The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “Shivan?” my mother said, after she got out.

  I did not move. My sister opened the trunk and began to take the bags out. “No, Renu, no.” Summoning up a burst of energy, I struggled out of the car, seized the bags from her and lumbered up the driveway, ignoring my family’s warnings not to strain myself.

  I had to wait for one of them to unlock the door, then I lurched down our hallway and dropped the bags by the dining table.

  “You must be starving, Shivan,” my mother said. “Why don’t you have a quick shower and I’ll feed you.”

  “No, Amma, they gave us a meal before we landed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am, thank you,” I replied formally, suddenly nervous to look at them, nervous at what they might secretly think of my role in Mili’s death. “It’s late,” I added, even though it was only nine o’clock. “You both have things to do tomorrow. I … I think I’ll just have a shower and go to bed.” I reached for my bags. Again my sister came forward to help, again I shooed her away. “I’m alright from here, thank you.”

  My mother signalled Renu to let me manage. “Well, if you get hungry during the night, there is milk and cereal, or crackers and cheese. Also lots of Sri Lankan leftovers, though I suppose you are tired of that food.”

  “Thank you.” I stumbled with my suitcases to the basement door.

  “Son.”

  I turned to my mother.

  “If you need anything, wake us, okay?”

  “Yes, Shivan,” Renu added, “don’t suffer in silence.”

  I nodded, then went down to my bedroom.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I stood in the darkness, bags leaning against my legs like dogs sticking close to their master for comfort. I was afraid to turn on the light, as if something precious would vanish the moment I did. “This is silly,” I muttered, and fumbled for the switch.

  The basement flooded with fluorescent light, and there they were, my mattress with its scratchy brown-and-white comforter, my wobbly table teetering with old textbooks, the mossy-green tub chairs cratered with cigarette burns, that odour of damp carpet. I caught my fractured reflection in the mirrored squares and suddenly felt very tired. I lay on my bed for a while, then got undressed and took a shower. When it came time to use the scented aloe soap and citrus shampoo, I hesitated for a moment, feeling I was washing away the smell of Sri Lanka.

  By the time I had bathed and changed into a sarong, the footsteps above had ceased, my family gone upstairs to their bedrooms. A stifling quiet was all about me, like smoke. I went to stand at the window and look out through its bars at the back garden. I could hear water rushing in the gully, muted male laughter and the throb of music from down there. On the other side of the channel, the apartment buildings loomed; trees at the edge of a dark forest.

  I awoke at four in the morning, jetlagged, and lay in the dark, watching the dawn light gradually brighten my window, then fell back asleep and rose late.

  When I came upstairs, my mother was cooking our Saturday dinner, something she always did in the morning before going to the doughnut shop. Renu had gone for her weekend shift at the shelter. “Ah, how did you sleep?” my mother cried. “Do you want a coffee? Some cereal? Can I make you bacon and eggs?” She was frightened to be left alone with me, frightened she would fail me if I broke down. We had become that estranged over the years.

  “No, no, Amma,” I smiled to reassure her. “I can manage.”

  Once I had eaten my breakfast, taken a shower and changed, I sat in a tub chair not knowing what to do with myself. Finally, I went upstairs again. My mother was rushing about the kitchen, checking pots, chopping garlic. I watched her from the doorway for a while, then offered help. She assigned me to cut up the brinjals and we worked in silence. After a while, she clicked her tongue in annoyance, “Ttttch, I don’t have enough oil for frying.”

  I volunteered to get some from the Bridlewood Mall.

  As I walked through our neighbourhood, I felt separate from everything, encased in my shell of stillness. The low-income housing complex had even more detritus on the sidewalks—a ripped car seat, a mangled doll, a hamburger squashed underfoot. An old black woman knelt in one of the minuscule front gardens tending her flowers; in another, a white man, wearing a singlet and red-striped pyjamas, sprawled in a lawn chair, glaring ahead, beer in hand; two women in hijabs chatted in a doorway while their little girls played hopscotch on the pavement. At a dumpster, squirrels and pigeons were feasting on the contents of a ripped garbage bag, grey chicken skins baking in the sun.

  When I neared the Bridlewood Mall, my energy ran out. I could not bear to enter the building. Instead, I went to the pioneer cemetery in the corner of the parking lot and sat on a bench. As always, it was tranquil there. The surrounding trees still had their summer foliage, which gave the place an even greater feeling of being cut off from the world. I leaned forward, staring at the graves without seeing them. “I cannot bear it here,” I whispered. Rising in me was a great longing to be back in Sri Lanka and also, paradoxically, a revulsion against being there. These two irreconcilable feelings pressed tight against each other.

  The Monday after I returned, I went downtown to see if I could get any shifts at my old bookstore. The owner was pleased to see me, even though I had only informed him by mail of my extended stay in Sri Lanka. He did not have any vacancies. Walking farther along Queen Street, I saw a new store had sprung up that sold remaindered books. The tables and even the floor were cluttered with crooked piles of books; unvarnished shelves with protruding bolts and screws suggested a temporariness and haste. There was a Help Wanted sign by the cash register. The manager was behind the counter, and he warned me the store would be closing in a couple of months. He then offered me the job and I accepted. I would start the next day.

  In the weeks that followed, I drifted through neighbourhoods during my lunch break and after my shift, wandering down to the lake, up to Rosedale, west as far as the Mental Health Centre and east as far as the Don River. I had no destination in mind, just trudged along, hands in pockets, staring at the ground.

  Summer was in its last mad whirl, the Queen Street sidewalks crowded. Pavement stalls sold colourful Indian block-print skirts, Chinese paper and bamboo ornaments, silver bracelets and necklaces from Mexico. Already, the first knitted caps and scarves were beginning to make their appearance. There was a busker on every corner. Music students played violins and saxophones, swaying with self-importance; old men eked out melodies on accordions and mouth organs, their sad strains overpowered by the strident rhythms of seasoned buskers on guitars, banjos and ukuleles who would outlast young and old once the weather turned. Fire eaters and jugglers in medieval costumes performed to admiring crowds, a tarot card reader told fortunes in a parking lot under a gaily striped umbrella. On restaurant patios, revellers laughed and called to each other, couples kissed as if they were alone. The air was redolent with grilling hotdogs, sizzling fries and car fumes. I walked through all this encased in my still shell.

  When I got home in the evening, I’d be so exhausted I would go to bed and not come up for dinner. My mother tried a few times to rouse me, but I glared and turned over on my side. Eventually, she left me alone. On her last attempt, I caught a wry grimace of empathy as she went upstairs. My sister was hovering at the top step as if fearing contagion. “Tell him he has to eat,” she insisted in a high tone of annoyance, but my mother replied, “I’ll leave food in the fridge. He can have some later.” This was intended for me to hear. She understood my need to eat alone.

  Late at night, I would pace my basement, stopping to stare out the window, my mind frantic as it reconstructed various paths I might have taken that would have saved Mili. If only I had listened to Sriyani; if only I hadn’t pushed Mili to visit that house in Mount Lavinia; if only I had taken my grandmother’s anger and disgust at Mili more seriously. I should not have agreed to leave the bungalow once those thugs had taken him, I should have phoned Sriyani right awa
y instead of wasting time coming back to Colombo. I should not have trusted Chandralal’s assurances. And always, always, my thoughts returned to the terror in Mili’s face just before they dragged him away, his heels resisting against the cement floor. What did those men say to him? They must have told him he was to be taught a lesson for corrupting me, insulted him, called him a ponnaya. Did he hate me then? Did he curse me for putting my happiness before his safety? I would sit on the edge of my mattress, head in hands, unable to prevent myself from imagining the impact of their fists on his body, his face.

  I had told my grandmother that, through her selfishness, she had lost the thing she valued most. But I was no different. By placing my happiness first, I, too, had destroyed the thing I cherished.

  Once my mother said to me, as I was putting on my coat for work, “I just pray the resilience of youth will help you recover.” She leaned against the wall and studied her feet. “Would you consider seeing a counsellor? Renu says the … the gay community centre downtown might have a list.”

  I was surprised at this, but then my anger surged forward. “What do they know about Sri Lanka, or what I’ve been through? It’s all theory to them.”

  My mother nodded to say she understood. “I’m trying, Shivan,” she said softly. “I really am.” For a moment it seemed she wanted to say something more, but whatever it was, she couldn’t bring herself to utter it and turned away.

  A few weeks after I returned to Toronto, Renu left for Cornell. I had hardly seen her since I came back. She kept away from home with the excuse that friends were demanding her time and she had so much to arrange before her departure. When my sister finally stood in the hallway with her suitcases, waiting for our mother to come down, her eyes flitted about as if she found herself encumbered with an unruly class and was trying to keep track of her charges. She kept taking out her ticket and passport, frowning at them as if she didn’t know what they were. Renu dreaded being tainted by her family’s tragedies, and these last moments in our house were excruciating.

  In those final weeks of summer, the September evenings were as hot as the days even though the sun was now setting earlier and earlier. Asters and goldenrod offered up their last flowers along highways and roads, then began to shrivel and brown, a new sparseness coming to the world, nature drawing itself in for the approaching onslaught.

  And then in October, two months after I had returned, a letter arrived from Sriyani. When I opened it, an obituary for Mili fell into my lap. Mr. and Mrs. Jayasinghe had eventually given up hope his body might be found and held a memorial service. In the photo above the obituary, Mili was dressed again in our school blazer and tie and looked straight at the camera, his face blurred because of the cheap print. There was a note with the cutting: “I thought you might like to see this. Very sad. Would you like to write to his mother?” The accompanying address was for Mili’s old home in Cinnamon Gardens, and below Sriyani had added, “The only good thing to come out of Mili’s death is that his mother is back in her proper home. I doubt the father has given up his mistress, but it seems their common loss has brought them together. I might be coming your way one of these days. Sriyani.”

  This was her way of saying she had not forgotten me, that she hoped I was healing. I wanted to honour her gesture, but I couldn’t write to Charlotte Jayasinghe, even though I sat down a few times that evening to try.

  The next day, during my lunch break, I was walking along Queen Street when I saw a man on the other side who I thought, for an instant, was Mili, with a milk tea complexion, glossy black hair, his same elegant, loping stride. Some urge told me I must follow him, so I crossed over and trailed the man. He entered a comic store. I went in after him and stood at a rack close by so I could see his face. He had a rather bulbous nose and a small moustache, and I was disappointed. I had been hoping he would be a replica of Mili, or at least a close approximation. When he left the store, however, I shadowed him up McCaul Street to the Art Gallery of Ontario. He sat on the base of the Henry Moore sculpture in front of the gallery and read a Now magazine while I hung back by the entrance steps and watched him. He was soon joined by a woman. They kissed and went in together. I thought to follow, but having to pay admission brought me to my senses.

  I walked back to my job, an exhilaration taking hold of me that I didn’t understand. Around me the trees were beginning to bristle with red leaves, and a breeze with a hint of chill blew up from the lake.

  The bookstore closed. I joined a temp agency and, in late October, was posted to an insurance company for a three-month assignment, the only man in its filing department. The supervisor was white, the other workers middle-aged immigrant women from India, China, Iran and the Philippines. Our manager was obsessed with getting her nose fixed, though I could see nothing wrong with it. She also desperately wanted to adopt a baby from China and was indignant that the authorities questioned her suitability. The other women listened to her, cooing in sympathy, taking her hand and stroking it. They brought her sweets and cakes. I wondered if her petty dramas provided distraction from the anxieties of their own lives.

  I began a sexual relationship with a man I met on the elevator. His name was Paul, and he was good-looking in an insipid way, with white-blond hair and skin that reddened when touched. He’d graduated from the University of Toronto with a degree in Russian and recently spent time in Moscow. He had a boyfriend there named Yuri and was saving enough money to return and spend a year with him. Paul had an apartment close by, and we went there once or twice a week on our lunch hour. There was a framed photograph of Yuri on the dresser. He was also pale and blond, but with heavy features and a thick neck. While we got dressed after making love, Paul would talk soulfully about his Russian boyfriend, how he was counting the days to their reunion. I felt a hot prickle of anguish, like panic, as I listened to him speak of Yuri. For I, too, should have been dreaming of returning to Sri Lanka and Mili this fall, or counting the days until he joined me here.

  Within a month of her departure, Renu was threatening to return, writing that she was homesick for Canada. My mother replied with sympathetic but firm letters warning her not to give up the wonderful opportunity luck and talent had put in her lap. When my mother told me about this, I wondered if she understood that Renu had no intention of returning. Her declarations of homesickness were motivated by pity and guilt, meant to console us for being stuck here. I missed my sister’s fiery presence around the house, the whirlwind of her comings and goings, her certainty.

  Then she phoned one day towards the end of November. “Have you heard, Shivan?” she cried, when I came on the line. “Sriyani is coming to Toronto. She has been invited by the University of Toronto and Amnesty International to speak on the situation in Sri Lanka.”

  I was too taken aback to answer, recalling now that Sriyani had said she might be coming my way.

  “So, are you going to go?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Ttttch, Shivan, don’t be such a billa. You must go.”

  The university hall was crowded, a subdued hum of expectant chatter giving gravitas to the event. Most of the audience was Sri Lankan, though there was a scattering of white students—the kind who wore handmade toques, scarves and peasant blouses from South America and were earnestly interested in uplifting the “Third World.”

  The more affluent, integrated immigrants from Colombo sat in clusters near the front and spoke to each other in English. The men wore sweaters, ties, dress pants and sports jackets. A group of middle-aged ladies smiled and conversed with each other in an easy, familiar way, their hair backcombed, their blouses formal with shoulder pads and bows at the throat. I suspected they were Sriyani’s school friends, or were related to her. A large number of Jaffna Tamil men sat closer to the back, distinguishable because they spoke to each other in Tamil, were poorly dressed and wore unfashionably thick moustaches. There was also a contingent of South Asian students in the first rows who were probably members of the university’s Sri Lankan
Association. Looking at them, I felt how much older I had suddenly become.

  The back doors opened and Sriyani entered with a white woman who was her host. A ripple of silence followed them as they made their way down to the lecture pit. I watched her draw near to my row and felt a swell of longing for the smell and humid heat of Sri Lanka, for Mili, for the life I’d had there. Sriyani wore a heavy coat, which made her look frail and lost. Yet once the host had taken her jacket, I saw she was wearing her usual Barbara Sansoni shirt and slacks as if in defiance of the cold weather. And as she shuffled her papers on the lectern, then squared her shoulders, she became even more the poised woman I knew. While the host introduced her, she looked around the room with that distant smile of hers, transferring it to the host when the words of welcome were done.

  At first, Sriyani’s talk described nothing so different from what I had already heard discussed by the workers at Kantha—abuses by the Special Task Force, the Prevention of Terrorism Act, the atrocities committed by the Tigers. But then she mentioned a new development I hadn’t known about, having avoided any news of Sri Lanka. The conflict between the Tamil Tigers and the Indian Peace Keeping Force had reached a decisive point a month earlier in what was being called the Jaffna University Helidrop—an operation launched by the Indians to disarm the Tigers and secure Jaffna town. The guerilla leadership had been using a Jaffna University building as their tactical headquarters, and the plan was to drop three waves of Indian troops by helicopter on the university football ground and capture them. The Tigers, however, had pierced Indian military intelligence, and the operation ended with nearly all the Indian troops massacred. Sriyani saw this battle as the beginning of the end for the Indians in Sri Lanka. Neither the Tamils nor the Sinhalese wanted this force that acted increasingly like an occupying army.

  Sriyani spent the latter part of her lecture talking about the growing violence in the south, where the JVP were tightening their stranglehold. In early September, they had called a country-wide curfew, and the entire population had observed it, even in Colombo. Not a shop, not even a pharmacy, had dared stay open, and there had been no vehicles on the roads. People were scared even to turn on their radios and televisions, frightened of being punished for not taking the curfew seriously. The insurgents were also beginning to attack members of the intelligentsia they considered traitors—left-leaning academics, human rights workers, reporters and artists who questioned their movement. In response to all this, the government had invoked emergency laws and killed many young people. The government had also increased its attempts to stifle dissent through censorship of the press and threats to human rights groups.