Cinnamon Gardens

by Shyam Selvadurai

  He nodded and opened his hands, palms upward, to show that he submitted to the necessity that his son, in the interest of his education, should be halfway around the world from him.

  Sonia volunteered a lot of her time and effort to the Girls’ Friendly Society on Green Path. It had been set up for single working girls – secretaries, teachers, shop assistants – who had come to Colombo for employment. The society ran a boarding for some of them, but, more important, it provided a meeting place in the evenings and this kept many of the girls from the vices and dangers of the city. Sonia had been one of those instrumental in setting it up. She helped in the administration and taught the girls English and other skills.

  Soon after lunch, Sonia left for the Girls’ Friendly Society and Balendran went into his study to attend to the temple accounts. He found it in disarray. Sonia and the houseboy had taken down all the books from their shelves, so that the bookcases could be cleaned. The books were in high piles on the floor, and, as he walked around them to get to his desk, Balendran noticed a copy of Edward Carpenter’s From Adam’s Peak to Elephanta: Sketches in Ceylon and India sitting on top of one pile. He picked it up. It had been a gift from Richard. He opened the book and read the dedication Carpenter had written to him, recalling the trip Richard and he had made to see Carpenter after reading his Intermediate Sex. Seldom had a book had such a profound effect on him. There, for the first time, he learnt that inversion had already been studied by scientific men who did not view it as pathological, indeed men who questioned the whole notion that regeneration was the sole object of sex.

  Richard had sought out other books by Carpenter and discovered From Adam’s Peak to Elephanta, which he bought for Balendran. He had been surprised to find that Carpenter had visited Ceylon and was good friends with the famous Arunachalam, first president of the Ceylon National Congress. Richard, meanwhile, made inquiries about Carpenter and found out that he lived at Millthorpe, in the countryside near Sheffield, with his companion. He had pressed Balendran to write to Arunachalam, who was a family friend, and ask for a letter of introduction. Balendran had refused, for fear that he might arouse suspicion about himself, even though Richard pointed out that Arunachalam must approve of Carpenter’s way of life if they were such good friends. Finally, Balendran had agreed to write to Carpenter himself, as a family friend of Arunachalam, and ask if they might visit.

  Balendran recalled now the long walk from Sheffield to Millthorpe. What a glorious summer day it had been, warm but not enough to make walking uncomfortable, rolling fields on either side that sloped down to the road, the light green of the grass contrasting sharply with the dark colours of the trees that bordered the fields and clustered here and there in small copses. Then there had been Carpenter’s house, nestled amongst foliage, a charming brook running at the foot of his property.

  When Richard and he had met Carpenter and his companion, George Merrill, Balendran had been amazed and then intrigued by the way they lived, the comradely manner in which they existed, the way they had carved a life out for themselves, despite such strong societal censure.

  Balendran shut the book. The visit had given Richard and him such faith in the future of their own love. But a month later, that hope had been destroyed by the arrival of his father and, with him, reality. Youth is terrible, Balendran thought as he put the book back on the pile. Alive, beautiful but ultimately painful. He was glad to be free of the searing ache of it. Youth was like that proverbial konri seed – red to view but with a black tip – its vitality and radiance deceptive. The passage out of youth was an acceptance of this deceptiveness, the stripping back of life to what it really was. That was the way he thought of his time with Richard. How foolish to have imagined that the world would change over for them. Balendran knew, now that he was a father himself, that his father had done the right thing. The Mudaliyar’s terrible anger at the time had been the roar of a bear protecting its cub. It had been out of love for him.

  At forty, Balendran felt that, despite the difficult years of his marriage, despite the necessary compromises he had to make, his father had acted wisely and correctly. He looked around his study. It was vastly different from the Mudaliyar’s, light and airy, with lace curtains that constantly moved in the sea breeze. There was a callamander antique desk and chair in the centre of the room, one wall was taken up with bookshelves, a brass bowl filled with araliya flowers sat on an ebony stand. Balendran compared his present comfort to the meagre life he might have had in London. He would have never amounted to anything but a junior partner in some barrister’s firm and he would have remained so to this age. The only flat he could have afforded would have been similar to the one he had as a student with its unbearably cold hall and toilet. As for Richard, surely their love would have withered under Balendran’s increasing frustration and envy as he watched his friend soar to the heights of the legal profession. There had been a shabbily dressed Indian gentleman who had lived in the same crescent as them. He had seemed ancient then, but he was probably close to Balendran’s present age. He had a constantly apologetic manner about him, an excessive deference, the way he would unnecessarily step off the pavement to let others pass. This was the image Balendran held for himself when he thought of what might have happened if he had stayed in London with Richard. He had his father to thank for saving him from such a fate.

  The thought of his father made Balendran recollect the promise he had made to him about Richard. He sighed. He had undertaken to do this for his father and so must follow it through. Otherwise, he would have to explain his own political views to his father and this he did not wish to do. Yet could he really present his father’s opinions as his own? He tried to imagine doing that and saw the growing dismay in Richard’s eyes that his friend, champion of socialism and other liberal causes in his student days, had ended up so conservative. Balendran shook his head. He could not do that. He frowned, considering his predicament. Then he had an idea. Rather than giving his father’s opinion as his own, he would talk to Richard about the various views by Ceylonese on what the commission should do. In the process, he would present his father’s point of view. Balendran, satisfied that he had found the solution, began the temple accounts.

  The different stages of a man’s life are often reflected in the guests he invites to his annual dinner. Nowhere was this more so than at the Mudaliyar Navaratnam’s birthday. For amongst those invited were comrades from his Mayfair days, their conversation, after all these years, consisting of nothing more than horses, motor cars, and cricket. Miss Lawton was also a regular guest. She had known the Mudaliyar from the time she had arrived as a young assistant headmistress in Ceylon. Though it would be hard to believe now, the Mudaliyar had been a strong advocate of education for young women in those days. Then there were his colleagues from the forty-five years he had served in the Legislative Council. While some of them had remained faithful members of the Queen’s House set, others had gone on to join the Ceylon National Congress and agitate for self-rule, thus setting their political path in direct contradiction to the Mudaliyar’s. Still, the Cinnamon Gardens circle was tight and to have not invited them would have caused an unpleasant social reverberation for host and guests alike. At this year’s dinner, there were a few new invitees. Members of the Ceylon Tamil Association, with whom the Mudaliyar had recently thrown in his lot. It promised to be a controversial evening.

  Sonia and Balendran arrived early. The Mudaliyar liked to have Sonia receive the guests with him as his wife did not speak English and was usually too busy with the preparations in the kitchen.

  Torches on high poles had been placed at regular intervals along the driveway, giving Brighton a festive air. When Balendran’s car stopped under the porch, Pillai came down the steps to open the door. In keeping with the occasion, he was wearing his gold-buttoned white coat. The proudly displayed gold watch-chain denoted his position as head servant. Later, before he supervised the serving of dinner, he would put on his white gloves.

  Pil
lai smiled in pride and admiration at how fine the Sinn-Aiyah and Sin-Amma looked, the former in his black dinner jacket and white bow tie, the latter in a dull-gold French-lame sari with a chilli-red border. The colour of Sonia’s sari brought out her milk-tea complexion and dark, glossy hair. Her black-lace sari blouse was of the latest fashion, with a mere frill for a sleeve. She had on gold jewellery.

  “Peri-Aiyah is still dressing,” Pillai said, “but the rest of the family is in the ballroom.”

  Balendran and Sonia went up the stairs to join them, accompanied by Pillai.

  Brighton’s ballroom was one of the loveliest rooms in the house. Along the back wall was a series of glass doors that opened out onto a balcony with a black-and-white checkered floor. A stuccoed pattern of grape vines ran along the top edges of the wall, and the design was picked up in a circular grouping at three points on the ceiling. From the centres of these circles, two-bladed wooden electric fans hung down. Tonight practically the entire ballroom was spanned by the dining table. It sat sixty people. A single white damask tablecloth ran the length of the table and, at regular intervals, there were flower arrangements. Menu and place cards in sterling-silver holders were in front of each place setting.

  Balendran and Sonia entered to find the family gathered there, dressed in their very best.

  The short, form-fitting Indian choli that exposed a good deal of midriff had not yet come into fashion. It was considered peasant attire. Sari blouses resembled their modest English counterpart. They were fairly loose and waist-length, the sleeves to the elbows or wrists. Rather than matching the hue of the sari, they came in standard colours of white, cream, grey, black, or brown. Some of them had ruffles along the neckline and on the sleeves, some were embroidered or had lacework on them. For formal occasions, a sari was always worn with a “set” – matching earrings, necklace, bracelet, and a brooch to hold the sari in place on the shoulder.

  Louisa, wearing a black charmeuse sari with tiny pale-pink rosebuds scattered over it and a Matara diamond set, was checking the place settings to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Philomena Barnett was fussing around her, picking up the various place cards and commenting on the genealogy of the guest and any gossip she could think of about them. For the grand occasion, she was wearing one of her flashiest saris, which featured Japanese maidens in kimonos daintily crossing butterfly bridges. She had on a set of brightly coloured Ceylon stones. Her unmarried daughter, Dolly, a jittery girl who had spent her whole life being cowed by her mother, sat on one of the chairs along the wall, nodding and blinking rapidly any time Philomena addressed a comment to her. Manohari sat by her. She was too young to be invited and, when the guests started to arrive, she would make herself scarce. Nalamma, wearing a bottle-green Benares sari with an intricate silver border and a silver set, was in conversation with one of the houseboys, giving him last-minute instructions. Kumudini, in a printed floral French chiffon, was at a side table making some final adjustments to the table plan. Her jewellery set was one very popular at the time for young women, pearls arranged in a design of grape clusters. It had been a gift from Balendran and Sonia on her twenty-first birthday.

  Balendran noticed that his favourite niece, Annalukshmi, was not present. (He thought of the girls at Lotus Cottage as his nieces, even though their paternal grandfather and the Mudaliyar were only cousins.)

  At that moment, there was an exclamation from Philomena. She had come upon the place card with Nancy’s name on it.

  “That girl has been invited too.”

  Philomena always referred to Nancy as “that girl,” because of Nancy’s low, village origins. She thoroughly disapproved of her friendship with Annalukshmi and this extending of the invitation was the limit.

  “My husband and I felt it would be a slight to Miss Lawton not to include the girl,” Nalamma replied. “Besides, I feel sorry for her. Twenty-five years old and hardly any chance of getting married.”

  “These Europeans and their big ideas,” Philomena said. “Miss Lawton might have thought she was doing a charitable thing adopting her, but, at the end of the day, look where it’s brought that girl. Neither fish nor fowl. She has all the upbringing of one of our girls, but no decent boy would touch her for all the gold in Christendom. Better to have left her in the village.”

  Manohari, who loved nothing better than to add fuel to Philomena’s fire, said, “Nancy has gone and bobbed her hair.”

  Philomena stood still, her hand on the side of her cheek, to convey just how appalled she was.

  Sonia walked over, picked up a menu card, and read it aloud, “Hors-d’oeuvres: prawn cocktail; soup: dhall consomme” – she lifted her eyebrows slightly at the pretentiousness of the appellation – “fish: grilled seer in a white sauce; entrée: chicken vol-au-vent; main course: roast duck; dessert: charlotte russe followed by petit fours.” She looked at Philomena admiringly, “You have really outdone yourself this time, akka.”

  Philomena pursed her lips modestly, very pleased.

  Nalamma was not proficient when it came to European cooking. The task of planning and supervising the dinner thus always fell on Philomena, who had turned up this morning with her culinary bible, Mrs. Beeton’s Cookery Book, tucked under her arm.

  At that moment, the ballroom door opened and Annalukshmi entered. Balendran called to her and she went towards him with a smile.

  “You look very nice,” he said, glancing at her turquoise Kanjivaram silk with its purple border and her white laceworked blouse. Her jewellery was in a pattern of delicate turquoise and gold flowers. Also a gift from her aunt and uncle on her twenty-first birthday.

  She nodded her thanks.

  Nalamma had by now crossed the room to her son.

  She took his arm. “My dream was prophetic,” she said in a low tone. “Your brother is in trouble.”

  Balendran stared at her in surprise and dismay.

  “We heard through the bank manager, Mr. Govind, who gives him that monthly allowance your Appa sends. He was climbing the stairs at work, became breathless, and fainted.”

  “But is he all right now?”

  She nodded.

  Balendran sighed with relief. “It’s probably nothing, Amma. Just tiredness.”

  “Nothing? How can you say nothing? He should go and get an examination. But I know how your brother is. So stubborn. As a mother, I feel helpless. If he were here, I would have forced him to see a doctor.”

  Balendran could tell that she was suggesting again that he renew contact, but he chose to ignore the hint.

  Nalamma sighed, “And his son, Seelan.” She waved her hand to encompass the ballroom, “I can’t help thinking of what he has been denied.”

  The Mudaliyar, resplendent in a black dinner jacket and white bow tie, entered at this moment, putting an end to Nalamma and Balendran’s conversation. They went forward to greet him.

  Annalukshmi, even though she knew it was rude, had listened keenly to their conversation. The girls at Lotus Cottage were of course familiar with the story of their uncle’s expulsion from Brighton and his marriage to a woman who had worked in Brighton’s kitchen.

  Annalukshmi had quickly become intrigued by the romance of the story. An avid reader at that time of Gothic and romance novels, she had seen that her uncle’s story was a strange instance of real life imitating the world of fiction. Later, as a girl of fifteen, her romantic feelings about the story had come to fix themselves on her cousin, Seelan. The fact that he was a mysterious, doomed young man, in exile from his family heritage, raised him to the level of a hero of Gothic fiction or medieval romance. Annalukshmi smiled now to think that she had actually read those books and had thought of her cousin in that way. Like most revealed secrets, the novelty of it had worn off over the years.

  The first cars could be heard coming up the driveway, and everyone began to leave the ballroom. Annalukshmi, as she came down the stairs, saw that among the first guests were Nancy and Miss Lawton. With a smile of pleasure, she went to greet them. B
efore she could reach them, however, Miss Lawton was cornered by one of the other guests, an old pupil who was now married to a member of the Legislative Council. The woman, a well-known doyenne of Cinnamon Gardens society, shyly introduced herself to Miss Lawton. When the headmistress immediately remembered her, she blushed with pleasure.

  Nancy and Annalukshmi exchanged looks and smiled. This would likely be the pattern for the rest of Miss Lawton’s evening.

  The Wijewardena family were regular guests at the Mudaliyar’s birthday dinner. The son, F. C. Wijewardena, was Balendran’s best friend. Their friendship went all the way back to when they had studied at the Colombo Academy. They had left together for England, as well.

  It was a ritual at the Mudaliyar’s annual dinner for F. C., his wife, Sriyani, Balendran, and Sonia to gather for a chat on the side verandah, outside the drawing room where the party was in progress. Since most of the guests were of the Mudaliyar’s generation, they had very little in common with them.

  F. C. was a prominent member of the Ceylon National Congress, and they had no sooner sat down in the verandah chairs when he brought up the subject of the Donoughmore Commission and the new constitution.

  “Well, the gold rush will be on in two weeks.”

  “Gold rush?” Sonia asked.

  “Yes,” F. C. replied. “All this hullabaloo reminds me of a gold rush. Everyone running to stake their claim, to carve out their piece of the land.”

  He brought out a tortoiseshell cigarette case from the pocket of his coat. “Divisions are appearing where I didn’t even know there were any.” He lit himself a cigarette. “Up-country Sinhalese versus low-country Sinhalese, Karava caste versus Goyigama caste, Moors, Malays, Christian Tamils, Hindu Tamils, Buddhists, and so on and so on. And not a bloody bugger is thinking nationally, except us in the Congress.”