The Flower Boy

by Karen Roberts

  Rangi followed and was joined in the kitchen by Ayah, Rose-Lizzie and the three servant girls, who giggled and made sly comments about finding Leela a husband.

  At the well, the cloth was removed and Leela was revealed. She was unused to being the center of so much attention and was acutely embarrassed.

  The dhobi woman reached into her blouse and pulled out a watch. She checked the time and checked the tub, which was half full of water with fragrant jasmines and aralia flowers floating in it. There were two other buckets, both half full, one with milk and the other with water. In the bottom of the second bucket was a handful of coins.

  The dhobi woman stood up. Leela sat down on her haunches and gasped and shuddered as the first bucket of milk, symbolizing fertility, was poured over her. Then the water and the coins in the second bucket were poured and Leela protested.

  “Amma, it hurts,” she cried out.

  Premawathi laughed. “The coins will bring you prosperity, Leela, a rich husband maybe,” she called out gaily. Leela scowled.

  The water with the flowers came last. It cascaded over her, leaving sparkling droplets on her eyelashes and wet flowers clinging to her long dark hair.

  Flowers for chastity, purity and beauty.

  Later, she sat out in the back garden in her new blue dress, her hair combed free of stubborn knots and clinging flowers. Ranged around were the rest of her family, Appuhamy, Krishna, Ayah, the three servant girls and Rose-Lizzie, who sat with Chandi.

  Premawathi handed round the food. Cups of tea were made and drunk and conversation limped on, unaided by differences in age, race and the delicate nature of the occasion.

  Leela sat with her eyes downcast and her head lowered. She spoke only when spoken to and then answered only in monosyllables. Along with big-girlhood had come shame, un-understood and unexplained.

  Krishna tried to look dignified, but spoiled it by absently scratching his groin and stuffing too many kavums in his mouth. He had been invited only because it would have been too rude not to have. He knew what the celebration was about and eyed Leela with sly suggestiveness throughout.

  Krishna was twenty-three and a natural-born pervert. He derived endless pleasure from playing with himself when he was alone, and exposing himself to the women on the tea estate.

  His frequent visits to one of the few whores in Nuwara Eliya did nothing to appease his hormones, and coincided with his voyeuristic journeys down to the well when Premawathi took her bath.

  He looked at Leela with new eyes now and saw in her the beauty of her mother, but with a freshness and innocence that made his lust threaten to spin out of control. He furtively slid his hand under his sarong and stroked himself.

  Rose-Lizzie saw and nudged Chandi. Chandi glared at Krishna but Krishna was too busy to notice. Chandi wanted to throw a stone at him, preferably at his crotch.

  Rangi noticed as well, but looked away quickly. Krishna frightened her. She too had seen him hiding behind the kumbuk tree and peeping when she and Leela had their baths. But she didn’t say anything because she was too afraid.

  She avoided him whenever she could and if she saw him walking down the dark corridors she ran, his mocking laughter running behind her.

  Premawathi came up to Leela, a plate of food covered with a clean napkin in her hand. “Come, we have to go in and give this to the Sudu Mahattaya,” she said.

  “Amma, you go and give it,” Leela pleaded.

  Premawathi frowned. “Nonsense. You must come with me. What will he think if I go and give him the food from your celebration? It’s like an insult,” she said.

  Leela stood up reluctantly and followed her mother to the veranda, where the Sudu Mahattaya was sitting in his chair and reading the newspapers. He looked up as they entered.

  “Yes, Premawathi?” he said, thinking she looked particularly radiant this morning.

  Premawathi pushed Leela forward. Leela the big girl who held out the napkin-covered plate in her trembling hand like an offering of appeasement to an angry god. Only the Sudu Mahattaya didn’t look angry; he looked a little puzzled, but that was all.

  “What’s this for?” he asked genially. “Birthday?”

  “No, Sudu Mahattaya. It’s Leela’s celebration. She is a big girl now,” Premawathi said shyly.

  “Big girl?” He looked even more puzzled. Suddenly it dawned on him, and he felt his face redden slightly. On a few rare occasions he missed Elsie; this was one of them.

  “Oh, oh I see. Well, congratulations and thank you,” he said awkwardly.

  As they turned to leave, he stopped them. “Leela, here’s something for you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Leela hung back. Premawathi pushed her forward.

  “Thank you,” she murmured and fled.

  Premawathi smiled. “Young girls,” she said. “Shy at this age.”

  In the corridor she caught up with Leela.

  “How much?” she asked eagerly. “How much did he give you?”

  “I don’t know,” Leela replied. “I didn’t look.”

  Premawathi pried her nerveless fingers open and gasped.

  “Ten rupees!” she exclaimed. “We’d better open a savings book for you at the post office. Might need it later for your daavaddha,” she said teasingly.

  Leela hadn’t been ready to become a big girl and she wasn’t ready for talk about dowries. “I don’t want it, Amma,” she said. “You take it.”

  “Nonsense, child. Of course I can’t take it. It’s yours. Now come along, those poor people must be starving.”

  Leela lagged behind her mother, wishing for the umpteenth time that she had kept her big-girlness to herself.

  chapter 13

  CEYLON WAS AT WAR.

  It was only because of John Buckwater’s occasional trips down to the Hill Club that Glencairn got to know about it.

  Colombo buzzed with mostly unfounded rumors of enemy attacks, and housewives who could afford it indulged in an orgy of shopping and stocking. Others started rationing, because no one knew what was going to happen.

  Air raid signals sounded quite often and there was even an air raid or two.

  Because of the war, Ceylon had become more than a distant tea-producing outpost of the British Empire. Its strategic location in the Indian Ocean and its large natural harbors made it vital to the British military offensive, and suddenly Colombo was awash with military personnel.

  The nightclubs were full of handsome young soldiers and airmen, and Colombo mothers scrambled to find the best ones for their unmarried daughters.

  Food became scarce. Anyone who had friends in the military could depend on them for a few tins of something in return for a home-cooked meal and a few nostalgic reminiscings. So friends were made.

  The Ceylonese army, under the command of the British forces, shot down a few Japanese fighters and a couple of RAF ones too.

  Nobody knew if it was deliberate or not.

  At Glencairn, only the scratchy sounds that came over the wireless waves let people know what was happening.

  There were no rumors or stocking-up here. With landslides, storms and power failures being the order of the day, Glencairn’s storerooms had enough food to last through the war and probably to feed the British army as well. The back garden continued to yield its bounty of fresh vegetables, and tea, of course, was plentiful.

  Although the Sudu Mahattaya sometimes looked worried, life continued as usual at the bungalow.

  From overheard conversations, Premawathi learned that in England, the Sudu Nona had left the city and gone to stay with her mother because it was safer there, and that Jonathan was with her.

  Premawathi worried about Disneris being in Colombo, which she imagined to be in the center of enemy action. With petrol in such short supply, bus fares and train tickets had gone up in price again, and visiting was out of the question.

  He wrote hurried letters and assured them that he was safe and that for the mudalali’s business at least, the war was a good thing. />
  So the children went to school and John went to the factory and Premawathi cooked and cleaned.

  It was 1941.

  Another Christmas came and went and was observed, but with much less pomp and splendor because of the war.

  On Christmas night after his mother and sisters had gone to sleep, Chandi carefully put his two rupees in the red plastic pig with the curly tail that stuck to its bottom. He now had twelve rupees because business had been a little slow on account of the war. But England was getting nearer every day.

  In Germany, the Luftwaffe prepared to bomb London. In London, more air raid shelters were being built. In Colombo, more enemy aircraft were shot down and the Japanese bombed the harbor. At Glencairn, nothing happened.

  Which was a good thing and a bad thing.

  It was a good thing because nothing bad happened.

  It was a bad thing because nothing good happened.

  Chandi and Rose-Lizzie sat high up in the branches of the guava tree discussing the nothing situation and other things. The two big forks provided relatively comfortable seats for relatively small backsides, but the big red fire ants were a problem. They had built a nest from guava leaves sealed with ant saliva but occasionally came out to investigate and bit backsides that happened to be in the way.

  Chandi and Rose-Lizzie found the concept of the ant saliva fascinating. How many ants’ saliva did it take to seal up one leaf? They imagined ants spitting all year round into a little ant spittoon.

  Then there was the war. When they had heard, they had been very excited. There were discussions about where to hide when the Japanese attacked. The guava tree had been considered until the ants had been remembered.

  Every morning for a week they had sat on the banks of the oya and gazed up at the cloudless sky watching for enemy aircraft that never came. Only the pilihuduwas to catch their daily fish, and an occasional crow or two.

  Then they decided that it was probably going to be a land attack. They spent two days gathering all the boulders they could find and positioning them at the top of the incline on the back path. They spent another three days keeping watch after school for approaching Japanese in tea-green camouflaged tanks. None had come, and the pile of boulders still sat there like a primitive grave.

  After two weeks they were forced to admit that the Japanese, very unfairly, had decided to bypass Nuwara Eliya and Glencairn. If the Japanese didn’t think Glencairn worthy of attack, what did that make it? The most boring place on earth?

  Yes.

  A place where nothing ever happened? Not good, not bad?

  Yes.

  A place that was no place for two children who wanted nothing more than for something to happen?

  Yes.

  They did the only thing they could do under the circumstances.

  They decided to run away.

  They made plans in the passion fruit part of the passageway, because it was the only part where no one went, except Krishna to pilfer passion fruits and since he had already pilfered whatever there was to pilfer, there was no reason for him to come here.

  They ate unripe guavas and made plans.

  They decided to go to Nuwara Eliya and catch the Colombo train into the heart of the action. They decided to go on Saturday because Saturday was a school holiday and they usually played outside all morning, so no one would miss them for a while at least.

  They had thought originally of going to Nuwara Eliya on Rose-Lizzie’s bicycle, but after Chandi rode it once and his knees got sore from hitting the handlebars, they decided to walk to town. They would have preferred to hitch a ride, but it was better not to because everyone knew them.

  Notes were to be written for later discovery because the purpose of the trip was to see some enemy action, not to worry parents. Food had to be procured and stored for the trip: two guavas, a handful of nellis, a bar of Cadbury chocolate that Rose-Lizzie’s father had given her, five slightly soft Marie biscuits from Premawathi’s private biscuit tin and a bottle of Elephant brand ginger beer taken from the kerosene refrigerator that sat in the pantry.

  This last required some planning in itself, but with Chandi keeping guard at the end of the corridor, Rose-Lizzie had been able to slip in and get it, although opening the refrigerator door had been a bit of a problem because the handle was stiff and old like Appuhamy.

  Chandi had reluctantly decided to dip into his England fund for train-ticket money, although he vowed to replace it as soon as he got a suitable job in Colombo. He still hadn’t told Rose-Lizzie exactly how much he had saved or exactly what he was saving for. Whenever she asked him, he was deliberately vague.

  They had decided to stay with Chandi’s father, Disneris, who lived in Kotahena. Though they had no idea where Kotahena actually was, a simple detail like that did not deter them.

  For two days, they plotted and planned and whispered and stopped abruptly whenever someone approached.

  The night before their planned departure, Chandi lay on his mat and stared at the flat pink calendar carnation that hung crazily from a single piece of sellotape on the wall. He knew he would get into trouble when the trip was over. But who cared, he thought. They would have gone and seen his father and seen the war and done something. Which was better than staying here and doing nothing.

  He felt a pang of regret at having to leave his mother, but he consoled himself with the thought that she wouldn’t really miss him anyway. With all her work and Leela and Rangi, she wouldn’t even have time. Besides, once he reached his father, it would all be okay.

  He shivered. It was cold and the old patchwork quilt wasn’t much protection against the chill.

  A few feet but a million circumstances away, Rose-Lizzie was too warm under the eiderdown comforter that covered most of her. Her father had been in a short while ago to read her a chapter from her favorite Enid Blyton book and kiss her good night.

  The little china night lamp in the shape of a plump Mother Goose (her bonnet was the shade) cast a yellow circle of light in the room and on the matching yellow Mother Goose curtains.

  Rose-Lizzie hated Mother Goose.

  She threw off the comforter, got out of bed and opened the window. She leaned out and shivered slightly as a cold breeze brushed past her into the room.

  There was a full moon tonight and the garden was bathed in pale light, which turned trees into swaying angels, bushes into squat goblins, and daisies into dancing fairies. She imagined she heard their voices whispering to one another, and strained to hear what they were saying.

  She thought of tomorrow and a frisson of excitement went through her. Unlike Chandi, the thought of leaving her father didn’t worry her at all. Her mother had left and he hadn’t seemed too concerned, so she didn’t think he’d miss her too much. He had Anne and Appuhamy. She shut the window and crawled back into bed and closed her eyes.

  They slept and dreamed the same dreams.

  CHANDI FIDGETED WHILE his mother drew the water for him to wash his face. It seemed that she was taking extra long to do everything today. It was not yet eight-thirty but he was worried. He had no idea what time the Colombo train left the Nuwara Eliya station but he didn’t want to miss it. She was washing her own face, so he hurriedly splashed some water on his face and hands and reached for the towel.

  “What about your legs?” she asked without turning.

  “They’re clean,” he said.

  “Wash them anyway. And don’t forget your feet. Look at those toes, like filthy pieces of ginger,” she said, scrubbing her own feet with the pol mudda.

  “But they’re—” He broke off as she turned and gave him her don’t-say-another-word look.

  He sulkily washed his legs, feeling glad that he was going, glad he was leaving her and her commands and her looks. His father wouldn’t care if his feet looked like filthy pieces of ginger and even if they did, he wouldn’t be nasty enough to say so.

  “Do they look like clean pieces of ginger now?” he asked cheekily, holding his foot inches away fr
om her face.

  She slapped it away. “Don’t be insolent, Chandi,” she snapped. “You can go and play with the Sudu Baby and eat with them and get toys from them all you want, but don’t think you can put on airs and graces with me. You remember who you are and who you’re talking to.”

  Who was he?

  For a moment he wished he was Sunil. At least he knew who he was.

  He dressed quickly, ran a comb through his hair and started out, when her voice stopped him.

  “Where do you think you’re going without eating?”

  “To play. I’m not hungry,” he muttered, knowing there was no point. She put a plate into his hands.

  She said only one word. “Eat.”

  Bully, he thought, forcing the food into his rebellious stomach, which heaved with excitement and defiance.

  Finally, he finished and slipped out into the garden while she was looking the other way.

  He hurried to the rendezvous point, which was the pile of boulders outside the back gate, the grave of the two-man Glencairn army.

  He sat on the largest one and waited.

  It was a beautiful morning, a bit cold but he knew it would get warmer later. Birds sang their different songs with the raucous enthusiasm of a bunch of merry drunks.

  He could hear Buster barking in the distance, probably at Krishna, and he fervently hoped Buster bit him. Closer, he heard the laughter of the oya.

  He wished Rose-Lizzie would hurry up. Sitting here by himself, he could feel doubt and fear trying to get into his heart, and keeping them at bay was difficult. He was one against two things. Rose-Lizzie would have evened up the numbers.

  A sudden thought crossed his mind. What if she were not coming? What if her father wanted to take her to Windsor or somewhere else? He pushed the thoughts aside with cold hands and ordered them sternly to go away. They didn’t and he shivered. He wished he had thought to bring along the hated burgundy sweater.