Copyright © 2005 by Shyam Selvadurai
Published in Canada by Tundra Books,
75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario MSA 2P9
Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York,
P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901
Library of Congress Control Number: 2004117239
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher — or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency — is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Selvadurai, Shyam, 1965-
Swimming in the monsoon sea / Shyam Selvadurai.
eISBN: 978-1-55199-720-9
I. Title.
PS8587.E445S95 2005 jC813′.54 C2004-907226-9
We acknowledge the excerpt from Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin, Copyright © 1956 by James Baldwin, used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
v3.1
This novel, though fictional, is filled with details from my happy childhood in Sri Lanka: as a way to enshrine that time, and to, perhaps, bid it good-bye.
I dedicate this book, with great love, to those wonderful companions of my youth: my brother, Tino, and my sisters, Pnina and Revathy.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Sri Lanka: 1980
1: The Silent Mynah
2: Aunty Bundle
3: Ceylon Aquariums
4: The Barrier of the Past
5: Othello
6: The Holidays Drag On
7: Amrith Has a Surprise
8: The Canadian Cousin
9: Niresh’s “Terrible Influence”
10: Aunty Bundle Accepts the “Gift”
11: Kassanava
12: Kinross Beach
13: Birthday Errands
14: Amrith’s Troubles
15: Betrayal
16: The Catholic Students’ Union Does a Shramadana
17: Cassio
18: The Monsoon Sea
19: Amrith Appeals to the Buddha
20: Amrith Accepts the “Gift”
21: Roses and Silence
Acknowledgments
My first and greatest thanks goes to Kathy Lowinger, who cast her silver net into the turbulent monsoon sea of my words and drew in this novel. As always, my love and gratitude to my partner, Andrew Champion, who, with his editorial advice, good sense, and love, steered me through the writing of this book. Thanks also to Catherine Bush, Judy Fong Bates, and Rishika Williams for invaluable advice on various drafts of this novel. Many thanks to my agent, Bruce Westwood, for all his support; to Natasha Daneman, who looks after my interests with such care and affection; and to Sue Tate at Tundra Books for her meticulous copyediting. I am indebted to the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Toronto Arts Council for their financial assistance.
“But people can’t, unhappily, invent their mooring posts, their lovers and their friends, anymore than they can invent their parents. Life gives these and also takes them away and the great difficulty is to say Yes to life.”
From Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin
Sri Lanka
1980
1
The Silent Mynah
Amrith, reaching the top step to the terrace, paused for a moment and looked out over the rooftops toward the sea, visible through the palm fronds of coconut trees in the various gardens between his house and the beach. In the dawn light, bands of silver were appearing on the crests of the waves, as if a giant louver in the sky was opening up, one slat at a time. A breeze was coming up from the ocean, bringing a saltiness to his lips. Amrith could usually tell, by the sound of the waves against the sand, whether the tide was in or out. But this was a monsoon sea, wild and savage, and it had eaten up the beach. Even at low tide, the waves still crashed against the rocks that held them back from eroding the land.
The birds in the aviary had noticed Amrith’s presence and, as he crossed the terrace, the budgerigars twittered in anticipation of the food he might be bringing them. There had been a monsoon storm last night, and Amrith had to walk around large puddles to reach the aviary. Once he had let himself into the safety porch, he secured the door behind him and looked around.
The storm had not caused any damage to the aviary. A few feeding cups had been knocked over by the wind, their seed scattered on the ground, and a perch broken. These were minor destructions, considering the fierceness of the storm. Kuveni, the mynah, was already in the shelter part of the aviary, where the food and water were kept. She was flapping her wings and making little darts in the direction of the hexagonal flight area to keep the budgerigars away so she would have first rights to whatever food Amrith was bringing. Kuveni, named after the mythical demoness of Sri Lankan lore, was vicious and spiteful and bossy, and not really suitable for colony breeding. Yet Amrith could not bring himself to isolate her. He liked her spunk, her bossiness. He just wished that she would talk. He had been trying for the last four months, since she was brought to him, to try and get her to say his name, but she remained mute. Now, he stood back, holding out the halved papaw he had brought and repeating, “Amrith, Amrith,” over and over again, hoping that, by tantalizing her, she would speak out of desperation or annoyance. Yet she said nothing, and only beat her wings against the mesh that separated them.
With a sigh, he let himself in. The moment he put the papaw down on a ledge, Kuveni flew to it and began to devour the pulp.
Until Kuveni had been given to him, Amrith had not realized how beautiful mynahs were. Here in Colombo, they were common as crows and he had not paid them the slightest attention. Being this close to one, however, had made him see how exquisite they were — their silky black heads; their warm brown plumage; the golden yellow of their throats, upper breasts, bills, and feet; the snowy white tips of their tails.
Voices in the side garden below distracted Amrith from his contemplation. Aunty Bundle and her old ayah, Jane-Nona, were discussing the damage caused to the living room roof by the storm last night. Some of the tiles had blown away, leaving a gaping hole. Roofers were very busy during the monsoon period, and the women were worried that, if the hole was not repaired in time, they would have to cancel the big birthday party for Aunty Bundle’s daughters, which was to take place next month.
The women had finished their conversation and Aunty Bundle started up the stairs that led to the terrace. As her footsteps drew near, a black mood, which Amrith had managed to hold at bay, swept over him like a wave, carrying him out to a darkness he did not want to face.
“Amrith?”
Aunty Bundle stood on the top step, looking towards him in the aviary. Her plump face, usually merry, was sober and stark without any makeup, and her eyes, which always sparkled with laughter, were dull and red from crying. Instead of her regular bright sarong and crisp lace blouse, she wore the plain white sari of mourning. The jeweled peacock that hung from a chain around her wais
t was gone, as were her gold bangles. The only jewelry she wore was her gold cross on a chain.
Amrith felt a sharp anger take hold as he looked at her through the mesh. Why did she insist on dressing in clothes of mourning every year on this day? It had been eight years since his mother’s death and yet, from Aunty Bundle’s clothes, one would think it was the day of the funeral itself. He wanted to yell that it was all too ridiculous — this remembering, this anniversary. He was sick of it, sick of the whole thing. Today was the first day of his holidays. It was unfair, utterly unfair, that he had to get up so early and go to Mass and then the graveyard. He should have been allowed to sleep in.
“Son,” Aunty Bundle said, taking a step forward, “it’s time to go.”
“Um, yes, Aunty,” he replied politely. “I’ll come in a moment.”
She nodded and went back down the terrace steps.
The moment she was gone, Amrith leaned against the mesh and closed his eyes. He thought of how, on the first anniversary of his mother’s death, he had rebelled against going to church and the graveyard. He wished that he was seven again and not fourteen — that he could once again throw a tantrum and refuse to go. On that first anniversary, he had lain on the floor and screamed when Aunty Bundle tried to make him put on his church clothes. Finally her husband, Uncle Lucky, had intervened. Though Amrith, by then, loved and trusted Uncle Lucky more than anyone else in the world, he was still afraid of him. Uncle Lucky would not let him get away with anything. And so, while Uncle Lucky had stood over him sternly, he had hiccuped and sobbed, but got dressed. When he was done, Uncle Lucky had sat on the edge of the bed and made Amrith stand between his thighs, while he combed his hair. As he did so, he had spoken to him gravely, telling Amrith he must never forget his mother; that the past was very important as, from time to time, we could call on it to help us. And if we did not know our past, then we could not call on it.
Kuveni had sated herself on papaw and she was perched on a swing, looking at Amrith, her head to one side. His anger flowed towards her. “You’re useless,” he said softly, his eyes narrowed. “I should just release you into the garden and get another mynah that will talk.”
The car was starting up downstairs in the garage. Amrith left the aviary, closing the door behind him and checking the lock twice.
The aviary was a gift from Aunty Bundle, for Amrith’s thirteenth birthday last year. Her close friend and colleague, the famous architect Lucien Lindamulagé, had a giant aviary in his back garden; he was almost as passionate about his birds as he was about his buildings. Amrith, from the time he was little, would spend hours in the old man’s aviary. Aunty Bundle consulted Lucien Lindamulagé on the building of the aviary. She did not allow Uncle Lucky to contribute a cent. It was to be solely her gift. She told Amrith and her two daughters, Selvi and Mala, that construction was going on to turn the terrace into a properly landscaped roof-garden and that they were forbidden to go up there. Then, on Amrith’s birthday, when he came home from school, Aunty Bundle had taken him by the hand and hurried him through the side garden and up the terrace stairs. He had gasped when he saw the aviary, all the budgerigars twittering and flying around at the sight of humans, whom they associated with food.
As Amrith went down the terrace stairs, he thought of how Aunty Bundle’s generosity always made him feel uneasy. He felt that what she did for him, she did out of guilt. Aunty Bundle blamed herself, to this day, for his mother’s death.
Usually, when Amrith went to church, it was on Sunday for late-morning Mass. The church would be flooded with sunlight through the dome above the altar and the side windows. The various murals — Saint Sebastian, his head lifted in rapture to the heavens, his scantily clad body pierced with a hundred arrows; Mary Magdalene kneeling before Christ, wiping His feet with the veil of her hair; benevolent Saint Anthony — would be clearly visible.
Though Amrith found the Sunday Mass boring, Aunty Bundle’s daughters, Selvi and Mala, were present, and so they ended up having a good time. Selvi, who was plump, pretty, and vivacious like her mother, was frequently in scrapes for being a tomboy. Her goal during Mass was to make Amrith and Mala laugh. When Father Anthony would say, “Let us stand and bow our heads to receive the word of God, Our Heavenly Father,” Selvi would lean over and whisper “goad,” which was the way the priest pronounced “God.” This would set Amrith off with a snuffle of laughter. Then she would add in a sibilant whisper, “Amrith, Amrith, Amrith, look at Father Anthony’s hair. It’s like an Afro, nah.” Amrith’s shoulders would shake uncontrollably and, to push him completely over the edge, Selvi would give a soft wolf-whistle and say, “Hoo-hoo, sexy-sexy Disco-Father.” Amrith would almost weep with silent laughter, begging her in a whisper, “Shut up, men, please shut up.”
Even Mala, who had recently become very religious (and who participated in the Mass with fervor, her hands clasped tightly to her chest), would lose her devout expression and start to giggle, which was the ultimate triumph for Selvi.
This Monday morning, however, the church was almost empty. The scattering of worshippers had gathered in the front pews, as the lights and ceiling fans in the rest of the church had been turned off to save electricity. They appeared huddled against the gloom of the church behind them. The darkness of his surroundings seemed to enter Amrith’s very soul as he automatically stood and sat through the recitation of the Mass. To his right, just beyond the pew, was a statue of Our Lady, her arms held out in a gesture of welcome as if beckoning the supplicant to her, the smile on her face gentle and loving. As Amrith gazed at her, his mind, over which he kept such rigid control when it came to the past, slipped silently away from him, and he was back on that tea estate where he had spent the first six years of his life.
He was coming home from school, so longing to see his mother after their morning separation. He ran through the massive iron gates into the graveled front compound of the estate bungalow and around the side of the house to the back, where a veranda flanked the rear of the house. There, as always, he found his mother. He loved that moment when he turned the corner, dashed up the veranda steps, and saw her sitting in her chair wearing a cream cardigan and cotton trousers. A magenta batik scarf, folded into an Alice band, kept back the frizzy exuberance of her hair. When she held her arms out to him, the bangles on her wrists would tinkle in welcome. He would run to her, snuggling into that familiar smell of eau de cologne.
She always sat in the same cane chair, which had a back shaped like a fanned-out peacock tail. If she was not there when he ran up onto the veranda, he would bury his face in the cushion, breathing in her eau de cologne, not lifting his head until she had come back out to him.
He was six years old by then and he knew that, compared to the fair-skinned, plump female stars of Sinhala and Tamil films, his mother was not considered conventionally beautiful. Her skin was too dark; she was too thin, too awkwardly long-limbed. But he loved her eyes and the way she would look at him mischievously from under her long lashes when they were playing; the way her frizzy hair would burst out all over her face when she released it from her Alice band. She was, in her own way, beautiful.
Later, after she had fed him his lunch, he would take his afternoon rest on a daybed on the veranda. His mother took her rest on another daybed, a little away from him. He had learnt to judge his mother’s mood by what she did during that time. If she was at ease, she would invite him to lie with her, while she read her Femina magazines, one arm around him as he cuddled up against her side.
If his mother was in a low mood, however, she would lie by herself or, most often, go through the French windows into the drawing room. After a moment, Amrith would hear a scratching and hissing before the music started. She played the same two records over and over again: Pat Boone and Nat King Cole, records from her youth. Above the sound of the songs, he would hear her pacing. Sometimes, she strode out onto the veranda, as if she was going somewhere. But when she got to the edge, she stood, her right arm over her stomach, her h
and clutching her left elbow. She would stand like that for a long time, occasionally brushing her palm across her cheeks.
Amrith knew the cause of her sorrow. It was his father.
This man was a stranger to Amrith. He had never actually seen him. His father was gone from the house by the time Amrith awoke; his lunch was sent to the office in a tiffin carrier; he had dinner at the club. On Sundays his father stayed home, and then Amrith remained with his ayah, Selamma, in the tea workers’ quarters, until his father left for the club at five. Amrith only knew his father as a sound, a voice shouting in the night.
When he knelt beside his bed to pray each evening, he would repeat the last line of his prayer over and over again as if it was a mantra that would bring peace that night, a mantra that would stop his father’s raging.
When the night sounds did occur, Amrith would sit up in bed, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes squeezed tight, trying to persuade himself that his father’s shouts were actually sneezes, that the rising inflection of his mother’s voice was tinkling laughter as she tickled his father’s nose with a feather; that their dog, Bhootaya, was baying outside the front door because she had been left out of the fun.
Later, when Amrith was half-asleep, he would feel his bed heave as his mother got in beside him. She would curl around him, her hand slipping into his. The smell of sweat on her was sharp like the Singer oil she used on her sewing machine. Her body would be trembling from trying not to cry.
“Amrith, child.”
He came to himself, to find Aunty Bundle holding out her handkerchief to him. He stared at it for a moment, puzzled, then he felt the wetness on his cheeks. He took the handkerchief, hurriedly turned away, and wiped his face. When he handed it back, he avoided her sympathetic gaze. His anger towards her returned sharply.
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