“What is it like … Brighton?”
Balendran was surprised. “It … it’s quite nice. A three-storey house. A large front garden.”
“Do you live there?”
“No. I … my wife and I live alone.”
“I’ve often thought that I should like to pay a visit to Ceylon.”
Seelan had spoken casually, yet he was watching Balendran intently all the while to gauge his reaction.
“Well, I don’t see why not,” Balendran said, because he could not think of what else to say without sounding rude. “You should come and visit us.”
Seelan’s face lit up, making him suddenly handsome. “Do you really mean it?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
Seelan looked down at his hands, then glanced up shyly. “I would like that,” he said, a depth of feeling in his voice. Then he was silent, playing with the pages of his book. He spoke again, his voice low. “I’m finding it so hard to get used to life here after London. I was so happy there. I … I really felt as if I belonged. I hated to come back.”
At that moment, Arul stirred in his bed and moaned. Seelan got up and went to see if he needed anything.
Balendran looked at his nephew and he felt a welling up of tenderness towards him, the same tenderness he would have felt for a lame cat or a broken-winged bird.
When Balendran had been in London, he had been well provided for. Yet there had been other students from the colonies, scholarship holders or those from less-affluent families. They had lived in unheated garrets, sometimes three or four to a room; hollow-cheeked, constantly coughing or sniffling. They were despised by their landlords and shunned by the more prosperous students from the colonies. This was probably how Seelan had lived. It must have plagued him to see students like his son, Lukshman, carefree and rich, and know that, if not for his parents’ banishment, he would have been of their rank. Then to come back from even that poor existence to this flat, surrounded by people who did not understand his aspirations or tastes. It must be truly unbearable. His nephew’s self-important, dandyish manner, his anglophilia was an attempt to bridge, in some way, the space between who he was and who he felt he should be.
When Balendran retired for the night, he noticed that the doors to Seelan’s almirah had been left open. He was aware of the sparsity of clothes and their shabbiness. The suit Seelan had worn to meet him was his only fine one. It was carefully sheathed in a cloth covering. Balendran thought of his son’s almirah, with its abundance of clothes, the bottom lined with shoes, and he felt the unfairness, that the only thing that stood between Seelan and his desires was his grandfather. Then an idea struck him. Once Pakkiam was settled and provided for, if his nephew wanted to come to Colombo to visit, why shouldn’t he do so?
The next morning, Balendran was returning from an errand when he noticed a lot of activity on the balcony of the second floor. As he got closer, he saw that people were congregated outside his brother’s doorway.
When he entered the flat, the curtain to Arul’s room had been pulled back. Some neighbours had gathered in the flat, while others hovered outside. Seelan was by the side of the bed, feeling Arul’s pulse. He was still in his white doctor’s coat so he must have rushed back from the hospital. Pakkiam was at the foot of the bed, watching anxiously. They looked up as Balendran entered.
Seelan straightened up. “His pulse is barely there.” He repeated the same thing in Tamil to Pakkiam. She kneaded her arm with her hand, her face distraught.
Seelan started to leave the room. As he passed Balendran he said, “It’s Amma’s wish that she is alone with Appa when he dies.”
Balendran did not hear him. He was staring at his brother, stunned by this rapid turn of events, despite everything unprepared for his brother’s death.
Seelan repeated himself. Balendran nodded and followed him out. As he left, he saw Pakkiam sit down on the side of the bed and take Arul’s hand. Just before Seelan drew the curtain across, he turned to see her lying her head on Arul’s chest.
The neighbours had left, giving them their privacy. Balendran and Seelan sat in the drawing room for what seemed to them an interminable amount of time. Balendran glanced at his nephew, at the frightened look on his face, and wondered how he could have ever seriously thought he would ask for the return of his brother’s body to Ceylon. He vowed to not even request a little ash to release into the sea at Keerimalai.
His thoughts were interrupted by a movement from the bedroom. They stood up quickly.
“Mahan,” Pakkiam called out, “mahan.”
Seelan hurried into the room and Balendran followed. Pakkiam was standing by the bed, her eyes wide with fear. She stared intently at her son, her entire body an entreaty that what she suspected was not so. He went to the bed and took Arul’s hand in his.
After a moment, Seelan laid his father’s hand down and looked up at his mother. The room became still. Then Pakkiam sank to her knees by the side of the bed. She buried her face in Arul’s arm. After a moment, her hand fell open, palm upwards. “Mahan,” she said in a muffled tone. “Please give me something. This pain is unbearable.”
The funeral was the next day and, contrary to the Mudaliyar’s wishes, it was a simple affair. Arul had laid down very clear instructions for his funeral and, when Balendran saw them, he felt admiration for his brother. They were exactly what his father would have feared. It was a burial that befitted a simple man whose family name was not important. Balendran tried to offset whatever expenses there were, but Arul had put away enough to pay for his funeral. Balendran was surprised by the number of friends Arul had made in his time in India. Every neighbour from the building dropped in to pay their respects, as did his fellow workers.
Balendran and Seelan accompanied the bier to the crematorium. There, Balendran watched as Seelan began to walk around the pyre, setting it alight with a torch at each corner.
Seelan had come to the last corner now and he turned on impulse and offered the torch to his uncle. Balendran looked at him, surprised. The kurukkal who was conducting the funeral came towards them to try and stop the irregularity of the proceedings, but Balendran quickly took the torch from Seelan and set fire to the last corner. Then he handed the torch to the kurukkal and stepped back. He looked at his brother’s corpse as the flames began to surround it.
19
A peacock’s feather can break the axle-tree
Of an overloaded cart.
– The Tirukkural, verse 475
How marriage changes a person, Annalukshmi thought. She looked at Kumudini propped up on their mother’s bed, the bulge in her stomach beginning to show through her sari. Kumudini had been back only a day, and Annalukshmi saw that there was a strange new confidence to her sister that had not been there before. A slightly superior, bossy manner, a way of ordering everyone around. Kumudini said she was happy, yet Annalukshmi could not help feeling that there was something amiss. She had come upon her sister once or twice crying, and when she questioned her, Kumudini had put it down simply to the emotional vagaries of a pregnant woman.
Kumudini noted her sister looking at her and smiled, patting the bed for Annalukshmi to come and sit beside her. “How are things going with you at the school, akka?” she asked.
“Fine,” Annalukshmi replied as she sat down.
“Chutta tells me that you don’t visit Miss Lawton as much as you used to.”
“What rubbish,” Annalukshmi said. “Of course I do. It’s just that with this play, I don’t have much time.”
At that moment, they heard the sound of a bicycle bell at the gate.
“Akka, it’s the mail, run along like a dear and see if there is anything for me.”
As Annalukshmi went towards the front door, she thought, as she had done so often over the last two weeks, about Miss Lawton. It was not as if she had been unaware of the headmistress’s attitudes. She had chosen not to reflect on them too deeply. Something that had been there all along had now moved into the foreground. It
was like walking into one’s bedroom with its familiar bric-à-brac and, because of the passing away of a loved one, being sharply conscious of their photograph that had been for years in the same place on the dresser.
Miss Lawton had often spoken with such fervour of the ameliorated position of women in England since the beginning of this century, how her work here in Ceylon was committed to helping women better themselves. Yet it was clear that for Miss Lawton the right of women to be free to pursue whatever they chose did not truly encompass women of the colonies. Annalukshmi felt saddened. It seemed that something irrevocable now stood between them.
When she came out onto the verandah, Letchumi, who had returned from her holidays last week, was already bringing the post to the front door. Annalukshmi took the letters from her, glanced at the addresses, and saw that there was one from Muttiah. She asked Letchumi to take it to her sister directly. Then she heard the gate open. She looked out and saw Philomena Barnett coming up the front path. “Amma, Aunt Philomena is here,” she called out.
After a moment, Louisa came in, shaking her head. She knew Philomena could not wait to find out what had kept Kumudini in Malaya.
After Louisa had met Kumudini’s ship at the harbour and they were driving home, Kumudini had seemed distant and quiet. When Louisa asked her why she had waited so long to come home, Kumudini had at first seemed annoyed, but then explained that medical standards in Malaya were quite advanced enough and that she felt this habit of women coming home for their confinement was out of date and unnecessary. Louisa knew, however, that Philomena would try to create an intrigue around this.
“Cousin,” Philomena said in an urgent whisper when Louisa came out of the front door to greet her. “So, so, what happened? What took her so long?”
Louisa told her what Kumudini had said, but Philomena immediately dismissed this explanation with a wave of her hand. “You don’t know these Hindus. Very crafty. I am sure that her in-laws have influenced her, no matter what she says.”
“I assure you, cousin, that was not the case.”
“Then why did she not come before?”
“I’ve told you why,” Louisa snapped at her.
“Well, well, let me talk to her.”
Philomena nodded a greeting to Annalukshmi, then went in to look for Kumudini.
Annalukshmi hurried after her aunt. “Let me make sure Kumudini is not asleep.”
Annalukshmi went quietly into the bedroom. Kumudini was propped up in bed. The opened letter was on her lap and there was a pensive expression on her face. Then, when she noticed Annalukshmi, she quickly folded the letter.
Philomena now barged into the room.
“Well, hmmm, it’s very nice to see you, Kumudini,” Philomena said.
Kumudini’s eyes narrowed and she said with hostility, “I hope you haven’t come to tire me out, Aunt Philomena.”
Philomena, not used to being spoken to in this way, looked at her, open-mouthed.
A few days after school had begun, Annalukshmi walked into the staff room one morning to find herself witness to a conversation between Nancy and Mr. Jayaweera. They were in Miss Lawton’s office and did not hear her enter. Mr. Jayaweera’s brother, she overheard, had finally returned from exile in India. He had visited Mr. Jayaweera the previous night at his lodgings in Pettah. Nancy was pleading with Mr. Jayaweera to be careful about seeing his brother openly or too often, as it could lead to trouble again.
Finally, Nancy pushed her chair back. “Well, I can only advise you,” she said. “But you must think of your mother and sisters and the plight they will be in if anything happens to you.” With that, she came out of the office.
Annalukshmi, who was seated at the table by now, hurriedly bent over a student’s exercise book.
Nancy stopped in surprise when she saw her friend, then came up to her. “Oh … I didn’t realize you were here,” she said.
“Yes, the bell rang a little while ago,” Annalukshmi replied without looking up.
In the days that followed, Nancy made no mention of her unhappiness, or of the fact that Mr. Jayaweera’s brother had returned. Yet Annalukshmi could not help but feel concern for her friend and wonder what the consequences would be for Mr. Jayaweera.
One afternoon, a week later, Annalukshmi was tidying up her classroom after the last bell when Nancy came and stood in the doorway, surveying her with the smile of someone who knew a delicious secret. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Annalukshmi replied. She beckoned for her to enter the classroom, then picked up the duster and began to clean the blackboard.
Nancy walked into the class and sat on the edge of a desk. “You’ll never guess who one of the other boarders is at the house where Vijith is staying. Grace Macintosh’s brother.”
Annalukshmi dropped her duster. It fell to the floor with a clatter. She turned quickly to her friend.
Nancy smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Your Macintosh boy.”
Annalukshmi picked up the duster. “How … how do you know this?” she asked, as she could think of nothing else to say.
“Vijith told me yesterday, when we met in Victoria Park. He happened to mention your name, and Mackie, as they call him, asked if it was you. He even showed Vijith a photograph your family sent him of you.”
The photograph, as yet unreturned, gave a sudden concreteness to what Nancy was saying. Annalukshmi recalled now that Mr. Jayaweera had mentioned that a woman owned the boarding house. It was the Macintosh boy’s lover! She turned to Nancy.
“Her name is Srimani,” Nancy said. “You better sit down and prepare yourself for this.” Annalukshmi leant against her desk. “He didn’t run away to be with her,” Nancy said.
“But we were told that –”
“Your Macintosh boy ran away not for a woman but for a box of paints.”
“Nancy, what are you talking about?”
“He left his parents’ house because he wanted to devote his life to his art. Srimani provided him with a haven to work in. According to Vijith, she’s always offering a hand to various waifs and strays.”
“Isn’t that extraordinary.”
“He wants to see you.”
Annalukshmi stared at her, stunned.
Nancy took out a note from her book and put it on the desk. “Let me know what you want to do,” she said and left the classroom.
Once Nancy had gone, Annalukshmi continued to clean the board. She worked deliberately and meticulously, concentrating on carefully erasing even the chalk marks on the very edges. The task gave her the necessary calmness she needed. When she was finished, she wiped her hands with her handkerchief, then sat down to read the note.
“It seems that we must be destined to meet,” the note began without any salutation. “Could you accompany your friend next Saturday? I would like very much to meet you and show you my paintings.”
She put it down and rubbed her temples with her fingers. In her mind, the Macintosh boy had run away to be with the love of his life. This she had accepted as a fact. She had even imagined the woman, given her the beauty and the intelligence of a younger version of her Aunt Sonia. Now to discover that the Macintosh boy had run away for a “box of paints.” There arose in her mind the image she had formed of the Macintosh boy – handsome like his father and, because he had stood by his convictions, a man of courage and honesty. A sliver of light opened in her, as if someone had separated the louvres of a blind. “This is foolish,” she said aloud.
She began to busy herself straightening the desks in the classroom, hoping to rid herself of this ludicrous feeling. Yet it danced before her mind, like the streamers of a kite blowing gaily in the breeze. “It seems we are destined to meet,” the note had said. Perhaps he regretted his earlier hastiness, perhaps he realized the irrationality of his fears. For they were irrational. She would never think to interfere with his art. She was not the kind of woman who would cling to her husband. She liked to be alone. Her Sunday reading under the flamboyant tree, she guarded fiercely
. Was it possible that the Macintosh boy wanted to open up a chapter that was closed?
Once she agreed to go with Nancy the following Saturday, Annalukshmi passed the week in a state of some nervousness. She decided that she would not dress too well, as this might make it appear that she had certain expectations. Yet she chose one of her favourite saris. A minutely checked red-and-cream Japanese Georgette. With it, she wore a simple cream cotton blouse with a V neckline and elbow-length sleeves.
When Saturday came, Annalukshmi and Nancy took the train to Pettah. It was a short journey from Colpetty, a mere ten-minute ride. When they got off at the Pettah station, Mr. Jayaweera was waiting for them. Once they had left the station, he led them along a busy street. Halfway down, they stopped in front of a very old house, built in the early nineteenth century. The house was elevated high above the street to prevent flooding during monsoon season. Two flights of stairs rose up from either side to a common landing. From there, a few steps led to a pillared verandah. What was unique and whimsical about the house was that the doors, the lattice-work windows, the fretwork mal lallis were all painted a sky blue, which contrasted sharply with the whitewashed walls.
Mr. Jayaweera went up the steps and they followed him. He took a key out of his pocket, opened the door, and they entered.
Like most of the houses of the period, its exterior was deceptively small. A corridor led to a meda midula, open to the sky, and beyond it there was another corridor that stretched far into the distance. A woman came out of a room and peered inquiringly at them.
Cinnamon Gardens Page 25
