Eugene Datta
Sitting in a teashop on the main road, Tamal watches the rain swirl around streetlamps, reducing them to bristly, smothered moons. Outside the shop, about a foot and a half below the level of its floor, a murky stream churns and gurgles furiously along the overflowing gutter. The road is empty except for the odd taxi, and a pedestrian or two sloshing slowly through ankle-deep water, sandals in hand, head bent under rain-beaten umbrella. Lights from storefronts and neon signs, only the brightest ones gleam with harried intensity through the sweeping gauze sheets of rain; the rest have dimly melted into its ground-glass haze. The air that baked bodies and scorched lungs for months is doused and gone. A flood in its place, gusting and gushing.
…..At last! Tamal thinks. Soaking in the season’s first rain was one of his cherished rituals until a bout of pneumonia almost killed him the year before he left college. Now, every time he sees someone walk in the rain, willingly or not, he thinks of the thrill he used to feel in his veins—chilly pellets of water hitting the parched skin, making it crawl, deliriously, with goose bumps. Sitting there, imagining the cool tingling, he lets his eyes trail the pedestrians, their gloomy, sopping, drowned-rat shapes, until they’re out of sight.
…..Every few minutes a fresh gust of wind blows a fine spray deep into the teashop, wetting clothes and newspapers, and blinding glasses, but no one seems to mind. Tamal doesn’t either. After what the city’s had to endure for the last few weeks, with the pre-monsoon heat reaching record highs across the state, making the tar on some roads run like butter in the sun, and causing the worst water and power shortages in years, it’s a welcome respite.
…..A sudden blue-white flash lights up everything, and before Tamal can plug his ears, the thunder cracks. He hates these jarring bolts, especially when they’re too close. “Pour it, pour it,” someone in the back of the shop screams, laughing, “bring on a flood, sala!”
…..Across the table from Tamal, three elderly men sitting side by side are talking about someone whose madness was made worse by the recent heat. “A week ago, I would not have gone within ten feet of him, hunh! Let alone asking him to do anything for me,” one of them says. “I wouldn’t do it even now. Am I bitten by a mad dog or what?”
…..“It’s the heat, I’m telling you,” says another, the oldest one, calmly. “I’ve known him for a long time—he was never as bad as the last few weeks. Look at him today. A bit of rain and he is already a different man, fetching paan and everything. If the rains continue and it doesn’t get so hot again, I’m telling you, he’ll be OK for the rest of the year. He’s not like other mad people. He loses it only when it gets unbearably hot. He’s not that bad otherwise.”
…..“I am not interested, bhai.” The first one frowns, shaking his head. “I have no time to find out when one is more mad or less. You go and do that.” He turns to his other companion. “Is there any dearth of healthy men around me that I have to turn to a madcap for help? Tell me!” He looks at Tamal—they always do that, he has noticed, these teashop and street-corner debaters; they direct their words to someone while looking at others to seek agreement. “I won’t have paan if that’s what it comes down to! If he is the only one who can bring it for me, I will, sala, give up the habit!”
…..“You are saying this because you don’t know him,” the older man persists. “Now that the monsoon is here, he will be like any of us. I am telling you! Just wait and see.”
…..The third man grunts skeptically. “You go ahead and make him fetch paan everyday if you’re so sure, Shambhu-da,” he says. “Keep us out of this loony business, baba.”
…..The argument reminds Tamal of Bhut and Kali-pagla, two madmen he used to know when he was growing up, protagonists of the most insignificant fringe of local life in Chetla. Kali and Bhut. How they got those names, he wonders. Kali was very dark, so it might have been his real name. But Bhut? There was nothing ghost-like about the man, until of course the summer came. No one paid any attention to either him or Kali—two homeless men of indeterminate age, caked repulsively with filth, in a quiet, perpetual daze—until the heat set in and their sickness took a menacing turn. Then, out of their obscure, harmless shells they burst ominously into the thick of things. Every summer, punctually, like clockwork. They roamed the streets in the blistering sun, naked from the waist up, sometimes from the waist down as well, with slivers of cloth collected from outside tailoring shops tied around their ankles, wrists and arms, and around their neck and head. They babbled non-stop to invisible people, laughed wildly and barked obscenities, and rushed at people on the street, threatening to bite or beat them. Their faces were like scary masks, eyes like glowing coal. Heat and madness stirred them up like fearsome gods brought to life by malevolent priests, and placed them squarely in the middle of the neighborhood’s daily life, because dealing with them was what everyone had to worry about throughout the summer months. From the first week of April until the rains started in late June or July. Tamal remembers how they used to scare him. No matter what time of year, if he spotted either of them in one lane he slipped into another, or scampered to the nearest house whether he knew the residents or not. If he was with his mother or father, he trailed like an unwilling dog, and then caught up to them as the danger zone approached, sticking to their safer side, and a few terrified strides later broke into a run to safety.
…..It occurs to him that he hasn’t seen either of them in years. Old men now, he thinks; if they’re still alive.
…..The man who prompted the debate at Tamal’s table, and made him think of Bhut and Kali-pagla, returns with a few paans wrapped in plantain leaf. Tamal vaguely remembers seeing him before—around this teashop, if he’s not mistaken, or somewhere in the nearby bazaar. In spite of the umbrella in his hand, the man is completely drenched; rain running down his intense, oily face. He hands the wet bundle and some change to the oldest man, who presses a coin into his hand and says, “One-rupee profit from one-rupee business. Not bad, na?”
…..“Not bad at all!” The madman laughs—a dark laugh, full of rotten teeth black with betel juice and nicotine. He folds the umbrella and puts it down by the entrance, and then with a flamboyant, Dev Anand-style wave of his hand he says, “See you, dost!”
…..He goes out into the rain with the swagger of a hero, humming a song Tamal cannot quite make out through the whipping wind. As he steps off the narrow footpath, a taxi whizzes past him, covering him with a dome of dirty water. “BOKA CHODA!!!” he shouts. For a few moments he stands there with his hands on his waist, looking in the direction in which the taxi went, and then, angrily, starts to slap himself clean of the foul water. “Boka choda!” A grunt this time, barely audible above the noise of the downpour. Then he resumes his garbled song and walks away.
…..“Ki, Shambhu-da?” the first man teases his older companion. “The rain hasn’t quite worked yet, has it?”
…..“Aare, rain is like homeopathy.” The other gentleman laughs. “Takes time to work. Am I right, Shambhu-da?”
…..Both of them turn to Tamal, and he acknowledges with a polite chuckle.
…..Another flash of lightening and Tamal puts his fingers to his ears, but the thunder rumbles a few moments later, more benign and distant this time. A fresh gust of wind brings in a thicker spray, wetting most of his left arm. He unbuckles the leather-strapped watch, a Titan, a birthday gift from his wife; she gave it to him the year he turned thirty. Rubbing it carefully on the front of his shirt, he slips it in his pocket.
…..He drains his glass and sets it down. The conversation at his table has already shifted to saner, more insipid subjects—pensions, rising prices in the market, property-related disputes with siblings, spineless sons and uncaring daughters-in-law. More patrons have come in; more wet umbrellas, more buttocks on the benches, and more noise. Tamal knows most of these men by their faces, he even knows the names of some, but he hardly ever talks to anyone. Companionship isn’t what he comes here for. He’s not even sure why he comes here, a teashop in a part of town he hasn’t lived in long enough. Surely it’s not the taste of this cheap over-boiled tea! He wonders if it is the atmosphere here with its overload of anonymous gossip, and the perverse pleasure it gives him to listen in. Or if it is just habit. Whenever he has the time, mostly on his way home from work, he stops by for a glass of tea, and leaves as soon as he’s finished.
…..But the rain has held him up tonight. And he’s not in a hurry to go home either.
…..Home, he thinks. What’s left of it anyway? An address, a place where he still has his belongings, not much more than that. From a sanctuary of bliss it has turned into a house number and a street name, a mere roof over his head. And the transformation has happened right under his nose, as if by a magician’s clever sleight of hand, leaving him a hoodwinked spectator. A fool.
…..The inside of the teashop has started to sound like a fish market, with voices, laughter, the clapping of hands and thumping of tables, burps, coughs, sneezes, the clink of glasses and kettles and the hiss of the stove all banding together, inseparably, like a tight clump of worms, into an autonomous dinning monster. But even so, it feels more hospitable than home, or the place that once was that. So Tamal decides to wait until the rain stops. What’s the rush, he thinks, ordering another glass of tea. And then, without meaning to, almost helplessly, he starts to think about the events of the night before—the last night of the worst summer of his thirty-three-year life.
The air was oven hot and motionless. Not a leaf stirred. Tamal had been standing in the dark corridor for almost an hour, swatting and waving away mosquitoes that flew into his face, buzzed in his ears and bit the exposed parts of his arms, the top halves of his fingers close to his nails, the unslappable body parts. When his knees hurt he squatted for a few minutes, plunging into a thicker layer of mosquitoes. Every now and then, as light from the adjacent houses lit up the corridor, Tamal, as if he were a young boy playing hide-and-seek, ducked behind the hibiscus bush. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone.
…..It was eight or thereabouts when he heard a familiar click of high heels approach the gate. It was Uma. Tamal wasn’t surprised. He knew—he was sure—that she would return early, because he’d told her in the morning that he might run late. He had lied, knowing that she would take the bait.
…..He kept standing at the far end of the corridor, as still as the mosquitoes let him, his nose clogged with a scent of tuberose rising from around the hibiscus bush and a stench of rotten vegetable peels and fish entrails coming from the other side of the boundary wall—a most obnoxious olfactory mix. Inside their flat, doors opened and closed with unusual urgency. From the way the lights and fans were being switched on, the toilet flushed and the shower started, Tamal could tell that Uma was getting ready for the evening. She seemed in a hurry. Something seemed in the offing.
…..Less than half an hour later, Noel arrived.
…..She had brought him home for the first time eight or nine months ago. They had met at some work-related party, and he’d offered to drop her off. Opening the door that night, Tamal found a resplendent Uma standing with a tall, well-dressed, handsome man. Her slender, five-foot-three-inch frame rippled with an energy Tamal hadn’t seen in her for years. In her eyes there was a rare shine. “Noel, this is Tamal, my husband,” she said. Tamal shook hands with Noel Ananthan, a senior corporate manager at Citibank, and asked him in for a cup of tea.
…..In the months that followed, Uma’s world vibrated with the excitement of having found a new center for itself—a much more alluring and stimulating one, it turned out, than the one he’d ever managed to be. She didn’t seem to tire of talking about her new friend. Tamal learned that Noel was half English; he’d grown up in Madras and Delhi, and had had his university education both in India and the UK. He was thirty-nine and looked a good deal younger. By the end of winter, Tamal had got used to Noel calling almost every evening and asking to talk to Uma. Every time her cell phone squeaked with an incoming SMS, he could tell from the look on her face if it was from him. And mostly it was. The rapt attention with which she read his messages, and punched in her endless replies, was the most blatant form of betrayal he’d ever had to put up with. She would withdraw into a world so obscenely private that her handset would become almost an embodiment of Noel Ananthan, and she would go on pecking and caressing it, sometimes for as long as an hour. The flirtatious smile on her face would prompt Tamal to leave the room.
…..Gone was the time when he called her at home Saturday nights when he wasn’t too busy at the airport. She would ask him with interest if things were under control at work, if the flight was on time, and so on. And he’d ask her about the film or the soap or the sitcom she might be watching on TV. Or they would just chitchat, as young husband and wife, as people in love. But these days Uma was rarely at home Saturday nights. And when she was, she wasn’t alone—Tamal knew that from her awkward repetition of hellos, her thinly veiled eagerness to hang up, and in the background the busy, anxious hush of a presence. She’d found better ways of spending her weekend nights than by talking to her husband on the phone. And it wasn’t as if Tamal never complained about it. He did bring it up once in a while, saying, as unbegrudgingly and tactfully as he could, that he wished his wife had a bit more time for him. “How can you spend so much time with someone you hardly know?” he’d blurted out once, unable to control his frustration. “I know Noel pretty well!” had been her response. “He’s not just a client—we’re good friends.”
…..“Good friends!”
…..The arrival of summer brought about a complete breakdown of trust. More and more, her accounts failed to match the evidence of her daily trysts with Noel. Sometimes she came home with him. She did it especially on the days when Tamal told her that he’d meet a friend after work and wouldn’t return till after eleven or so. In the ashtray there would be, invariably, fresh cigarette butts. And Tamal could tell they were 555, which by then he’d learned was Noel’s brand. The air would be thick with the smell of cigarette, one of the many perfumes Uma used, and even some male deodorant. She would be in bed, pretending to be fast asleep. “Couple of colleagues dropped in,” she’d tell him if he asked. But the concert of scents always told him something else—a cruel, bleak, gut-ripping truth. Those nights, if Tamal tried to hold or caress her she’d refuse to respond. “Hurting!” she’d whine, brushing his hands off her breasts. If he forced himself on her, which he sometimes did out of desperation, he found her giving off alien smells, and surprisingly ready for union. Entering her, he’d be filled with revulsion and lust.
…..The light from the next house struck the part of the corridor where he needed to stand; a slice of it fell diagonally on the louvered window. Crouched behind the hibiscus bush, Tamal shivered in the heat, his heart racing in a way it hadn’t done in a long time.
…..After what seemed like an eternity, though it couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes, the darkness returned. Tamal emerged from the mosquito-thick shadow of the bush and tiptoed to the window with bent knees. He held his breath as his head inched up the window for the spot of light—it was on a slat weakened by termite, and he’d wedged a grape-sized hole into its brittle wood. It took his right eye a few moments to adjust to the fluorescent glare inside the room, what he saw then he knew would change him and his life forever.
…..After about ten minutes, during which he’d had to move away from the hole several times because he couldn’t bear to watch any more, Tamal walked down the dark corridor, opened the wooden gate and stepped out into the street’s neon relief. He was aroused and bathed in sweat, irreparably broken.
The tea under its wrinkled layer of pale-saffron milk fat has turned cold. Tamal has been sitting with the glass in his hand, not taking a single sip.
…..He pays and comes out of the shop, and stands under its scanty sunshade of corrugated asbestos, the rain pelting his face. By now, the men at his table have been joined by several others in a noisy discussion of national politics. “God only knows what would have happened in West Bengal if it weren’t for the communists!” Shambhu-da says through a mouthful of paan. “There would have been no peace, I’m telling you!”
…..“The state would’ve prospered,” a young man retorts. “That’s what would have happened. And we would’ve had jobs!”
…..“Yes, and the whole place would also be swarming with Ram-loving hanumans, don’t forget that,” Shambhu-da’s second friend, the quieter of the two skeptics, says in his defense. “And the Hindus and Muslims would be at loggerheads. Like they’re everywhere else in the country!”
…..Tamal didn’t want to leave just yet, but he cannot stand the row. These teashop debates! Especially the ones about political parties, their policies and deeds, and how virtuous or corrupt their leaders are—they always turn into nasty screaming matches, which he hates more than politics itself. He knows that in a matter of minutes, everybody in the shop would be drawn into the discussion at that table, and the place would start to sound like a madhouse, a verbal battlefield where even some pushing and shoving, or trading of punches, wouldn’t seem unlikely. But to be honest—and this has always surprised Tamal—he’s never witnessed physical violence in these contests. For all the fuming rage, people seem astonishingly content just to assault one another with words, and then they walk away, voices hoarse from the strain, victorious, or still boiling with indignation, thinking the opponents were too naïve, biased, intransigent and stupid to understand politics.
…..He takes the watch out of his pocket; it’s nine fifty-three. He wonders where Uma is. He hasn’t heard from her since last night. He’d called to tell her that he would stay back at a friend’s house; she tried to say something but he’d hung up pretending not to hear her. She didn’t call him even once during the day; didn’t send any SMS either.
…..In a few minutes, the rain eases a little and Tamal decides to go home. With his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, he steps onto the footpath, not caring to either take off his shoes or roll up his pants. Wading through the black, filth-thickened water, he thinks about the newest addition to his cast list of mad characters, and how boldly that man marched in the rain. Rain…“like homeopathy….”
…..Then he thinks about Uma, not sure if, when he reaches home, he’d like to find her there.
–-
From Eugene: A former journalist, I have had my writing (fiction, poetry, book reviews and essays) appear in publications around the world, and have held residencies in the United States, Spain and Switzerland. I divide my time between India and Germany. “It’s The First Day of Monsoon, And It’s Pouring” is excerpted from a novel I have recently finished.