Swimming in the Monsoon Sea

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “We wash them by hand.”

  “You wash your jeans and shirts by hand?”

  “No, there’s a woman who comes once a week and washes the clothes.”

  “Neat.”

  Niresh pulled his trunks down his thighs and let them fall to the floor. “When we were coming in from the airport, we saw these women beating clothes on rocks.” He picked up his towel and pulled it back and forth between his thighs, his penis bouncing up and down. “Does your woman do it that way?”

  “Yes.” It was not so, but Amrith could not think anymore. The blood was thudding through his head. He had not seen his cousin, nor, in fact, any man naked before.

  Niresh swung around. “Am I in your way?”

  “Umm.”

  Actually, he was. Amrith had to get a change of clothes. He went past Niresh to the almirah. There was a mirror on the inside of the door. As Amrith crouched down to search for his clothes, he looked covertly at Niresh’s reflection. Sri Lankan men were modest and did not strip down in front of each other.

  His cousin was bigger than he was, tight curls clustering around his heavy penis and testicles. Unlike him, Niresh was circumcised, a dark purple ring where the shaft ended, the head curiously vulnerable and exposed. His eyes traveled upwards and he found his cousin looking at him, a slight smile on his face. With a quick movement, Amrith straightened up, grabbed his shirt, his shorts, and his underpants from a shelf. Niresh had begun to pull on his underwear, facing away from Amrith.

  “I need … I need to use the toilet.” Amrith hurried into the bathroom. Once there, he shut the door and leaned against it, his eyes closed. After a moment, he placed his clothes over a rail and pulled down his trunks. His penis sprang up. He looked down at it in dismay.

  “Amrith, Amrith.” Niresh was calling out from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “Um … what … yes?”

  “I’m going out to the courtyard, okay?”

  “Yes … I’ll see you there.”

  The moment the bedroom door closed, Amrith lowered the lid on the toilet, sat down on it, and leaned his head back against the coolness of the cistern. He closed his eyes and tried one of his remedies — reciting “If” by Rudyard Kipling. When that failed he tried the prayer “Hail Holy Queen.” Finally he got up and willed himself to urinate, the one thing he was certain would end this embarrassment.

  When Amrith came out to the courtyard, Niresh was talking to Mala.

  “So you guys never go to concerts?”

  She shook her head.

  “Back in Canada, we go all the time. Especially in the summer. Who do you like?”

  “Anne Murray.”

  “Seen her. Who else?”

  “Olivia Newton-John.”

  “Ditto.”

  Mala was impressed.

  Niresh had seen Amrith, and he waved to him. As Amrith went across to join his cousin, he tried to stifle a feeling of shame that welled up in him.

  The girls had been very good about not monopolizing Niresh, and Mala tried to slip away, making an excuse. Amrith, however, asked her to stay and chat with them. He did not want to be alone with his cousin for once.

  That night, when they were in bed and had switched off the lights, Niresh lay with his hands behind his head for a while. Then he cleared his throat. “Your mum, she was really pretty.”

  Amrith turned towards him quickly.

  His cousin glanced at him and then away. “I looked in the album. I guess Jane-Nona left it out by mistake, while she was clearing a drawer for me.”

  Amrith lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. His arms were by his sides, his fists clenched.

  “What was she like, Amrith? She seemed like a really fun person in the photographs.”

  “Um … I don’t remember.”

  Niresh sat up in bed. “You don’t remember her at all?”

  “No.”

  “Shit,” his cousin said softly. Then, “What about your father? Do you remember him?”

  Amrith held his breath for a long moment, then slowly released it. “No.”

  “My dad told me that they died in an accident, but he never told me what happened and I was wondering.…”

  “Niresh.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Please. I … I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t. I just can’t. Please.”

  His cousin looked at him. “Hey, it’s okay, Amrith. I understand.” He lay down again.

  In the distance a train passed by, its whistle long and mournful, its wheels clacking against the tracks. The roar of the sea was more discernible.

  Since that time on Chatham Street, when he had been angry at Niresh, Amrith had promised himself that, if Niresh brought up the past again, he would try to tell him some things, like the story of his grandfather’s cruelty to his mother. Yet, when the opportunity came up now, he had sensed the darkness opening up in him and he had been terrified.

  Later that night, Amrith dreamt of the estate, of finding his mother’s chair empty. He woke with a gasp and sat up.

  “Had a nightmare?” Niresh murmured sleepily. He turned towards him and rested his hand on Amrith’s back. “It’s alright.”

  Amrith lay down, curled away from his cousin. He could not shake off the feeling of fear. There was a movement of sheets and then Niresh’s hand slipped around his shoulder. “You’re awake now, Amrith, it’s alright. Just go to sleep, okay.”

  He could smell Niresh’s breath against his shoulder, faintly sour like old milk.

  His cousin had fallen asleep again, his breathing regular. Amrith, however, was wide-awake. He could feel the rise and fall of Niresh’s chest against his back, the heat of his thighs resting against the back of his own. Amrith’s penis had sprung up and he was afraid that his cousin’s hand would move down accidentally and brush against it. But Niresh loosened his grip on Amrith and rolled over on his back with a sigh.

  After a while, Amrith turned around, propped himself up on his elbow, and gazed at his cousin. His hair was disarranged over his forehead, his mouth slightly open, his lips glistening. Niresh’s T-shirt was bunched up, exposing the rise and fall of his stomach, the hairs that fanned out from his navel.

  When he was sure that Niresh was sound asleep, Amrith lay down on his back, as close to him as he dared. He moved his leg until his thigh was resting against his cousin’s. He turned his head to the side so he could gaze at Niresh. After a while, so much heat had spread through Amrith’s body that he seemed to be burning up with fever.

  13

  Birthday Errands

  Niresh settled into the routine of their lives and, within a day or two, it felt as if he had always lived with them.

  Amrith was aware that his cousin, in order to keep Aunty Bundle and Uncle Lucky’s good opinion of him, resisted smoking in the house, even though it caused him to fidget a lot — his fingers drumming on the surface of tables, bedposts, or pillars; his knees jiggling up and down when he was seated. The only time he smoked now was when they went on an excursion somewhere, or were down on the beach.

  Amrith found that he did have to share his cousin with Selvi and her friends, especially when they were at the club. Yet, he was pleased that Niresh did not horse around as much with the girls anymore.

  The girls were terribly disappointed. They complained that he wasn’t fun and tried to provoke him to chase them, to have water fights.

  The girls also liked to make fun of his Canadian accent.

  “Niresh, Niresh, say ‘herbs’.”

  “ ’Erbs.”

  “Niresh, Niresh, say ‘water’.”

  “Watrrr.”

  “Niresh, pronounce s-c-h-e-d-u-l-e.”

  “Skedule.”

  The girls would shriek with laughter, every time he replied.

  Amrith could tell that his cousin was annoyed at this. It surprised him that Niresh was sensitive about his accent. Amrith thought it very glamorous, as did the girls really, despite their teasing. To all of them, Niresh sou
nded like someone from a Hollywood movie and Amrith had even begun to use some of his cousin’s expressions, saying “yeah,” instead of “yes.”

  He learned the reason for Niresh’s sensitivity when he took him to visit Aunt Wilhelmina.

  The old lady had been asking to see Niresh, but Amrith had avoided taking him over. He was worried how Aunt Wilhelmina would treat him. She remained incensed at his uncle for trying to sell Sanasuma, and he feared that she might vent her anger on Niresh.

  By the third day of Niresh’s stay with them, Amrith felt he could no longer postpone the visit. Yet, he felt it best to warn his cousin, mostly because he was afraid that Niresh might retaliate with rudeness and lose the good opinion of Uncle Lucky and Aunty Bundle. Impoliteness to an old person was unacceptable in Sri Lanka, no matter how trying the provocation.

  Once Amrith had got dressed for the visit, he sat on the edge of his bed. “Niresh, I … I have to talk to you about something.”

  Niresh was combing his hair and he turned away from the mirror, worried by his tone.

  Amrith picked at the coverlet. “Aunt Wilhelmina … she might already dislike you.”

  “Because of my father?”

  Amrith was surprised, as he often was, at how perceptive his cousin could be. “It’s more than that.”

  Niresh came and sat by him and Amrith told him about the sale of Sanasuma.

  When he was done, Niresh got up and went to stand at the French windows. After a moment, he thumped the window frame hard. “Fuck.” He turned to Amrith. “It’s not fair. That property should be yours.”

  Amrith looked at his hands.

  Niresh stood in front of him. “Have you seen this Sanasuma?”

  “Um … yes.”

  “What does it look like?”

  Amrith wanted to say that he did not wish to talk about it but, instead, he found himself describing how the bungalow was perched on a shelf of land, the mountains all around it; how the stream tumbled into a rock pool.

  “It sounds beautiful.” Niresh sighed. “What does Sanasuma mean?”

  “It’s a Sinhalese word for a feeling of comfort or solace.”

  Later, as they left the bedroom, it struck Amrith that, while he had been telling Niresh about Sanasuma, he had not felt that familiar darkness opening up in him.

  The visit to Aunt Wilhelmina’s turned out as Amrith had predicted, and he was very glad he had warned his cousin. They arrived before the old lady’s bridge game and the four dowagers were all seated in a row on the veranda, ensconced in Planter’s chairs. Poor Niresh had to stand in front of them and be examined and questioned. Aunt Wilhelmina’s friends had taken up Amrith’s cause and so they, too, were unkind to Niresh. The old ladies talked about him as if he were not present, commenting on his height, his skin color, the length of his hair, his clothes, but especially on his accent, which they said sounded like those “dreadful American soldiers stationed here during the war.” Niresh had been patient with them until this point, but when they started in on his accent, his eyes flashed with anger. Fortunately, the visit ended at this point. Ramu wheeled out the tea-trolley, which was always a sign for the ladies to take their places around the bridge table.

  When they got into the car, Niresh was still furious. Finally he cried out, “Shit, I hate my accent.”

  “But, Niresh, why? You sound so great, like someone in a movie.”

  Niresh leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window. “It’s just that when people comment on my accent, it makes we aware that I’m not Sri Lankan. I mean, I’m not Canadian and then, over here, I’m not Sri Lankan. I don’t belong anywhere.”

  The girls’ birthday party was now four weeks away. That evening, the family sat together in the courtyard to draw up a final guest list, based on who had accepted invitations. They calculated 110 or 111 people, depending on whether Aunt Wilhelmina came to dinner or visited in the afternoon to give the girls their gifts. Amrith noticed that Niresh looked at them oddly, every time they added an adult to the list.

  When they were going to dinner, Niresh said to Amrith, in an undertone, “So how come your aunt and uncle’s friends are coming to the party?”

  Amrith raised his eyebrows and shrugged. It was perfectly normal that they would.

  Niresh smiled and shook his head. “Man, things are sure different here. Back in Canada, if your dad and mum had their friends to your birthday, you’d be considered a real loser.”

  With the party drawing nearer, the family began to worry even more about the hole in the roof, and if it would get fixed in time. Aunty Bundle sent her driver to remind the roofers, but when he got to their village, he found that Gineris and his sons were not even there. They had gone to repair roofs along the southern coast, in the towns of Matara and Galle. Gineris’ wife did not know when he would be back, yet she assured them that her husband had not forgotten their roof and that he would soon be coming to Colombo to do a number of roofs that had been damaged by the monsoon.

  When Uncle Lucky, Amrith, and the girls heard this, they began to have serious doubts that the roof would be done in time for the party. Uncle Lucky decided to act. He waited until Aunty Bundle was outstation, working on a hotel with Lucien Lindamulagé, and he got a roofer in Colombo to come and fix the problem.

  Amrith and Niresh had gone along with Aunty Bundle, and they returned home that evening to find that the tub in the living room had been removed and there was no longer a gaping hole, open to the elements. When Aunty Bundle saw the repair, her mouth tightened in a thin line. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Lucky,” she said to her husband, who had come into the living room to stand by her. “I hope you haven’t wasted your time and caused some further damage to the roof.”

  “Nonsense, Bundle,” Uncle Lucky said, gesturing up to the rafters, “it looks as good as new.”

  “I am not so certain about that.” She squinted up at it. “Those tiles don’t look properly laid.”

  “There is no difference between them and the other tiles on the roof,” Uncle Lucky replied, with a touch of impatience. “You are just imagining it.”

  “Well, let’s see how they hold up when it next rains,” Aunty Bundle said.

  That very evening it did rain hard and the tiles held up fine. Uncle Lucky, who had a sense of humor behind his severe facade, could not help giving his wife little amused glances as they had dinner, the rain clattering on the roof above them. Aunty Bundle pretended not to notice him.

  Amrith still had a few days before rehearsals began and he was keen to have as much fun as possible with Niresh in the interim. They often ran errands with Aunty Bundle. His cousin was deeply drawn to her. Amrith would often observe him looking at her with hunger in his eyes. Niresh also found the places she went — places that were ordinary to Amrith — exotic. He frequently asked her questions about Sri Lankan habits and customs, and she was happy to draw on her vast knowledge to provide the answers. Amrith did not mind sharing Niresh with his aunt. She was an adult and so was no serious threat for his cousin’s attention.

  One morning, they accompanied her to order food and supplies for the party. First they went to Kumaran Stores.

  When they entered the shop, Niresh looked around, intrigued. A long counter ran the length of the front. On one side, the customers jostled into each other as they called out their purchases to the clerks on the other side — who ran nimbly up and down ladders, moved deftly around gunnysacks that were brimming with cloves, cardamoms, dried chilies, and a dozen varieties of rice. The clerks weighed produce on scales, wrapped them in newspaper, tied the parcels with string from bolts that hung down from the ceiling, and wrote out receipts. The air was pungent with the odor of spices, curry powders, dried salty Maldive fish, and a massive bar of Sunlight soap from which the clerks cut slices for customers. In the midst of all this chaos, the mudalali, who owned the store, sat cross-legged on a bench, as bald and fat and serene as a Buddha. He wore a white sarong, and there was a red pottu and ash on his foreh
ead. The cashbox was in front of him.

  When he saw Aunty Bundle, he crocked his finger at a clerk, who lifted up a part of the front counter and invited Aunty Bundle, Amrith, and Niresh through. The mudalali gestured for them to be seated and, immediately, a tray with tea and soft drinks was presented to them. After a few pleasantries, they got down to business. Aunty Bundle ordered 15 pounds of Bombay onions for the seeni sambal and onion sambal, 20 coconuts, three bags of Maldive fish, 200 eggs for the hoppers and godambas, chili powder, curry powder, green chilies, turmeric, mustard seeds, coconut oil, and 15 broiler chickens. All this would be delivered three days before the party.

  Next Aunty Bundle took them to the meat section of the Wellawatte Market. The moment they entered, they covered their noses. The stench of raw meat was overwhelming and the air was filled with the heavy thud of cleavers and wooden mallets falling against butcher blocks, the shrill cries of chickens as their necks were placed on a chopping block that had a drain underneath. They had to step around pools of blood, bits of gut, spleen, fat, and gristle that were all thickly covered with flies. Aunty Bundle placed a large order with her butcher for 20 pounds of beef, which would be needed for the curry.

  Their final stops were Perera and Sons to order two birthday cakes and 250 patties, then they went around the corner to Bombay Sweet Mart to buy bags of Mixture filled with fried sticks of dough and cashews and chickpeas mixed with salt and chili powder. Here Niresh was introduced to the pleasure of faluda, a rose-flavored milkshake, with bits of semolina floating in it, and crisply fried samosas.

  Amrith needed a new shirt for the party. He and Niresh drove with Aunty Bundle to the bustling bazaars of Pettah. As they drew near, Aunty Bundle said, “Now, Niresh, we are about to enter the oldest section of Colombo, which was settled in the seventeenth century by the Dutch colonizers, who were my ancestors.” Niresh leaned forward, listening, as Aunty Bundle continued on. “The word ‘Pettah’ is an Anglo-Indian word and comes from the Tamil expression ‘Pettai,’ which was used in India to describe a suburb outside a fort.”