Read Online Miss Timmins' School for Girls by Nayana Currimbhoy - Free Book Online

earth, he said, the monsoon was less than two weeks away. He was usually right.
    It was Tuesday, the day of my dinner with the Wagles, when the sky broke open in Panchgani. The girls were at tea in the dining room, gorging away on pickle and Ferradol syrup and other improbable snacks. The clouds had been gathering over the mountains since noon, and the winds were high. We could hear thunder in the distance. The school was electric. The girls’ hair burst through their black ribbons, and their dresses billowed around their belts like checked balloons, ready to float them up into the blue light.
    It was dark in the dining room, the tubelights were on and humming when the rain came crashing down. The middle and senior dormitories were low, sprawling buildings with verandas and walkways wrapped around the upper garden. The girls spilled into the veranda; the missionaries, having tea in Miss Nelson’s private drawing room as was their custom, came out onto their balcony; and I, on my way down to my room after classes, without a thought, I rushed into the rain, arms outstretched.
    In school, in college, at home, when the first drops fell, we always rushed out to drink the rain, the young mothers with their children in their arms.
    In Indore the first rain came as a teaser, a few big hot drops releasing the heady smell of first wet earth. Today the cold rain came down hard and thick, with the force of buckets of wet paint at Holi. The musky scent of the earth wound itself around me like a satin sheet, promising bright green paddy fields and the fragrance of white flowers, of mogras and jasmine and raat ki rani, and of bunches of sontaka sold on the streets in the evenings. It was only after I opened out my wet hair and tucked a fallen flame-red shoe-flower behind my ear that I realized I was the only one out in the rain.
    The rain was pouring down over the sloping tin roof in a great big gushing tap. Girls and teachers were lined up in the verandas, behind the curtain of water. Every eye was on me. I felt the hard green eyes of Miss Prince. My skin prickled. The moment seemed to hold forever. I was a tragic actress in a stadium. I lifted my hair up, wound it around my hand, and tied it in a bun. Should I bow, should I wave, shouldn’t they clap? I could feel my blot begin to prick. I knew it would soon turn sore and angry. I felt ugly all over again. I wrapped my wet green dupatta around my shoulders and forced my feet not to run. My bun came undone as I turned. Back straight up, my wet hair live like snakes upon my back, I made my way with measured steps to my room. I did not look back. I was my father’s daughter; I knew there was an art to retreat.
    The lights went out as I was peeling off my clothes. “The wretched lights always go off with the rain,” grumbled Sister as she brought in a lantern for me. The hot water I had ordered for my evening bath had turned tepid; the mali had probably dumped it into my bucket hours ago. But I was too dazed to care. I lit five candles around the bathroom and quickly threw a few mugs of the water over each shoulder.
    In the mirror, my eyes flashed black and quick, and my face glowed. The blot looked pink, like a nipple. I might just be a creature of the night, I thought, feeling strange and elated. I made one long shining braid with my still wet hair. I wore a bloodred kurta to match the hibiscus in my still-wet hair, and was screwing on my silver dangle earrings when I heard Shobha’s voice in the dispensary.
    â€œSister Richards, can you please tell Miss Apte that there is a policeman upstairs asking for her,” she called above the rain, her voice sharp and curious.
    â€œPlease tell him I will be up right away,” I shouted. To walk up with her would have been to talk to her. Let her wonder.
    It was seven o’clock, the dinner bell had just rung, and the girls were lining up ready to file into the dining room. Their whispers and nudges followed me as