Swimming in the Monsoon Sea

by Shyam Selvadurai

  There were now four days until Mala and Selvi’s party and the living room roof still had a gaping hole in it. The party might have to be canceled after all.

  Yet, just when they had decided to inform all the guests that the party was called off, the family was at lunch one afternoon, when they heard a banging on the gate and a voice calling out, “Baby-Hamu, we have arrived.”

  The dogs rushed out barking, and Aunty Bundle leapt to her feet, crying, “Ah, they’re here! They’re here!”

  She hurried out, followed by Uncle Lucky, Amrith, and the girls.

  Jane-Nona was opening the gate and the men trooped into the courtyard — Gineris and his “boys,” who were practically middle-aged men now. Gineris wore his gray hair in the traditional way, pulled into a topknot and held in place by a carved tortoiseshell comb. He came forward and tried to touch Aunty Bundle’s feet in a gesture of respect. She stopped him. He still referred to her as Baby-Hamu, as he had been coming to her family since she was a child.

  Jane-Nona, who had gone back to the kitchen, returned bearing a tray with cups of steaming milky tea on it. While the men sipped their tea, she and Aunty Bundle inquired about their families, congratulated them on the birth of grandchildren and marriages, commiserated with them over deaths and illnesses.

  “I knew you would not let me down, Gineris,” Aunty Bundle said, patting the old man on the shoulder. “Others,” she said, glancing at her husband, “might have had their doubts, but I never did.”

  “Ah, Baby-Hamu,” he replied, giving her a toothless grin, “how could I fail you?”

  When they had finished their tea, Aunty Bundle led the roofers into the living room to look at the damage. Gineris could tell right away that another roofer had attempted to lay down tiles and he grimaced and said, with a sidelong glance at Uncle Lucky, “These modern roof-baases, with all their machinery. Our ancient Sri Lankan ways are always the best.” He clapped his hands at his sons. “Now, let us get to work.”

  The roof was soon repaired and arrangements for the party sped ahead.

  The gardener arrived to work on the gardens and Meenukshi, the woman who cleaned for them, came to polish the floors of the living and dining rooms. The furniture had to be moved. Amrith and the gardener lifted the chairs, tables, bureaus, and antique chests into the library, master bedroom, and the girls’ room. Except for the dining table, the rest of the furniture would remain displaced, even after the floors were polished. The living room was going to be used for dancing. While Amrith was assisting the gardener, Mala and Selvi helped Meenukshi take down the curtains so they could be sent to the laundry. The bare floors of the living room were suddenly flooded with light.

  Since it was not crowded with furniture, the girls set themselves up in Amrith’s room to make the decorations for the party. They sat on a mat, cutting hearts out of red bristol board, making pink tissue-paper roses, bickering over some minor point about streamers and balloons.

  They had not forgotten Niresh, but Amrith saw that they had put his cousin’s departure behind them.

  The smell of polish and freshly cut grass and the furniture piled in the various rooms usually created a giddy anticipation in Amrith, a happy sense of their lives turned upside down. But now he felt despondent that Niresh was not here to share in the excitement.

  Yet, something else was troubling Amrith. The arrival of Lucien Lindamulagé, one evening, brought it to the fore.

  Since Niresh’s departure, Amrith had taken to riding his bicycle more often down to the beach. He would go for long walks, lost in gloomy thought, or just sit on a rock, aimlessly flinging pebbles and shells out to sea. The monsoon appeared to be over. The sea was pulling back, leaving behind greater stretches of beach each day. The water had returned to a shimmering turquoise, like blue silk shot through with threads of silver.

  He came home from one of these excursions to find the old man having tea with Aunty Bundle in the courtyard. He was seated in his usual manner in a Planter’s chair, his legs drawn up to his chest, his feet tucked under his sarong. They were talking about the progress of the new hotel and Lucien Lindamulagé’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he described his ideas for the interior, gesturing broadly to explain his vision.

  As Amrith looked at the old man, he remembered the scandal surrounding his male secretaries, how Uncle Lucky had warned his wife that what the architect did was illegal; how Aunty Bundle had refused to believe her friend was depraved in that way, though it was clear she was saddened and troubled by the possibility; how boys in his school had referred to the old man as a “ponnaya.”

  Lucien Lindamulagé had seen Amrith now and he broke off his description. “Ah, my boy!” he cried out, and beckoned him over.

  As Amrith leaned his bicycle against the wall, he wished he had stayed away longer and missed the old man’s visit. His heart was heavy as he went towards Lucien Lindamulagé

  “Ah, dear boy, I’m still keeping my eye open for that male mynah bird.” The architect reached out and squeezed his arm affectionately.

  Amrith felt a deep shudder within. It was all he could do to stop himself from pulling his arm away.

  “And how is that demoness Kuveni? Still not talking?” Lucien Lindamulagé asked.

  Amrith nodded. He suddenly could not bear to be around this man, whom he had known since childhood. At the first opportunity, he excused himself and went to his room.

  The moment he closed the door, he sat on his bed and breathed out, as if he had been holding his breath in all this time. He put his head in his hands and clutched at his hair, a strangled sound escaping from between his gritted teeth. A ponnaya — that was what he was, a ponnaya. He did not know what to do about this thing within him, where to turn, who to appeal to for comfort. He felt the burden of his silence choking him.

  That night, Amrith had his old nightmare. He ran up the estate road, in through the gates, and around the side of the house to the veranda. This time, however, he found his mother seated in her chair. She smiled at him and shook her head, as if to say, “Now what were you so worried about, son?”

  When Amrith awoke, he knew what he must do.

  His mother’s grave had not been visited in a little while. The grass was high on it, and the tombstone was splattered with bird droppings. Amrith was aware that there was an outdoor tap nearby. He went along a path among the graves until he came to the little shed where the groundskeeper kept his implements. There was a watering can by the tap and he filled it up and carried it back to his mother’s grave. He knelt down beside the tombstone. Taking out his handkerchief, he dipped it in the water and began to scrub away at the bird droppings. In the distance, he could see smoke rising up from a crematorium. Along one of the main thoroughfares of the cemetery, a hearse moved slowly, followed by mourners singing a hymn.

  When the stone was clean, Amrith sat back on his haunches and looked at his mother’s name for a long time. Then, with a quick glance around to make sure he was alone, he leaned forward till his lips were inches from the stone. He whispered, “I am …,” but he could not continue, for he did not know a decent word to describe himself. And he refused to use “ponnaya.” Finally, he leaned closer and whispered, “I am … different.”

  Just by saying it out loud, just by admitting that it was so, Amrith felt the burden of his secret ease a little. It was all he could do for now. He would have to learn to live with this knowledge of himself. He would have to teach himself to be his own best friend, his own confidant and guide. The hope he held out to himself was that, one day, there would be somebody else he could share this secret with. But for now he must remain silent.

  Later, as Amrith made his way towards the entrance, he passed through the old British part of the graveyard. As he looked at the broken tombstones in the knee-high grass, he made a vow that this would never happen to his mother’s grave.

  That evening, Lucien Lindamulagé came to call again. He had come specially to see Amrith, to tell him that he had heard of a male myn
ah that was for sale. They went up to the aviary to look at Kuveni. As they climbed the stairs, Lucien Lindamulagé took Amrith’s arm for support, and this time Amrith did not shudder at his touch.

  When they were in the aviary, Amrith watched Kuveni busily pecking away at the mango he had brought. She paused occasionally to dart a glance at the budgerigars that hovered nearby, making a few threatening movements towards them if they dared come too close. It struck Amrith that Kuveni had never resorted to feather-plucking, or any other signs of anxiety and depression. She seemed perfectly content to be alone. Perfectly content to remain silent. And he realized that he had grown to like her silence. He was not sure, at all, that he wanted another mynah.

  “You know, Uncle,” he said, turning to Lucien Lindamulagé, “I think we’ll leave Kuveni as she is, for now.”

  Lucien Lindamulagé looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Very well, my boy, let us leave it at that.”

  The day of the party was beautiful, a clear blue sky and a salty breeze blowing in from the sea.

  Amrith did not go to the office that morning. There was too much to do. The gardener and Meenukshi arrived before breakfast. They would stay through the night to help, and even sleep over. By nine o’clock in the morning, the tradesmen had started to deliver their merchandise. The Elephant House van dropped off crates of aerated waters and huge blocks of sawdust-covered ice, which the gardener immediately split with an axe and Meenukshi put into coolers. The chairs arrived from Quickshaw’s. Amrith and the girls helped the gardener set them up around the courtyard. Then there was the decorating of the living room to be done, with the bristle-board hearts, streamers, bows, tissue-paper roses, and balloons. The curtains were delivered from the laundry and the sisters held up the ends as Meenukshi got on a chair and hooked them to the rods. Amrith and the gardener carried out the dining table to a corner of the courtyard and spread a tablecloth over it. He dug out the Christmas lights, which the gardener strung through the jak tree in the courtyard.

  Aunty Bundle arrived at lunch with the girls’ dresses and time was wasted as they put them on and looked at themselves in the mirror. In the afternoon, Aunty Bundle stayed home. She sent Amrith with Mendis to do the last errands — pick up the birthday cakes and patties from Perera and Sons, go to Bombay Sweet Mart for more Mixture, and make a quick stop at Elephant House for another crate of aerated waters.

  Time, as it always did when moving towards a deadline, sped up and when Amrith got back, it was five o’clock. He was helping unload the car, when Aunt Wilhelmina arrived. She swept in wearing a yellow linen dress and, as usual, matching handbag, gloves, hat, and shoes.

  Aunty Bundle seated her in the courtyard and called on Jane-Nona to bring the old lady a drink and some patties. Aunt Wilhelmina, once she had taken a sip of her cordial and a nibble of a patty, beckoned the girls forward. Amrith went too, eager to see what they were getting. Her first gift was to Mala — fifty rupees to buy whatever she wanted. Next it was Selvi’s turn and, since this was her sixteenth birthday, she received a Ceylon Stones jewelry set — a broach, necklace, earrings, and bracelet all done in star sapphires, star rubies, moonstones, garnets, and topazes.

  They all gathered around Selvi to admire her gift, exclaiming over how pretty the settings were.

  Aunt Wilhelmina cleared her throat loudly. “I am not done yet. I have one more gift.” She waited until she had their attention before she brought out a scroll of paper tied with a red ribbon. “This is for Amrith.”

  He stared at her in astonishment.

  “Come, child, open it up.”

  He took the scroll and pulled off the ribbon. Aunty Bundle and the girls crowded around him. When he unrolled the sheet of paper, he stared at it in puzzlement. It was an official-looking document in a complicated Sinhalese that he could not understand. Aunty Bundle, however, could read it and, with a cry, she snatched the document away from Amrith and began to pore over it, her eyes growing wider and wider. She finally lowered the paper. “Amrith,” she said, in a hushed voice, “it’s the deed for Sanasuma. In your name.”

  They all turned to stare at Aunt Wilhelmina.

  “Well,” the old lady said with a sniff, “I was not about to stand by and let that blackguard, Mervin, rob our Amrith of his inheritance.”

  She crooked her finger at him and touched her cheek, a small smile on her face. “Now, young man, show some gratitude.”

  He longed to rush over and hug her tight, but he knew that she belonged to a generation where such behavior was considered improper. So he dutifully kissed her on both cheeks, whispering, “Thank you, Aunt Wilhelmina.”

  Aunty Bundle, however, had no such compunction. She flung her arms around her aunt, knocking the old lady’s hat off, and cried with girlish exuberance, “Aunt Wilhelmina, you are such a darling!”

  “Goodness, Bundle,” her aunt said, with a surprised laugh. “You really are forgetting yourself.”

  The guests would soon be arriving and, once Aunt Wilhelmina had gone, the family scattered to their rooms to have their showers and get dressed. Amrith found it impossible to tear himself away from the deed. He lay on his bed, his hands cupping his chin, as he gazed at the document. It seemed unbelievable that here, before him, was a piece of ancestral property — a real link to his past, to his mother. He found himself remembering that eucalyptus tree on which Aunty Bundle and his mother had carved their names. One day, he would take his cousin to Sanasuma and they would carve their names below those of the two women. Amrith and Niresh. Best Friends.

  Later, once Amrith had changed and was buttoning up his new shirt, Aunty Bundle knocked on his door and came in. She was wearing a purple silk sari with a gold border.

  “Son,” she said, “are you alright? I’ve noticed you seem sad since Niresh left.” She straightened the collar of his shirt and pushed back the hair on his forehead. “I have been thinking about something. There is a very nice group of young men and women doing shows at the Lionel Wendt Theater, these days. I know some of them. Would you like to get involved? Perhaps you might make a few friends there.”

  “Um … let me think about it, Aunty.”

  “Well, you decide and let me know, dear.” She gave him a worried glance.

  “Um … Aunty?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I … I’ve been thinking about something.” He looked down at his hands. “You know, Ammi always loved roses. She … she so enjoyed growing them on the estate. So I was thinking that I would like to plant some roses around her grave.”

  “Amrith,” she said, placing her hands on his shoulders, “you do remember.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment and then nodded. “I never forgot, Aunty.”

  Outside, they could hear the gardener banging away at something, Jane-Nona calling for Meenukshi to help her.

  “Well, Amrith,” Aunty Bundle said, taking her hands off his shoulders. She looked at him with a little smile, her head to one side. “You do realize that roses need a lot of tending in our tropical climate.”

  “Yes, Aunty,” he said, smiling back at her, “I do.”

  “Well, that’s settled then. Roses it will be.” Aunty Bundle rubbed her hands together, her eyes sparkling. “I know just the place to get them. Aunt Wilhelmina’s friend Lady Rajapakse is an avid horticulturalist and has, evidently, bred a species of roses that grows well in our Colombo soil. Let’s go tomorrow and see if she will give us some cuttings.”

  Uncle Lucky was calling to Aunty Bundle from the courtyard. She turned to leave and then, on impulse, came back and hugged Amrith tightly. “I’m so glad, son, so glad.” When she pulled away, there were tears running down her cheeks. She shook her head, laughing. “Child-child, me and my waterworks.”

  He laughed too. She took out a handkerchief that was tucked in her sari blouse and blew her nose.

  “Bundle!” Uncle Lucky called, “where are you, men?”

  “I’m here, Lucky, I’m here.” She patted Amrith’s arm and bustled
towards the door.

  Amrith looked after Aunty Bundle and he wondered how he had ever held such resentment against her all these years.

  Soon, there was a shriek of female voices in the courtyard, a crying of greetings. Two of the SNOTs had arrived early, evidently to help out. In the living room, someone had put on an Olivia Newton-John record. Amrith knew he could not stay in his room much longer. He stood in front of the mirror, tucked his shirt in, folded up the sleeves, and adjusted the shoulders. He went to his dresser, took out a handkerchief, and dabbed some aftershave on his neck. As he passed the mirror, on his way out, he glanced one last time at his reflection. He thought of his cousin and he let himself imagine that, at this very moment, Niresh was wearing his copy of the shirt, all those miles away in Canada.

  There was further shrieking and calling out of greetings as more of the girls’ friends arrived. Amrith, with a small smile to himself in the mirror, went out to join the party.