bare feet, she stopped to listen. In the distance, crickets were chirping, but otherwise all was quiet. She went back to her room and lay down under the mosquito net. Above her head, the fan was still whirring. She lay still, with her eyes open. Very slowly a tear formed, rolled down her cheek, and dropped onto her pillow. It was absorbed by the pillowcase, which had already survived a thousand washings.
1946 Bombay ~~~
    ALL AROUND HER , people are hugging and kissing one another, shedding tears of joy or sadness. Her