Monsoon Memories (14 page)

‘I know...’ Reena whispered, helplessly. She reached out and took Murli’s arm, slick from the rain.

‘What am I doing here, Reena? Why am I dancing to the tunes of that old hag?’

‘You are saving your family,’ Reena said gently.

They were beside the swimming pool. The water, the same dark blue as the eyeliner Reena’s mum sometimes wore, danced a rippling tune, revelling in the rain. Murli stopped abruptly. ‘Look—that would save my entire village, just that water over there.’ He sniffed, turned to her, smiled weakly. ‘Look at your face. I have scared you! It’s okay, Reena. I am fine. It is just... so hard to be here, surrounded by luxury when I know my family is suffering...’

‘You don’t live in luxury! You are relegated to sleep in the little store room behind the kitchen with the cockroaches and rats and are at the mercy of Mrs. Gupta,’ Reena was indignant.

‘It’s five-star accommodation compared to a mud hut, Rinu. And stale biryani is much better than no food at all,’ Murli said softly. He took a deep breath and then, in a false bright voice, said, ‘Enough sad stories for one day. Did you know your aunt Anita arrived this morning? I helped carry her bags up.’

‘Oh! I forgot she was coming.’

How could she have forgotten?

That morning, she woke to busyness, the nightmare niggling at the back of her head. Her mother had already been up for hours, tidying, dusting, washing, getting the spare room ready.

When Reena arrived at school, Anupama accused her of copying her homework. Pandit Sir, the maths teacher, made her stand up in front of the whole class for half an hour because she was caught giggling. It was so unfair! Raji, who sat directly behind her, had cracked the joke. It hadn’t even been funny. She had giggled just to join in. Singh Ma’am, the biology teacher, sprung a surprise test on them, which Reena was sure she would fail, as her mind went blank and she couldn’t remember a thing. Amidst all this upheaval, Aunt Anita’s arrival clean escaped her mind.

‘She was wearing dark sunglasses. Sunglasses, when it’s raining! Occurred to me that she might have been crying...’ Murli looked questioningly at Reena.

Reena was tempted, sorely, to tell Murli about Aunt Anita’s possible divorce, if only to get his mind off his own problems. But she had promised to keep it a secret. ‘Oh, Murli, you know how stylish she is. Perhaps wearing sunglasses in the rain is the latest fashion trend,’ she made up on the spot. She was getting good at lying under pressure. But she needed to work on her excuses…

Thankfully, Murli seemed to be taken in. ‘You can never tell what these high-class people find fashionable,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘Ah, perhaps she’s acting in a movie. All Bollywood actresses wear sunglasses when they don’t want to be recognised.’

Reena nodded her agreement, pleased to see Murli animated again, almost back to his normal self.

‘She’s so pretty; I thought she was an actress the first time I saw her. It’s a short leap from modelling to acting, you know,’ Murli said knowledgeably, as though he was an expert on the subject. ‘So, you never know, we might be seeing her face plastered all over the city soon...’ He stopped suddenly, stared at Reena, ‘Maybe that’s why she’s here, for a shoot...’

‘I’ll find out, Murli,’ Reena whispered, as though she and Murli were colluding in a great secret.

Murli deposited Reena’s school bag in front of her door. ‘Please do. I should get her autograph for my daughter. She’ll be thrilled...’ Murli’s grin dimmed at the thought of his daughter.

‘Are you going to be okay?’ Reena asked tentatively.

Murli nodded vigorously. ‘I’ll be fine. I just wanted to chat to someone, is all... You cheered me up. You always do. I better sneak into the house before
she
finds out I haven’t even started on the chole.’

‘Thank you for carrying my bag, Murli, and for the umbrella.’

‘Oh, that! It’s nothing.’ He winked. ‘Maybe you can find out from your Aunt Anita about your other aunt?’

Murli had stumbled on Plan C?

‘You know. The missing one. The one from the picture,’ Murli continued

Her missing aunt. The girl in pigtails from her nightmare rose before Reena’s eyes. She closed them. She felt Murli’s cold fingers, wet from the rain, on her shoulder. ‘It’s okay. I’m sure there’s some simple explanation,’ he said gently.

‘Yes.’ She remembered the look on her dad’s face when she asked him how many siblings he had, the way Mai had gone still on the sofa. ‘I’m sure there is.’

‘Find out if your Aunt Anita is appearing in a movie. And tell me...’ Murli’s grin was his old one. Only the lines around his eyes spoke of his worry, his fear.

‘Your family is going to be fine, Murli. I’ll pray for them.’

His face softened. ‘God listens to children’s prayers, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Now I really must be going. You have fun with your film-star aunt.’ He flashed his yellow teeth in a smile and was gone.

The house smelt of frying spices and the promise of a feast. Reena found her mother and Aunt Anita on the balcony. They sat side by side on reclining cane chairs under a canopy of bed sheets which her mother had hung out to dry, sheltered from the rain that was whipping the gulmohars into a frenzy and turning the begonia beds to muddy slush.

‘I don’t know where it all went wrong, Preeti,’ Aunt Anita was saying. She looked as glamorous as ever. Her face, Reena was glad to note, even though she knew she was being silly, was not that of the monster from her nightmare. Her head was resting on a cushion. Her eyes were closed. Tears squeezed out from beneath the lids and ran down her ivory-complexioned, heart-shaped face.

Reena cleared her throat. ‘Hello, Aunty. Mum, I’m home’

Her mum and Aunt Anita hurriedly sat up, Aunt Anita furtively wiping her face.

‘Reena!’ Her aunt held her slender arms out for a hug. ‘My goodness, how you’ve grown!’

Aunt Anita smelt wonderful, as usual: fruity, almost edible. Being hugged by her was like entering a different, more exotic world.

‘I haven’t prepared your snack, Rinu,’ said Preeti, standing. ‘I’ll do it now. You stay here and chat to your aunt. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

Reena went to sit in the chair her mother had just vacated, catching a spray of water from the windswept branches of the jacaranda tree just beyond the balcony. She had a sudden vision of the cracked fields of Murli’s drought-ridden village, parched and crying out for rain.

Aunt Anita took a sip of her tea which was on the little table between them, and put on her sunglasses.

‘How was school, Reena?’

‘As usual, Aunty—boring.’

‘Boring?’ Anita giggled, and Reena was pleased that she had made her laugh. ‘I used to find it boring, too. I hated it, in fact.’

‘But Mai said you were very good at your studies.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I found it boring.’ She turned to look at Reena, and Reena found two miniatures of herself staring at her from Aunt Anita’s shades. The nightmare niggled again. ‘You must be very bright, too. After all, you are your father’s daughter!’

‘Was Dad very clever?’

‘He was—and extremely mischievous.’ Anita giggled again, remembering.

‘Mischievous? Dad?’

‘Deepak loved all creepy crawlies, the slimier the better. Once he caught a huge frog and put it on Sister Shanthi’s desk...’

‘Did he?’

‘Uh-huh. The terrified frog jumped everywhere, creating havoc. Ma was summoned to meet with the nuns. The priest was called in. Pompous old Father Sequiera. Deepak was suspended from school for a week. He had to go for confession every day, and it was decided that he would be a special altar boy from then on, permanently under Father Sequiera’s watchful eye...’

Try as she might, Reena couldn’t reconcile her quiet, serious father with the naughty little boy from this story. No wonder her father had a lot to reminisce and laugh about during his visits to Taipur.

‘Ma was told by the nuns that her son was going to be a rowdy when he grew up, one of those good-for-nothing drunks who hang around the village. Deepak went into hiding. Madhu only managed to find him late that night, cowering behind the rack where she hung her clothes.’

‘What happened then?’ Reena worried for the little boy her dad had been, fearing what was to come.

‘Ma had cooled off a bit by then, but he got a good thrashing with broomsticks anyway. They hurt like hell, let me tell you.’ Anita winced at the remembered pain.

‘And?’ Reena prompted.

‘Deepak regretted the incident, only because he had to be an altar boy for the rest of his school life. No more nodding off or chatting in church. And from then on, the nuns picked on him all the time, especially Sister Shanthi. They weren’t very holy, those nuns. We couldn’t wait to escape to college. I am glad Deepak didn’t send you to a convent school. But then he wouldn’t, not after what we went through...’

Anita sighed and settled back into her chair, closing her eyes. She was getting sad again.

‘I never wanted kids but now… I wish…’ she whispered, almost to herself.

Reena panicked. She was not used to dealing with these quick mood swings. Why was her mum not calling her for a snack? How could she stop her aunt from starting to cry again?

And then, almost from nowhere, a thought came into her head and, without thinking, she said it out loud.

‘What about Aunt Shirin? What was she like as a child?’

Her aunt jerked and stiffened like the crows on pylons being electrocuted during a thunderstorm. She turned to stare at Reena. Reena could feel her eyes boring into her from behind the sunglasses.

Aunt Anita opened her mouth slowly, and seemed surprised when words came out.

‘How do you know about Shirin?’ she asked.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Untouchable Prince Charming

S
hirin ran to the bus stop, barely noticing the spitting rain. There was one other person waiting: an older lady wielding an umbrella. As Shirin approached, she looked at her watch. ‘If you’re after the 114, it’s late. It was due two minutes ago.’ Her voice was tremulous with age.

‘Oh, good. I thought I had missed it.’

‘They are always late, these buses,’ the woman clucked, peering up at Shirin from under thick grey eyebrows. ‘You are not one of the regulars, are you?’

‘No, I drive usually. My car has gone in for a service.’ She leaned against the pole displaying bus timings and information.
Loud hoarse breaths just behind her, whistling between her shoulder blades, raising goosebumps. Pungent. Hoarse. No.
She whipped round. Nothing. No one. Deep breaths. Calm.

‘They cost a fortune these days, don’t they?’ the old lady was saying.

‘I’m sorry?’ Shirin grimaced. And then nodded as she realised the woman was talking about her car. ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

‘You should get one of these.’ The woman waved her bus pass. ‘You young people will have to pay of course, but not as much as you shell out for your car, what with fuel and MOTs and tax discs and whatnot.’ She paused, squinting up the road. ‘Is that the 114?’

‘Yes. Here it comes. After you...’

The bus was empty. Thank goodness. No noisy breaths. No sound of chappals. Shirin chose a window seat near the back and watched the world trundle by.

The rain had stopped and the clouds had shifted slightly allowing stray rays of sun to infiltrate the grey morning and brighten it somewhat. A few leaves were already starting to change colour. A bit early, Shirin thought, it being barely the beginning of October.

It had been late October when she and Vinod arrived in the UK. All she remembered about those first few weeks was walking. Once Vinod went to work, she would leave the flat they were renting and walk for miles. She walked to escape the bare walls, the silence, the empty eyes that haunted her. She walked until she could feel no longer. She walked to escape herself.

One overcast morning she opened her mouth to let a sob escape and tasted the English rain. It did not have the earthy, rich taste of freshly churned mud that she had been expecting. It did not have the spicy, slightly bitter scent you get when you tear a mango leaf in two—the aroma she associated with the monsoons. English rain smelt and tasted of nothing at all. It had none of the fury, the passion of the monsoons. Instead, it was weak; half-hearted. She spent the rest of her walk distracted: part of her resenting the English rain for being nothing like the monsoons; the other half rejoicing.

Over the next few weeks, she began to notice other things, to pay attention to this new world she found herself in. Everything was different—the trees, the weather, the people, the food. There was more order, less mess. There was no overcrowding, no constant blaring of horns. There were no smells.

Autumn had set in and Shirin found she liked crunching on a multihued bed of foliage—a carpet laid out just for her, canopied by trees with leaves all the colours of the rainbow—and not having to worry about snakes. She liked the way a ray of mild autumn sun infiltrating the thick cluster of trees caught a reddish orange leaf swirling in the wind and transformed it golden yellow. She liked that it wasn’t a leaf she recognised, that she could name or associate with her past...

The bus chugged to a halt and the older woman from the bus stop shuffled out. As the bus pulled away, the woman looked up. Her eyes met Shirin’s and she smiled, waved goodbye. The moment of recognition, the brief connection, made Shirin inordinately pleased.

By the time she got off at her stop, the clouds had been chased away by the sun. She pulled sunglasses out of her handbag and began the brisk walk across the park to the office. In the far corner a low wall separated the children’s playground from the dog-walkers’ section. On it perched two little girls giggling as they shared a secret; heads close together, bare legs dangling, the skirts of their summer dresses dancing, looking for all the world like Shirin and her best friend Pramila, half a lifetime ago.

Pramila: timid, dark, plain, born in the wake of a handsome older brother. Pramila, whose house bordered the convent, who lived, literally, in the nuns’ shadow.