Cinnamon Gardens

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “Miss Lawton had nothing to do with this, Amma. I’ve acted entirely of my own volition.”

  “Don’t you try and talk back to me, miss.”

  Parvathy touched Louisa’s arm. “Let her be, thangachi,” she said. “She must be very tired after her long journey.”

  Louisa glared at Annalukshmi, then turned and walked back into the house.

  The moment she was gone, Kumudini and Manohari rushed down to greet their sister. Manohari took her bag solicitously and Kumudini put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Poor akka,” she said. “You must be exhausted.”

  They led her up the verandah steps. Annalukshmi was before her aunt and she bent down quickly and touched her aunt’s feet, as was the Hindu custom. Parvathy raised her to a standing position. She looked at her carefully and then patted her on the arm. “You need to have a bath after your trip.”

  They started towards the front door, when someone cleared his throat. Annalukshmi turned and saw Muttiah. He had come around the side of the house and was standing at the other end of the verandah. He looked the same as when she’d last seen him seven years before. The only difference was his luxuriant moustache stylishly curled at both ends.

  Muttiah now spoke. “You … you are back.”

  He talked just as she remembered, the frown of concentration, the stumbling over his words, and, finally, the inanity of what he said. Muttal Muttiah. She glanced at Kumudini quickly. There was a demure smile on her face. She looked at Muttiah, again perplexed by what her sister might see in him.

  “Do you remember that you planted an … an oleander shoot in your Malaya house garden many years ago?”

  Annalukshmi looked at him, bewildered.

  “And it died,” he continued. “You were so upset. Do you remember how … how we teased you?” He smiled. “Annalukshmi is a silly bee, can’t even plant a tree.” He threw back his head and laughed, well pleased with himself.

  Now she studied her cousin, noting the fastidiousness of his cream China silk suit, the carefully manicured nails, the absolutely straight part in his hair worn à la Valentino. He thinks he’s the cat’s meow, she thought to herself, partly amazed that he could actually think so. Such conceit would surely make him a selfish husband.

  “Come, akka,” Kumudini said gently and took her by the arm. “Come inside the house and have your bath.”

  “I don’t think you know what you are doing, Kumu,” Annalukshmi said as she sat down at the toilette table to dry her hair with a towel.

  Kumudini, who was seated on the edge of her bed, drew herself together with injured dignity. “Oh and why is that, akka?”

  “You know how Parvathy Maamee runs her house, Kumu. Could you be happy living like that?”

  “Akka, I am not like you. I don’t feel the need to go out all the time and have a say in every conversation.”

  “Well, do you love him?”

  “I have some intelligence, akka. He has only been here a few days. I’m not foolish enough to think that love is like fireworks, puta-puta-puta the moment you meet someone. He is kind and very charming. Why shouldn’t I grow to love him?”

  Annalukshmi looked at Manohari, who was standing by the chest of drawers. “And what do you think?”

  “To each his own, the old lady said, kissing her cow,” Manohari replied tartly, adding, “I suppose he is handsome in his own way. He does dress very stylishly.”

  As Manohari spoke, Annalukshmi watched Kumudini in the toilette-table mirror and saw what she had never seen in her sister’s face before – the flicker of desire in her eyes. She pictured Muttiah again, trying to see him as her sister did, but failed to do so. Still, there was another issue at stake. To marry Muttiah would slight their mother. And hadn’t her mother’s marriage suffered as a result of these very differences?

  “The real question, akka, is whether you will consent or not,” Manohari said.

  “What about the fact that he is a Hindu?” Annalukshmi said, ignoring Manohari. “You know this would be a blow to Amma.”

  “She is not overly happy about it, but in time I hope she comes to accept it,” Kumudini said.

  “Don’t forget, akka,” Manohari added, “if Kumudini returns to Malaya as Muttiah’s wife, Appa will let you off the hook for running away.”

  Annalukshmi had finished drying her hair, and she tossed her towel on the bed rather peevishly. “Well I don’t see why my permission is needed. You have all pretty much decided what is to be done. Anyway, you seem to know what you are doing, so I suppose I must give my consent.”

  Kumudini’s face flushed. “I know I will be happy. And I won’t forget, akka, that you’ve put me before yourself.” She came and hugged her sister. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she and Manohari went out of the bedroom to tell their mother.

  Annalukshmi, left alone, picked up her brush and began to run it through her hair, a pensive expression on her face.

  Book Two

  16

  Do I dwell in his thoughts always

  As he in mine?

  – The Tirukkural, verse 1204

  In the four months that followed Richard’s departure, Balendran set himself with great purposefulness to put aside the memory of his friend. Sonia had left in early January for England to visit her son and Lady Boxton. She would be away for three months.

  The realization of what he had nearly lost helped Balendran in his endeavour. He tried hard to draw pleasure from the things around him. The estate gave him new delight. The reforms he had put into place over the years were now truly bearing fruit, the productivity of the estate soaring. It had become a showpiece and he was often solicited both by Europeans and Ceylonese for a tour so they could study his reforms. These excursion never amounted to anything, however, as the cornerstone of his success, labour reform, was unpalatable to his guests. Still, he felt vindicated that liberal measures could actually result in higher gains. Further, the price of rubber was at a peak, and the debit column of his ledger filled him with satisfaction.

  Balendran had also taken up a long-time dream of his, to write a book on Jaffna culture. He was soon absorbed in this task, and came to love the time he spent with the villagers of Jaffna, discussing their rituals, understanding, with surprise, the variance of custom and language from village to village; the radically different culture of the barren little islands that surrounded the Jaffna peninsula, the language of the inhabitants almost a medieval Tamil.

  All in all, it might be said that by the time his wife returned from England, Balendran’s attempt to forget his friend had been an overwhelming success.

  One evening, towards the end of April, Balendran stopped by at Brighton on his return from a research trip. He had promised to inform his father about a sale he had conducted on a piece of family property in Jaffna. Learning from a servant that his father was not in, he was walking along the verandah to his car when he heard Pillai calling to him. He turned to see his father’s servant hurrying down the front verandah towards him.

  “Sin-Aiyah,” Pillai said urgently, “Peri-Amma wants to see you upstairs.”

  Balendran looked at him closely, wondering what was wrong. Pillai took out his bunch of keys and let Balendran into the vestibule.

  When Balendran reached the top of the stairs, he saw his mother pacing her drawing room. She came forward without a word and took his hands. “A terrible thing has happened. We got word today your brother is very ill.”

  Balendran stared at her in astonishment. “What did Arul say is wrong?”

  “Not Arul. The servants told me. It’s fatal.”

  Balendran glanced towards the stairs, but Pillai had left.

  “Wouldn’t Arul have contacted us directly if there was a problem like this?”

  “Pillai’s wife, Rajini, told me.”

  “Nonsense, Amma,” Balendran said. “Rajini can’t read or write. How would she have been in contact with them?”

  Nalamma waved her hand impatiently. “What matters is not how
we heard, but what we’re going to do about it.”

  “Let us wait a few days and see,” he said soothingly. “Perhaps some news will come to us.”

  “A few days might be too late.”

  When Balendran came out of the house, he noticed Pillai supervising the gardeners as they gathered up the leaves on the lawn. It struck him now that Pillai, unlike the other servants, was literate. Could Rajini have got the news from him? He recalled the way Pakkiam, his brother’s wife, would sit between Rajini’s legs every evening as Rajini combed out her hair. Pakkiam had been a surrogate daughter to the childless couple. He thought of the urgency with which Pillai had approached him to go and see his mother. Had Pillai been in contact with his brother? Even as he thought this, Balendran dismissed the notion. Pillai’s favoured position as head servant was due to his absolute loyalty to his father, his absolute dedication to the welfare of the family, his absolute honesty. His father had made them all, Pillai included, swear in the household shrine not to have any contact with Arul. Pillai would never have defied his father in this manner. Even as he said this to himself, however, he remembered that his mother, so dutiful and obedient, had maintained some connection with her oldest son’s family, enmeshing him in her duplicity.

  As Balendran’s car left Brighton, he leant back against his seat, exhausted from his long journey but also from the terrible April heat. He thought of his brother’s marriage to Pakkiam, who had worked as a servant for them. Twenty-eight years had passed since Arul had gone with her to India, and Balendran pondered, as he sometimes did, if there were problems between them, given their differences.

  His brother was the son of a rich landowner, educated in English and European culture. He had spent his life in luxury. She was a Koviar, a low caste. As such, Pakkiam belonged to a different world. Before she came to Brighton, she had never seen electric lighting or running water, never sat on a chair, never had more than a single change of clothing. She could not read or write. Had it been a struggle to find a common base on which to build a life?

  When Balendran got home, Sonia, now back from England a few weeks, was on the verandah, a troubled look on her face. He remembered immediately the news of his brother.

  “Something has happened,” he said as he came up the verandah steps.

  She held out a telegram to him. “It’s your brother.”

  He took it from her. FATHER VERY ILL. STOP. WON’T LAST A MONTH. STOP. WISHES TO SEE YOU. STOP. AT BOMBAY. STOP. YOUR NEPHEW, SEELAN.

  Balendran felt the blood rush to his head. He sat down in a chair, afraid that his legs would give way under him.

  “Are you going to go?” Sonia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Balendran said after a moment. “I have to talk to Appa about it.”

  “And what if he says no?”

  Balendran was silent, not having an answer. His mind was too confounded by the shocking news. He stood up and straightened his coat. “I’m going back to Brighton,” he said.

  He picked up the telegram and went down the steps.

  Sonia watched Balendran leave. She hoped he would have the strength to do as his heart wished in this matter and not obey his father’s orders out of a sense of duty. She knew well the sadness of being at a distance when the death of a loved one was impending. Though she had basked in the happiness of her son’s company once again, her time in London had been coloured by some regret. Sonia had not been in London for twenty years, and, despite her regular correspondence with her aunt, Lady Boxton, Sonia felt that they had become strangers to each other. Her aunt’s letters, chatty with news of social events in London, had not conveyed her growing frailty. Sonia, understanding that she might never see her aunt alive again, had endeavoured to bridge the missing years. During their afternoon teas, their mornings together while Lukshman was at his classes, Sonia would try to engage her aunt with stories of her life in Ceylon, but Lady Boxton, though she seemed to take in what Sonia said, appeared to be in the world of her own thoughts. Now Sonia wanted Balendran to have the opportunity to speak with his brother, at least make some attempt to re-establish the bonds that had been broken, before it was too late.

  As the car left his house, Balendran looked at the telegram and felt a sense of disbelief that his brother was dying. He had got used to his absence, but, at the same time, he had also got used to the fact of his alternate life in Bombay. This other existence his mother kept alive and, in order to do so, she had involved him in her conspiracy. It was he who had to accompany her to the temple on his brother’s birthday so she could offer a pooja; he who, after she had an inauspicious dream about Arul, had to instruct the priest to make an offering to Ganesh or go, himself, to St. Anthony’s in Kochchikade. Then there was the son, Seelan. They had been sent a notice of his birth by Arul. A terse, typewritten, unsigned note. Every year, his mother sent a gold sovereign for Seelan’s birthday. She directed it to the bank manager, Mr. Govind, who was responsible for paying the monthly stipend his father allotted Arul. Balendran had been aware of his brother’s life and, in a strange way, had participated in it. Now he found it difficult to imagine that life ending, their connection being completely severed.

  He looked at the telegram again, thinking of whether he would go or not. He knew that it depended on his father, but he had to admit that he did not wish to go.

  Seven years separated the two brothers. While that gap would be insignificant now, the year Arul had left Brighton with Pakkiam he had been nineteen and Balendran merely twelve. They had never known each other as adults. His brother was, in many ways, a stranger to him. Compounding this alienation was the antagonism between them. Arul, until his relationship with Pakkiam was discovered, had enjoyed his father’s favour. While Balendran spent his leisure time reading or looking after his stamp collection, Arul and his father shared a love of the outdoors. They would go on a shooting trip to Vavuniya or pearl fishing in Mannar and not think to invite Balendran. He had stood little chance against his brother’s forceful personality. Arul’s voice, gestures, actions were all passionate. He could take over a room, a conversation, a holiday. Further, Arul had viewed Balendran with contempt. He had considered Balendran’s love of reading and quiet activities effeminate. He had tormented Balendran over his inadequacies in sports, mocked his distaste for hunting.

  Balendran’s dislike for Arul extended to his wife as well. Pakkiam had come to work for them when she was fifteen. She was beautiful, with almond-shaped eyes, long, glossy black hair, skin the colour of milk tea, and a shapely figure. For the first two years of her time at Brighton, he had hardly noticed her. She had been a pleasant, happy girl, constantly breaking into song while she worked, adorning herself with flowers from their garden. Then, in her last year at Brighton, before she went off to India with Arul, her temperament had changed. She had become rude and aggressive, likely to burst into tears at the slightest reprimand from his mother. Her belligerence had turned against him for reasons he had never understood. She had begun to call out greetings every time she saw him. The words themselves were innocuous, things like “Ah here comes, thambi,” “Good health to you, thambi,” “thambi is looking well today.” Yet her tone had been mocking and cruel, and she would glance at his thin, awkward body and smirk. Though he was the master’s son, he had felt helpless against her aggression. It was never overt enough for him to complain to his mother. Also it would have been a loss of face for him to do so, would have showed that he did not have the manliness to deal with a female servant.

  Balendran dated the change in Pakkiam from the time she had begun her relations with Arul. He felt that her familiarity with him was an attempt to lift herself to his level, to be considered his equal now that she was having an affair with his brother.

  Though he believed firmly in the rights of the poor, and was concerned about their misery, Balendran did not think that the downtrodden, were they given power, would handle it any more magnanimously than the rich did. Someone like Pakkiam would not know how to exercise power exc
ept in the way she had seen it used against her.

  Despite his feelings of dislike for his brother, Balendran was moved to concern for his reduced circumstances. Arul, he knew, worked in a lowly clerical position at the Post Office. Even with the allowance from his father, their circumstances would be difficult. A meagre house with a pocket handkerchief of a garden. They had raised a son. Arul’s inability to provide for him, in a way that befitted what he knew his son could have had in Ceylon, must have eaten away at him.

  Balendran folded the telegram and put it away. “It’s too late to mend all that,” Balendran said to himself. “It’s best that I don’t go.” Yet, even as he thought this, he was filled with the discomfort of unfinished business. It was as if he had been called to dinner while in the middle of an irksome accounts problem. A sense of relief to be away from it but, at the same time, an understanding that it was still there to be attended to.

  Balendran’s car had turned into Brighton and he glanced ahead of him. His speculations, his desires were unimportant. Ultimately, his father would decide on the matter.

  The Mudaliyar hated the unnecessary use of electricity, so Brighton was in darkness except for the lights in his father’s study and his mother’s drawing room. Balendran could hear the faint sound of the piano coming from Lotus Cottage and one of the Kandiah sisters singing along to it. Joseph took him to the back entrance. He went up the steps to the verandah that joined the kitchen to the main part of the house. As he made his way towards the back door, he noticed that a fire had been lit by the servants’ quarters. Their dwellings were screened from the house by trees and, through them, he could make out figures dancing while others sang. He was reminded of the night of his father’s birthday, twenty-eight years ago, when he had followed his brother out there. It made him shiver now to think of that moment when he had heard his father cry out. He had run towards the quarters, but, as he reached the trees, Pillai had been there. He had struggled, but Pillai, with the help of the two gardeners, had held him tightly, forcing him back across the lawn in the direction of the house. Yet he had seen it, his father with the red stain on his arm and his brother holding the knife. Balendran turned away, not wanting to dwell on that memory, and went into the house.