The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  All my charm and diplomacy had not softened Miss Balasuriya, a brittle stick of a woman with a lean, sour face and eyes that were permanent slits of dissatisfaction. When I arrived, she rushed out onto the front stoop screaming, “Do you think I am an animal? Is this the Dehiwala zoo? How can a human being live here?”

  Usually I would have given her a placating smile and said some soothing words, but today I pushed past and went into the living room. She followed, and as I stood gazing at the broken roof she continued her tirade, calling me a vulture, a hooligan, a slum landlord. Finally I rounded on her and yelled, “Why don’t you shut up, you dried old spinster?”

  She was shocked, then rallied herself. “Ah-ah, but look at the way you speak to me. I am a teacher, I am respectable. Who are you? The grandson of a woman who is no better than a Mutwal fishwife.”

  “If you don’t like it here, go and find another home.”

  “That will never happen. You will have to drag me kicking and screaming from this house.”

  “That can be arranged, you know.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Really? All I have to do is give the word to our man.”

  “You think this is some banana republic, some Soviet dictatorship? That there is no rule of law in this country?”

  “There isn’t,” I cried, my voice splintering, “there isn’t a rule of law.” I laughed. “You claim to be an educated woman, but have you no eyes to see what is going on? Do you think you are living in the old Sri Lanka? That country is no more. This is a banana republic, this is a dictatorship!”

  She was gaping at me. I turned away embarrassed and walked towards the front door. Miss Balasuriya followed. As I went down the steps she asked in a tired voice, “So, will you have the problem fixed?”

  “Yes,” I said without looking around. “I’ll send a roof-baas this afternoon.”

  As the car took me home, we passed a school where the kindergarten was getting out. Little children in frilly dresses and brightly coloured shorts, handkerchiefs pinned to shirt and blouse fronts, stood with their parents at the bus stop or crowded around an Alerics ice cream cart. In the playground, their delighted shrieks trailed them like ribbons as they chased each other.

  The world out there seemed so untroubled, but how swiftly it had changed for me. And yet, remembering the 1983 riots, I was not surprised. Things did change swiftly in this country.

  “Mahattaya, are you alright?”

  The driver was frowning at me in the rear-view mirror. Without realizing it, I had been thumping my head against the window frame.

  I found my grandmother and Rosalind in her bedroom going through saris in the almirah, picking out ones for the temple poor.

  “Ah, did everything go well with that Balasuriya woman?” my grandmother asked, not looking at me. She was annoyed at my earlier rudeness.

  “A roof beam has broken in the living room. There is a hole.”

  “Good! Let’s see how long she lasts now, that blood-sucking leech.”

  “Actually, I’m going to ask a baas to fix it.”

  “Why would you do that? This is a perfect opportunity to get rid of that woman. She can’t last there now.”

  “She’s not an animal, you know.” My anger was returning. “She has been a loyal tenant all these years and deserves to be treated better. After all, she is a lady, a teacher.”

  My grandmother pressed her lips together. She was going to say something, but I continued, unable to stop myself. “And that girl who was killed, the one in the newspaper, her name is Ranjini. I knew her. And she’s not a vesi,” I added, seeing their shocked looks. “She was not killed by her boyfriend. She’s a human rights worker who had become a nuisance to the government.”

  My grandmother took out a sari and passed it to Rosalind, her hands trembling. “She’s a friend of yours?”

  “Actually, she’s a friend of Mili’s, a colleague.” Now I was wishing I had kept my mouth shut.

  “But how can that be? The papers didn’t mention anything about human rights. Why would they print a lie?” She held on to the bedpost. “This woman, Ranjini, you said she was a colleague of the Jayasinghe boy? But what is the son of Tudor Jayasinghe doing at this organization? Isn’t he just back from university abroad? Isn’t he working for his father?”

  I played with the bunch of keys I was carrying. I’d kept Mili’s work from her so far, knowing she would disapprove. “He works for the human rights organization run by Sriyani Karunaratne.”

  “Are you involved with this group?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Please, Puthey,” her voice cracked with worry, “don’t get involved with those people.”

  “Those people are my friends,” I said quietly. “I liked Ranjini so much, and she liked me too. She used to call me Shivan-malli.”

  My grandmother gave me a keen look, which I held until she dropped her gaze and returned to sorting saris, her hands still shaking.

  “And I am involved, because I care a lot for Mili.”

  She didn’t appear to hear me, frowning as if lost in thought.

  Mili did not phone the next day, nor return my call. I decided to give him some time to himself and hoped that he would miss me. A part of me was relieved at this break. I was frightened to face him, already sensing what this murder had done to our happiness.

  In the days that followed, the government-controlled newspapers reported on Ranjini’s funeral. There was a photograph of her mother, hair let loose to signify her grief, shrieking her anguish to the skies as other weeping women kept her from collapsing. There was also a photograph of the intended bridegroom standing soberly by the grave.

  My grandmother was observing me closely, and I avoided being alone with her. Rosalind had stopped putting out an extra place setting at dinner, on her instructions I was sure.

  I had nothing to do with my evenings now but sit on the verandah reading a novel. My grandmother gave up going to bed early, so great was her worry. She took to sitting at the other end of the verandah with Rosalind. The ayah massaged her mistress’s feet and they talked about temple affairs—the drunkenness of the podi hamuduruwo, the pettiness and in-fighting on the various committees. Often I would find my eyes had drifted to the front gate and I was staring broodingly at it. Then I would catch myself and return to my book, aware the women had fallen silent and were watching me.

  The strain of my grandmother’s worry finally made her speak to me one afternoon at lunch.

  “I know you are fond of that Jayasinghe boy, Puthey,” she said, as Rosalind served us, “but it is a good thing he has not been coming by. You have to be careful.” She made to put her hand on my arm, then stopped herself when she saw my expression. “These are difficult times for our government, what with those pariah Tamil Tigers in the north, the Indians trying to take over our country and now the JVP gaining support in the south. The government has to take a firm hand, otherwise our country will fall apart. And all these busybodies going around criticizing the government and shaming us in front of Western countries, they’re all naive and foolish. Traitors, nah, showing us in a bad light to Europeans and—” She caught herself, and this time she did pat my arm. “I am glad you and that Jayasinghe boy are not friends anymore.”

  “We are still friends.” My voice rang brokenly. “Mili is my best friend, one of the people I love most in the world.”

  “No, Shivan, no, you must cease contact with him. I insist.”

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t do that. I will not let Mili down when he needs me most.”

  She leaned back in her chair, gazing at me sideways, head cocked and nostrils flared to some dawning knowledge. Then she got up and left the table, lips set in a thin line.

  “Friends are people who stand by each other in hard times, Aacho,” I called after her, my pain making me reckless, uncaring of what she felt or surmised. “No, I will not let Mili down in his moment of need.”

  My declaration made me decide to go and s
ee Mili that evening. We had been apart four days. It was too long.

  When I arrived at his home, a Mercedes-Benz was parked outside. Though the windows were tinted, I could see Tudor Jayasinghe’s mistress in the back.

  Mili’s parents were seated on the sofa talking in low voices, and they stood up in surprise when I entered the flat.

  “Ah, son, how nice to see you.” His father shook my hand.

  “Shivan!” Mrs. Jayasinghe came and took me by the elbow. “Aiyo, son, I am so glad you are here. Can you please help us? It’s Mili—I’m at my wits’ end.”

  “Talk to him, make him see sense,” Tudor Jayasinghe urged.

  Mrs. Jayasinghe guided me to a chair by the sofa, then husband and wife sat again, leaning forward.

  “He has been in there for the last few days and barely comes out,” she continued. “Since yesterday he hasn’t had a thing to eat. Aiyo, I don’t know what to do. I have knocked and knocked on the door, but he just won’t let me in. He won’t even answer. Get him to come out, Shivan. He’ll listen to you.”

  “I’ll try, aunty,” I said in a low voice, “but perhaps it’s best if you both left for a few hours.”

  “Yes, yes, good idea, son.” His father stood up.

  Mrs. Jayasinghe got her purse and flicked a comb through her hair. She made up a tray for Mili of crackers, cheese and thambili. All this while, her husband waited by the door, and when she was ready she asked caustically, “Why are you still here, Tudor?”

  “But don’t you want a lift?”

  “Get in your car with that woman? You must be mad. I’ll take a trishaw to my cousin’s.” She swept by him and went out.

  “Shivan,” he whispered before he left, “Mili must give up this work. I could not bear to lose him. He needs to get out of the country. Charlotte was telling me about your idea of university in Toronto. I would happily pay all his expenses. Please convince him to apply.”

  In the disarray of these last few days I had forgotten the idea. But the thought of Mili safe in Toronto softened a brittle tightness in my ribs I had not even been aware of.

  Once they had left, I called out, “They’re gone.”

  I heard the bed creak, the shuffle of his slippers. Mili unlocked his door and pushed aside the curtain in the doorway. He was wearing a crumpled sarong and singlet. His beard had grown out in irregular tufts.

  “Ah, Mili.” I took him in my arms. His hair smelt of slightly rancid Brylcreem. He waited motionless until I let him go, then sat at the table and began to eat and drink what his mother had put out, chewing in that deliberate, slightly disgusted way of an invalid. I sat across from him, worried at how he had changed, at his indifference to me, yet also aware, after this short absence, of that settled feeling I always had in his presence.

  “They wouldn’t let us go to her funeral, Shivan, can you believe it? Ranjini’s parents forbade us because we abetted her affair with Sri.” He dragged the back of his hand along his beard in a curve from one sideburn to the other, something so poignant and vulnerable and childlike in this gesture. “And what did my mater and pater ask you to tell me, ah?

  “Come on, Shivan,” he pressed, when I tried to look innocent, “I could hear you all koosoo-koosoo-fying.”

  “They want you to give up this human rights work and go to university.”

  He gave a small “hah,” then lit a cigarette. He looked at me under lowered eyelids. “And you agree with them?”

  “Mili, for God’s sake, don’t put it like that.” My fear made me exasperated. “Your parents and I, we love you, we’re frightened. We don’t want you to end up dead on a beach like Ranjini. I couldn’t bear it,” I added beseechingly, but he seemed unmoved by my personal appeal.

  “To give up now would be exactly what this government wants. I won’t be a coward.”

  “It’s not a question of bloody cowardliness. It’s about prudence. I have talked to your parents about university in Canada. Your father is willing to pay for the whole thing. Think about it, we could live together and be happy. The University of Toronto has an excellent international development program. With that degree, you could come back and work for the UN or even open your own NGO.” I sensed him weakening and pressed forward. “Mili, this rebellion against your father has to stop. Even your mother is against your—”

  He was staring at me in shock. “I didn’t know you saw my work as merely rebellion.”

  “But you’re not being sensible, you’re not. I’m just frightened for you and—”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve changed since taking up your grandmother’s work, strutting around like a big mahattaya. The Cinnamon Gardens tone you use with waiters, even your driver, it’s disgusting. The way you flash your money around, paying for things, buttering up my mother with your car.”

  Now it was my turn to stare at him in shock.

  “And I suppose you want me to be like you. Work at my pater’s firm, help exploit those women in his garment factories. You’re so impressed by my pater’s good-old-chap manners, calling you son and everything. But does he give a damn about those poor women? That stingy bastard makes so much money off them and he can’t buy a fucking bus to transport them to their boarding houses after a late shift. So they have to walk in the dark and be harassed by men. But I suppose you think that’s alright, don’t you, Shivan? What about your grandmother’s business? Don’t tell me it’s all clean and above board. You can’t get rich by being honest and ethical.” He was shouting now.

  I stood up, my chair grating back across the floor. “I’m not going to listen to you when you’re being irrational and cruel.”

  “Then get out. Go, because you can’t bear to face the truth.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing! You’re such a self-involved arsehole. Hasn’t it struck you that I, too, might be mourning Ranjini?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  He went into his room and slammed the door. I was stunned. I had been certain he would ultimately capitulate, as he always did with me. I waited, hoping he would come out. But he didn’t, and finally I left.

  I did not hear from Mili for the next few days and I could not bring myself to call him or go to his place. I was frightened by his contempt for me.

  My grandmother continued to watch me suspiciously, but I was too involved in my own predicament to pay her much attention. I stayed away from the house as much as possible, not having the energy for a confrontation—as there certainly would be—if she tried again to make me break with Mili.

  A few days later, Sriyani hosted a small gathering for her workers to celebrate Ranjini’s life and offer some consolation for being barred from the funeral. Her assistant called and invited me, too. The thought of meeting Mili was frightening, yet I could not miss the opportunity to see if he had relented at all. As the driver took me to Cinnamon Gardens, the nervousness I had suppressed all day flooded in, giving me a sudden headache.

  Sriyani was at her usual place on the verandah greeting guests. Her husband was not present, probably away on business. When I got to her, she said, “Ah, Shivan, welcome,” then turned quickly to greet someone else. I did not know if she was just upset or distracted, but there seemed a new reserve in her manner.

  Mili was seated in the sunken mada midula with the other workers from Kantha. He glanced in my direction as I walked towards them, then continued chatting with a fellow guest. The others called out greetings when I reached the steps.

  Mili spun around to face me. “Ah, machan! Here you are!”

  The hearty “machan” put an immediate barrier between us. He tried to rise, but stumbled and fell against the pillows. The others laughed.

  “What, Mili, drunk already?” Dharshini said, giving him a playful rap on the head.

  He grinned sloppily.

  I walked down the steps with a tight smile and then stood, not knowing where to sit. Mili gestured in a loose way to a gap between him and another worker on the floor. “Come, come, machan.” />
  There wasn’t much space and we were pressed close, the wet heat of his body against mine, his musky smell of baby powder and sweat strong. I felt a great longing push up in me, which turned to misery at the alienation between us.

  “We haven’t seen you in a while,” said Avanthi, the student from America. The others nodded in agreement.

  I gave them a diffident smile. “I’ve been a bit busy with my grandmother, helping her out.”

  “You’re really great, machan,” Mili cried. “I mean, you’re so good to your grandmother.”

  I held his gaze to see if he was being conciliatory, but he smiled back in a hard, bright way.

  The others resumed their conversation about the cricket matches to be played in Colombo between India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. There was some change in their faces I could not name, except to say it was like a shifting of bones, a new spareness. The only one who seemed untouched by the tragedy was Sriyani, who came to join her guests and sat in a planter’s chair with that serene, distant smile.

  I soon realized that with the exception of Sriyani they were all quite drunk. When they picked up glasses, alcohol sloshed on the floor. Their laughter was slightly hysterical, bodies leaning into each other for support; cashews and peanuts missed mouths and fell unnoticed in laps. The discussion about cricket was becoming heated, workers sparring over whether Sri Lanka’s captain was the man to lead the team, or if that position should go to their star bowler.

  My misery was suddenly unbearable. I excused myself and went upstairs to use the toilet. When I came out, Mili was leaning against the wall, gazing at his feet. A sconce cast a glow on his shoulders, hands and silky hair, as if he were lit from within. He started to cry, his shoulders convulsing. I went to touch him, but he moved away with a hiss, as if my hand would burn.

  After a while, he shrugged and gave a bitter smile. “The whole world has gone mad. There is nothing to believe in anymore.”

  “There is us.”

  He grimaced wryly and walked past me. Yet when he got to the stairs, he glanced back at me with a timid look, which gave me the courage to go, the next evening, to his home.