The Flower Boy (29 page)

“There's no point,” he said without turning around. “Even the most talented painter could never do this justice.”

“So why are you trying?” Rose-Lizzie asked reasonably.

“I don't know. I just had to try,” he said.

“It's a pity,” Chandi said, still looking up at the sky, which was still spectacular.

Robin Cartwright turned around. “What is?” he asked curiously.

“You're so busy trying to paint it that you're missing the whole thing.”

Robin Cartwright regarded him quizzically, laid his paintbrush and palette down and said, “I do believe you're right, Chandi.” Having abandoned his attempts, he lay down on the grass and joined them in looking.

Presently he stirred. “What a show,” he sighed. “If I were a baby, I couldn't have picked a more beautiful evening to be born.”

Chandi sat up. “What are you talking about?”

“Leela,” Robin Cartwright answered tranquilly. “She's in labor. She'll be on her way to the hospital pretty quickly, I imagine.”

Chandi rose and ran into the house without waiting for either of them.

Rose-Lizzie sighed. “I hope he doesn't get too upset,” she said.

“Upset? Why?”

“He heard me being born and I don't think he's ever forgotten it.”

“He must have been just a baby at the time!”

“I don't think Chandi was ever a baby,” she replied.

In the house, Chandi flew from room to room looking for her and finally ended up on the veranda, where he watched helplessly as Leela was carefully loaded into John's car. Jinadasa and his mother got in and John was about to drive off when he spotted Chandi standing there. He rolled down his window.

“Chandi,” he called out, “nothing to worry about. We're just on our way to the hospital. Look after the house, will you?”

Chandi nodded and watched the car drive away.

SO, TWELVE YEARS after Rose-Lizzie was born, Glencairn had its second baby, also a girl. Sita was born a few minutes after midnight that night and was brought home in triumph by her parents only a day later. This birth was easy.

Chandi spent her first day home simply looking at her, marveling at her perfection and her smallness, allowing himself to be shooed out of the room only when it was time for her feeds.

He had never been given the opportunity to see Rose-Lizzie as a newborn and he had never forgotten his disappointment. Now he gazed to his heart's content, examining every one of Sita's tiny fingers and toes, gently touching her shock of black hair. If she slept, he waited until she woke up so he could look into her gray eyes, which his mother said would change to black soon.

Rose-Lizzie was not as fascinated with the new arrival as Chandi was. After her first visit, which lasted only five minutes, she got bored and wandered off.

AT SIXTEEN, CHANDI'S dream of going to England was very much intact, although he still hadn't told anyone about it. He had discontinued his flower business some years ago, only because he found that a gangly thirteen-year-old didn't have the same appeal to visitors as the grinning four-year-old had had. After several cold stares from the women and rough brush-offs from the men, he was forced to admit to himself that he'd have to find a new avenue of work if he was to keep his England fund growing.

Initially that had been easy too, for the Sudu Mahattaya gave him numerous odd jobs and paid well. Chandi spent his Saturdays and Sundays washing and polishing the car, polishing John's shoes and occasionally running errands to other plantations or to the factory.

Strictly speaking, John didn't have to pay him anything, but since the flowers at Glencairn were now blooming untouched, John had figured that for some reason, Chandi's business had come to a halt. And since he knew Chandi was diligently saving money for something, he decided to help him out. Anne and Rose-Lizzie were given weekly pocket money. John was too afraid to offer the same to Chandi, for fear of offending him and Premawathi. Hence the odd jobs.

Lately, though, even those had sort of petered out, because as Chandi became closer to the family, it didn't seem right to treat him like an errand boy.

Now, Chandi only washed the car for two rupees a month and waited patiently for Christmas and his birthday.

Chandi now had over fifty rupees. It was no longer hidden under stones in the back garden, but resided in an envelope under his pillow. Premawathi had come across it once while cleaning, and she had been shocked.

“Where on earth did you get so much money?” she asked Chandi dazedly.

“I saved it,” he replied defensively.

Premawathi stared at him, a million questions on her lips. Wisely, though, she kept silent, only advising him to open up a post office savings book and put it in there. Chandi listened quietly enough, but resolved to do nothing of the sort. With people like Gunadasa working at the post office, who knew what might happen to his hard-earned money?

With age had come the realization that he still had quite a lot of saving to do in order to buy himself a passage to England, but luckily or unluckily, he still wasn't sure what it actually cost.

When Sita was born, he agonized over whether he should dip into the envelope and buy her a present, but after giving it much thought, he decided not to. After all, when he returned from England, he could bring her much better presents than the ones that the Nuwara Eliya shops had to offer.

Not that she didn't have enough. In the weeks before her birth, Premawathi had hand-sewn dozens of pretty cotton baby clothes for her, and Rose-Lizzie had generously dug into her old toy chest and come up with a whole lot of toys, some slightly motheaten, some smelling strongly of camphor balls, but all still better than Nuwara Eliya's limited offerings.

WHEN SITA WAS six months old and her eyes finally became black, Leela and Jinadasa decided to leave Glencairn and return to Maskeliya. Jinadasa's father was old now and couldn't look after the few acres of vegetables he cultivated. Since Jinadasa was his only son and would eventually inherit the land, it was left to him to take care of it, and his elderly parents.

Leela didn't seem to mind, and even seemed to look forward to the change. Although some years had passed since Rangi's death, the memories were still there, and an underlying sadness. Leela wanted her first child to grow up in a happy place, free of sad memories, and although she didn't know if Maskeliya was happier than Glencairn, it was still a change.

Premawathi was disappointed but she understood.

Chandi was devastated.

He felt as if he were losing his other sister too. He had grown fond of Jinadasa and doted on baby Sita. Now he was losing all three at the same time.

“Why do they have to go, Ammi?” he demanded.

It was late evening and the rest of the house was settling in for the night. Premawathi and Chandi were walking through the gardens, as they often did when they had something to talk about. Premawathi had felt the anger building up in Chandi and she had been the one to suggest this evening's walk.

Now she sighed. “You know why, Chandi,” she said practically. “Jinadasa's parents are old now. They need someone to look after them.”

“Why can't they come to Glencairn and live here? There's plenty of room and I'm sure the Sudu Mahattaya won't mind.”

“And what about the land? Who'll take care of that? I'll miss them too, but it's the right thing to do, child,” she said.

“I think our family is cursed!” he said angrily. “Other families stay together, but in ours, everyone just leaves.”

She put a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it away. “Chandi, our family is
not
cursed,” she said patiently. “And it's not that everyone wants to leave, it's just that everyone wants to live their own lives. Leela is a wife and a mother now. Her duty is towards her husband and family.”

“Well, what about you, then?” he demanded angrily, missing the shock that leapt into her eyes. “What about your duty to your husband? Why didn't you go with him or try to stop him leaving us?”

With an effort, she kept her voice level. “Because I chose to stay and take care of my children.”

“And the Sudu Mahattaya?” he asked mockingly, knowing he was hurting her but unable to stop the angry words from tumbling out.

She stopped and turned to face him, her face taut with tension. “I have done my duty towards my children. Leela is settled down and you are grown up now,” she said steadily.

“And Rangi?” he almost shouted. “What about her? She jumped off World's End and you didn't even care!”

In the moonlight, Premawathi's face paled. “Nobody even knows if she jumped or fell off. And I did care. I do care,” she corrected herself.

He felt as if she were being cold-blooded about the whole thing and it angered him even more. “
I
know! And I know why, too! She saw you! You and the Sudu Mahattaya, talking and hugging and everything.”

Premawathi swayed, her face deathly white now. “What?” she whispered disbelievingly. “You knew and you never said anything? All these years I have wondered why, and now you tell me this? Now you tell me?” She sank to the dewy grass and buried her face in her hands.

Chandi was stricken. The anger left him as suddenly as it had come, and in its place was remorse and fear. He knelt beside her.

“Ammi, I'm so sorry, Ammi,” he said, holding her shaking shoulders. “I don't know why I said those awful things.”

She took her hands away from her eyes and he was relieved to see there were no tears. Then he saw the pain.

“Because it's true,” she said dully. “Perhaps I've always known but hoped it wasn't so, and who can blame me? I thought there could be no greater pain than for a mother to bury one of her children, but this, to be the cause of my own child's death—this is agony. I don't think I can bear it.”

He held her face in his hands, hating himself in those moments more than he would do ever again in his life. He truly loved her and to know that he had caused her this grief was almost too much for him. So what must it be like for her? his conscience tauntingly asked him.

“Ammi, what's done is done. I had no right to speak to you the way I just did, and if I could give my life to take my words back, I would.”

She looked at him. “I know you would, my son,” she said, “and you had every right. You had the right of a brother avenging the death of his sister.”

She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again, he saw only love. “All these years,” she said compassionately. “What a burden it must have been for you, what a terrible burden.”

He had spent the last few moments wondering if his mother, too, was lost to him. Now he began to weep, his remorse and relief becoming one. He let his head fall to her lap and she cradled it, stroking his hair as she used to do all those years ago.

They stayed there, oblivious to the damp night and the crickets that suddenly burst into noisy song. The moon slipped in and out of clouds, alternately illuminating the tableau on the lawn, then enveloping it in darkness.

After an eternity, Premawathi lifted Chandi's head from her lap and tenderly wiped his face with her reddha. She rose to her feet and pulled him up.

“Come,” she said softly. “We'll catch our deaths of cold, and if the Sudu Mahattaya comes out, he'll think we're both mad.” As soon as the words were out, she tensed, cursing herself for her references to both death and John, but Chandi didn't notice.

Halfway to the house, he stopped and looked down into her eyes. “Ammi—”

She laid her finger on his lips. “Shhh,” she said. “It will be okay. You'll see.”

Inside, she tucked his sheet around him and gently kissed his forehead. “Sleep, my son,” she whispered. The relief of finally telling someone the secret he had carried within him for almost four years washed over him in great numbing waves. He slept.

Premawathi sat watching him, until his breathing evened out. He sighed in his sleep and turned over. She went over to the other side of the room and slowly changed out of her damp reddha and underskirt.

Tonight, there was no question of her going to John. She pulled her own mat next to Chandi's, and finally allowed her tears to come, soaking her pillow, her hair and the nape of her neck. As always, she wept silently.

JOHN IMMEDIATELY SENSED that something had happened although he said nothing. When she came to him, and after their passion was spent, she lay there, staring out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. When she thought he was asleep, she sat watching him with great sadness. Through his half-closed lids, he watched her back and ached for her, but he said nothing. She would tell him when she was ready.

He knew exactly when whatever it was had happened. She hadn't come to him that night, but earlier on he had seen her out walking with Chandi. He presumed it had something to do with the boy. The next morning, when he had looked inquiringly at her, she had averted her eyes and hurried out.

He had seen Chandi walking slowly down the back path with his head down. He looked young and lonely. He wondered if it was something to do with Rangi, but years had passed since her death. No, it was probably to do with Leela leaving.

In the nights that followed, they often just held each other gently and slept until the pale dawn light dispelled the shadows of the night. Then she would quietly rise and leave. The rest of the house rose almost an hour later, which gave her plenty of time to compose herself and put on what he laughingly used to call her “public face.”

LEELA AND JINADASA left three weeks later. Premawathi and Chandi watched them go with their two small suitcases and one small baby. Sita gurgled all the way down the hill and Chandi felt as if his heart would break. But he smiled and waved until he couldn't see them anymore. He turned to look at his mother and saw the tears.

“Oh Ammi,” he sighed, “you're crying again.” He put his arm around her and led her back to the kitchen where Ayah was making a pot of tea.