Cinnamon Gardens

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “Oh, Kumu, I am so sorry. Is there anything we should do?”

  “No. Things have a way of resolving themselves. Anyway, what is to be done?” She smiled. “One must go on.”

  It had now begun to drizzle. They opened their umbrellas and turned back towards Lotus Cottage. As they reached the gate, Kumudini said to her sister, “Look at Dr. Govind. If the two of you grow fond of each other, you must not have unrealistic expectations. He is human like the rest of us, and therefore not perfect.”

  “Really, Kumu. I’m not about to have expectations of a man I hardly know.”

  Once they got home and she was alone, Annalukshmi thought of the image of Dr. Govind she had constructed and she saw that she had indeed made him into a perfect lover. She had given him a passion she did not know he had; she had attributed to his formality a shyness and sensitivity that might not be there at all. Her sister was right. She had to be realistic.

  On Tuesday, when Annalukshmi returned from school, the nervousness that had ebbed and flowed through her the entire day like a low fever suddenly peaked in a moment of panic. Her mother was still at home. There she was, seated on the verandah checking and correcting the minutes from the last ladies’ auxiliary meeting. Kumudini and Manohari were watching her intently, hardly able to suppress their agitation that she had not left yet. Annalukshmi glanced at her wristwatch, dismayed. Dr. Govind would be here in fifteen minutes.

  Finally, Louisa closed her minute book and began to gather her things.

  The moment their mother’s rickshaw disappeared down the lane, Kumudini hurriedly led the way to their bedroom. “Thank God, I thought she would never leave.”

  On Annalukshmi’s bed, Kumudini had laid out one of Louisa’s favourite saris, a French chiffon with a cream background and a design of magenta flowers and bright-green leaves. With it was a cream blouse with a lace ruffle along the U-shaped neckline. Annalukshmi took one look at the sari and knew it was all wrong for her. Such flower-filled affairs seldom suited her. Still, they were running out of time and there was no chance to pick another sari, heat up the coals, and have it ironed. It would have to do.

  As her rickshaw turned onto Horton Place, Louisa was so engrossed in keeping her handbag, notebook, and umbrella from slipping off her lap that it was only when her rickshaw came to a jarring halt by the gates of Brighton that she looked up and saw the Mudaliyar Navaratnam standing in front of her.

  “Thangachi,” the Mudaliyar said solemnly, “your daughter is in terrible trouble.”

  “What!” Louisa cried in astonishment.

  “Come with me.” The Mudaliyar signalled for her to alight from the rickshaw and follow him inside. She did so, for the serious expression on his face told her that, irrespective of what she thought she knew, trouble was brewing.

  The Mudaliyar did not say a word until they were both seated in his study. Then he began.

  “I have some distressing news for you, thangachi. Your oldest daughter is having a liaison.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “With a so-called Dr. Govind.”

  “Dr. Govind?”

  The Mudaliyar paused for effect. “My grandson, the son of Arulanandan.”

  Louisa shook her head, confused, unable to make sense of what he was saying.

  The Mudaliyar saw that he had not spoken clearly. He started again, telling her how Balendran had brought Seelan to Colombo. How Seelan had befriended Annalukshmi.

  Louisa’s eyes widened in amazement as he spoke. “But … how does he know Annalukshmi? When would they have met?”

  The Mudaliyar told her about Seelan’s earlier visit to Lotus Cottage and Louisa gasped. “He was a visitor at our house?”

  The Mudaliyar nodded gravely. Then he told her about the dedication in the book, how the girls had arranged a tryst with this young man at Cargills’ bookshop. As he spoke, he saw the horror dawning on Louisa’s face. To stoke the fire, he said, “I am afraid to say the young man’s character is not good. He has all the cunning and deceit one expects of that class.” The Mudaliyar paused. Then he played his trump card. “Even as we speak, thangachi, your daughters are preparing to receive him for tea.”

  Louisa stood up quickly.

  The Mudaliyar held up his hand to stay her, as he had not finished. Too agitated to sit down, she remained standing.

  The Mudaliyar now told Louisa that he had learnt about this from a very good source. Louisa’s horror gave way to outrage. From Annalukshmi she would have expected rash action, but to think that Kumudini and Letchumi, her greatest supports, had gone behind her back and planned such a heinous thing was too much to bear. Louisa hurried to the door, determined to put an end to this disgraceful state of affairs, to save the reputation of her family, to give each of her errant daughters, married or unmarried, thundering slaps. It was with the greatest difficulty that the Mudaliyar was able to stop her, to make her understand that, if she went now, the young man would not have arrived yet and the girls might be able to warn him, making her efforts useless. How Louisa was able to contain herself would remain a marvel to her for the rest of her days.

  Dr. Govind arrived promptly. Kumudini had barely finished draping the sari when Manohari, who had been keeping sentry, came running inside to tell them. Annalukshmi immediately felt a weakness take hold of her. She ran her hand over her face, praying that her body would not choose this very moment to give way.

  Kumudini left to greet Dr. Govind, and Annalukshmi heard her welcoming him to a seat. She felt light-headed and she quickly sat on the edge of the bed. She stayed there until her weakness passed. Then she stood up, looked in the mirror to ensure that her hair and sari were in place, took a deep breath, and went to meet Dr. Govind.

  When she walked out onto the verandah and saw Dr. Govind, she felt disappointed. There he sat stiffly, his hands formally resting in his lap, his legs crossed, his shoulders held back, as if he were posing for a photograph. The expression on his face was pinched and restrained, his smile, as he talked to Kumudini, never quite reaching his eyes. Annalukshmi felt no movement of desire within her.

  Dr. Govind had noticed her now and he stood up. For a moment, his expression became uncertain. Then he composed himself. “Miss Annalukshmi, good afternoon.” He bowed.

  She nodded and looked around for a chair.

  Kumudini had carefully rearranged the verandah so that the only seat open to her was directly across from him.

  The moment she was seated, Kumudini said, “I must go and see about tea.” With a glance at Manohari indicating that she should accompany her, Kumudini went inside.

  Annalukshmi looked after her sisters in dismay. Yet she knew they had done what was necessary. This was her chance to get to know Dr. Govind.

  There was a moment of silence between them, then he spoke. “How are you enjoying A Passage to India?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t really read it yet.”

  He shifted in his chair. “It looks like the rain might hold off this evening.”

  “Yes.” Annalukshmi searched quickly for something to talk about. “Have you read about what is happening now with the Labour Union?” she asked. “It seems that the employees at the Galle Face Hotel and the Grand Oriental might go on strike.”

  “I have glanced at items in the newspaper,” he replied, “but I find such things of very little interest. To be frank, I don’t believe that these protests achieve much good. In my opinion, most people who appoint themselves champions of the downtrodden are simply self-aggrandizing.”

  Annalukshmi looked at him in surprise.

  “Take our Mr. Gandhi in India, for example,” he continued. “It is all very well for him to issue this or that directive, but in the ensuing commotion so many lives are lost and so many people hurt. We who work in hospitals often have to deal with the results.”

  “I agree that the loss of lives is a terrible thing, Dr. Govind. But what do you think should be done? After all, things can’t continue as they do.”


  “Why shouldn’t they, Miss Annalukshmi? Has British imperialism been such a terrible thing for us? It has brought so many advantages, railways, rule of law, postal services, electricity. I, unlike so many others, would be very unhappy to see the British go.”

  “Yet do you not feel that our – your very own – horizons are limited by their presence, their biases.”

  He smiled. “I think that their renowned bias is often the fancy of those who are too indolent for the stern realities of life. I am sure that, in the absence of the British, someone else would be found to blame.”

  Annalukshmi could not think what to say.

  “Well, enough of politics,” he said. “Tell me, what are you reading these days?”

  “A wonderful book on Hinduism. You remember, the one I borrowed from my uncle.”

  “Oh,” he said, waiting for her to go on.

  “I find it very fascinating,” Annalukshmi said. “It’s unlocked a whole new world for me. I have just finished a chapter on the dancing Shiva. I don’t know how many times I have seen one of those statues without ever understanding it, without comprehending that the entire cycle of creation is depicted in it.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I can see that it must be fascinating. I myself, however, am a great admirer of the marvels of Europe. The Eiffel Tower, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Louvre, the Sistine Chapel.” He paused. “One of my favourite writers is George Eliot. Have you ever read her?”

  “Of course, I’ve read every single one of her books,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

  “Mill on the Floss is quite the finest novel I have ever read,” he said. He began to describe what he found so compelling about the book, the generous nature of the heroine, her terrible suffering.

  As he spoke, his face lost its usual constraint and his eyes shone with passion. A strand of carefully combed hair fell over his forehead, but he hardly seemed to notice it. As she looked at him, Annalukshmi thought what a beautiful colour his skin was, brown with a saffron undertone, like seasoned jak wood, how strong but at the same time vulnerable was the curve of his neck.

  Seelan caught himself short. “I am sorry,” he said. “I should not go on so.”

  “No,” she said. “Please do. I’m enjoying your analysis.”

  Their eyes met and a smile passed between them. Then they both looked away to the garden.

  “I read Silas Marner last year and –”

  “When I was in London I visited Eliot’s –”

  They smiled again. He indicated for her to speak first. Before she could do so, however, she heard an exclamation from the back of the house.

  A cup crashed to the floor. Annalukshmi tried to peer in, but she was too far from the front door.

  She turned back to Dr. Govind and was about to pick up the conversation when she heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming through the house. There was an all too familiar rhythm to them. Annalukshmi was hardly able to draw in her breath in astonishment before her mother appeared in the doorway, behind her a very frightened Kumudini and Manohari.

  Seelan stood up. There was a moment of stunned silence, as everyone surveyed each other. Then Louisa moved into action, spurred on by the sight of Annalukshmi wearing her favourite French chiffon sari.

  “You devil,” she cried.

  She rushed at Annalukshmi, who stood up in alarm, knocking the table over.

  “This is disgraceful,” Louisa cried. “Have you girls no shame at all?”

  The Mudaliyar had been waiting inside and he decided that this was the moment to make his entrance. He stepped into the doorway but stopped, for there before him was a living embodiment of his son Arul. This was what the Mudaliyar had not counted on. In that instant, he felt his resolve begin to slip from him with the quickness of falling garments. He clutched desperately at it. “Thangachi,” he cried to Annalukshmi and the other girls. “Do you realize this man is an imposter? This … this man is no Dr. Govind. He is Seelan, the son of my son Arulanandan.”

  Seelan stepped back, appalled. Annalukshmi gasped audibly. Kumudini sat down in a chair.

  “Sir,” Louisa said, “I must ask you to leave my house. Have you no decency coming to visit my daughters in my absence!”

  “Madam, please understand that I meant no disrespect.”

  Seelan then turned beseechingly to Annalukshmi. “You must believe me. This is not as it seems. I –”

  “You would do well to be quiet, young man,” the Mudaliyar said. “You have violated the kindness and hospitality of these ladies.”

  “There is no need for this, sir,” Seelan said. “I am going.”

  He looked around at all of them, anguished, then his gaze came to rest on Annalukshmi. “Goodbye,” he said to her. “If I never see you again, please believe that I meant no harm.” He looked at the Mudaliyar bitterly. “My intentions were honourable, despite what you think, sir.”

  Annalukshmi, her eyes filling with tears, ran from the room. Seelan picked up his hat and went down the steps of the verandah.

  25

  The backward step of a battering ram

  Is vigour restrained.

  – The Tirukkural, verse 486

  Seelan did not know how he found his way to his uncle’s house, but he finally arrived there.

  Balendran and Sonia were seated in the drawing room, listening to the gramophone when he walked in.

  “Where have you been?” Balendran called out.

  Seelan did not reply. He came into the drawing room and sat down in a chair. He looked up at his aunt and uncle and they saw immediately that something was wrong. Sonia got up quickly and turned off the gramophone.

  After a moment, Seelan began to tell them all that had happened. As he spoke of his humiliation, his voice shook. By the time he had finished, he had to press his lips together to prevent himself from crying.

  While his nephew spoke, Balendran had a recollection of himself twenty years ago, when he had fled his apartment in the face of his father’s wrath. He vowed now that he would not let his father dictate Seelan’s destiny. At least one of them would escape from his clutches.

  “I cannot bear the thought that Miss Annalukshmi might feel I meant her harm,” Seelan continued, once he had regained his composure. “I want her to know that I had intended to tell her who I was.” He looked down at his hands. “The time I spent with her this afternoon has made me all the more sure of my feelings towards her. I would like a chance to explain myself. Then, if she can find it in her heart to forgive me this awful deception, I would like to pursue the possibility of an attachment growing between us … of her ultimately becoming my wife.”

  Balendran and Sonia glanced at each other.

  Sonia was the first to speak. “Seelan, don’t you think it is a bit soon to be thinking of future possibilities between you and Annalukshmi? After all –”

  “I understand that many difficulties exist. Yet I am willing to wait, to be patient.” He looked from one to the other beseechingly.

  “I think it’s best if I speak to my niece on your behalf,” Balendran said finally.

  Seelan’s face brightened a little. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  “But you must understand, Seelan, that things are very heated at the moment.” Balendran paused. “If you really want something to grow between you and my niece, my sincere advice is that you go back home for a while. Let everyone regain their senses. Then return at a later date, if that is what you want to do.”

  After a moment, Seelan said, “Yes. I will see if I can change the date of my return passage to Bombay, leave Ceylon as soon as possible. To try to see her again at this time would be awkward for everyone. I will have a letter sent to her tomorrow.”

  Balendran telephoned for a taxi. He wished to speak with his father about what had happened that afternoon.

  As Balendran walked down the hallway that led to his father’s dining room, he could hear the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of voices. He paused outside, straightened hi
s coat, and went in.

  His father, mother, and Miss Adamson were at the table, Pillai waiting on them. When they saw him, they stopped eating. His mother and Miss Adamson looked surprised, but he saw that his father had been expecting him.

  Balendran had envisioned that his father would be triumphant with righteous indignation. Instead, he saw a look of uncertainty in his father’s face, present only fleetingly before his countenance regained its usual sternness.

  “I want to talk to you,” Balendran said.

  “As you can see, I am at dinner,” the Mudaliyar replied. “You will have to wait until I have finished.”

  The imperiousness of his tone enraged Balendran. “Your dinner can wait,” he snapped back. Pillai was about to offer his father some fish in a white sauce and Balendran signalled him to refrain from doing so.

  Pillai looked from father to son, not sure what to do.

  The Mudaliyar glared at his retainer and pointed insistently at his plate.

  As Pillai bent down to serve the Mudaliyar, Balendran stepped forward on impulse and pushed the plate. It fell out of Pillai’s hands and onto the floor with a clatter. Nalamma and Miss Adamson gasped, and the Mudaliyar’s face became red. “Get out,” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Get out of my house.”

  Balendran, though shaken by his own action, stood his ground. He walked over to where his mother sat and placed his arm around her, leaning over. “Amma, I am sorry for this, but please allow me to speak to my father alone.” She looked as if she were about to say something, but then got up and went towards the door. “And you as well,” Balendran said to Miss Adamson. “This is a family matter.”

  She, too, rose hurriedly and left, with Pillai behind her.

  Balendran crossed to the door and shut it.