Swimming in the Monsoon Sea

by Shyam Selvadurai

  He had awoken that morning with a start. The sunlight was flooding in, its rays stretching out to the edge of his bed, a thousand dust motes dancing in the beams. Glancing at the clock on his bedside table, he had seen that school had started an hour ago.

  He called to his mother, but when she did not respond, he jumped out of bed and went looking for her.

  He found her in the window seat of the drawing room, looking out at the mountains. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her hand on her forehead. She did not move when he called her name again, or when he went and stood by her.

  “Amrith …,” she finally said, turning to him. “You’re not going to school today.” She touched the side of his face. “Son, we are going to Colombo with Aunty Bundle. For a while.”

  Then, she told him that they were leaving that evening at five o’clock, once Aunty Bundle had finished her work for the day. He clung to his mother’s arm, an incredible joy taking hold. At five o’clock that evening, Aunty Bundle would come in her car and take them away from night sounds and the constant fear of his father.

  He wanted to pack right away and they went back to his bedroom. On top of his almirah, there was an old suitcase. His mother took it down. She left it on the floor and went to sit on the edge of his bed, her arms crossed over her stomach, looking out of the window. Amrith hurried about, getting his clothes together. When he called to her, she brushed her hand across her cheek before she came to help him. Together they packed his bag. Once they were done, and the locks were clicked into place, there was nothing more for them to do to get ready.

  They went down into the garden and he helped her work on the rosebushes she tended with such loving care. Usually he held the basket with her tools in it. Today, he needed a more vigorous activity that would keep him distracted from his fear that his father might suddenly return. He pestered his mother until she finally allowed him to dig in a spot, to plant some seeds himself. The feel of the cool soil in his hands, the rich smell of it, the various insects and worms that came up as he dug, all kept him so busy that he was surprised when the cook finally came to tell them lunch was ready.

  How that last afternoon had stretched. Instead of resting on the veranda, he had been sent to his room. He lay on his bed, watching the clock agonizingly tick away. At one point, he heard a motorcycle on the estate road and ran to the window, terrified that it was his father returning.

  By three thirty, the waiting was so unbearable that he got out of bed and put on his traveling clothes. His hands shook as he did so, and it took him a long time to button his shirt. He even put on his socks and shoes. But then there was nothing more to do. He sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the infuriating tick of the clock behind him. The light was beginning to move back towards the window. It seemed fierce, bright, and alive.

  He suddenly fell asleep and became lost in a dream. He was walking through a field of tall grass and flowers, which brushed against his legs. He laughed and held his hands out to the sunlight. Then he heard the hush-hush of footsteps behind. He looked back. A man was coming towards him, his head lowered. As he drew near, Amrith saw that the man, whom he knew in his dream was his father, had a face that was contorted with hatred, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Amrith tried to run, but the grass was suddenly higher than him and he fought his way through it, lost.

  “Amrith, Amrith.”

  He came to himself with a cry and found his mother bending over him.

  “Son,” she said, “it is time.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then sat up, and rubbed his face. It was almost five o’clock. Jumping off his bed, he hurried towards his suitcase. Then he stopped, staring at his mother. She was wearing the same trousers, the same faded cardigan she had on this morning. Her hair was untidy from sleep. “Ammi,” he cried to her, “hurry up, hurry up, get dressed. Otherwise we will be late.”

  She came and knelt before him. He had done his shirt buttons wrong and she fastened them correctly. She drew him into her arms and held him tight. Something gave in her chest. Her hand was in his hair, her nails rasping against his scalp. He pulled away. She was crying.

  Then he heard Aunty Bundle’s car coming up the road to the bungalow.

  “Amrith,” his mother said, gripping his arms tightly. “I’m not going with you. I’m sending you to Colombo for a little while with Aunty Bundle.”

  The car was in their driveway, its wheels crushing the gravel.

  “No, Ammi.” He backed away. “I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Son, son.” She rose quickly to her feet and came towards him, “I’m not sending you away because you’re bad.”

  She was holding out her arms to him, but he hurried around the side of the bed. Outside, he could hear the car door slam.

  “Amrith, I … I need to be alone with your father. He has a drinking sickness. I have to try to help him. I can’t do that and take care of you at the same time.”

  She started to come around the side of the bed. He leapt onto the coverlet and scrambled over to the other side.

  He could hear Aunty Bundle calling, “Asha, Asha.”

  “Ammi,” he begged her, “please don’t send me away. I want to be with you, no matter what.”

  “Ah, Amrith,” she cried, “don’t do this to me. It’s just for a month or two, that’s all. And I will come and visit. Next week. I promise.”

  “Asha, Asha.” Aunty Bundle was coming down the corridor towards his room.

  Amrith could also hear the voices of his ayah and the cook in the corridor. He looked around desperately for a way to escape but, at that moment, the door opened and Aunty Bundle walked in. He was trapped between the two women. With a cry, he sank down against a wall and drew his legs to his chest. “Ammi!” he yelled, half in rage, half in despair. “Please don’t send me away. Please!”

  Then his mother, as if roused from a dream, ran to him, knelt down, and held him fiercely. “Bundle,” she said, turning to her friend, “I can’t do it. I can’t bear to part with him.”

  “Asha,” Aunty Bundle replied, crouching beside her, “it’s only for a short time.” She touched his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t weaken now. What you are doing is only out of love for Amrith.”

  His mother looked from her friend to Amrith. Her hold on him began to loosen. He clung to her even more tightly. “No, Ammi, no.”

  Aunty Bundle reached out to him, her face full of compassion, but, the moment she touched him, he screamed, “I hate you, I hate you!”

  All his affection for Aunty Bundle died in that instant.

  His mother pulled his arms off her and stood up, her lips pressed together. Aunty Bundle signaled to the cook, and he came and picked up Amrith. He did not struggle anymore. The only thing he could do was keep his eyes shut against this horror. The cook carried him down the corridor; his mother, Aunty Bundle, and his ayah followed.

  Once he was put in the car and the driver started up the engine, Amrith opened his eyes. His mother placed her hand on the car window, the lines in her palm squashed against the glass. She wanted him to rest his palm against hers, but he would not do so.

  Instead, staring her in the eyes, he mouthed, I hate you.

  He saw the disbelief in her face, as if she was sure she could not have understood right. And to make sure she did understand, he mouthed again, I hate you.

  Those were his final words to his mother. The car inched forward. His mother walked beside it, hugging herself as if she were cold. The car picked up speed and she walked faster. Finally, she was running. Just before the gate, she stopped.

  Amrith swung around in his seat and looked through the rear window. His mother was standing in the driveway, her arms rigid by her sides.

  That was the last time he saw her.

  A few days after he arrived in Colombo, he heard the news. His mother and father had gone for a ride on the motorcycle early one morning. They had left the bungalow just as the sun was rising. As they sped along the estate r
oad, they had reached a dangerous hairpin bend, and that was where the accident occurred. The motorcycle had gone through a short parapet wall on the edge of the bend and crashed down to the plains far below. Nobody knew if it was really an accident and what his mother was doing on the back of that motorcycle in the first place. Where had they been going? Had she gone of her own volition and, if so, had she known what the consequences might be? It was all a mystery.

  Amrith closed the album and put it aside. He was trembling like a leaf. After a moment, Niresh put his arm around Amrith and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you,” Niresh said, “thank you for telling me about my aunt. I wish, so much, that I could have known her.” Then he hugged him.

  Later, once they had turned out the lights, they both lay with their hands behind their heads, talking. Niresh asked him all the things he wanted to know — what his grandparents had been like, why his father had hated his sister. As Amrith answered him, he was aware of a growing feeling of lightness within. He was aware, for the first time, of the heavy burden of silence he had carried around these past eight years.

  At one point, Niresh asked him if he knew anything about his father — what he looked like, what kind of a man he had been. Amrith did not. He told Niresh that his father had also married against his family’s wishes and so, after he died, his family had wanted nothing to do with Amrith.

  “But don’t you wonder about him?” Niresh asked.

  Amrith was silent for a moment. “I … I guess it’s been too painful to think about him at all. And Uncle Lucky is my father now.” He turned to his cousin. “Perhaps, one day, I will be interested to know.”

  That night, Amrith had a strange dream. He was at the very bottom of the sea, but perfectly able to breathe in water. He was involved in the task of pushing an object, many sizes larger than himself, up to the surface. It was his mother’s cane chair, grown enormous. The one she had always sat in and that he always found abandoned in his nightmare. He was far smaller than the chair and so it was hard work to move it. But he would not quit, and he swam around, pulling away weeds, dislodging a chair leg that was trapped between two rocks, pushing at the chair with his little shoulders and arms. And gradually it began to rise. Up … up … up. Towards light.

  21

  Roses and Silence

  The next morning at breakfast, the air was heavy with leave-taking. Jane-Nona had made kiri bath for Niresh’s last meal with them, as his cousin was particularly fond of this Sri Lankan breakfast of milk rice and curries.

  After they had finished eating, Aunty Bundle folded her serviette and stood up. “Niresh, dear, the girls and I will say our good-byes in a few minutes.” She glanced at her daughters significantly. They were leaving early on purpose, so Amrith could have the final few moments with his cousin.

  Amrith and Niresh waited in the courtyard. Soon, Aunty Bundle and the girls came out to them.

  “Well, dear, it’s been lovely having you,” Aunty Bundle said, touching his shoulder. “Our home is always open to you. Come back and visit.”

  Niresh pressed his lips together. “Thank you, Aunty.”

  She hugged him.

  “Don’t forget how to say hello in Sinhalese,” Selvi said, as she hugged him, too. “Next time you come, I will test you on it.”

  He did his best to smile. “Mama loku gembek.”

  “Remember us when you are back in your marvelous Canada.” Mala held out her hand to him. Their mutual attraction made them slightly formal with each other, but Amrith could tell they were sorry to be parting. “Write occasionally, okay?”

  He nodded as he shook her hand. “I promise I will.”

  Once the women had got into the car, they waved to Niresh and he waved back. The car reversed out into the street. The girls were still waving, but now Aunty Bundle had pulled out a handkerchief and was dabbing her eyes.

  The moment the car left, Niresh turned abruptly and hurried to their room. When Amrith came in, Niresh was sitting on the bed by his suitcase, facing away. His shoulders were shaking. Amrith went and sat by him. He rested his hand on his cousin’s back. Niresh rubbed the heel of his palm fiercely across his cheek, then gripped his fingers together until he calmed down. “Fucking hell,” he said, turning to Amrith with a lopsided grin, “I’m even out of smokes.”

  After a moment, Niresh picked up his suitcase and they went towards the door.

  “Wait,” Niresh said softly. “I want to remember this room.”

  He stood for a moment looking around, taking in everything: the bed, the drawers, the almirah, the side chair, the French windows with their lace curtains blowing in the breeze. He closed his eyes, as if imprinting it all in his mind; as if storing it away as a future comfort. Then he nodded to Amrith.

  Uncle Lucky was in the courtyard, waiting by the car. He was giving Niresh a lift to the hotel.

  Niresh turned to Amrith with a brave smile. “Thank you. I’ll never forget the time I’ve spent with you.” He put down his suitcase and placed his hands on Amrith’s shoulders. “Now that we’ve found each other, let’s never lose touch, eh. You’ll write, won’t you?”

  Amrith nodded.

  Then Niresh held him tight and Amrith, too, put his arms around his cousin. They pulled apart, after a moment, both a little embarrassed.

  Niresh held up his hand. “One last joke. What happens when you cross a centipede and a parrot?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You get a walkie-talkie.”

  Amrith smiled as best he could. His cousin had cracked that joke before.

  Niresh got into the car and it reversed out into the road. All the while he was staring at Amrith, who stared back.

  Then his cousin was gone.

  Amrith stood in the courtyard, listening to the car go up the road, and soon he could hear it no more. A crow called loudly from the bougainvillea and a squirrel scampered in the jak tree. Someone was burning leaves a few houses down, an acrid smell in the air. In the distance, a passing train whistled mournfully.

  He did not know what to do with himself. He went to his room and sat on the edge of his bed, then lay with his hands behind his head. After a while, he got up and went out of the French windows, across the side garden, and up the terrace steps. He let himself into the aviary, but then did not have the spirit to attend to his birds. He just stood in there as the birds flew around him.

  By the end of the morning, Amrith could not bear to be home anymore; could not bear the quiet and emptiness that reminded him of Niresh. He asked Aunty Bundle to drop him off at Aunt Wilhelmina’s for the afternoon. He was hoping that being in the old lady’s house, surrounded by all her beautiful things, would bring him some peace.

  Aunt Wilhelmina was at her usual bridge game on the front veranda. She was delighted to see Amrith and, as he came up the front steps, she beckoned him towards her chair. “Ah, child, how nice to have you back. My ornaments are in a dreadful state.” She pressed his arm and looked at him, her head to one side. “Your cousin left today?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, I hear your uncle finally concluded the sale of Sanasuma.” She glanced at the other dowagers, who looked back at her significantly, then she simpered, “And he was in such a mighty hurry to get his hands on some money, that he let the property go for far less than it was worth.”

  “Mervin was always too greedy for his own good,” Lady Rajapakse declared, as she dealt the cards.

  “Greedy and foolish,” Mrs. Zarina Akbarally added, as she took up her cards.

  “He is off to Canada with no idea how thoroughly he has been bamboozled,” Mrs. Jayalukshmi Coomaraswamy said, and all four old ladies tittered in delight.

  Aunt Wilhelmina led Amrith through the drawing room and dining room, waiting for him to make his choice from her glass-fronted cabinets. He picked the one containing her porcelain ornaments. She rang for her retainer, Ramu, and told him to bring some rags and a feather duster. Amrith was left to his work with fish patties and a glass of mixed-frui
t cordial.

  As he took out the ornaments and began to carefully dust and clean them, the loss of his cousin sat heavy in his stomach.

  That evening, when Uncle Lucky got back from the office, he summoned Amrith to the master bedroom.

  He came in to find Uncle Lucky seated on the edge of a chair, peeling off his socks. He threw them into the dirty-clothes basket and began to undo his tie. “Amrith, your typing has been thoroughly neglected, nah. An important skill for your future. I don’t approve, as you know, of people passing their holidays doing nothing-nothing. So, now that your cousin is gone, it is time to start spending the mornings in my office again.”

  Amrith nodded. He was relieved to have something to occupy his time.

  When Amrith was back in the office in front of the typewriter, he thought how incredible it was that, just a short time ago, when he had first begun his typing exercises, he had not known his cousin. It seemed as if years had passed since then. How odd it was — the way that life could gather in stillness and then burst its banks, flowing forward with such rapidity.

  Amrith came home for lunch to find his room had been tidied up. The extra set of pillows was removed and Jane-Nona had redistributed his clothes to all the shelves of his almirah. In the bathroom, Niresh’s towels were gone. It was as if his cousin had never been here.

  That night, after he got into bed and turned the lights off, he longed for Niresh’s presence next to him.

  While Amrith grieved the loss of his cousin, however, the world around him carried on.

  He kept attending rehearsals for Othello and putting up with playing Cassio, a role that would not bring him any accolades. Yet, losing Desdemona to Peries seemed less painful now. Amrith’s mind was too taken up with missing Niresh to really care anymore. As he sat in the auditorium and watched his rival do the role, he conceded that Peries was better at it than he had ever been. Perhaps Madam was right all along — this part was just not meant for him.