The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  Then we were alone. Mili and I stared at each other as if neither knew what to do. “This is quite a place,” I said.

  Mili grinned. “Yes, a bloody whorehouse.”

  I put my arms around him and pressed my crotch into his. “And here we are, a couple of whores.”

  He brushed his hand across my forehead, then gently kissed my eyes, cheeks, nose and throat before slipping his tongue into my mouth.

  After we had made love, Mili propped himself up against the headboard and I sat between his legs, leaning back against his chest as he smoked, his breath tickling the top of my ears. “I have a little surprise for you,” he said after a while. “I asked Sriyani for the beach house.”

  “She said yes?” I asked, half turning.

  “Of course. Why not?” He gave me a puzzled look.

  I pressed back against him and squeezed his knee. “No reason. That’s great. How nice of Sriyani. When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow, after work. I have asked for a few days off. I need time to think.” He grinned teasingly at my inquiring look. He was not going to share his thoughts with me yet.

  We spent the rest of the day together, having tea at the Mount Lavinia Hotel and a beer at our regular beach cabana. By the time Mili dropped me off at my grandmother’s house, the last red glow in the sky was purpling, shadows moving swiftly over everything. I was reluctant to let him go, dreading the tense silence between my grandmother and me.

  After he left, I opened the gate wearily and started to make my way up the driveway. Rosalind rose from a bench in the garden and gestured for me to stop.

  “Baba,” she whispered as she came up to me, “please, don’t go inside.” She shook her head. “You cannot go inside.”

  “Why Rosalind?” I gripped her elbow. “What has happened?”

  She began to cry, wiping her face on the edge of her sarong. “It pains me too much to say it.”

  I walked rapidly up the driveway, the skitter and crunch of gravel loud in the still evening. The verandah was deserted, and when I entered the saleya it was dark. I started towards my room. A lamp was switched on and I turned to find my grandmother seated in an armchair, hands folded in her lap, face stony.

  “So, you’re back.” There was something very tired in her voice.

  “I’ve been out.” I swallowed hard. “Out with Mili.”

  “Yes, I know.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I know exactly where you have been. Chandralal had you followed by one of his golayas.”

  She nodded at my shocked expression, then her face flooded with anguish. “That Jayasinghe boy, taking my obedient, innocent grandson and changing him into this grotesque …” She made a disgusted sound. “I cannot even say the word.” She leaned forward in her chair. “How could you be so gullible, Puthey? How could you let yourself be led into such corruption?”

  “Mili didn’t corrupt me.” I laughed briefly, still stunned. “I’m like this. It is my nature.”

  My grandmother shook her head. “Nonsense, nonsense. The Jayasinghe boy has bad blood. Though the father’s side is good, the mother is a Burgher, it’s all that vile European blood. You are my grandson, you cannot be that way.” Yet there was a helpless plea in her denial.

  “It’s not Mili or his blood. I live like this in Canada.”

  She struggled to her feet. “You are saying such a horrible thing to mock and punish me. All you want to do is break the heart of an old woman who has been nothing but good to you.”

  “You call the way you have treated me good?” My head was flooding now with a white heat at the thought of her asking that thug to spy on me, to violate Mili and my privacy. “Do you know how much I hated those afternoons in your room as a child? Do you know how much I hated going around with you on all your errands, looking at those thuppai properties? Do you think I did any of it out of love? You must be mad. I don’t love you. I have never loved you.”

  My grandmother let out a cry. “Your mind is clouded, ruined by that Jayasinghe boy.”

  “No, Aacho, I don’t love you,” I continued in an awful, reasonable tone. “I have never loved you.”

  She hobbled away in the direction of her bedroom, but I went after her, still speaking in that sensible, wounding tone. “If I had not bent to you, we would have been thrown out onto the street, or so I thought as a child. And you knew I was thinking like that and took advantage of my innocence. You used my fear to get me where you wanted me to be.”

  “Stop yourself before you say anything you cannot take back,” she cried, turning to me. “Don’t do what your mother did, I beg you.”

  “Whatever my mother did, you drove her to do it.”

  She gave me a haunted, helpless look, then went into her bedroom.

  The house felt stifling. I could not bear to be there anymore. I went out to the garden and paced the dark lawn, the dew-heavy grass hush-hushing beneath my feet. I was planning my next moves with a steadiness that surprised me, the steadiness that comes when you finally speak a truth. “How easy it was, how easy,” I said to myself with wonder as I picked up an araliya flower that had fallen on the lawn and looked at the brown stains where its petals had been crushed.

  I would tell Mili everything at the beach house. Then, when we returned from our holiday, I would ask Sriyani to take me in for a while, explaining why. I was also going to urge Mili again to study in Canada. Some shift was happening in him and I hoped to influence that change. If he still refused, then I would stay on in Colombo. I had not given up my Sri Lankan citizenship and could find work here. With my foreign education, my family name, my facility in English, I had plenty of options.

  20

  MILI AND I WERE TO LEAVE THE NEXT EVENING after he finished work. Our plan was to stay four days, taking in the weekend.

  The morning felt long without any work to do. I tried reading but it was impossible to concentrate. I would not venture into the saleya. Every time my grandmother’s footsteps came towards my room, I felt that hot white anger flooding me, then relief when she passed on in another direction. While I exulted in this newfound cruelty towards her, at the same time I was frightened by it.

  Finally my grandmother summoned Rosalind and informed her she had some errands to run and would be back for a late lunch. I made sure to have my meal early, then visited a bookstore in the afternoon and had a long tea at one of the hotels. I returned home in the early evening when I knew she would be visiting the temple. I had already packed and hidden the knapsack under my bed. I sat down to write my grandmother a letter in Sinhala.

  Dear Aachi,

  I have gone away for a few days with Mili to plan what we will do next. When I return, I am going to ask Mrs. Karunaratne if I can move in with her for a little while. She is generous, always giving out rooms to people in need, as I am now. Beyond that, I don’t know what I will do. My days in Sri Lanka might be over—and you have yourself to blame for this.

  With loving respect,

  Shivan

  When I heard Mili’s motorcycle at the gate, I put the note on the dining table and ran down to the front gate.

  I was panting when I got outside and Mili squinted at me quizzically. “Are you alright?”

  I nodded, slipped the knapsack around my shoulders and put on the spare helmet.

  We rode south through Colombo and soon left its urban sprawl behind. The motorway was open to the sea on one side. I held Mili close, enjoying the speed of the motorcycle beneath us, its power, feeling the slip and slide of his cotton shirt against his ribs as he shifted with the curve of the road. The cool ocean air smelt of freshly grated coconut.

  It was dark when we got to the beach house. Piyasena came rushing to open the gate, smiling shyly in welcome. Our dinner was ready and suddenly we were starving. Piyasena had made crab curry, and when I expressed my delight he said he remembered how much I had liked it the last time.

  Later, after Piyasena left, we sat on the front verandah sipping beer, listening to the ocean thunder against the be
ach. Nothing was visible beyond the light by the back gate, but then the moon rose and the sand began to glimmer like some awakening scaly beast. We went down to the beach, let our sarongs fall around our ankles and ran naked into the waves. Because of the currents at night, we stayed close to the shore, crouching in the water, our knees and thighs grazing the bottom when we swam. Mili drew me to him and we made love in the water.

  As we floated in the waves afterwards, I told Mili all that had happened with my grandmother. And though it frightened me to tell him our relationship was no longer a secret, I felt the lightening of my burden. We were now in this together. When I finished, Mili turned and struck for the shore. I gave him some time, then followed. He was slipping on his sarong when I reached him, tying its ends into a knot at his waist. I sat on the sand by him, still naked, and lightly touched his calf. “There is nowhere to run, Mili. What has happened cannot be changed. You might as well sit down by me so we can talk.”

  After a moment, he lowered himself to the sand, and I could see in the moonlight that his eyes were lustrous with alarm.

  “I am going to visit Sriyani when I return,” I said, “tell her everything and ask if I can stay with her a little while.” I shifted so my shoulder was touching his.

  “Sriyani knows too?”

  “She put two and two together.” I spared him her opinion that everyone knew about him.

  “But you know, Mili, my days in Sri Lanka might be numbered. I might have to return to Canada. And I wish you would consider coming too, sometime soon.”

  Mili played with a shell, some emotion working in his face. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  He smiled ruefully and moved a strand of wet hair from my forehead. “Going abroad to study is something I wanted to think about this weekend.”

  Then he told me that a few days ago Sriyani had called her workers together and advised them to secure visas to whatever country they could get. They might have to leave suddenly if things got very bad, as they probably would. If the government did not make their lives hard, the JVP would, as it began to clamp down on all dissenters. Even she was thinking of taking up a fellowship at a university in England, one she had been offered before but turned down. If their long-term goal was to do some good in their country, then they had to accept that certain short-term battles must be lost.

  Mili had talked with Sriyani privately to see what she thought of his applying to universities abroad. She had urged him to do so; a degree would be useful when he returned. She was getting old. New leaders would be needed.

  “Did she mention what university she might do her fellowship at?” I asked.

  “No,” Mili replied, surprised by the question.

  Sriyani, I was sure, had no plans to leave. She was not going to abandon Sri Lanka and her cause. Yet she was giving the others a way out, and I could already see who would choose what. Dilan and Avanthi would return to America; Jagath and Dharshini would stay on, their ties too strong. Mili had been on the fence, but our relationship no longer being secret had pushed him towards leaving.

  I had been imagining the joy, the relief, I would feel if Mili agreed to my plan. But now what welled up was a great sadness. For Sri Lanka was changing rapidly and soon I would not know it anymore. Mili leaned over and lightly brushed his lips against mine, as if he sensed my sadness and shared it. We slept that night curled up together, each sighing in protest if the other pulled away.

  We talked more about our plans in the next two days, and a quiet optimism came to us. We allowed ourselves to drift into the somnolence of a beach holiday, the rhythm of the waves rocking us into torpor.

  On our third morning we slept in later than usual. Finally Mili nudged me, whispering it was getting late and Piyasena must be making our breakfast.

  When we came out on the verandah, however, the table was not laid. I went to the kitchen. Piyasena was not there. “Strange,” Mili said. “I wonder if he got delayed.”

  I went through the kitchen cupboards and found a jar of Nescafé. Mili discovered the bread and cut some slices. When he took them out to the verandah, I leaned against the counter, eyes closed, an inexplicable fear thumping at the base of my throat.

  Mili returned to the kitchen and I quickly turned away to pour boiling water into cups and stir in the instant coffee. I was being ridiculous, I told myself. Everything was fine.

  “I wish I knew where he lived,” Mili said as we washed the dishes after eating. “I would go see.”

  “Maybe he had some family emergency.”

  “But what shall we do about lunch?”

  “Just … let’s give it some time. We can always go to a hotel.”

  Mili peered at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

  It would soon be too hot for swimming. We changed and went down to the sea. As we swam, I scanned the beach. I wanted to share this unease with Mili but felt articulating my fears would bring them to life.

  A group of men approached in the distance, their forms wavering behind a shimmering curtain of heat. I felt a throb of fear. But they were just fishermen. They waved as they passed by, and I waved back, feeling foolish.

  Piyasena had not turned up by lunch, and since we were too hot and tired for a trip into town, we dug around the fridge and found some cheese and Elephant House ham, which we had with the remaining bread.

  That afternoon Mili fell asleep immediately, but I lay there, the heavy stickiness of his thigh over mine, listening to the sigh of his breath. After a while, the thump-thump of the ceiling fan wore down my vigilance and I closed my eyes.

  A clicking sound awakened me. Mili had rolled over to the other side of the bed, snoring lightly. I raised my head from the pillow. Someone was fiddling with the latch at the gate.

  I slid into my slippers and crept out of the room. As I walked along the side verandah, I could see a man’s bare feet under the takaran-covered gate. He heard me approaching down the driveway and stopped trying to undo the latch.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ah, mahattaya, Piyasena, your man, sent me. He is detained. His wife is sick.”

  “Oh,” I said with relief, “we were wondering what had happened.” I lifted the latch and pulled the gate back, enough for him to enter.

  The man was in his twenties, with the stringy muscled body of a fisherman, dressed in sarong and banyan. He smiled at me. “Are you the mahattaya from Canada?”

  I nodded and waited for him to come in. But he stood there smiling, and it took me a moment to realize he was holding a knife inches from my stomach. Its dark blade glinted along the edge where the sun caught it. I let out a grunt of surprise. “Shh, mahattaya,” he said, then gave a low whistle. Some men materialized from behind a clump of trees on the other side of the road. They were carrying heavy gnarled sticks and the short axes used for splitting coconuts. They, too, were dressed in banyans, sarongs hiked and tied above knees, prepared for a demanding task. One of them had a small black gun that looked curiously harmless, like a plastic water pistol. He wore bright blue pleated pants and a garishly pink flowered shirt and appeared to be the leader. He signalled for the men to cross the road.

  My aggressor had also turned his head to watch them, and in that instant I shoved him away, leapt back and slammed the gate shut. He cried out, threw himself against it and managed to slip his arm through. I leaned my weight into the gate, his arm waving about like a tentacle, the other men shouting encouragement at him as they rushed over. His fingers brushed my face, my chest, and then he got me by the shirt. With a ripping sound, he pulled me to him, gripping my neckline so tight, the material burnt along my collarbone and I gasped. In that instant, the man pushed against the gate, I fell back and they charged in.

  The man with the knife locked my arms in a hold from behind, hand over my mouth. He pressed the blade against my neck and my entire world was reduced to that cool, sharp point, my skin fragile as tissue paper. “Our quarrel is not with you, mahattaya
,” he panted in my ear. “Please don’t struggle. Our instructions are not to hurt you.”

  I jerked in shock, understanding who had sent them. The man held me even tighter. His breath had the leafy tang of bulath and he smelt of dried, salted fish.

  The men had shut the gate and were darting towards the house, crouched low, their feet a muffled thudding on the sand. I began to struggle, no longer caring about the knife. “Please, mahattaya,” the man said, and now he actually moved the knife away, afraid to hurt me, “please do not make this difficult.”

  I broke from him, his nails scraping a jagged seam across my arm, and I ran towards the house.

  The other men had already entered, and I heard Mili’s shout of surprise. There was a scuffle, something fell over, the ringing of brass hitting the cement floor. I raced through the house to the bedroom, shoving the door so hard it crashed into the wall. The men turned, startled. As if time had stopped, I took in Mili, half lifted off the floor, arms held splayed by two thugs, another bent to grasp his legs which were out before him, his heels digging down to find some purchase on the polished floor. His shorts had slipped down, revealing his lean hipbones.

  “Shivan, get away, get away.”

  Mili kicked out and the men came into action. They tried to subdue his limbs, one of them yelling to the man who had the knife, “Grab his legs, you ponnaya. Don’t stand there.” The man gripped Mili’s ankles but he kicked him backwards.

  “Let him go,” I cried. “I know who sent you. It was Chandralal.”

  Mili started at the name, and in that instant the men took advantage of his surprise and secured their hold. He gave in, limp in their arms.