Waiting for the Monsoon Read Free Page A

candles in the enormous chandelier above the stairwell are alight. Below, in the marble hall, the British officers who are stationed at the army base nearby are arriving. They are in gala uniform, each with his wife, attired in a magnificent ball gown, on his arm. The Indian servants are wearing brand-new uniforms: yellow jackets and navy blue trousers with gold piping. The door of one of the bathrooms opens and a woman with elaborately coiled blond hair steps onto the landing. She’s wearing dangling earrings and her lips are deep red. She giggles when an officer with a chest full of medals offers her his arm and leads her down the stairs. Charlotte hears her father’s voice behind her and slips back into the nursery. She closes the door, careful not to make any noise. On a mat next to her bed lies her ayah, Sita, sound asleep. They played together all day, but while she was singing a lullaby for Charlotte, the young Indian girl fell asleep herself. Charlotte creeps past her. The balcony doors are open. She glances over her shoulder, but Sita doesn’t stir.
    Peering over the balcony, Charlotte sees the driveway, which is illuminated by torches, and shiny automobiles parked next to the house. On the broad flight of stairs leading to the front door, men in blue jackets and gold caps are stationed on either side of the red carpet. They are carrying plumes, which the guests pass under, and just before the guests go through the door, two servants throw rose petals before their feet. The sweet scent rises to the balcony. Charlotte wishes she were already grown up.
    Behind her she hears her father’s voice again. She ducks down, but then realizes that he is in her mother’s bedroom, next to the nursery. Charlotte crawls over to the open window and looks over the windowsill and into the yellow room. Her mother is sitting at her dressing table, wearing a long, pale green dress and a gold tiara in her hair. She’s painting her lips red with a brush.
    â€œMathilda, you look perfect.” Her father, in full regalia, is standing near the door. He taps his sable against the sole of his boot. There is a medal on his chest.
    â€œAlmost, Victor, almost,” her mother says with a smile as she carefully alters the contour of her lips. “Do you like this colour?”
    â€œIt’s the same colour as the uniform jackets of the Irish Guards.”
    â€œYes. Scarlet. Would you hand me my black gloves?”
    â€œThese?”
    â€œNo, Victor, the long ones.”
    He tosses them to her.
    â€œAh, my gallant knight.” She smiles and pulls on the close-fitting gloves. Then she stands up, walks over to her husband, and puts out her hand. It seems to Charlotte that he is about to salute, but then he takes Mathilda’s hand and leads her out of the room.
    Charlotte waits until her parents are gone and then creeps through the open balcony door into the room. Once before, during a violent thunderstorm, when Sita was spending the night with her own family, Charlotte sneaked into the yellow room. Her mother didn’t wake up, and Charlotte fell asleep pressed against that warm, unfamiliar body, longing for Sita’s arms around her.
    The room smells sweet. There are dozens of bottles on the dressing table. Charlotte picks up a small green one, pulls out the stopper, and puts it to her nose. Then she closes her eyes and inhales the pungent scent. It smells like her mother after she returned from Delhi wearing the blue sun hat. She picks up another bottle and opens it: this one smells like her mother about to leave for church. The next one reminds her of a garden party, and a pink bottle smells like her mother decked out in her jewels. Being a grand lady is the best thing there is ,she decides.
    Suddenly she’s jerked from the stool. She sees her father’s image in the mirror, next to her own. She hadn’t heard the door open. He picks her up and carries her over to the large wardrobe. He