Waiting for the Monsoon Read Free

the reading material on the table, the evil tongues may well have been right.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Bridgwater. How are you today?” he inquired, in the same booming voice he used in church. The thought struck him that she was still worth looking at, despite her age.
    â€œThank you, Reverend Das, a bit warm but in good health. And yourself?” Charlotte was about to walk away, but the clergyman stopped her.
    â€œAre you familiar with this book?” He pressed a book into her hands. The title was The Lord, My Shepherd Even When It Rains .
    â€œNo, but we could certainly use some rain. And some cool weather.” Charlotte walked over to the whirring fan and stood directly under it.
    â€œIt’s an excellent book. I just finished it. You must read it.” He lowered his voice. “It describes the problems of an immigrant family with . . . er . . . their demented father.”
    The clergyman had been carrying a pile of books the last time Charlotte ran into him. He had tried to interest her in the story of a woman of easy virtue who became a missionary in Africa. She told him she only read real literature, which prompted an interminable oration on the importance of devotional reading material, and he wouldn’t let her go until she promised him she would read it. So Charlotte accepted the book he handed her.
    â€œVery interesting.” She turned it over and skimmed the back cover.
    The clergyman looked at her red fingernails. “What did you think of that other book?”
    â€œQuite unusual.” It was none of his business that it was still lying — unread — in a pile of books in her living room. “If you don’t mind, I came for the Tuesday-morning talk. I think they’ve already started,” she said as she tried to walk past him.
    Reverend Das nodded but did not step aside. He pointed to the plaque above the door. “Your father . . .”
    Charlotte looked up at the row of names on the wall. Her father had prided himself on the fact that he had financed the construction of the library, and she was glad he had never seen how dilapidated it had become. The clergyman moved closer to Charlotte; she tried to step back, but the table with the women’s magazines was in the way.
    â€œMrs. Bridgwater . . .” He was wheezing slightly. “I am collecting money for the restoration of this library. You do know that we have an extensive collection of religious books here?” He pointed to the high shelves behind her, full of books that for the most part hadn’t been borrowed. “I thought it would be splendid if . . . as a kind of family tradition . . . out of respect for the work your father did back then . . . you could make a donation.”
    The then minister had paid a visit to Charlotte’s father shortly after the death of Mathilda Bridgwater and asked him if he would consider building a library in memory of his wife. The military man had stared at him for a long time with a hard look in his eyes — it was so long that the clergyman began to feel uncomfortable and finally mumbled that a bookcase would also be very much appreciated.
    Victor Bridgwater approved of the idea of something to do with books, since his wife had died holding Gone with the Wind in her wasted hands. He muttered that he would support the new library provided that all the religious books were kept on the topmost shelves. The minister was euphoric. He was unaware of the fact that those shelves would be so high that no one could reach them, and his entire collection would remain unread.
    â€œI’ll give it some thought,” said Charlotte, after a slight hesitation. The minister stepped aside, and she entered the room bearing the sign ladies club .
1934 Rampur ~~~
    THE MUSIC REACHES her from below. Charlotte is squatting next to the large standing clock, which has just struck nine. All of the