The Beach at Galle Road

by Joanna Luloff

  Later, after several weeks of courtship, Sunil told Janaki, his soon-to-be sister-in-law, the story of how he fell in love with Lakshmi. He whispered, careful not to spoil his luck: While the other villagers huddled around his window at the post office, elbowing and cursing one another, he had heard an isolated laugh that seemed to silence the surrounding bustle. The laugh had woven its way into his cubicle, rustling his stamp sheets as it traveled in the humid breeze, tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Sunil wondered how a voice could feel like that, like playful fingertips, and he followed the laugh to the smile on the face of the girl he felt certain he would one day marry. He stole a look at the formal-scripted return address on the envelope he had stamped for her and thought about this large-eyed girl all afternoon. Her first name was Lakshmi. For luck.

  Janaki imagined that this was the same story Sunil told Lakshmi after their first family tea, on their wedding day, and on the nights after the fighting in Colombo broke out. Janaki pictured him drawing soft lines across Lakshmi’s forehead with his finger as he indulged her with the story of how, by her laugh, he had known he had found his future wife.

  SUNIL AND LAKSHMI married in mid-December at the Mount Lavinia resort. It was only a short ride up Galle Road, but both Lakshmi and Janaki felt their first real sense of adventure. Lakshmi’s white sari was studded with sparkling silver beads and threaded with locally spun lace; their parents had spent much of their small savings to adorn their oldest in the finest. “What a beautiful sari,” Janaki joked. “Are the pearls real?”

  “Why, yes,” Lakshmi replied without pause. “It’s imported from Bombay.”

  Rather than jealousy, Janaki felt a bubbling excitement. Lakshmi’s good fortune foretold luck for the entire family, and throughout the ceremony, Janaki proudly listened to whispers of good wishes and the older generation’s hinting at grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. Surrounded by so many promises, she felt so close to exploding with luck and blessings that she could hardly breathe. Ten years later, Janaki imagined that Lakshmi had continued to remember that day as the happiest of her life, a day in which the air was heavy with promise.

  THE WEDDING DATE was preserved in bold calligraphy on her sister’s marriage certificate: December 12, 1984. After Lakshmi left for Saudi, Janaki took possession of the framed announcement and hung it over the dining room table next to the black-and-white photographs of Mohan’s parents and grandparents. It looked out of place next to the yellowed images, its gold embossing and dramatic script seeming both naively grandiose and celebratory. Although the certificate had been displayed since Lakshmi’s arrival, Lakshmi did not comment on it until three weeks later, when Janaki caught her gazing at it with bewilderment. “My own name is like an impostor,” she whispered then.

  A few nights later, Janaki woke to shuffling sounds. She followed them to the kitchen, where she found Lakshmi wandering in circles in the darkness, naked, with the thin moonlight casting shadows under her breasts. Alarmed, Janaki peeked out of the kitchen window, careful to keep her own face hidden. “Lakshmi?” Janaki pulled off her bathrobe and draped it over her sister’s back. “Let’s go back to bed,” she whispered.

  “Do you think he can find me here? How will he know where I am?”

  “Shh. Let’s not wake the girls.” Janaki guided her sister back to the bedroom and covered her with a blue sarong, then fell asleep on the corner of her sister’s bed, watching her quickened breathing.

  Some nights, Lakshmi clawed at her sister’s hair. She flailed and kicked as Janaki tried to cover her naked body, worried that the girls or Mohan would wake to the yelling. But in the mornings, Lakshmi couldn’t remember the dreams. One day when Janaki pointed out the bruises on her sister’s legs and ribs, Lakshmi shrugged. “Maybe it’s better that I can’t remember.” As Janaki rubbed coconut oil onto her sister’s abrasions, she was surprised to realize that it was she who wanted Lakshmi to remember and tell.

  THE FIRST YEARS of Lakshmi and Sunil’s marriage were uneventful. They spent three years leaving for work together at seven thirty—Sunil to go to the post office, Lakshmi to St. Thomas’ College, where she taught O-level literature. In her weekly letters to Janaki, Lakshmi wrote about their visits to friends in wealthy Colombo 7, where they discussed politics and the growing nationalism. The Tamil Tigers had been increasing their attacks, bombing train stations and markets and making assassination attempts on government leaders, while the government was caving in to the demands of the Sinhalese JVP nationalists, increasing the army’s presence in the north and the east of the country. Both Lakshmi and Sunil spoke openly about their belief that the government should negotiate with the separatists instead of battling their way through the north to regain Jaffna. Once, Sunil even hid a Tamil coworker in their pantry for two weeks as the insurgency raged, the government silently encouraging the violence. In her letters, Lakshmi boasted about her husband’s bravery, his independent mind, his kindness, and hinted at their hopes for children after Sunil’s promotion.

  OVER THE WEEKS, as Lakshmi’s nightmares continued, Janaki watched her sister shrink. She had hoped that once Lakshmi was home with her, surrounded by the noise of the girls, the household busyness, she could find and rescue her sister’s former self. In the mornings, she walked with her sister to the market, where they selected cuttlefish and pumpkin, cucumbers and chilies. With her arm looped in Lakshmi’s, she silently invoked their girlhood. She held her sister’s arm close to her side, hoping the heat and sweat of her own body would travel into her sister’s thin frame and feed it.

  But Lakshmi continued to wear her heeled shoes into the village center, her narrow hips rocking as she balanced herself on the damp earth. As they passed, the villagers stopped their conversations. They gazed and whispered and dropped their eyes. Janaki, though, nodded to these neighbors, taking care to synchronize her steps with her sister’s and guide them into one stronger self linked by elbows. At times like these, it seemed to Janaki that it was Lakshmi who had become the younger of the siblings and it was now Janaki’s duty to pass back all the good luck her sister had once passed to her.

  A FULL MONTH after Lakshmi’s return, Janaki and Mohan discussed bringing Mohan’s friend Sampath over for tea. Janaki chose September’s Poya Day, auspicious for meetings, promising blessings and good luck for couples. Sampath was a friend from Mohan’s intermittent construction work. He was a quiet and kind man who had deep wrinkles on his face, giving him a perpetually concerned look. He spoke in whispers, blinking often, and held his hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer. Two years ago, Sampath had lost both his wife and third son in childbirth.

  The four sat on the porch, sipping tea. Sampath had left his sandals on the front steps and had his bare feet crossed at the ankles, his legs stretched out. Lakshmi wore her pointed shoes, whose heels raised her lap to shoulder height in the low wicker chairs. Her arms dangled over the sides as if she were a discarded doll.

  “You were away how long?” Sampath asked over his teacup.

  “Six years,” Lakshmi answered, her voice much louder than Sampath’s.

  Sampath recrossed his legs and took another sip of tea as Lakshmi gazed out at the garden. Janaki silently counseled her sister to sit up straight, speak more delicately, smile more. She sought out Mohan’s eyes. We must help them, she thought, and when she finally got her husband’s attention, she gestured slightly with her chin.

  To Janaki’s relief, Mohan interrupted the silence. “Should we take a walk through the garden? Janaki’s spider orchids are blooming. And which others?”

  “The yellow roses,” Janaki responded eagerly. “They’re just coming to full bloom.”

  Mohan escorted Sampath to the garden, with Lakshmi and Janaki following close behind. Janaki rested her hand low on Lakshmi’s back and whispered, “Try to make an effort. Speak to the man after he’s come all this way to have tea with you.”

  Lakshmi shooed her away and stepped alongside Sampath.

  “Do you like fl
owers?” Sampath asked.

  “I suppose most women do. They’re always showing up in poems and at weddings. But I’m useless at growing them. Janaki won’t even let me into the garden out of fear for her delicate plants.”

  “I don’t see how you could do much harm.” Sampath smiled.

  Janaki grinned at his quiet compliment. She watched for signs of interest on her sister’s part, but Lakshmi remained talkative yet distant. There was no hint of modesty or delicacy or attempt to please.

  Lakshmi stopped in front of the anthuriums. “When Janaki and I were little, we were both given our own anthurium in a small brown pot by our aunt. If it was some kind of test, I certainly failed. My waxy red anthurium turned pale and withered in less than a week. After two, it was a sad, dried-up wreck. Janaki’s, of course, grew taller and stronger and more vibrant by the day.”

  Janaki laughed at the memory. “You never watered the poor plant,” she teased. “And kept it out in the sun, while it needed partial shade and protection from the heat.”

  “You see?” Lakshmi turned to Sampath. “Still scolding after all these years. I learned my lesson and stay away from her garden, or who knows what worry I might cause?”

  When the four returned to their seats on the shaded porch, Lakshmi cooled herself with a silk fan decorated with bright red flowers. The fan seemed ostentatious to Janaki, and she noticed Sampath glancing at it, too.

  “What kind of work did you do abroad?” Sampath worked up the courage to ask.

  Lakshmi continued fanning, looking out at the garden. “Most people think that there are good opportunities in Saudi. Women, for example, fantasize about being secretaries or salesgirls, while the men envision themselves in cooled offices. Inevitably we all end up as maids and drivers—”

  “But still,” Mohan interrupted, “the money is good. It —”

  “—so I spent six years looking after another woman’s husband and children,” Lakshmi’s finished in a strong, clear voice, her frantic fan interrupting the porch’s sudden silence.

  A few moments later, Sampath quietly thanked Janaki for the tea and shook Mohan’s hand.

  “Come again,” Janaki said, smiling, knowing well that Sampath would not be back. She was embarrassed for her husband. The village men would talk about Lakshmi’s rudeness, tease him about having to live under the same roof with four women.

  That night, as Janaki leaned over to kiss her sister good night, Lakshmi whispered, “Thank you for trying, but please don’t do that again. I don’t expect you to understand, but I’m still married to Sunil.” Janaki briefly considered arguing with Lakshmi, pointing out the need to think of the future, but she, too, was tired and instead moved silently out of the room.

  THE INSURGENCY SWALLOWED Colombo in March 1987. In a letter to Janaki, Lakshmi explained that she and Sunil would maintain their routines. Later, Janaki would learn that Lakshmi’s school had quickly closed and that on March 17, Sunil hadn’t come home. Nor did he return the next day or the day after. Lakshmi walked back and forth along their street during the one hour in which the curfew was lifted each day, straining her eyes in every direction and muttering Sunil’s name. Meanwhile, buses continued to burn on the streets; people scurried along with vague, searching expressions on their faces. And the times she tried contacting the area hospitals, the phones were down. When she finally got through, nurses spoke of unrecognizable, butchered bodies. When neighbors began to storm one another’s homes, Sunil’s oldest brother came to board up her windows, strengthen the locks, and help her to plan an escape route if the mobs came with torches. He brought his family into her home, and they waited together.

  Sunil’s oldest brother questioned Lakshmi about how vocal Sunil had been about his sympathies toward the Tamils. “So foolish and naive,” he scolded his absent brother. When Lakshmi finally turned silent, his wife interjected with reassuring words. Sunil could very well be hiding. He could be waiting for a break in the chaos before heading home. Lakshmi wobbled her head and continued her silent calling. With so much noise everywhere, she felt that it was only silence that would bring Sunil home.

  But Sunil didn’t return. The fires ceased and the smoke and soot began to settle—a dusty reminder of the recent violence and ongoing tensions. Lakshmi continued to pace, at first circling her kitchen floor, then wandering through her neighborhood and out to Galle Road until her feet ached, her bare soles cracked with blisters and her eyes stinging with smoke.

  LAKSHMI SAT ON the low stool in Janaki’s kitchen, shaving coconuts for curry, her collarbones pushing from her skin like snakes, her wrist bones hard as pebbles. Over the past two months, Janaki had watched her sister grow smaller, her eyes overpowering her diminishing face. The sisters were silent in the kitchen, the slow grinding sounds filling the air.

  The night before, Janaki had awoken to familiar yelling from the front bedroom. In her half sleep, she hadn’t noticed that Mohan’s side of the bed was empty, so seeing her husband in Lakshmi’s room startled her. His hand was on Lakshmi’s thigh—a gesture of comfort or silencing, Janaki wasn’t sure, but she suddenly imagined other men approaching her sister in the night. It was her job—Lakshmi had said so herself—to look after other women’s husbands. But is that really what Lakshmi had meant? Janaki pushed past Mohan and drew the blue sarong around her sister’s naked body. When Janaki turned around, Mohan was gone. “Shh,” Janaki whispered. “It’s me. You’re dreaming. Quiet now . . . quiet.”

  As Janaki kissed her sister good night, Lakshmi whispered, “Do you think he forgives me, Janaki? How will he know where to find me?”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mohan interrupted Janaki’s work in the garden. He looked nervous. “People are talking. She has become a spectacle. It’s not good for the girls.”

  Janaki tucked an orchid vine around its wiring. “She’s my sister. The girls will be fine.” She snapped off the deadened ends.

  “The nail polish. Those short skirts and shoes. She looks like a cadju girl, you know. Can’t you at least try to get her to —”

  “I’m surprised, Mohan. It never bothered you before. I remember after her arrival you called her glamorous. You fawned over her like she was a movie star. If I were a jealous person, I—”

  Mohan stomped out of the garden before Janaki could finish her sentence. He’s got guilty shoulders, she thought to herself.

  Lakshmi’s nail polish remained, as did her clicking shoes and shortened skirts. Her voice grew smaller, though, and she insisted on taking walks alone, sometimes returning after the sun had been replaced by a twilight sky. She no longer let the girls visit her room to play dress-up and often took her tea by herself out on the patio. Janaki knew her daughters’ feelings were hurt, but a part of her was relieved by Rohini’s bare fingernails and Achala’s return to her studies.

  Over the weeks following her argument with Mohan, Janaki listened to her sister throw up what little food she ate and watched her insides hollow out until her skirts slipped down her hips, even after she had gathered the extra fabric with safety pins. Janaki imagined that her sister was repudiating memories in the bathroom and wasting away because there was nothing left for her to replace them with.

  In a moment of impatience, Janaki snapped, “You know, if you don’t say anything at all about the past, people will imagine the worst.”

  “I don’t care what people imagine.”

  “Well, I do. And Mohan does. People talk about you. They talk about me, about what kind of mother I am.”

  Lakshmi continued mixing the flour and water for the string hoppers they were making for Rohini’s birthday dinner.

  “And food is expensive, you know. Your throwing it up is an insult. It is bad luck.”

  Lakshmi moved a stray hair from her forehead and wrinkled her nose. It was a gesture of guilt and apology Janaki hadn’t seen since they were girls, and she immediately felt sorry. She reached for the rice flour and salt, sprinkling the powder over the dough as she let the kitchen fall back into what she hop
ed was reconciliatory silence.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Janaki was working in her garden. She had left the doors to the porch open so she could listen for the girls’ voices. Earlier, she had scolded them for making up dances to Bollywood songs rather than studying, but now she was feeling guilty for ruining their fun. In a few more minutes, she told herself, I’ll let them turn the radio back on.

  Through the anthuriums she was cutting, Janaki saw a group of boys walking down the street. They were older boys, out of their A-levels, who had nothing better to do than huddle in packs, tease the younger girls, and talk of joining the army. A few moments later, she sensed another figure passing by the garden. She placed the flowers into a heavy bucket and wandered to the gate. Not too far down the road was Lakshmi, trailing behind the boys. Janaki’s stomach and throat tightened. The boys stopped and stared at Lakshmi as she reached out her arms toward the tall boy in the center of the group. The boys laughed and teased, “Maybe she’d like a dance, Gamani. Or a kiss.” Gamani giggled nervously. He was not a bad boy. He had been in Achala’s literature course at the regional English center.

  A few of the boys saw Janaki coming and urged the group along. Janaki wrapped her arm around Lakshmi’s waist before her sister could follow them.

  “Why did they call him Gamani?” Lakshmi looked into her sister’s face.

  “Because that is his name. Gamani. He has taken classes with Achala.”

  “But he is not Gamani.”

  Janaki turned her sister toward the house. “Let’s go home. It’s late and you’re tired.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER, Janaki found a handwritten note from the Colombo hospital tucked into her sister’s desk. It was dated April 2, 1987. “Dear Mrs. Lakshmi Werwagama: Please answer the following questions regarding your husband’s description. On the day of his disappearance, was he wearing a gold watch? Was your husband missing any of his teeth?” The use of the past tense must have felt like a betrayal. Janaki imagined that in her sister’s grief, Sunil had begun to appear in the faces of those around her—in a shopkeeper’s mustache, in a trishaw driver’s nose. Perhaps it was these ghostly reappearances that had forced her to Saudi. In an unfamiliar land, surrounded by strangers, she must have hoped for some kind of peace.