Rain

Rains of India

Okay, so here's the deal :P From now on, this won't be a complete compilation of scenes, but rather a "chapter" (subject to request by Starlight Dreamer, rolls eyes ;) ) of a scene or two. So here you go! 

***

Scene 1 

“Mama, I think it is going to rain again,” I said, tugging gently on her sleeve. “Do you think our clothes will stay dry out there?”

My mother glanced up at me and dismissed my worry, returning back to her work. “Of course, child, the servants will bring them under the shelter. You need not worry,” she assured me.

I was still a little bit concerned, of course—there was nothing like a dense, tropical rain. My schoolmates in England had envied me: going to a place where there was only sun and two seasons, but I doubted that they had imagined the powerful wind, the completely-soaking spray, or the treacherous damage a rain could have on the trees. Why such powerful palm trees bended backwards to appease the wind had always puzzled me. Could they not stand firm and tough it out? Why did they not just spread their leaves to block the wind, and wait for the storm to be over and done with?

Often, I’d been told that I asked far too many questions for a little girl. One topic spurred another, and once I’d started, there was no easy way to make me cease my incessant questioning. But there was so much I did not understand! Surely someone would know what I did not... and I vowed that I would always ask them to impart their wisdom to me, no matter how many questions it took to reach my goal.

“Dearest, did not you hear me?” Of course, day dreaming was also an unpopular habit in the eyes of my mother—but not so easy to avoid for someone like myself.

“I am sorry, Mother, I did not,” I said, bowing my head, readying myself for reprimand.

My mother tweaked my ear. “Silly girl! I will repeat: please go upstairs and tell Uma to set the table for a guest tonight.”

My mouth fell open. “A guest, mother? But Grandmama is not coming for another week, is she not?”

By then, my mother was rather annoyed with my idleness. “That is enough questions for now, young lady. Go upstairs and do as you are told!”

Not wishing to receive any further enforcement of orders, I withdrew, scurrying up the stairs. I found Uma in the nursery, ironing the extra bed linens for the guest room. My mind raced to explore the possibilities. Our visitor was obviously planning an extended visit—the best linens were always only reserved for family friends or relatives. So who could it be? Anyone I knew was either too afraid to leave England or not willing to go any further than Eastern Europe. Perhaps it was one of Papa’s colleagues?

Quite giving up, I sat down with a huff, just by the doorway. Uma looked up at me with a quizzical expression. “What is wrong, little one?” she inquired, setting the iron over the hot coals so it stayed warm enough. Pushing back her long black braid over her shoulder, she quickly set to folding the crisp, white sheet. I watched her in awe as she worked swiftly and skilfully, as if she’d been working as a housemaid for her entire life. After she was finished, she adjusted her sari and turned to me, still waiting for me to answer her question.

Snapping out of my daze, I jumped up and relayed Mama’s orders. “But I cannot think of who might be visiting, Uma! Perhaps you know?”

Uma gave me a smile, which slowly spread on her face, displaying her perfect, white teeth, which looked so beautiful with her cinnamon-coloured skin. She really was a beauty—with raven-black, curly hair that she always kept back in a simple braid; deep, dark brown eyes that peered at me with overflowing curiosity and intelligence, a trim, slight figure, with elegant and graceful curves... There was just something about her that depicted such a natural beauty, nothing like the coiffures, hoop skirts or corsets that Englishwomen needed to wear to make them beautiful. Delicate but work-worn hands, a light and nearly silent step: all these made Uma one of the most beautiful and humble women I had ever known. I was often green with envy the way she was so respected, despite her caste. “You will soon know, miss,” Uma replied, with her familiar Mona Lisa smile.

This frustrated me to an immaculate extent. Why must I always be the one to discover everything last? Surely it could not be anyone I knew personally, for I most likely would have already guessed. Not Aunt Claire or Uncle Percy... they would never venture further than their own front yard. My father’s parents, Grandfather Nicholas and Granny I had never the opportunity to meet-- his side of the family never had much to do with us anyway, but I could not understand why. Something about “de-owning”, mother had murmured, but when I questioned her further, she would not entertain my curiosity. So unless Father’s family had planned an unexpected reunion; their visit was quite impossible. Any of the family friends, well, we hadn’t any—not since we moved away from England. They had thought us as good as dead as soon as we stepped over the threshold of the Orient; plagued with disease and savagery of native peoples. So that was simply unfathomable.

No deduction could be made! The nagging questions unanswered drove me into a passionate rage, leaving Uma to only blink while she watched my brooding calm demeanour transform into a black fiery tantrum.

Adults never kick and scream. Why was that so? Did they feel that by containing their powerful emotions in the core of their being, it would simply fade over time, diminishing forever? Children simply express physically. They don’t need to hide how they are feeling, because often words do not describe the turbulent thoughts flying through their minds. A subtle glare here, a clearing of throat there, a whisper in another ear—to me, nothing was achieved.

Of course, straight away, Mama heard me wailing and marched upstairs with my feared tool of punishment: the wicker cane.

**

You will know when you see our guests at dinner, child!” my mother told me in between lashes of wicker on my palm. “Such impertinence!”

A tear rolled down my cheek, and I could tell Mother hated to punish me so. Only Papa could manage the caning without remorse; but it was not he who found fault with me very often. “I’m sorry, Mama. I was only curious,” I said meekly.

The cane stayed, though I could still feel its stinging imprint on my palm. My mother was silent, but I knew what she was thinking. Curiosity is like curse. It will only get you into trouble, foolish child! Those were always her words... She had repeated them time and time again.

Setting her weapon down, Mama turned me away from her. She gave me a push, and told me quietly to go and get ready for dinner.