Waiting for the Monsoon by Threes Anna

his tusks and sweeps the man away. The man’s coat is torn and his leg is hanging at a strange angle. The viceroy’s finger curves around the trigger. He sees only the wrinkled bulge between the two small eyes. The elephant raises his head again and tosses his trunk high into the air. He screams. The viceroy draws his lower lip into his mouth, narrows his eyes to slits. The moment the trunk comes back down, he shoots. The bullet whizzes through the air and enters the forehead of the elephant. It is as if the animal feels nothing: he bellows and trumpets. Turning around, he tramples the man again. A boy with a rope lashes the elephant and tries to pull the man to safety, but the animal sweeps the boy away with a single blow. Fearfully, the viceroy stares at the beast. He knows for certain that he hit the elephant squarely between the eyes. Next to him, the maharaja’s coughing fit continues. Between two attacks, he croaks, “Well done.”
    The viceroy is puzzled. The elephant turns in the direction of a man on horseback who is approaching from behind and, lowering his head, batters the horse, which starts to rear. The elephant throws his head and legs into the air. His trunk brushes the stars. The maharaja points. The elephant begins to wobble. He reels. He screams. He tries to find support somewhere. His knees are knocking. His head swings from left to right. He trumpets one last distress call and collapses, as if in slow motion. The ground shakes. The men rejoice. The viceroy looks proudly at the maharaja, who asks, still panting, “What did you say the name of that throat specialist was?”
    The viceroy turns to him in surprise. “The throat doctor . . . ? Oh, his name is Peter Harris.”
1942 Queen Victoria College ~~~
    Dear Donald,
    I wish you a Happy Christmas. Did you get a letter from Father? I thought maybe he only sent one letter, and that it went to your address. If so, would you forward it to me? Everything’s fine at school. Since the war, there are a lot more children from India. Which is nice, since we all agree that it’s very cold here. After the summer vacation I’m moving to a small dormitory. They say it’s much nicer. And we get to stay up an extra half-hour. Have you asked if we could meet sometime? Mrs. Blackburn, our director, says that if the war doesn’t flare up again, we could arrange something during the summer vacation. Will you remember to send me Father’s letter?
    Bye,
    Your sister Charlotte
1995 Rampur ~~~
    CHARLOTTE LAY ON her bed “smoking.” The fan above her head rotated, while outside the nocturnal crickets chirruped. All the windows and shutters were wide open, and on the desk stood a lighted candle, which illuminated some sheets of paper covered with calculations. A few crumpled wads lay on the floor. There was dance music coming from an old transistor radio, and her toes kept time with the music. In her younger years she would have jumped up and danced around the room. Now only her toes could not resist the temptation. She longed for the cool that night would bring, but it was long in coming. Her thin nightgown clung to her breasts, and there were drops of perspiration in the furrows on her forehead. “Dream wind” . . . the expression suddenly popped into her head. Dream wind . . . that was one of the winds the man on the boat had told her about. Auntie Ilse, the woman she was travelling with, had forbidden her to ever speak of him again or even think about him. As a six-year-old, she had done her best. But the image of him — his face covered in blood — still appeared in her dreams, and she often woke up crying. She thought of the doll she’d called her “lucky girl.” Auntie Ilse had thrown it overboard, because he had repaired it. Charlotte was not allowed to think about him , but no one said she couldn’t think about the winds. Lying in her bed in the cold