The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “You do, and so do I. Really, I’ve known all along, if I think about it. I’ve just not admitted it to myself.” I turned to him. “Chandralal and Aachi made a deal with that family, didn’t they? Protection from the mob for a cheap price on the house. When he came by our house that first morning of the riots, it’s what they were discussing on the verandah. Keeping an eye out for a Tamil family who needed protection.”

  Sunil Maama fiddled with the lid of his fountain pen.

  “I wonder how many other Tamils Chandralal made that bargain with.”

  Sunil Maama licked his lips. “Shivan, putha, you must not judge your grandmother too harshly.”

  “But it’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing.”

  He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Don’t, Shivan. Just leave it alone. It’s too late to do anything now.” He frowned at me, pleading. “If she finds out I told you … Your aachi is my biggest client, one of the few who has stuck with me. I’m not very good anymore at this law work. The rules, the country, have changed too much. It’s no longer really a gentleman’s profession.”

  As I walked towards the door, he called after me, “And he, that man, you must not cross him.”

  All the way home, I stared out numbly at the passing world. I simply did not know what I was going to do next. When the car stopped in the carport, I sat lost in thought, then went up the steps and into the saleya, my footsteps clacking heavily against the cement floor. I could hear my grandmother hobbling about her room, the tip-tap of her stick. I started towards my bedroom, then went to hers instead.

  She was standing before her bed, contemplating a document laid out on it. “Ah, Puthey, come and see the plans for my bana maduwa. It’s going to be magnificent.” I went to stand by her and she squeezed my arm with excitement and affection.

  “It’s wonderful, Aacho,” I said after a moment.

  There was nothing I could do. By bringing up the Wellawatte property with her, what would I gain? And the moment I asked myself that question, I saw all that would be lost by doing so.

  The next time I met Chandralal was at the Wellawatte property a few weeks later. He was waiting by his Pajero, and as I got out of my car he came forward grinning. “Baba, we have the shuttering to the first floor in place!” He slapped my shoulder. “Come, come, you must see the view.” He ushered me towards the entrance as if I were an important guest, unaware of the dark mood that had come over me on the way here, a mood grown blacker at the sight of him, his hand on my shoulder a dead weight.

  When we were on the wooden platform over which the concrete of the first floor would be poured, I was astonished at the vista before me. We were already higher than the surrounding houses and had an uninterrupted view of the sea, ships passing on the horizon. It was cooler up here, a breeze coming up from the water with a tang of salt, the tops of coconut trees fanning gently in the wind.

  “Baba, I have been thinking about something.” He came to stand by me. “Perhaps we should turn the third floor into one big flat. You know, ‘penthouse suite,’ as they call it in English. After all,” he looked at me with a little smile, “you will not live with your grandmother always, nah? One day you will want to get married and start your own family. It is becoming fashionable now to live in flats like this, above the dirt and heat and diesel fumes of Colombo.”

  “I don’t know.” I turned away and pretended to stare at the view, bothered by this allusion to marriage. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea in terms of profitability.”

  The architect had come up and Chandralal went to talk with him. I looked at the view again and found myself thinking of Mili and me living even higher up than this, waking together to this view, the privacy of being far above prying eyes.

  “What do you think, baba?” Chandralal asked, rubbing his hands with boyish enthusiasm as he came back to me. “Changed your mind? A ‘penthouse suite’?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “why not?”

  “We must tell your grandmother.” He winked. “She complained to me, the other day. You are not keeping her fully informed.”

  “No, let it be, Chandralal. She doesn’t need to know everything.” I had already decided to have Sunil Maama arrange the legal papers to make this suite mine.

  He laughed and gently punched my arm.

  As we went downstairs, he walked ahead with the architect and I followed. “What has been done cannot be reversed,” I said to myself, flicking a hand across my face as if to remove a cobweb.

  One of my greatest delights was to buy Mili an occasional shirt or a book I had seen him looking through with longing. When I presented the gift, he would always say, “Come on, Shivan, I’m not some desperately poor bugger.”

  “Oh, don’t be so proud, Mili.” I would hug him, or squeeze his knee. “It’s only given with love.”

  He would acknowledge this with a wry smile, then say lightly, “But it’s not really your money.”

  “It might not be mine in name yet, but I bloody well work hard to keep things going.”

  His smile would grow stubborn. He never wore the shirts I gave him unless I pestered and pouted, and then only if his friends were not around.

  When I had told Mili about taking over my grandmother’s properties, explaining she was not well and wanted to build a bana maduwa as her last great act of merit, he had accepted my explanation impassively. When I pushed him to acknowledge my sacrifice he’d murmured, “Yes, yes, you are a good grandson, Shivan. She is truly lucky to have you.”

  With my newfound wealth I liked to treat us to dinner and drinks at the various five-star hotels around Colombo. It was always a struggle to get Mili to come, and sometimes I had to settle for the places he and his friends frequented.

  We ran into his father one evening in the lobby of the Galadari Hotel. He was having a drink with his mistress, the former film star. There was a moment of awkward staring, then Mili turned away. In the same instant, Mr. Jayasinghe raised his hand in greeting and beckoned him. Mili sighed. He strolled over, hands in pockets.

  I had not met the mistress but had seen all her films. In her forties now, she was still beautiful, turned out in a diaphanous white organza sari with magenta border. Her hip-length plait glistened, studded with araliya flowers.

  Mili ignored her even though she gave him a willing smile. He introduced me to his father, saying I was visiting from Canada.

  “Ah, how nice to see you, son,” his father said enthusiastically, as if we had met before.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, too, uncle,” I said, thrilled to be in the presence of such a powerful man and to be able to call him “uncle,” this familiarity reflecting we were social equals. He introduced me to his mistresses and I blushed as I shook her hand. “I am such a fan of yours. I love all your films.”

  Her laugh was a tinkle. “And which one is your favourite?”

  “Oh, that is a hard choice.” Ignoring Mili’s brooding presence next to me, I recounted the first time I had seen her, when I was eight years old. Rosalind had taken us to the cinema, and I had been enchanted by the singing and dancing, her marvellous saris and bell-bottom pantsuits.

  Tudor Jayasinghe tried to appear interested in my story, his smile tight, eyes slipping to Mili. The moment I was done, he asked, “How is your mother?”

  Mili glared at him, then looked away.

  “And your human rights work?”

  He continued to stare across the lobby, face immobile.

  Tudor Jayasinghe sighed. “When are you going to give up this nonsense and let me send you abroad to university? Or at least come and work in my firm.”

  “You know my answer to that,” Mili said, and walked away with a quick frown for me to follow.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, uncle.”

  “You too, son,” he said, gazing after Mili as he shook my hand.

  His mistress offered her hand, and I held it briefly in both of mine. “My family will be so envious I met you.”

  “And
what will your report be?” she asked, with that imperious coquetry of the star.

  “That you are still as beautiful as ever.”

  She let out a peal of laughter and clasped her hands together. Then she smacked Mr. Jayasinghe on the knee to distract him from his son. “My, Tudor, darling, you must ask this boy to come and have dinner sometime.”

  He shook my hand again, forgetting he had just done so.

  I found Mili slouched in a chair by the pool. A waiter came up, and knowing what Mili liked I ordered two Lion Lagers.

  “Is everything alright?” I finally asked.

  “Why did you fawn over that bitch?”

  “Well, I love her movies. She’s one of our greatest stars.”

  “You should have ignored her.”

  “But that would have been impolite.”

  “But that would have been impolite,” he echoed with a mocking whine. “You know what your problem is, Shivan? You love all this glamour and sucking up to people who you think are dazzling, but who are really vile. It’s disgusting to watch you.”

  “Mili, you’re being ridiculous,” I snapped. “Don’t take out your anger at your father on me.”

  After a moment he sighed, reached across the table and pressed my arm. “Sorry, I’m an awful bugger. It’s just seeing that bastard with his whore …”

  As he sipped his beer, I watched him curiously. I had assumed his father would not pay for his studies abroad, and I’d admired Mili’s dignity in accepting this misfortune. But his decision was aimed at thwarting Mr. Jayasinghe’s ambitions for him, even though it meant giving up his aspiration to study international relations abroad.

  I had got to know Mili’s mother, Charlotte, well. She was grateful Mili was invited so often to my house and reciprocated by having me to Sunday lunch every week. She was an excellent cook and made the old Burgher foods, like lamprais and bolo fiado, which I praised lavishly. She would often say to her son, “Now, see, Mili, what a polite boy Shivan is,” as if he was not. I often came in my grandmother’s car and after lunch would take Mrs. Jayasinghe shopping or to visit relatives.

  A few days after I had met Tudor Jayasinghe, Mili’s mother and I were in the car together when she said, “I understand you bumped into my husband.”

  I nodded, taken aback Mili had mentioned it, given the mistress was there.

  She smiled faintly. “It was my husband who told me. He called this morning.” Seeing my surprise, she added, “Tudor and I have been married twenty-six years. We raised Mili together. You can’t just erase all that time, no matter how much you might want to. That woman knows it, which is why she persuaded Tudor to put me out on the street. It eats away at her that I won’t give him a divorce.

  “The thing is, son,” she said, changing the subject to relieve me of my discomfort, “you are a good influence on Mili. I have noticed how happy he is since you returned. Tudor also knows the effect you are having on our son. We both feel it’s not right for Mili to give up his education because I have been cast off. I’ve begged Mili to take up his father’s offer and go to university, or at minimum work in his firm. Human rights work pays so poorly and is very risky. I worry so much about him, given all the madness that is happening right now, the dangers to anyone who speaks up. I wish you could persuade him to give it up.”

  I leaned towards her confidentially. “I am very glad you brought this up, aunty. Perhaps I could persuade Mili to come and study in Toronto. After all, since I am there, it might be an incentive.”

  “Ah, son,” she pressed my arm, “if you could only persuade him. My husband and I would be eternally grateful.”

  I assured her that I would speak to him the next time I had the chance.

  Yet before I could follow up on my promise, the world around us suddenly fell apart.

  18

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Mili was supposed to come for dinner one evening but did not show up. I waited on the verandah an hour, then telephoned his home. Mrs. Jayasinghe told me he had been held up at the office, but when I called there the line was constantly busy. I could not keep Rosalind waiting any longer, so I ate with a book propped in front of me. My gaze kept wandering towards the verandah, as if I expected Mili to materialize there.

  The phone rang just as I was finishing my meal, and I rushed to get it.

  “Shivan,” Mili said curtly, “something has happened. I’m not coming tonight.”

  “What is it?” I heard raised voices in the background. “Where are you?”

  “At the office. I have to be careful what I say.”

  No matter how much I pressed him, he would not tell me any more. The phone, he said, could be tapped.

  After he abruptly got off the line, I went to sit on the verandah. Despite what Mili had said, I was still hoping he would come over and tell me what had happened. Finally, Rosalind began to lock up the house, and I went to bed so she could too.

  I lay with hands under my neck, staring at the fan’s shifting patterns on the ceiling. A few hours later I was woken up by a soft knocking at my window. Mili stood outside, his face obscured by the dark.

  I let myself carefully out a side door, then we walked in silence along the driveway and stopped under the canopy of an araliya tree a good distance from the house. His eyes were jaundiced in the moonlight. He put his arms around me, his body shaking as I held him. Finally he pulled away and lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. After he had taken a few puffs, exhaling deeply, he told me what had happened.

  That afternoon, Ranjini had gone home for lunch but not returned to the office. Finally Sri got worried and had one of the secretaries at Kantha call Ranjini’s house. Her mother answered and said she’d assumed Ranjini had eaten at work or gone out with her colleagues. A quiet dread gripped the office. Sriyani left in her car, taking the route Ranjini usually walked home to see if there’d been an accident along the way. Mili and Sri set out on his motorcycle along an alternate route. Someone called the hospitals to find out if she had been admitted.

  Then just before the end of the work day, they received a call from a Catholic priest in Negombo. One of his parishioners, a fisherman, had found Ranjini’s body on the beach and brought her purse to him.

  I stared at Mili, unable to comprehend his words for a moment. “Are you … are they sure it’s her?”

  He nodded. “The priest found some business cards in her purse and contacted Kantha, suspecting she had been killed because of her work.”

  After that, the police had moved rapidly. They claimed she was raped and strangled; they knew of her relationship with Sri. He was taken into custody and charged with killing his girlfriend in a fit of jealousy when he found out she was betrothed to her cousin.

  “But it doesn’t make sense, Mili,” I whispered. “Why Ranjini?”

  “Isn’t it obvious,” he said with irritation. “An example had to be made of someone, and she already had a record with the Special Task Force. Her death is another warning to all of us in human rights. To stop sniffing around.”

  The shadows around us seemed to swell, as if a more potent darkness was pouring into them. Some rodent rustled in the bushes nearby.

  “I must go,” Mili said.

  “Please, you have to give up this work, you have to stop.”

  He did not appear to hear me. As he started down the driveway I made to go after him. Not glancing back, he signalled me to stay where I was. Mili disappeared into the shadows and then, as if emerging out of water, hauled himself up the moonlit gate and, careful to avoid the spikes, dropped down the other side.

  I barely slept that night and was exhausted by the morning. We were at breakfast when my grandmother peered at her newspaper and gave a small surprised sound. “Look at this,” she said to Rosalind, who was placing a glass of thambili before her. “See what happens when you disobey your family.”

  Rosalind glanced at the paper. “What does it say, Loku Nona?”

  “Evidently, this girl was promised to her cousin but having an affair w
ith some Tamil man. When the lover found out about the betrothal, he killed and violated her. Can you imagine? What a state of affairs!”

  I picked up a piece of toast, then put it down.

  “Aiyo, Loku Nona, what is wrong with the young today?”

  My grandmother thrust the article at me. “See, Shivan, see what this girl has come to.”

  Ranjini’s bruised and bloated face was like one of those lacquered exorcism masks, eyes bulging, mouth grotesquely misaligned because of a broken jaw, hair a snarl of river snakes.

  “Well, she deserved it,” my grandmother declared. “This is what happens when you lose your virtue and carry on like a vesi.”

  The bile rose swiftly in me. I pushed back my chair and ran from the table, hand over mouth. I fell to my knees in the bathroom, lifted up the toilet seat just in time and vomited into the commode.

  When my stomach had stopped heaving, I sat back on my haunches, breathing harshly.

  “Shivan, Puthey, did you eat something bad?” My grandmother hovered in the doorway, our ayah behind her. “Aiyo, I hope you’re not coming down with dysentery. Shall I get Rosalind to mix some lime juice and salt to settle your stomach?”

  “Leave me alone,” I yelled at her, “just leave me the hell alone.” Feeling another wave of nausea rising up, I shoved the door shut in her astounded face and threw up again.

  I had to go out that morning to see about our Nugegoda property.

  The tenant, Miss Balasuriya, was a retired teacher who had taken the bungalow before the steep rise in inflation, and before Nugegoda became a desirable place to live. Because of rent control, my grandmother could not get market value. Whenever she visited, the two women had a row, my grandmother claiming she was being robbed blind, Miss Balasuriya accusing her landlady of not doing repairs in the hope she would be forced to leave. This, unfortunately, was true. The roof leaked, the floor was pitted and needed a new coat of cement, the toilet was broken and a bucket of water had to be used to flush it. The night before my visit, a beam in the roof that was already cracked had given way. A shower of tiles and dirt had tumbled into the living room, leaving a gaping hole.