The snowman’s head collapsed in an untidy heap of icing and cake on the large mirror where he stood (when he was still standing), and his carrot nose and Smarties buttons disappeared under an avalanche of cake-snow.
Chandi’s loud hoot of laughter coincided exactly with Elsie’s loud shriek of dismay. Both stopped immediately, one to look guiltily at the grass, the other to look angrily at the guilty one, who grass-gazed, as if it was somehow his fault.
He had probably put her up to it, she thought furiously.
Rose-Lizzie stood there surveying her handiwork with a wide, unrepentant grin, while John strove to hide his.
PREMAWATHI AND APPUHAMY had rescued what was left of the snowman and served it along with the other things to eat.
Ice cream had been eaten and thrown in melty heaps in the grass.
Drinks had been drunk and some promptly vomited out.
Rose-Lizzie had been put to bed in disgrace by her ayah-jailer and Chandi had been put to bed in silence by his mother.
Elsie had retired in tears.
John Buckwater sat on the veranda with a well-earned nightcap, reflecting with wry amusement on the events of the evening.
His Lizzie never failed to make her presence felt, he thought.
When he had seen her sitting by herself on the mat, he’d wondered if she was enjoying her birthday party. Now he couldn’t help thinking she had been quietly planning the assassination of the snowman. Remembering his wife’s expression made him laugh aloud. She had declared that she wouldn’t have another birthday party for Lizzie as long as she lived.
Lizzie hadn’t seemed the slightest bit dismayed.
Strange how she had not shown the least bit of interest in the other children, how she had taken so quickly to Premawathi’s young son.
John had invited him because he had felt rather sorry for him, and also out of some curiosity. He had seen Chandi peering in through windows, or from behind trees, but he always ran away before John could speak to him. John liked him, because there was something different about Chandi. He wasn’t brash and cheeky like the other children on the estate, but quiet and rather dignified for his age.
John also admired him for his resourcefulness. He had been aware of Chandi’s little flower business ever since it started. Since there were so many flowers in the gardens and they all died eventually anyway, he saw no harm in the boy making some pocket money.
He hadn’t said anything to Elsie though.
She wouldn’t have understood.
Premawathi too was still awake, although everything had already been cleaned up and put away.
She sat on the kitchen step with a cup of tea. Everyone was asleep, which left her alone with her thoughts, which were jumbled and vaguely frightening. Chandi had caused trouble. The Sudu Nona was angry. And she, Premawathi, was afraid.
And yet, Chandi hadn’t really done anything wrong. He had not made overtures to Lizzie Baby. She had chosen him. And that alone was enough to fill Premawathi with dread.
Chandi had always been a strange one, different from the rest of them. It was not that he didn’t understand their place. It wasn’t even that the label of Servant’s Son chafed him. It just didn’t matter to him.
She had talked to him about it before, told him that he couldn’t just roam around the house and gardens and peep in through windows. He had listened quietly but somehow she felt that it didn’t really matter much to him. Or maybe he didn’t understand. He was only a child.
Working in the bungalow wasn’t easy, especially when the Sudu Nona was in one of her moods. She was vague, impatient and sometimes openly rude. She made comments incessantly about the stupidity of the hired help, not remembering or perhaps not caring that both Premawathi and Appuhamy understood English perfectly.
The Sudu Mahattaya was different. Premawathi had heard stories of planters at other bungalows chasing after the servants, especially when they were drunk, and at first she had worried. But the Sudu Mahattaya was different. He was quiet and respectful and he always said please and thank you.
Even the children were polite, but distant, although Premawathi didn’t really mind or blame them. They were at that funny age, all arms and legs and shyness like awkward storks.
They largely ignored Chandi and he kept out of their way. She wondered if he would have turned out differently if his father lived with them, instead of so far away.
She planned to speak to the Sudu Mahattaya and ask him to give Disneris a position, any position, at the factory or on the estate. But not just yet. It was still too early to start asking for favors.
She was still painfully aware of how lucky she was to have got this job. If she ever forgot, Appuhamy reminded her, in his wise, avuncular way.
If she complained when the Sudu Nona was rude, or when she was tired, he would shake his head and say, “Premawathi, the gods have been kind to you. You have a home, a decent enough salary, and your children are being looked after. What more could you want?”
He was right and she didn’t really want anything more, but sometimes when her back ached from washing and scrubbing the floor, or her head throbbed from too much worry, she just couldn’t feel grateful.
Then, she just felt old. Like Appuhamy.
Appuhamy whose back was permanently bent with servitude. He reminded her sometimes of a bird who had been born into captivity and would not know what to do if his cage was ever opened.
She thought of the old story of the falcon who spent all its life chained to a post, who walked round and round in circles as far as the chain would allow, who was freed one day and kept walking round and round in the same circle, even though there was no chain.
Who had forgotten how to fly.
She went into the room and lay down next to Chandi. She gently removed his thumb from his mouth, smoothed back his spiky hair and tried to sleep.
chapter 8
CHANDI WALKED SLOWLY BEHIND LEELA AND RANGI DOWN THE PATH that led from the school. It had been a typical day except that he had learned a new word today. “Respect.” Mr. Aloysius had gone on and on about it and had kept looking at Chandi all the time.
Chandi wondered if Teacher and Father Ross had been talking about him. He didn’t mind. It was far better than Teacher’s incoherent rage, Father Ross’s sad disappointment or Ammi’s painful guava cane.
It was four days since Rose-Lizzie’s birthday party. Three days since Ammi had sat him between her legs on the kitchen step and talked to him while absently looking through his hair for lice, picked up along with learning in school.
She had talked to him about his father and how much he wanted to be with them. About her job and how much they needed the money. About how he had to be a good brother to Leela and Rangi because he was their only brother. About school and how important it was for him to study hard and do well.
She didn’t say what he knew she really wanted to say. About the Sudu Nona’s anger at the birthday party. About his unsuitability as a friend for Rose-Lizzie. About the differences between them. About the danger in their being playmates, let alone best friends. About her fear of losing her job because of his actions. About her worry and sleepless nights.
She didn’t tell him any of these things.
But he knew anyway.
He didn’t want to cause trouble. He understood everything. And nothing, really. He didn’t think he was being bad. Bad was when children hit their parents or when parents hit each other. Bad was when people robbed other people or told big lies.
Bad was not being best friends with someone. Not in his book, anyway.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew Rose-Lizzie was an English girl and therefore richer and different from him. He knew she was expected to play with other English children, just as he was expected to play with Sunil.
But what was wrong with them playing with each other too, him and Rose-Lizzie? he wondered. It was only natural, since they lived in the same house. What was so wrong? Why did it make everyone so angry and worried and unco
mfortable?
He shook his head violently to clear it and decided that grown-ups, although mostly wise, were also stupid sometimes.
They worried about nothing.
“Chandi! Chandi, wait!”
Sunil was running toward him, dragging his heavy schoolbag behind him in the dust.
Chandi waited.
“You shouldn’t drag your bag like that,” he said when Sunil caught up.
Sunil shrugged. “So what? They’re only school books. Not real books or toys or anything,” he said.
“I went for Lizzie Baby’s birthday party,” Chandi said casually.
Sunil stopped and looked at Chandi with awe.
“Really?” he breathed.
“What do you mean really? You think I’m telling lies?” Chandi demanded.
“No, no,” Sunil said hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, be careful about what you say and what you mean,” said Chandi, wondering where he had picked that up from. Probably from Mr. Aloysius. Or maybe Father Ross. Yes, it sounded like Father Ross. Say two Our Fathers and two Hail Marys and be careful about what you say and what you mean.
“So what happened?” Sunil asked, anxious to get back to the subject.
“Well, there were about ten children,” he began.
“English?” Sunil breathed.
“Are you going to keep interrupting with stupid questions or do you want to hear?” Chandi demanded impatiently. “You think they were Chinese?”
“Sorry, Chandi,” Sunil said contritely. “I won’t say another word.”
“So we played and we sang songs and we cut the birthday cake,” Chandi said.
“We?”
“Yes. You know Lizzie Baby and I are born on the same day. Well, they had the party for both of us,” he said nonchalantly. “There was a snowman cake on a big mirror and a big silver knife with a red ribbon tied around it, and everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and we both held the knife and cut the cake.”
“Like Punchi Banda and Kalu Menike?” Sunil asked.
Punchi Banda and Sudu Menike had got married at the town hall a few months ago, and people were still talking about the wedding. Chandi hadn’t been invited, but he had heard stories of hundreds of guests, scores of Kandyan dancers and drummers, a two-tier wedding cake which they had cut with a real sword.
“I suppose,” he answered.
“How many candles were there on the birthday cake?” Sunil asked.
Chandi did a quick calculation in his head. “Ten,” he replied. “Three for her and seven for me.”
“What color were they?” Sunil said, desperate to get the entire picture so he could repeat the story to his lesser friends at the workers’ compound.
Chandi stared at him. “I can’t remember. Do you also want to know exactly how tall they were?” he asked sarcastically.
Sunil looked unhappily at him. “I’m sorry, Chandi. It’s just that you have such an exciting life and my life is so boring. I don’t get to go to parties and have dinner with the white people like you do. You’re so lucky, and so am I because you’re my friend.”
Suddenly, Chandi was angry with everything and everyone, including himself for telling Sunil stories. He was angry with the pretense. He felt close to tears.
“I have to go,” he said abruptly. “See you tomorrow.”
Sunil stood in dismay and watched him walk quickly down the path. He hoped Chandi would tell him the rest of the story tomorrow. If he was still friends with him.
Chandi’s steps slowed as soon as he was out of Sunil’s sight. He didn’t know how long it took for him to reach home. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour.
He paused at the gate of the bungalow. He felt tiredness seep and creep through him, and decided to risk taking the passageway around the house back to the kitchen. The firewood man’s cart was at the side door but there was no sign of him. Probably in the kitchen having a cup of tea. Or a roti if Ammi was feeling generous.
He was at the end of the passageway, the part with the broken bottles and the big stones, when he heard the noises.
He emerged into the far corner of the kitchen garden and then he saw them.
At first, he didn’t know who they were. He couldn’t see very much. Just the back of a man, with his sarong raised around his waist, his dark brown buttocks moving in and out, in and out, in time with the sounds of his panting.
Then he saw the woman braced against the wall, her blouse open, her large breasts swinging gently left and right in time to the in-and-out of the man’s buttocks. Silent swinging, like the bells in the church after they had stopped ringing.
Her reddha was hiked up around her waist too, and her legs were wrapped around the waist of the man. He couldn’t see her face; it was buried in the man’s neck. But he could hear the little mewing sounds she was making.
He stood there and wondered what to do. He thought of going back down the passageway, but that meant out into the garden and through the front gate. Two times in one afternoon were too much. He looked at them again.
In-and-out. Left-and-right. Panting-and-mewing.
They hadn’t seen him; they were too busy doing whatever they were doing.
He started to slide past them. He had almost made it to the tomato and spinach frame, the one he had sheltered under all those years ago, when he heard a shriek, quickly muffled. He turned around.
The ayah-jailer was staring at him, her hand clapped over her mouth. Her breasts were quiet now, but her eyes were wild with fear.
Next to her, the firewood man gaped at him, his sarong in an untidy heap around his ankles. His mouse, hanging between his legs, was bigger than Chandi’s, and blacker. He wondered if it tickled him when he soaped it.
He stared at them, wishing they would cover themselves. The sight of their nakedness made him feel uncomfortable. They just stood there and stared, so he finally turned around and kept walking until he reached the kitchen door.
His mother was inside, dishing out his lunch into his plate. He looked hard at her, wondering if she knew what was happening in the vegetable garden.
She saw him and smiled. “There you are. I was wondering what happened to you. Were you kept back at school?” Her voice was normal. He searched her face.
She laughed. “What are you looking at? Never seen your mother before?”
She didn’t know.
That was hard, because it meant it was only his secret. He knew from past experiences that one-person secrets were like recurring nightmares. They came back again and again, prompted by thoughts or people or words or days.
Rainy days and his red-and-green-checked shorts made him remember the Sudu Nona’s screams and moans. Birthdays would make him remember dead snowmen and icy disapproval, and now church bells would make him remember this.
IF AYAH HAD known what Chandi was thinking, things might have been very different. As it was, she drifted around fearfully wondering if Chandi had told anyone what he’d seen that afternoon.
Ayah was married to Gunadasa, a postal clerk in Nuwara Eliya who was well liked by his Ceylonese coworkers and his white superiors. He was hardworking, friendly and generally known to be polite and charming.
At home, he drank copious quantities of illicit liquor and beat his young wife mercilessly, raping her violently and repeatedly almost every night.
Her screams and moans only excited him more.
They had been married for nearly four years and were still childless, which Gunadasa used as justification for his beatings, although her inability to get pregnant was most probably caused by the beatings themselves. That and the repeated rape.
When Ayah had first been approached by Appuhamy with the offer of a job at the bungalow looking after the new baby, Gunadasa hadn’t wanted to hear about it. It was a live-in job and Gunadasa was secretly afraid that the Sudu Mahattaya might find her luscious body attractive. Even he couldn’t compete with the master of Glencairn.
But rumors that the post off
ice might be cutting down on staff made him grudgingly give his permission, on condition that Ayah come home on her days off.
God had finally answered Ayah’s prayers, and she escaped to the quiet safety of John Buckwater’s Glencairn.
She had two days off every month and if anyone wondered why she didn’t go home to visit her husband, they said nothing. Appuhamy knew. Premawathi guessed. And Elsie Buckwater didn’t care.
Ayah had been happy to renounce men and sex for peace and safety. And then the firewood man happened. He was uneducated but kind. Hesitant but admiring. Burned black and made strong by hours and miles of pulling his cart.
He treated Ayah with a gentleness she had never experienced before. For her, it had started off as harmless flirting, but all too soon his overtures and simple good manners had broken through her bruise-bricked, pain-cemented defenses.
She had discovered that sex could be pleasurable, and although she tried hard to resist him, she gave in every time. She didn’t fool herself though. She knew her happiness was only temporary, that when they decided Lizzie Baby didn’t need an ayah anymore she would have to return to the fetid smell of cheap liquor in her face and the tearing agony between her legs.
The firewood man was to have been just a taste of what might have been. A gentle memory to help sustain her through the long nights of ungentleness that would follow as surely as day followed night.
Only it hadn’t turned out that way at all. Ayah had actually fallen in love.
THE NEXT DAY when Chandi walked past the front gate, he saw Rose-Lizzie playing in the garden. He was about to go in when he saw Ayah sitting under the jacaranda tree, looking pensively into the distance. He didn’t think of her as the ayah-jailer anymore, not since yesterday. Now she was just Ayah.
She turned and saw him. He was too far away to see but he felt the fear in her. He wanted to reassure her but he couldn’t speak to her yet. He was too embarrassed. So he waved weakly and hurried on.
The Flower Boy Page 8
