The Flower Boy (17 page)

“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.

Chandi never asked for things like other children, but was content to walk quietly, breathing in the scents and sounds and colors.

Disneris stopped to buy a bunch of fresh mint leaves.

While he haggled with the vendor, Chandi wandered off to the next stall, where colorful sweets sat in huge plastic bags. The tops of the bags were open and the plastic rolled down, but the sweets were covered with a thick layer of black. As he glanced idly, he saw one of the layers move.

On closer inspection, he found it to be alive; a live layer of softly buzzing, barely moving flies, feasting in peace on free sweets. Chandi wondered what the flies were thinking and decided they were probably too busy eating to think.

He wondered if they would eat themselves to death, a sugary death, and if they would then go to fly heaven.

He imagined it to be a place where old food sat in inviting piles and the streets were lined with rotting fruit and dotted with open dustbins and uncovered toilets.

He suddenly felt someone watching him and turned around, but other than people going about their pola business of bargaining and shouting and filling up shopping bags, he saw no one he knew.

He looked around for his father and spotted him squatting on his haunches, squinting at a bunch of mint. He took his shopping seriously.

Again Chandi got the feeling, but this time he didn't turn round right away. Instead, he walked a couple of feet and half turned, just in time to see Krishna disappearing into the crowd.

Even though he hadn't actually seen his face, he was sure it was Krishna. His oily spiky hair and his thick neck were unmistakable. So was the green-and-white-dotted shirt he was wearing that Chandi had seen a hundred times.

He wondered why Krishna was watching him. It made him feel uncomfortable.

“Chandi.”

He jumped out of his thoughts to see his father regarding him with a friendly-father smile which didn't fool him for a minute. “Do you want some sweets?” his father asked conspiratorially. “I don't think Ammi will miss two cents.”

Yes, she will, Chandi thought.

“No,” he answered, and then, when his father's face fell, added, “there are flies on them.”

“Right, let's go then,” his father said, secretly relieved that he didn't have to explain the two cents to Premawathi. Chandi knew his father was relieved and wondered what he would have done if he had got the sweets after all. Premawathi was very particular about the household accounts and insisted on knowing where every cent went.

They walked to the bus stand and waited in the queue for the No. 13 bus, which went past Glencairn. It finally came, crowded as usual. Disneris hung on to a strap and Chandi hung on to Disneris because he was too short to reach the straps. He looked to see if Krishna was following them.

But other than the sweat patches under raised, strap-hanging arms and old Jamis's cow munching slowly on the side of the road, he saw nothing.

WHEN PREMAWATHI AND he were at the well, he mentioned it to her.

“Ammi, I saw Krishna today at the pola,” he said through a curtain of water. The water stopped pouring abruptly.

“Where?” she asked. He could tell she was worried.

“Near the sweet stall. He was hiding and looking at me,” he said.

“What did your father say?” she asked.

“I didn't tell him,” he said. She bent down so her eyes were only slightly higher than his own.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because,” he replied looking down at the wet cement floor. Water didn't show on gray cement. It only felt.

She sighed and straightened up.

“He wouldn't have done anything so there was no point,” he said flatly.

“Chandi, Thaaththi's different. Just because he doesn't shout and fight, it doesn't mean he's scared or anything,” she said carefully.

But she didn't believe it herself. He could see the lies in her eyes.

“Chandi, look at me,” she said gently. He did and she dropped her eyes first. They finished bathing in silence, but somewhere under the curtain of water, their thoughts met to talk.

chapter 16

CHANDI AND ROSE-LIZZIE HAD EXAMS AT SCHOOL, SO FOR TWO WEEKS there was less playing and more studying.

They were both bright enough to pass quite easily, but their parents insisted they spend at least three hours a day with their schoolbooks. They asked if they could study together and the request was turned down firmly. So Chandi studied on the kitchen step and Rose-Lizzie studied at the little desk in her room, by the light of the hated Mother Goose lamp.

The only nice thing about test time was that if a test paper was finished ahead of the allotted time, you could hand it in and go home early. Chandi and Rose-Lizzie frequently came home early, hoping to escape to the oya for a quick swim, but they were always spotted and brought back to study.

Because Rose-Lizzie was John Buckwater's daughter, the teachers smiled admiringly when she finished in half the time and skipped off home. They no longer thought she was slow, and could mark her papers without feeling they were compromising their integrity as teachers.

She was first in her class every term.

When Chandi finished early, Teacher assumed he did it deliberately to rile him, and so marked him far less than he deserved. And although Chandi didn't really care, Disneris was disappointed at the end of the term when Chandi brought his report card home.

He examined it closely, and then put it down. He started stroking his chin and his face grew long and sad. “Putha,” he said gravely, “I must say I am a little disappointed in your report.”

Chandi was sitting next to him on the step. He looked out at the mountains and wished it would rain so hard that a landslide would happen and he could miss the last day of school before the holidays.

There was always a Last Day Party where all the children were supposed to bring something to eat or drink and they spent the day playing games and exchanging promises to keep in touch during the month-long holidays.

Chandi personally hated the Last Day Party because he was one of the few children who didn't take anything to eat or drink and therefore got taunted for being stingy.

Because he lived at the bungalow, everyone automatically assumed he was rich and that he ate cakes and drank lemonade every day.

“Only forty for arithmetic. And thirty-five for geography. Forty for history. Twenty for botany. Thirty-five for Sinhalese. And—ninety-seven for English?” Disneris finished on a questioning note. “Child, why can't you get good marks for Sinhalese like you do for English?” he asked.

Because they don't speak Sinhalese in England, Chandi thought, but he said nothing. It was best to say nothing at times like this.

Disneris's face grew longer. “You must get your priorities right,” he said pedantically. “Just because you live in a British house, it doesn't mean you must forget Sinhalese. Look at Sunil. Did he get thirty-five for Sinhalese?”

Disneris approved of Sunil because in his eyes, Sunil was the same as Chandi. Still Chandi said nothing.

Later, Disneris was talking with Premawathi, his words thick with betel juice.

“This report, it's worrying,” he said. “Only thirty-five for Sinhalese. Too much playing with this child.” He put his index and middle fingers to his lips and spat out a stream of betel juice on the side of the drain. “I told you this friendship business with the Sudu Baby was bound to come to no good.”

Premawathi looked at him, grateful for the darkness that hid her expression. “I suppose everything will be blamed on that from now on. Even the weather,” she said sarcastically as a jagged line of lightning split the sky open.

“You must admit, it's doing him no good,” Disneris said doggedly.

“And Sunil will do him good?” Premawathi asked in the same sarcastic tone.

“Better than the Sudu Baby anyhow,” Disneris said.

Premawathi turned to face him fully. “You know what your problem is?” she said. “You are so busy looking for faults in your son that you cannot see your own. Any other father would be happy that his son had a chance to learn different things, things which will maybe help him escape from this drudgery. Learn English, get a good job. But not you. You are a slave, Disneris,” she said quietly. “A slave to your own fear. You are so afraid of everything and everyone. You grovel to the white people and smile widely every time they look at you, although it's obvious that you resent them for being here. Stand up for yourself for a change, will you?” she said.

“Stand up?” he asked in bewilderment. “How?”

She looked at him with pity. “If you don't know, I cannot tell you.”

TWO DAYS LATER, the telegram came, a surfeit of bad news in an economy of words.
Mother very ill. Please come.
Premawathi stood clutching it. It was the first telegram she had got. It had come this morning, fear and anxiety borne to Glencairn in an orange envelope by the whistling, bicycle-riding, khaki-clad postman.

Disneris was at the factory and the children were at school. She hastily ran a comb through her hair, retied her reddha more securely and ran down the back path to the factory, taking the shortcut by the oya. The telegram was still clutched in her hand.

Halfway there, she heard barking and slowed down. There was nowhere to go but forward, so she kept going. She saw Buster first, straining at his leash and barking fiercely. He recognized her and the barks became friendly whimpers. The Sudu Mahattaya was holding his leash tightly, walking briskly toward her.

“Premawathi,” he said. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “To the factory,” she said.

He looked more closely at her. “You're crying again!” he said. “What's the matter?”

She hadn't been aware that she had been crying. Now she dashed the tears away with the back of her hand and handed him the telegram wordlessly. He read it quickly.

“You must go at once,” he said firmly. “Are you going to the factory to look for Disneris?” he asked. She nodded. “You go back to the house and pack your things. I'll go and get him,” he said briskly. She nodded gratefully, but he was already striding off.

She had just finished packing when Disneris and the children burst into the house.

“You can't go alone, Haminé,” Disneris said worriedly. “It's such a long journey. The Sudu Mahattaya has given me leave to go with you.”

That was the last thing she wanted.

“No, you stay here and look after the girls,” she said. “Besides, we can't both go off like this—it's not right. I'll take Chandi with me. He has only two days of school before the holidays begin.”

Disneris looked relieved. “I'll come with you to Nuwara Eliya town and put you in the train,” he said.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “We can manage. You'd better stay and help. There's so much to do with Krishna gone.”

Half an hour later, she walked down the back path holding Chandi's hand. She had a small bag with their clothes, and ten rupees tucked away in a small straw hambiliya in her blouse.

Chandi was silent. He didn't know if he wanted to go to Deniyaya, and he was upset because he hadn't been able to say good-bye to Rose-Lizzie, who was still at school. His wrist, where his mother held it, was going numb.

They walked quickly down the path and got to the main Glencairn road just as the silver car drew up. John reached across and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said. “I'll take you into town.”

“What about the Sudu Baby?” she asked, looking straight ahead. “Who will pick her up from school?”

“One of the teachers will walk her home. I've already arranged it,” he said.

Chandi scrambled into the backseat, leaving her with no option but to get in the front since the door was already open.

John drove fast but carefully, glancing occasionally at her. She sat stiffly, holding her bag to her chest as if it were some kind of protection. Chandi, in the backseat, was busy winding the car window up and down, and waving at every person they passed even if he didn't know them. Some waved back. Others didn't, so he stuck his tongue out at their retreating backs. The car took a sharp turn and he slid down the smooth blue leather seat to the other window. The seat felt cool on his hot thighs.

“Do you have enough money?” John suddenly asked Premawathi. He saw her stiffen. Her pride never failed to impress him or annoy him, depending on the circumstances. Right now, it impressed him.

“Yes,” she said briefly.

“How much do you have?” he persisted.

“Enough,” she said coldly.

He sighed and returned his gaze to the road in front, which looked silver and undulating in the sun. A river you could drive on. “Why are you so prickly?” he asked her quietly. “Sometimes, you make me feel like I'm one of your yakkas waiting to pounce on you.”

She smiled inwardly at his pronunciation.

“I just want to help. Maybe I'm going about it the wrong way,” he said. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it. He blew the smoke out and it formed a bluish-gray cloud that obscured much of his face. It drifted lazily toward her and she coughed slightly.

“I'm sorry,” he said contritely. “I should have asked you.” He tossed the cigarette out the open window.

She was aghast. “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “I didn't say anything! You don't have to ask me anything! This is your car—”

“—and I am the Sudu Mahattaya,” he finished ironically. “And we must never forget that, must we?”

She didn't answer. She had learned long ago that silence was a far better weapon than angry words which bounced dully off deaf ears like slightly deflated balls. Silence didn't bounce. It hung. Hesitantly. Guiltily.

They reached the town and he fell silent because it took all of his concentration to maneuver the big car through the streets, which were crowded with cars, bullock carts, rickshaws, cattle and people.

Chandi, sliding around on the backseat, was acutely aware of the conversation taking place between the two heads before him. The fair short-haired one, and the dark long-hair-twisted-in-a-coil one.

After all these years of being best friends with Rose-Lizzie, his English had improved tremendously and now he was able to understand John's clipped British accent quite easily.

He tried not to listen because he really didn't want to hear, but his ears had a will of their own and leaned eagerly toward the words that bounced back to where he sat, and even the silences which hung. Hesitantly. Guiltily.

Here in town, people didn't wave back to him. People didn't look at him or even at the car like they did on the mountain roads where cars were scarce. There, adults paused in whatever they were doing to stare curiously until the car went past, children waved and sometimes ran after cars until their tired thin legs were outrun by superior engines. Here, people ignored them.

So he had nothing to do but to listen.

THE RAILWAY STATION was empty because the last train had just left and the next one, which wasn't the one they wanted anyway, was not due for fortyfive minutes. The train they wanted was the Badulla train.

From there, they had to catch a bus to Deniyaya.

John stopped the car and came round to open Premawathi's door, before she could figure out the catch and open it herself. She climbed out, red with embarrassment.

He took her bag from her protesting fingers and strode into the small station. Except for a mangy dog that scratched itself vigorously on the platform, the station was empty. The little ticket window was open, but there was no one there. The ticket man was at the petti kadé next door having a cup of tea and a chat.

The station master came in only when he got wind of an official visit by the railway high-ups. On those days, he showed up in a freshly starched khaki uniform and strode around barking orders to the ticket man and to the two porters. He sounded arrogant and looked important, but spoiled it all by fawning the moment the officials came in.

After they left, he would mutter curses at them, spit in their general direction (
long
after they had left, of course) and resign himself to staying there for the rest of the day just in case they came back. Even then, he didn't work, but loosened his collar and went to sleep on one of the benches.

Today, there was no visit from railway high-ups, so he was at home sleeping in his slightly more comfortable double bed.

Premawathi looked around. “You go now,” she said to John. “They'll be back soon and we can manage from here.”

John showed no signs of leaving or having heard her. He ambled back and forth along the platform. Chandi and his mother sat on one of the ancient benches and looked anxiously in the direction from where their train would come. When it came.

John stopped in front of them and asked if they wanted a cold drink or a king coconut. Chandi was about to say yes when his mother said no.