The Flower Boy

by Karen Roberts

  Not empty ones like echo-filled rooms.

  Even as their bodies grew and changed, they still viewed each other as they always had. There was none of the usual childish curiosity and tentative explorations. They went too far back for that.

  But as their own comfortableness grew, so did the discomfort of other people. Oddly enough, Premawathi seemed to have accepted that Rose-Lizzie would be an intrinsic part of Chandi’s life for as long as they were together at least.

  And oddly enough, it was Disneris—placid, unsuspicious Disneris—who first broached the subject of their friendship.

  “Haminé, our boy is getting older now,” he said.

  It was late at night and the children were asleep in their room. Appuhamy had retired long ago and even the generator had been switched off.

  “He must concentrate on his schoolwork now.”

  Premawathi was only half listening. That morning, she had been arranging the Sudu Mahattaya’s room when he had walked in unexpectedly. She had frozen, clutching the pile of bedsheets to her like an armor. He had been surprised too. He had looked from her to the bed she had been making. A look full of memories of another time, but not another place. She had dropped the sheets to the floor and fled.

  “All this playing is not good for concentration,” Disneris continued.

  She forced herself to concentrate. “Why? Is he having trouble at school?” she asked. Since Disneris had come to Glencairn, she had left it to him to see to the children’s schoolwork because he finished work at five o’clock, while her work continued right until the family went to bed. Even then she stayed awake, washing dishes and preparing for the next day.

  “No, no trouble,” he said thoughtfully. “But it’s not right, this attachment with the Sudu Baby. It can lead to trouble.”

  “Trouble? What trouble?” she asked blankly.

  “You know this friendship. She’s from a different station in life,” he said.

  “Station. You talk as if they were trains or something,” she said impatiently.

  “People will talk,” he said, looking away.

  “About what? What’s there to talk about two children?” She bit savagely into her piece of jaggery.

  Disneris began to look upset. “Now, Haminé, people will talk. That’s their business. Our business is to see that we give them nothing to talk about.”

  “But they’ll talk anyway,” she protested. “Can’t you see that? The very fact that we work and live here is enough for some people. Anyway, they’re only children. It’s not like they’re having an affair or something.”

  He looked shocked. “Where did this affair talk come from? I’m only saying that we must be careful. God has been good to us so far. We must not displease him,” he finished weakly.

  “Oh, now it’s God,” she said scornfully. “What about the people? Aren’t you worried about them anymore?”

  Disneris felt she was reacting too strongly and put it down to the rigors of the day. “Never mind. It’s late now. We’ll talk about it at another time,” he said placatingly.

  She got up and went into their room without a word. When he came in a few minutes later, her eyes were closed although it was obvious that she wasn’t asleep.

  He sighed deeply and lay down next to her.

  She was fuming. Her husband’s unexpected inverted snobbery had come like a bucket of cold water. Now him, she thought angrily.

  She too had felt the distance the Sudu Mahattaya had put between himself and Chandi, and she had vowed not to do the same with Rose-Lizzie. The children would not suffer because of their parents.

  She thought of the day when she had gone down the path looking for Chandi and had come upon them lying on their tattered blanket. They were wearing only their knickers and the sun painted their bodies, one dark brown and one light gold, with dancing patterns. Their eyes were closed but they were holding hands. The oya was small, the trees here were small and the children were small.

  Two small people in a small world.

  She had watched them and envied their innocence. And as she made her way back up the path, she wept for it.

  Now, lying in the bed she had made for herself, she promised herself that her children would never be touched by the disillusionment of life. But scarcely had the promise been made than she knew it would be broken.

  Life with all its disillusionment did that to promises.

  WHEN CHANDI WAS twelve he found out quite by accident that his father was not a knight in shining armor. Actually, he discovered that his father would probably never be a knight in shining armor, which was far worse.

  It was a warm Saturday afternoon in early March and Rose-Lizzie had gone down to Nuwara Eliya with her father. Chandi had watched longingly as the silver car had driven off with Anne in the front seat and Rose-Lizzie in the back.

  When she had been told about the proposed outing, she had immediately asked if Chandi could come, but her father had said no.

  Her small face was pressed against the rear windscreen and she waved at Chandi, who waved back forlornly. John saw her in his rearview mirror and felt a pang of remorse.

  Chandi drifted out to the back garden and wandered around aimlessly. Presently, tired by his wanderings, he sat down and watched two bees buzzing around a pale purple aubergine flower.

  When he heard someone walking along the side of the drain, he kept quiet because he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. The someone stopped. Must be Ayah, he thought. Then he heard someone else walking toward the probably-Ayah-someone who had stopped. Must be the firewood man, he thought and wondered how to escape unseen. He didn’t want to be around to hear anything. Or see anything.

  Then he heard voices.

  “Ayah. What are you doing here all by yourself?” Krishna sounded cocky and pleased to have found a female, any female, alone in this part of the garden.

  “Just wanted five minutes of peace.” Ayah sounded less than pleased to have her five minutes interrupted. Not that Chandi could blame her.

  “So, say something will you.” Krishna the Don Juan was obviously used to the more direct approach he took with the whore in Nuwara Eliya. There was a rustle. And then another one.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ayah sounded angry. “Isn’t there enough room here? Another foot and you’ll be sitting on top of me!”

  “So what’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything. You stink like an unwashed pig.” Ayah’s scornful voice was loud. And you scratch your meeyya, Chandi added silently.

  “Oh, I suppose you’re only good for some people!” Krishna’s voice now had a nasty edge to it.

  “Anyone but you.” Ayah now sounded bored.

  “And not just your husband from what I’ve been hearing.” Another rustle. “What? You’re not good enough for me? Saving it all for the firewood man?”

  Chandi, moving as silently as he could, started toward the kitchen. This was getting serious and he knew he needed to bring in reinforcements. He liked Ayah and hated Krishna.

  He heard a scream, followed by a resounding slap. “You filthy pig!” he heard Ayah say shrilly. “Keep your leching for someone who wants it! Don’t think I haven’t seen you hanging around the well, peeping at all the women bathing!”

  Chandi could see them now. They were both standing by the drain, facing each other. Krishna had his hand to his cheek and looked furious. Ayah still looked angry but also a little frightened.

  As Chandi watched, Krishna lunged toward Ayah and grabbed her hair with one hand and her waist with the other. Ayah screamed loudly, but the kitchen was far away and, with the usual pots and pans sounds and the water noises, the chances of her being heard were remote.

  Now Krishna’s hand was tugging hard at her hair, pulling her head back, bringing tears of pain to her eyes, while his other hand grabbed at her generous buttocks. She kicked feebly at his shins, but Krishna didn’t even seem to feel it.

  Chandi couldn’t just sit there anymore. He stood up and ra
ced over, shouting as loud as he could, waving his hands in the air like a mad person.

  In the kitchen, Disneris and Premawathi both heard the shouts. They rushed outside, just in time to see their son launch himself on Krishna and bring him down to the ground with a resounding thud. Ayah stood there, sobbing with rage and shock.

  Disneris raced over and pulled at Chandi, who was clinging to Krishna like a limpet, raining blows on him. Finally Chandi let go, still shouting incoherently at Krishna, who got slowly to his feet, looking stunned.

  “What happened?” Premawathi demanded, putting her arm around Ayah.

  “He is a filthy pig!” Chandi gasped, quoting Ayah verbatim, trying to wriggle free from his father’s firm grasp.

  Disneris moved them both away. “Chandi!” he said sternly. “Stop this at once! What on earth has come over you?”

  Chandi looked up at his father, his eyes swimming with angry tears. “Thaaththi,” he gasped, “Krishna jumped on Ayah and pulled her hair and made her cry!”

  He waited for his father to slap Krishna some more, but all he did was turn on his heel and stride back toward the kitchen, still holding Chandi firmly. Chandi wriggled free and stood in front of his father. “Aren’t you going to do something?” he demanded in disbelief.

  Premawathi was still standing with Ayah, and her expression mirrored Chandi’s. Krishna’s dazed fear was turning to triumph when he realized Disneris wasn’t going to do anything. He felt as if he had discovered an ally. Maybe they’d all go back into the kitchen and let him get on with Ayah, he thought hopefully.

  Disneris caught Chandi’s hand and tried to pull him back toward the kitchen. Once again, Chandi pulled free and stood his ground. “Thaaththi,” he said. “Did you not hear what I just told you? Krishna hurt Ayah. I saw him.”

  Disneris turned to face Chandi impatiently. “Chandi, come, putha,” he said. “This is none of our business.”

  Chandi turned to look pleadingly at his mother. She glared after her husband’s retreating back, then turned to Krishna. She lifted her hand very deliberately and slapped Krishna hard across the face. “This time, you’ve gone too far,” she said clearly. “This time you will learn your lesson. And high time too.”

  She turned and led Ayah to the kitchen.

  By the time the Sudu Mahattaya returned, Ayah was once more composed, pale but calm. In a hushed voice, Appuhamy told the Sudu Mahattaya what had happened.

  The Sudu Mahattaya’s reaction was not hushed. For once, he was jolted out of his habitual quietness and angrily ordered Krishna to be brought to him.

  Only Appuhamy knew what happened between the two of them, and despite everyone’s pleadings and questions, he didn’t say a word.

  But ten minutes later, they watched Krishna leave the bungalow, carrying his battered bag with his things. As he passed them, Krishna spat viciously.

  LATE THAT NIGHT, Disneris and Premawathi sat on the kitchen step. He tried weakly to defend himself. “Haminé,” he said earnestly, “these things are not our business. It’s better not to get involved.”

  She swung round on him angrily. “What if it had been me or one of your daughters?” she demanded. “Would you have still not got involved?”

  “But it wasn’t you or the girls,” he said reasonably. “It was Ayah and you know what they’re saying about her.”

  She flung the dregs of her tea into the drain. “So what if they’re saying things? What gives you the right to sit in judgment over people?” she demanded hotly. “She was in trouble and you didn’t lift a finger to help her. What kind of a man are you?”

  “A wise man, I hope,” he replied imperturbably. “We have our lives to live, Haminé, and that’s difficult as it is. No sense in complicating things.” He rose. “Come now,” he said, yawning tiredly, “let’s go to bed. You’re tired and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it away angrily. He sighed and went indoors.

  She knew that she was too angry to sleep and she wasn’t in the mood to pretend. She sat there, her arms hugging her knees, which were drawn up to her chin. The night was decidedly chilly.

  She stood up. Perhaps a walk would help. She went slowly through the back garden, passing the very spot where Krishna and Ayah had grappled that morning. She walked down the narrow passageway and didn’t notice when a sharp piece of glass pierced her bare foot. The corkscrewlike passion fruit tendrils brushed against her bare arms as she passed, but she didn’t notice them either.

  Only when she emerged into the side lawn and her bare feet touched the damp grass did she realize where she was. She kept on walking, oblivious to the fragrance of jasmines, which lay on the air like a blanket, or the creak creak of the cicadas. Her head was down and she didn’t notice John standing quietly and smoking in the dark until she bumped into him. She let out a soft scream, stumbling backward in fear.

  “It’s all right. It’s only me,” he said quietly.

  She stood there, looking blankly at him.

  “What are you doing out at this time?” he asked curiously. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

  She didn’t reply, but he wasn’t really expecting her to.

  He looked hard at her and then nodded slowly. “This incident with Krishna upset you,” he said perceptively. “What exactly happened?”

  She averted her eyes.

  He sighed and stepped aside. “Well, you’d better go back inside,” he said.

  She didn’t move.

  “Premawathi,” he said gently, “is it something else?”

  She gazed down at the night grass in the night garden. Even the moon, that unreliable friend, was asleep.

  “Is it something to do with Disneris?” he asked.

  “No! Why would you think it’s got anything to do with him?”

  “I just wondered,” he replied mildly. He threw away his cigarette end, which was beginning to burn his fingers. “Come,” he said. “I’ll walk with you as far as the passageway.”

  “I can go by myself,” she muttered.

  “I know you can,” he said patiently, “but I’ll go with you anyway.”

  They walked in silence through the dark garden.

  Traitorous moon, she thought bitterly.

  At the passageway, he quietly said good night and faded back into the darkness.

  She lay down on the mat next to Disneris.

  “What is happening to all of us?” she asked aloud.

  Disneris snored gently and turned on his side.

  SUNDAY PASSED LIKE any other Sunday. The family went to church after breakfast. Premawathi started cooking Sunday lunch, helped by Leela and Rangi. Appuhamy was busy wielding a duster in the dining room, although these days he missed more than he cleaned. Premawathi usually waited until he was finished and then went in quietly and dusted again.

  Chandi watched Appuhamy and wondered if he was afraid to die and be burned.

  No one knew exactly how old Appuhamy was, but to Chandi he looked about a hundred. His cheeks were sunken in and he had lost most of his teeth so his lips looked like a badly sewn together seam. His face was an ancient map of crisscrossing lines with his hawkish nose rising in the middle like a mountain. Although he was quite blind he refused to wear glasses, as though wearing glasses were an acknowledgment of old age. So he peered myopically at people and waited until they spoke to recognize them. At night, he bumped into the sides of the corridors.

  Other than his brother in Colombo, Appuhamy had no family and woke up every day, not wondering like other very old people if it was going to be his last day, but wondering if it was going to be his last day at Glencairn.

  Appuhamy didn’t fear death as much as he did not having a job and a home.

  Chandi found him fascinating, and wished Appuhamy would sometimes talk to him and tell him stories of when he was young. But while Appuhamy liked the children and had a special soft corner in his heart for Rangi in particular, he took his role seriously.

  As
majordomo cum butler cum valet, and because of his superiority in years, he was the most senior of the servants. And while he liked Premawathi because she was hardworking and never complained, he didn’t think it was suitable for him to talk to her children.

  So he kept his stories and memories to himself and they, like him, grew wrinkled and faded as the years went by.

  DISNERIS HAD ASSUMED the role of the pola person since he had come to live at Glencairn. This Sunday he dressed slowly as he always did, making a list in his mind of what he had to buy.

  In the next room, Chandi also dressed, but even more slowly. He was going to the pola with his father and he didn’t want to at all.

  When Disneris had suggested it, Premawathi had jumped at the idea and told Chandi to go and get dressed. Chandi knew very well that his mother was happy to get rid of his father for a few hours, and getting rid of him too was an extra bonus.

  He asked if Rose-Lizzie could go with them, and wasn’t surprised when they said she couldn’t. It would have been fun going to the pola with Rose-Lizzie, he thought dismally.

  He could hardly tell his father that no amount of polas could repair the damage that had been done in the back garden yesterday, that something had broken that couldn’t be fixed. So he got ready.

  The Sunday pola, or bazaar, was held on either side of the Nuwara Eliya main street. Traders traveled miles by bullock cart or train and arrived early to get the best places for their stalls.

  The fruit and vegetables were fresher and cheaper at the Sunday pola than they were anywhere else on any other day.

  Disneris carried the big straw malla which was slowly filling up, and Chandi carried the green string bag which went into his pocket when it was empty, but expanded to hold almost anything. It had a huge watermelon in it now, and the handles were starting to cut Chandi’s fingers.

  At the pola you could also find other things like brightly colored, goldflecked plastic and glass bangles, earthen pots and piggy banks, bolts of cheap cloth smelling of kerosene, windmills made from bright red, green, yellow and blue oil paper and ekels, toy carts with tin tops for wheels which rattled loudly when they were pulled along by grubby little hands, balloons sold by the balloon man who had a balloon hat and garishly colored, synthetic-tasting bombai mutai—candy floss.