She heard her name being called. She turned to see Nancy, who had just arrived, coming towards her. Chandran Macintosh, thinking that Annalukshmi had finished her tour of the exhibition, was also making his way in her direction.
26
The Finale: A man’s conduct is the touchstone
Of his greatness and littleness.
– The Tirukkural, verse 505
It was November and the days were once again cool and pleasant. The recommendations of the Donoughmore Commission had been published in the newspapers. Balendran, as he read them, saw that they would bring satisfaction to hardly anyone.
The members of the Congress Party would be furious and disappointed, for the commissioners had not recommended self-government. The Congress’s suggestion of a Whitehall-type cabinet government had also been rejected. Instead, the legislature was to be divided into seven executive councils, each with a minister. The system, modelled on the League of Nations and the London County Council, was the commission’s recognition of the multi-faceted nature of Ceylonese society. The councils would give minorities a chance to participate in government. While this would be the first time any executive power had been granted to the Ceylonese, the most important departments – the Treasury, External Affairs, and the Public Service – remained in the hands of British officers. Since no minister could act without the aid of the Treasury and the Public Service, his ability to make real changes was doubtful. In addition, the authority of the governor to veto any measure was increased. In other words, power had been given with one hand and taken with the other.
The various minority groups, too, would be disappointed, Balendran saw, for all members of the legislature would be territorially elected. There were to be no more seats allocated on the basis of communal representation, thus drastically reducing the number of minority seats in the council. Balendran wondered how Richard would interpret these measures in his report, begun now almost a full year ago.
The commission recommended that the governor no longer had the prerogative to nominate members, who would henceforth be elected by popular vote. This would mean that his father, who would never deign to canvas for votes, would lose his seat on the council. The verandah at Brighton, always crowded with petitioners, would soon be empty of people coming to seek his father’s favour. Balendran knew, however, that the men who would replace his father – F. C. Wijewardena and other younger members of the Cinnamon Gardens élite – while they would make the necessary gestures to the lower classes, would continue to maintain, even increase their own advantage. The first families of Ceylon, irrespective of race, would ensure that.
The commission’s recommendations, in one aspect, pleased Balendran. The commissioners, displaying a reformative attitude that put the Ceylonese to shame, had recommended universal franchise, making Ceylon the first Asian country to receive it. This, Balendran knew, was perhaps the greatest reform the Donoughmore constitution would bring. With universal franchise, the semi-feudal structures of Ceylon would begin to loosen.
Balendran put down his paper and went to stand at his study window.
In the days that followed his encounter with his father, Balendran had expected to feel a sense of freedom. He had spoken aloud to his father, and in some sense to himself, of his struggle, the difficulty of living with who he really was. But instead of release, a feeling of dejection took hold of him, as if he had reached a goal, an end, and found it curiously hollow.
A few days after the incident at Lotus Cottage, Balendran had told his father about Seelan’s return to Bombay. He had tried to convince him to consider passing on to Seelan the share of the family wealth that had belonged to Arul, saying that it was important to make his peace before he died with this restitution in Arul’s name. His father had remained obdurate.
One afternoon, not too long after Seelan had departed from Colombo, Nalamma surprised Balendran with a visit. She explained that her husband had let her know what had happened at Lotus Cottage. Balendran told her of his failed attempt to convince his father to allow his grandson an inheritance. Nalamma had said, “You must understand that a man like your father, irrespective of how he appears, always lives with the consequences of his actions.”
In the proceeding months, Balendran had visited his father’s house rarely. On those occasions that he did, he found his mother distracted and tired. Though from time to time his father expounded loudly about the scoundrels in the Labour Union and their causes, which he said would prove to be the ruination of Ceylon, he seemed otherwise withdrawn and to have aged.
The torches were lit along Brighton’s driveway, giving it a festive air. Once again, it was the Mudaliyar’s birthday. As Balendran and Sonia’s taxi turned into the gate, he saw that his mother had added a new touch to the celebrations. Along both sides of the driveway, stretching from the gate to the porch, was a row of little clay lamps, their lights like fireflies flickering in the darkness.
When the taxi stopped under the porch, Pillai came down the steps to open the car door. He bowed respectfully. “You are wanted upstairs, Sin-Aiyah.”
Although Pillai spoke in a neutral tone, Balendran knew immediately that something was wrong. Sonia and he exchanged looks. They went in quickly.
Before they even reached the top of the stairs, Balendran could hear the raised voices. He entered in time to hear Louisa say, “I am at a loss to understand my daughter. An absolute loss.”
Balendran quickly surveyed the family present; Louisa shaking her head, distraught; Kumudini holding her arm in comfort; Philomena Barnett by the dining table, a vindicated look on her face; Manohari enjoying the whole proceedings and Nalamma trying not to notice what was going on. He now realized Louisa had been referring to Annalukshmi.
Louisa had seen him and she came towards him. “Thambi, the most dreadful thing has happened. You must talk some sense into Annalukshmi.”
“We found a letter,” Kumudini said. “It seems that akka has applied to a school in Jaffna.”
Balendran raised his eyebrows.
“A Hindu school,” Louisa cried.
“Mark my word, it’s that Miss Lawton’s girl who is encouraging her in this nonsense,” Philomena said. She turned to Balendran. “That girl is now living with some man in Pettah. They say she is married, but I have my doubts. He’s a Labour Union man, so I would not be in the least surprised if they are living in sin.” She began to go around the table, checking the place settings. “Poor Miss Lawton. Her blood pressure went up so high, she had to stay in bed for a week. Still, what can you expect? These foreigners and their notions on raising up low castes. If you rear a snake even from the time it is born, will it not ultimately turn around and sting you? It is in its very nature to do so.”
Philomena continued about her business, oblivious to the change in the room. She did not see Nalamma turn away with an expression of sorrow on her face or Balendran and Sonia glance at each other or Louisa fiddle with the palu of her sari. A year ago, Philomena’s comment would have hardly been heeded by them. Now, on all their minds, was the thought of Seelan back in India with his mother.
“Where is Annalukshmi?” Balendran said to break the silence.
“Who knows,” Manohari said. “She flounced off downstairs a few minutes ago.”
Balendran went to look for Annalukshmi, and was told by one of the servants that she was in the study.
He knocked on the door and went inside to find his niece seated in a chair by the desk. There was a stubborn, irritated look on her face.
Balendran came and perched on the desk in front of her.
“I have been sent to rescue you from running off to Jaffna and becoming a Hindu.”
He spoke with good-natured irony, and Annalukshmi could not help but smile. “Don’t worry, I am quite safe from that,” she said satirically. “One faith is enough of a burden.”
Balendran looked at her keenly. There was a quiet determination in her face that he had never seen before.
“Do you really
want to go to Jaffna?” he queried.
“It’s a possibility.”
He waited for her to go on.
She shrugged. “I am considering many possibilities. I might go to Jaffna, I might go somewhere else, perhaps even Malaya with Kumudini, as she will need some help with her baby girl.” She gestured to her surroundings. “Or I might just stay right here. After all, it’s not such a bad life, is it? And I am beginning to meet new people … interesting people.”
She leant forward, her face shining with enthusiasm. “Everything is changing; Bala Maama, I don’t really know what I’m going to do.” Her face became stern. “But when I do decide, I will do it.”
They were both silent for a moment, listening to the voices of servants on the verandah.
“Seelan has finally replied to a letter I sent him,” Annalukshmi said.
“Oh?”
“I thought about it for a long time, maama. I don’t think Seelan and I would have been well matched. I don’t think we would have seen eye to eye on things that are important.”
“It is good to know these things before one makes an irrevocable choice.”
“I wrote to him and said that I do indeed return his respect, and I hoped we would be able to correspond as cousins.”
“I’m so happy to hear it, merlay. It is my wish that some day Seelan will be fully accepted in this, our family, and be able to claim what is rightfully his.”
After Annalukshmi had left to go upstairs, Balendran continued to sit where he was, thinking of youth, his youth, and his mind filled with a memory. Richard and he walking from Sheffield to Edward Carpenter’s house, the deserted road, the rolling green fields on either side. Richard, as they walked along, had turned to him, held his gaze and, with an ever so slight movement, touched the brim of his hat. It was a gesture of friendship, a confirmation of the amity between them. Matching that memory came a more recent one, the time at the Galle Face Hotel when they had sat together speaking of their shared past.
Balendran now understood clearly the cause of his discontent, his sadness in the last months. He was lonely, not for friendship exactly but for someone with whom he could truly share himself.
He was still for a moment, lost in thought. Then he glanced at his watch and sat down at his father’s desk. From his coat pocket he took out his wallet and from it pulled the visiting card Richard had left at his house the one time he had visited. He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper. He undid the cap to the inkwell and dipped his father’s pen in it.
Dear Richard,
There is no excuse for not having written this before. I will not attempt to make justifications, only ask that you let me tell you what’s in my thoughts. I feel the need to express my regret over what happened during your visit to Ceylon. I behaved badly, my conduct was inexcusable. What prompted it was not any lack in you. Rather, it was a sadly clear vision of my life as it is, the numerous claims upon me. For, you see, it would be wrong to hold my own desires paramount above those of my wife, my son. Such an act would be grossly selfish. Yet there are times I feel such alienation from the world I live in.
Richard, might I ask for your friendship? This may be very difficult for you, but ask I must. I am trying, by this request, to learn to content myself with what cannot be changed, to draw sustenance from the small comforts. But perhaps that is not such a small comfort after all. Perhaps it is enough to have one person to whom nothing is a secret, to whom one can lay open the inner workings of one’s heart. Possibly, at the end of a life, to have said that would be enough.
I have lived so much of my existence not asking for what I wanted, lived so much with half courage, half attempts, half feelings. To ask for your friendship is, then, for me, an immense gesture of bravery. I make it now. And will stop writing before my so long idle courage gives up on me. I would so very much like to hear from you.
Bala.
Balendran sealed the envelope, addressed it, and put a stamp on it. He put it in his coat pocket. He would post it tomorrow.
In the vestibule, Balendran could hear Sonia talking to his father, preparing for the arrival of the guests. He turned the light off by the desk and left the study.
His wife and his father were now by the door. His mother led the way down the stairs with Philomena Barnett. Behind them were Louisa, Kumudini, Manohari, and last, lagging behind, Annalukshmi.
As Balendran looked around at his family, he was filled with a sudden tenderness for them that had not existed before, an affection that sat strangely light on him. In the past, they were the things he had drawn around himself, entangled his soul in, weighed his desires down with. Now they stood apart from him and they had, as a result of this detachment, become strangely sweeter.
The first cars could now be heard coming up the driveway. Balendran straightened his tie and went to take his place amongst his family.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Kumari Jayawardena greatly influenced the direction this book followed. It is thus fitting that the acknowledgements begin with her. Her unpublished research on the Women’s Franchise Union and early feminism in Sri Lanka – which she so generously shared with me – inspired the character of Annalukshmi. Her books, The Rise of the Labour Movement in Ceylon and The White Woman’s Other Burden, were also invaluable. Her stories about various Cinnamon Gardens families helped me get a sense of what went on beneath the polished veneer.
My gratitude to my partner, Andrew Champion, for his enormous patience with my daily doubts; his help with various knots in the plot; coming up with the title; martinis at six o’clock; good sense, plants, cats.
My thanks to my family, as always, for their support and love.
The following people read the early drafts of this novel and I am indebted to them for their valuable input: Rishika Williams and Fernando Sa-Pereira, who helped me with interesting insights into Annalukshmi’s and Balendran’s characters; also Sunila Abeysekera, Manel Fonseka, Kumari Jayawardena, Jeff Round, Tony Stephenson.
I would like to give special thanks to my editor Ellen Seligman at McClelland & Stewart for her meticulous and creative editing of this book, for forcing me to go that extra mile (and for her strong faith that I could, indeed, do it); my editor Will Schwalbe at Hyperion in New York, for pointing out that a historical novel can be a metaphor for the present, for his encouraging calls and e-mails while I was in Sri Lanka, for his conviction that I could do it again; John Saddler at Anchor; my agents Bruce Westwood and Jennifer Barclay for, among other things, the box of books they sent me while I was in Sri Lanka – further proof that their regard for me goes beyond their excellent representation of my work internationally; Heather Sangster, formerly of McClelland & Stewart, who stuck with the copyediting even after she had left; Anne Valeri, my publicist at McClelland & Stewart.
This book was heavily reliant on research, so I wish to thank the following people for their time and effort: In Sri Lanka: Manel Fonseka, who put me into contact with numerous interesting people; Mr. C. I. Edwards, Sr., who, despite difficulties of speech because of illness, brought the 1920s alive for me; Reverend Lionel Peiries, for interesting reflections on the Cinnamon Gardens crowd; Mrs. Sathasivam of Cambridge Place, for details of Hindu culture and for arranging for me to visit a temple and its trustee; Chloe De Soysa, whose memories of the saris and food at her parents’ parties provided helpful detail; Siro Gopallawa, who so patiently photocopied the Donoughmore Commission Report for me, five pages a day; Anjalendran, for help with architectural details; Jan Bruinsma, whose house was a haven for us during the year in Sri Lanka. In Singapore and Malaysia: For the oral histories they shared with me – Dr. S. R. Sayampanathan, Mrs. Jayalukshmi Sivarajah of Klang, Dulcie Abraham, Mrs. Ampalapillai of Scotts Road. Mrs. Shellatay Rao of the Arkrib Negara and Dr. Kathirithamby-Wells pointed me in the right direction in terms of my research. Kurt Crocker and Andreas Wan for their hospitality. Ian Gomez for his friendship and good times, so essential when one is in a foreign country.
O
ther books were extremely helpful: K. M. De Silva’s A History of Sri Lanka; S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike’s The Handbook of the Ceylon National Congress 1919-1928; H. W. Cave’s The Book of Ceylon; M. D. Raghavan’s Tamil Culture in Ceylon; S. Namasivayam’s The Legislatures of Ceylon; Rajakrishnan’s The Tamils of Sri Lankan Origin in the History of West Malaysia, and Jeffrey Weeks’ Coming Out: Homosexual Politics in Britain from the Nineteenth Century to the Present. The Daily News from 1927 and 1928 was an excellent source for period details, accounts of labour strikes and the Donoughmore hearings.
The photograph of a street in Cinnamon Gardens, which appears on the jacket of this book, is from H. W. Cave’s The Book of Ceylon and was kindly re-photographed for me by Dominic Sansoni. The two people on the jacket are, of course, real, and I am very grateful to their families for letting me use these photographs. The lives of these two people, however, in no way bear any resemblance to the lives of the characters in this book.
Shyam Selvadurai was born in 1965 in Colombo, Sri Lanka. He came to Canada with his family at the age of nineteen. He has studied creative writing and theatre, and has a B.F.A. from York University.
His first novel, Funny Boy (1994), was a national bestseller, winner of the W.H. Smith/Books in Canada First Novel Award and The Lambda Literary Award in the U.S., and was named a Notable Book by the American Library Association. Cinnamon Gardens (1998), his second novel, was shortlisted for the Trillium Award. It has been published in the U.S., the U.K., India, and numerous countries in Europe. He is also the editor of Story-Wallah! A Celebration of South Asian Fiction (2004).
Shyam Selvadurai lives in Toronto, where he is at work on his next novel.
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