The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

“Thank you, Chandralal. You have been a great support to me.”

  “Your grandmother believed in me when no one else did, baba. I have come to my current good fortune because of her. I will never forget that. She treated me like a proper human being.”

  He was silent for a moment, glancing ruefully around the neighbourhood. “You know, baba, my father was a mere gardener in a Cinnamon Gardens house. He was there through two generations, and all the family, even the young children, referred to him as ‘oomba.’ ” He raised his eyebrows, and I nodded to say I understood the casual insult of that feudal term. “They didn’t mean anything bad, baba, it was just the way they spoke. That’s how we were to them. Little better than animals.” He jutted out his jaw, lost in contemplation. “They used to call me ‘moon-face.’ ” I frowned, not sure I had heard the English words correctly. “Yes, baba, ‘moon-face.’ Of course I didn’t speak English at the time and it took me a while to realize they were talking about my pockmarked skin.” He smiled wryly. “After that, I swore my children would never witness their father being humiliated. And no Cinnamon Gardens person would ever humiliate my girls.”

  When we were back in his Pajero, he turned to me with a shy smile. “Baba, my wife is very keen to meet you, and my daughters, too. I have told them you live in Canada. Will you come and have tea with us now?”

  “Yes,” I said, surprised at this invitation. “I would be happy to meet them.”

  At his home, Chandralal ushered me to the velvet sofa. Soon his wife appeared wearing a freshly laundered light-blue cotton Kandyan sari, bringing with her a gust of lavender perfume. She was a plump, pretty woman with a milk-tea complexion, her well-oiled jet-black hair coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck. She greeted me in the traditional way, palms pressed together, her smile shy and jolly.

  Looking at me with a smile, she began to question Chandralal about my life in Sinhala.

  “Why are you asking me, woman?” he exclaimed jovially. “Ask the young sir, he speaks Sinhala just like us.”

  “Aah.” She put out her tongue in embarrassment, then gave me an apologetic smile. She asked what I had studied in university. When I told her English literature, she drew in her breath. Such fluency in English raised me greatly in her estimation. I liked her. She was not at all the strident, overdressed, over-made-up wife I had expected; not one of those women strained from the anxiety of social climbing.

  Chandralal asked where their daughters were, and his wife called in the direction of a curtained doorway, “Come, come!”

  The girls emerged promptly with trays, one carrying cakes, patties and rolls from Green Cabin, the other bringing cups of tea. They had their mother’s complexion and plump prettiness, and wore jeans, T-shirts and sandals, just like women from our social class. Their hair was short, cut in the latest style.

  They placed the trays on the coffee table and sat on a settee next to mine. After an awkward pause, Chandralal gestured to them and said teasingly, “Now talk, will you. I’m not paying all these high fees at the Colombo International School so you can sit here like billas.”

  The girls asked me in fluent English about Canada. Soon we were chatting in a fairly easy way about North American life. They would both be going to America for university, once they finished their A-levels, and wanted to know what universities I might suggest and what life they could expect there. Chandralal and his wife looked on with pleasure. After a while, his wife brought me a trophy the older daughter had won in tennis and a certificate the younger had got in piano. There was a shy hopefulness in her smile as she presented them to me, and I took in, as if seeing them for the first time, the trays the girls had carried out, having waited for their cue to appear. All these arrangements for tea had been made even before I was asked, so sure was Chandralal that I would accept his invitation. Then the parents had sat so that the only place for their daughters was next to me. I pretended to admire the trophy and certificate, but I wanted desperately to leave.

  When I got home, my grandmother was seated on the verandah, and she called out with a teasing smile, “Was the tea pleasant?”

  I frowned at her suspiciously as I came up the steps. “How did you know?”

  “Chandralal asked my permission before you left.”

  “I see.” There was a pitcher of water and glasses on the verandah table and I poured myself some.

  “And the daughters? Were you surprised they were just like our Cinnamon Gardens girls with their tennis and piano?” My grandmother threw back her head and laughed. “Yes-yes, how all those British things go on. But that is how people like Chandralal rise up, nah, Puthey, teaching their children tennis, piano, elocution. And fortuitous marriages into good but impoverished families.”

  I gave her a narrowed look and she chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not marrying you off to one of his daughters. We certainly don’t need their money.”

  Yet I felt a strategic marriage was precisely what Chandralal had in mind.

  “Puthey.” My grandmother patted the low stool next to her chair. I sat down by her feet. “As you know, I am on the board of trustees at our local temple. I have been thinking for some time I would like to build a new bana maduwa. Our one is so old, and the roof is leaking. Other Colombo temples have such lovely bana maduwas. I want to build one in the old Kandyan style with a pagoda roof and carved wooden pillars. But this requires time and money. While I have money, my time is running out. I must collect as much merit as possible to ensure a better future life.” She played with her glasses for a moment. “I was wondering if you could look after my properties. This is good training, nah? After all, they will be yours sooner than you expect, and I want you to be ready for them.”

  I had anticipated this, and had already assumed some of the responsibility by telling Chandralal we must get the Pettah property fixed up.

  “Aacho, I will do it, but on my terms.” I stood up. “If I am going to run your properties, I want to run them the way I wish.”

  She waited for me to continue.

  I leant on the balustrade, looking down at her. “To start with, that Pettah property must be repaired.”

  “What for?” she cried. “I am going to run it into the ground and then sell off the land.”

  “No, Aacho, I don’t want that. In fact, Chandralal is going to send a baas to give me an estimate. That verandah is dangerous. Someone could seriously hurt themselves.”

  Her lips thinned, but I pushed on. “Even if I have to rent that property a little cheaper, I want the right kind of tenant.”

  “Cheaper? Why should you rent it cheaper? After fixing it up, you should charge more.”

  “And I will. All I’m saying is, I would prefer to go cheaper and get someone who will actually pay the rent rather than have another tenant like that man.”

  She shrugged, not pleased at all.

  “Aacho?”

  “Yes-yes, very well.” She sighed. “You are in charge now. I am just a feeble old woman.”

  I felt a thrill at her submission. But riding tight behind my jubilation was unease.

  I called Mili and suggested a sunset swim at Mount Lavinia. When he came to pick me up, I couldn’t meet his eyes. As I got on the motorcycle, I made a joke about my tight jeans ripping and my voice cracked.

  The beach was crowded with strolling families. Lovers sat on rocks behind umbrellas, vendors walked up and down carrying basins of pineapple slices, mango achcharu and gal siyambala in newspaper cones. A group of Muslim women shrieked and darted back and forth at the water’s edge like terns, colourful saris raised around their shins, palus slipping off heads.

  My grandmother had also agreed to give me access to her accounts, and feeling well-heeled I insisted on paying for our loungers, then ordered beers and some snacks, tipping the cabana boy generously. “Gosh,” Mili said, “did you win the lottery or rob a bank?”

  I smiled as I put away my wallet, still not able to tell him what had happened with the tenant, or that I was taking over my grandmot
her’s properties.

  We left our clothes with the cabana owner and ran down to the water. Once I was in deep enough, I dove under with a shout and felt the events of the day wash off me.

  Later, when we were sipping beer, I said, “Mili, why don’t you ask Sriyani about the beach house.”

  “Yes, a very good idea.”

  We grinned at each other over the rims of our glasses. I was craving the freedom to hold him and talk, lying face to face, our naked limbs tangled; longing to sleep curled up against his back.

  17

  I MET WITH A BAAS ABOUT THE PETTAH PROPERTY a few days later and got an estimate from him. When I showed the quote to Chandralal, he shook his head, amused. “These baases are ungrateful dogs. Here I am, giving this rabid monkey work, but he cannot return that favour with honesty. I will have a little talk with that buffalo.”

  “No, Chandralal, I will speak with him.”

  He gave me an appraising look. “Very well, baba.” Then he showed me where I was being overcharged and told me what the prices ought to be. He also prepared me for the justifications the baas would give, and how to counter them.

  I asked the baas to meet me at the Pettah property, then purposely arrived half an hour late. When my car pulled up, he rose from the verandah steps, dusting his sarong and smiling. I did not return his smile but pretended to busy myself with something in the car before I got out.

  “I thought I’d left your estimate at home,” I said as I came up to him, “but I did bring it. Come,” I beckoned him to follow.

  I led the baas into the house and stopped at the first item on the list of repairs, a room whose walls needed replastering once the brick had been repointed. We had talked about this repair the day before, but I got him to explain again what he planned to do. Then, my lower lip stuck out, legs apart, non-existent belly pushed forward, I declared, “Yes, but this price is not correct. It doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I would not offer such a low price to anyone else, mahattaya,” he cried. “This is a favour to Chandralal.”

  “Chandralal might not see it as a favour,” I snorted.

  I suggested, as I had seen my grandmother do, an absurdly low price. He countered with another price, and we bargained until settling on an agreeable cost. I was nervous he would see through my facade of shrewd bargainer, but he seemed fooled by it. As we made our way through the house, I grew into my new persona.

  In the end, I did not get everything I wanted, or even the price my grandmother or Chandralal might have got. But I did bring down the cost considerably, and this left me feeling triumphant.

  When we sat down for lunch that day, I told my grandmother I had received an estimate for repairs on the Pettah property, met with the baas that morning and got him to lower his price.

  “But I should have come with you,” she cried.

  “No need for that, Aacho. Chandralal looked over the estimate and gave me advice.”

  “It is my property. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “The bana maduwa is already too much work for you, Aacho. I don’t want you overdoing it.”

  She glared at me, but when I held her gaze, eyebrows raised, she turned away and washed her hands in the bowl Rosalind was offering. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “You have trained me well, Aacho,” I said teasingly. “All those years of taking me to properties. You knew what you were doing then, nah?”

  She smiled despite herself. “Yes, they were nice times. It was a good thing I did teach you. Still, Puthey, I want to see the estimate after lunch.”

  I made a noncommittal sound.

  She did not ask again for the estimate, probably distracted by the preparations to construct the bana maduwa, which were more exhausting than she had anticipated. I was concerned by the oily glaze of sweat on her face when she came home from attending to this matter. Yet her fatigue also gave me a jubilant sense of my own health and strength as a young man.

  I had experienced the worst with that man at the Pettah property. Many of the other tenants complained and had little goodwill towards me, the grandson of a landlady they despised, but no one was aggressive. I began to take happy satisfaction in having a tap or roof repaired without being cheated by a baas, feel a sense of ownership as I supervised the replacement of a gutter or the re-cementing of steps or a verandah floor. I had the charm and diplomacy my grandmother lacked. Tenants were soon pleased that I arrived promptly to fix a problem, asking for me now when they called our house, plying me with tea when I collected the rent.

  I visited Sunil Maama frequently at his office. Sitting beside him as we went through a complicated legal document, I felt gratified I understood its meaning and was able to ask relevant questions and make suggestions. Sunil Maama complimented me lavishly, no doubt relieved to not be dealing with my grandmother. Running her business began to give me a feeling of manhood, which I realized I had been denied in Canada because of my race.

  My life intersected frequently with Chandralal’s because of construction on the Wellawatte property. The building was to be a three-storey low rise, each floor having four apartments. We met often at the site to see how things were progressing, to deal with disputes and absences among the workmen. In all this, Chandralal took the lead. He put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly manner as he explained an aspect of building or pointed out a mistake in construction. When he saw I was quick to learn, that I could spot a problem or query a decision that seemed wrong, he was delighted. We had to be vigilant. Contractors were constantly trying to cheat us and had many ingenious scams we had to watch out for. One of them was trying to pass off sea sand in place of river sand for mixing concrete. The former, which was easier to get and cheaper, would cause walls and floors to sweat and rapidly deteriorate because of the salt it contained. Chandralal and I would check every consignment. The best cement and metal bars came from the government corporations and bore the stamp of “Sanstha.” We would frequently examine the shipments for the stamp. Another swindle was using unseasoned, unsmoked wood which would be attacked by termites in the years to come. Getting smoked wood was so important that Chandralal appointed his most trusted golaya to take the unseasoned wood to Jafferjees, have all the wood smoked and see it safely delivered back to our construction site. But, by far the greatest scam was ordering too many bags of cement and selling off the excess. In order to prevent this financial loss, Chandralal had all the bags numbered and then would insist he or one of his golayas see all the used bags.

  The construction progressed at a surprisingly fast rate thanks to Chandralal’s influence. Permits and inspections were passed quickly, water, electricity and sewage connected in record time through contacts in various city departments. The chief baases were afraid of him and kept their workers busy and disciplined.

  I felt an increasing gratitude towards Chandralal. He had come to my rescue with the man at the Pettah property and done so diplomatically, not tarnishing my masculinity. We both knew that without him I could never get these flats built. I would be cheated by the baases and blocked at the government offices, not knowing who to bribe. He never even hinted at how unequal my contribution was.

  Occasionally he brought one of his daughters. Under Chandralal’s smiling eyes, I would, out of nervousness and some helpless desire to please him, become charming and attentive, asking them about their lives, offering advice on living in the West and even making them laugh with some droll sarcastic comment. Then later, on my way home, I would berate myself for being such a fool and vow to be more reserved next time. Yet having become friendly, I could not retreat without giving offence, and was forced to be equally friendly and charming the next time we met.

  Within a month of taking over my grandmother’s duties, I became aware, while looking at legal paperwork for the enterprise, that Chandralal was co-owner of the flats. When I saw this, I realized I had not asked myself what his stake was in the development, having vaguely assumed my grandmother was paying him a fee and h
e was being extra helpful out of fondness for her. Sunil Maama, who had shown me the papers, saw my consternation and a secretive, distressed look crossed his face.

  I queried my grandmother about the co-ownership when were sitting on the verandah that evening.

  “Ah, Puthey, why are you surprised?” she asked mildly. “Did you honestly think an old woman like me could undertake such an arduous concern?”

  I took a sip of my beer, not knowing what to say.

  “I consider myself lucky to have a partner like Chandralal. Do you know how dishonest the average person is here? Chandralal will not cheat me, even though it would be easy for him to do so.”

  She was waiting for my agreement, and I nodded. This man, who was a thug and perhaps even a criminal, had a genuine love for my grandmother, and his loyalty now extended to me, her grandson. Men like Chandralal needed sentimental outlets to lavish kindness on. By doing so, they believed themselves to be good.

  I had to visit the flats the next morning. Chandralal was there, and though he greeted me civilly, he looked grim with fury. The risers on the staircase to the first floor were not uniform and it was too late to fix this error, as the concrete had already been poured into the wooden formwork. Some of the steps would always be slightly higher than the others. The carpenter who made the formwork was summoned and he stood in front of us, hands pressed together before him as if handcuffed while Chandralal yelled at him, his eyes bulging with anger, double chin bloated like a toad’s. Watching his rage and the baas’s terror, a memory bloomed.

  Sunil Maama was not expecting me. When I walked in he saw the disquiet on my face and stood up alarmed.

  “Come, come, putha, sit.” He gestured to a chair.

  I shook my head and went to stand at the window, where I stared out onto an alley. “Sunil Maama, how is it that the house in Wellawatte was the only one left standing on the street? It was Tamil owned, after all.”

  Sunil Maama sat down slowly in his chair. “I don’t know, putha.”