Cinnamon Gardens

by Shyam Selvadurai

  The Mudaliyar sat where he was, his hands trembling beneath the table.

  Since the moment he walked away from Lotus Cottage that afternoon, he had been unable to dispel the image of his grandson’s face, the anger and contempt with which Seelan had looked at him before leaving. Now, confronted by his son, he felt disturbingly vulnerable.

  Balendran turned to his father. “The boy came to me and told me what happened this afternoon. The way you spoke to him. How could I tell him that when you look at him you see your own crimes reflected in his face.”

  The Mudaliyar started.

  “You are reminded of what you did to Arul, to Pakkiam and her mother. And for those things, you hate your grandson.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Balendran smiled disdainfully. “Arul told me, and his wife confirmed it.”

  The Mudaliyar tried to conceal his distress.

  “How could you have brought Pakkiam here? She was just a girl when you brought her to Brighton to take her mother’s place.”

  Smashing his fist down on the table, the Mudaliyar cried, “You deceived me by bringing that boy here. You had no right.”

  Balendran waved his hand to dismiss his father’s ploy to steer the conversation away from Seelan’s mother.

  “Why do you try to destroy everything you touch?” he asked bitterly. “Look what you’ve done to Seelan. To Arul. Even in his death you tried to master him, demanding that his body be returned to you.”

  “I did it out of love for my son, out of –”

  “The same love that drove you to London to destroy my life?” Balendran had spoken without thinking and he glanced quickly at his father. To his astonishment, the Mudaliyar recoiled from his words.

  Balendran was silent, taking this in. When he next spoke, he felt as if he were testing something unknown, prodding at it. “Why didn’t you leave me alone in London? I was content then.”

  “I saved you from that … degradation. Look at what you have now. What would you have been in London? Nothing.”

  “Yes, Appa,” Balendran said with gathering strength, “but I might have been truly happy.” He took a deep breath. “I loved Richard. That would have been enough.”

  “Stop,” the Mudaliyar cried, raising his hand as if to shield off his son’s words. “I forbid you to speak such filth in my house. Apologize immediately.”

  “No, Appa. I cannot, for this is how things are with me. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t live with the pain of knowing this and not being able to do anything about it.”

  The Mudaliyar stared at him, his mouth agape. He ran his hand over his forehead. Balendran could see he was trembling.

  His father tried to rise from his seat, then sank back into it, making a pained sound through his gritted teeth. “How dare you,” he said, his voice breaking. “How dare you speak like this in my presence. It is not true. I will not accept it.”

  Balendran did not respond; he simply watched his father. He saw that by confronting his father with his true nature, unashamed, assured, he had taken something away from him. How strange, how unexpected this was. It was like a tale of enchantment where the quester, by accidently pronouncing the magic words, causes the spell that binds him to fall away. He had come looking for his nephew’s freedom and, unwittingly, he had achieved his own.

  As Balendran walked towards his waiting taxi, he glanced towards the lights of Lotus Cottage and he knew that there was something else he must do. He sent a gardener to tell Annalukshmi that he wanted to speak to her alone, to meet him just outside the gates of Brighton. In his current frame of mind, Balendran could not bear to deal with Louisa, with her recriminations, her questions, her outrage.

  Earlier that afternoon when Annalukshmi had run into the house in tears, she had locked herself in her bedroom and wept at her humiliation and embarrassment, her shock at the terrible cruelty of what had been said and done. When she calmed down, she had lain on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, ignoring her mother’s insistent demands that she open the door. She had pondered with some wonder that Dr. Govind was Seelan. The son of Arulanandan. How strange it was to have met someone who, in her mind all these years, she had pictured as a mysterious and doomed figure.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she had been turning over and over in her mind her meetings with Seelan. His attention towards her had seemed so sincere. Were his feelings as well not to be trusted? How could she have allowed herself to be taken in like this? The man she thought she knew, however vaguely, she found now that she did not know at all. Was he even a doctor? Was that story about his studying in London a lie? What were his real thoughts, hopes, and aspirations?

  When the gardener came to tell her that her uncle wished to speak with her at Brighton, Annalukshmi felt relieved. Here was someone who would answer some of the numerous questions that had come to dominate her mind.

  Annalukshmi emerged from the clump of trees that separated the grounds of Brighton from the garden of Lotus Cottage. She saw her uncle standing by the taxi near the gate and she made her way quickly towards him.

  They stood for a moment, regarding each other.

  “Are you all right, thangachi?”

  She nodded.

  He opened the door of the taxi for her. “Come,” he said. “I want to talk to you. Let’s go for a drive around Victoria Park, then I will bring you back home.”

  At first, as the taxi left Brighton, they were silent. Then Balendran said, “It’s unfortunate that such vicious and unnecessary things were said this afternoon.”

  “For people who claim to be refined and respectable, their behaviour this afternoon was ill-bred and vulgar,” Annalukshmi said.

  “Yes, it was indeed.”

  The taxi began to circle Victoria Park. Except for intermittent streetlamps besides the railings, the park was in darkness. The air was fragrant with the sweet smell of Queen of the Night.

  “You know you must not judge my nephew too harshly,” Balendran said. “He would have told you but … well, it is not easy to speak of certain things. I have good reason to believe that he was afraid. I think he was convinced that if you knew who he really was, you would want nothing at all to do with him. He wanted you to come to like him first.”

  “I wondered if it was something like that,” she said.

  “It is very important to him that you understand that he meant you no harm.”

  “I think I do, now.”

  “In light of what has happened, Seelan feels that it would be best to leave for Bombay as soon as possible. Give things a chance to settle down. He told me that he will have a letter delivered to you tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to reading it.”

  “There is something else … something that I feel you should know,” Balendran continued after a moment. “Seelan has told us that his feelings for you go beyond mere friendship. He has even talked of marriage.”

  Annalukshmi turned to him, stunned. Then she remembered the appeal in Seelan’s eyes as he had told her that he meant no harm. So, his feelings had not been a lie after all. “I don’t know what to say. I hardly know him,” she said to her uncle.

  Balendran looked out of the window at the swaying trees. A wind had picked up. “Seelan is a very accomplished young man. He won the University Scholarship to London, where he trained as a doctor. He has been practising in Bombay and some day might wish to set up a practice here. I am going to give him a piece of the land connected to Sevena, on which he could build a house. He was brought up in a home where, despite terrible difficulties and poverty, there seems to have been love. Seelan was dutiful and loving towards his mother during Arul’s illness and after his death. Much as he desired to come to Ceylon to visit, he held back until he was sure his mother would be well taken care of in his absence. He is a man who, in many senses, is honourable.”

  “I’m glad you’ve told me all this about him, Bala Maama. It increases my regard for him.”

  “Mer
lay, you know how these things are. One must be very careful. Please do not enter into anything lightly. You must be very, very sure.”

  The next day was uncharacteristically sunny for July. Yet the mood inside Lotus Cottage was dark and gloomy. The tensions of the previous afternoon had not altogether abated. Nothing at all was said about the incident.

  The letter from Seelan had not arrived with the morning post. After lunch, Annalukshmi, wanting to be alone, took a chair from the verandah to the shade of the flamboyant tree, where she sat moodily turning the pages of the newspaper. Something on the last page caught her eye. It was a small item announcing the exhibition of paintings by Chandran Macintosh. It was to take place this evening. Though Nancy had reminded her about it last week, she had forgotten all about it.

  Annalukshmi looked up from the newspaper to see her mother making her way down the garden to her.

  “We had planned to go and do a little shopping this afternoon,” Louisa said when she came up to her. “Are you going to get ready?”

  “I don’t think I’ll go.”

  After a moment, Louisa put her hand on her shoulder. “It would be good for you to get out of the house. We thought we might have tea at the Cave’s Tearoom.”

  “Thank you, Amma, but I would rather remain.”

  “Well, merlay, you must do what’s best for you.”

  After her mother and sisters had left, Annalukshmi went into the house to get her book and she found inside it the invitation that Chandran Macintosh had given her that day in his studio, almost two months ago. The location of the exhibition was at a house on Gregory’s Road, ten minutes from where she lived.

  As she walked down the steps into the garden, she caught sight of a messenger handing Letchumi a letter. Letchumi brought it to her, and she opened it as she sat down again.

  My dear Miss Annalukshmi,

  As my uncle has no doubt told you, I am leaving shortly for Bombay. I would have preferred to meet with you face to face, but I thought it would be better in the circumstances to write you. Though one cannot entirely undo an injury caused, one can try to understand the reasons behind it. And this is something I will have to examine within myself. What I can say again is that I never meant to cause you any harm. I pray that you will come to understand, and can forgive me.

  From the very first time we met in my uncle’s study, you have been constantly in my thoughts. At our meetings since, however brief, my respect for you has only increased. I have always known, and now firmly believe, that the special regard one feels for a certain person is almost instantly known. It is my hope that you return my esteem. If you do, when I am back in Bombay, we might, through our letters, strengthen the bond between us and give me reason to return to Colombo – so that we may see where our affections lead us.

  I remain yours sincerely,

  Seelan.

  The letter lay open in Annalukshmi’s lap as she gazed out over the garden. She was moved by Seelan’s words. They were addressed from his heart and brought back the feeling of anticipation she had felt so keenly the day before, as she had awaited his arrival. She remembered the conversation she had with her uncle yesterday. He was right, she thought. Seelan was an honourable man. The devotion with which he had looked after his mother showed that he was a man of kindness and sensitivity, someone who shouldered his burdens with a sense of responsibility that was admirable. He had apologized to her for his deception and asked for her forgiveness. She could imagine that he would make a very caring husband. She found herself picturing the life she would have with Seelan. She saw them living in a house like Sevena, the sea breeze that blew continuously through it, the comfortable armchairs in the corner for curling up and reading in, the bowls of flowers. In a house like this she could be happy. She pictured them walking arm in arm through the garden, watching the steamers going towards the harbour. She imagined him working at his desk late into the evening, his face half lit by the lamp. As she went about some task, he would, without his eyes leaving his book, reach out his hand to touch her as she passed, a smile on his face.

  But the possibility of marriage to Seelan seemed so fraught. There would be the obstacle of her family. Her mother and grand-uncle would do everything in their power to stop the marriage. Could she really love him enough to overcome all that?

  It was true that they did share some interests. And yet … did they really share so much? Were they really suited for each other? She remembered some of the things he said yesterday, opinions they most definitely did not share, the way he seemed to turn away from his own traditions. A persons opinions, as she well knew, were not simply to be dismissed, for they did mark the way someone conducted their life.

  Annalukshmi picked up the letter and read it again, remembering the way his eyes had looked into hers when they had spoken on the verandah, the fine features of his face. She sighed at the thought of what she must give up. Seelan had implied that they were to maintain an exchange of letters only if she returned his affection. She would write to him, nevertheless. But how she would express what she felt, she did not know.

  Once Annalukshmi had set off along Horton Place, her umbrella open against the sun, she wondered if meeting Chandran Macintosh again would be uncomfortable and embarrassing for the both of them. She almost thought to turn back home, but she had never been to an art exhibition before. Besides, Nancy would be there.

  The house where the paintings were being shown was not very different from any of those of Cinnamon Gardens, with its deep verandahs, whitewashed walls, and red roofs. Yet the garden was rather more elaborate than any she had seen before, with a miniature water garden in one corner. There was a gazebo in the middle of the garden and she noticed that a pair of lovers was involved in a passionate embrace on the bench inside. She shifted the position of her umbrella so that they would not notice that she had seen them. From the house she heard a man singing in Sinhalese, accompanied by a sarpina and tablas. The verandah was deserted, but the front doors were wide open. As she came up to them, she could see into a large room. A small stage had been set up at the far end. It was decorated with coconut leaves that had been twisted into the shape of flowers. The singer she had heard from the garden was on the stage, accompanying himself on the sarpina. He and the tabla player were sitting on cushions. Behind them jasmine and araliya garlands hung down from the ceiling, forming a curtain at the back. Chandran Macintosh’s paintings were on the wall. As she looked around the people present, she could not see him or Nancy anywhere.

  Annalukshmi noticed that the room was empty of furniture. Instead, most of the floor was taken up with a red Persian carpet and there were large, mirror-worked cushions and bolsters scattered around the room. The guests disported themselves amongst the cushions, picking at the rich array of food that was artfully arranged on large platters in front of them. There were beef cutlets, pinwheel sandwiches swirled with orange, green, and dark-red filling, fish patties, crisp kokis in the shape of birds of paradise, slices of moist love cake filled with cashew and pumpkin preserve, devilled prawns with a yoghurt dipping sauce, bibikan fragrant with the smell of cardamom and cloves, kadalay fried with coconut, mustard seeds, and chilli, fruit of various kinds.

  A lot of the women present were smoking, and Annalukshmi quickly noted that two of them were not wearing blouses under their saris. One of these women lay with her head in the lap of a woman she recognized as Srimani, Mr. Jayaweera’s landlady. She was wearing a sarong and a shirt. The men were unusually dressed. Instead of suits and ties, most of the men wore sarongs or vertis, clothes that were usually worn at home. One of them had an elaborate shawl draped about his body. From the way he signalled the bearers, he was probably the host. The scene before her was not what Annalukshmi had expected at all.

  The performance came to an end and the audience applauded. They began to rise from the cushions. It was now that Annalukshmi noticed Chandran Macintosh stand up from behind a bolster. He was wearing a sarong and a white cotton kurtha shirt open at the nec
k. He saw her and his face broke into a smile. He came quickly towards her. “I’m so glad you remembered,” he said and held out his hand to her.

  The friendliness of his greeting, his frank pleasure at seeing her, put Annalukshmi immediately at ease. She shook his hand warmly and said, “How could I forget, after having enjoyed your paintings so much the last time.”

  “There are people here who would be very keen to meet you, having seen your portrait. Shall I impose them on you?”

  “I think I’ll sustain myself on your paintings first, Mr. Macintosh.”

  He bowed slightly and waved his hand to tell her to proceed.

  Annalukshmi, ignoring the looks of interest she was getting from people who had obviously recognized her from her portrait, began to examine the paintings. She started to walk around the room, only glancing at the portrait of herself but a little embarrassed to linger in front of it. On the wall next to it was a series of watercolours depicting village life.

  She was halfway through the exhibition when she came upon Mrs. X At-Home. The painting had not changed. Still the servant woman in the arms of the gardener. Still Mrs. X regarding herself in the mirror. Perhaps it was the angle of the light, perhaps he had altered the picture, but Mrs. X looked different. There was no longer a haughty expression on her face. Instead, she had a smile that Annalukshmi found oddly familiar. She bent closer, but then the face became a blur of paint. She stepped back and studied Mrs. X. Then, with a start, she realized who it reminded her of. That smile on Kumudini’s face when she had said, “One must go on.” Annalukshmi’s eyes now travelled to the mirror image of Mrs. X, her truer, sadder self, and it was there that her gaze rested a long time. Somehow, the painting affirmed for her the importance of being faithful to one’s spirit. She knew she must wait, even if it might take a long time, to find whatever it was that she desired.

  Annalukshmi folded her arms to her chest and prayed, not to God but to her better self, for the strength to wait, to hold fast to her ideals, even when there was nothing to pin her dreams on.