The Hungry Ghosts (28 page)

He would never tell me about the other men he had been with and where he had met them. For some reason, I was frightened to inquire directly and tried to probe by asking how he had figured out I was gay. He always laughed in reply, and when pressed would say, “I just knew, I just knew.” There was something about the way he said this that put up a barrier. Driven by my greed for him, I would push, saying jokingly, “You must be a truly experienced bugger to know just like that, ah?” or, “Yes, yes, I am not surprised you could tell. I bet you used to zip around Colombo on your motorbike, servicing all and sundry, didn’t you?” He continued to evade with laughter and grins. If I got too persistent, he would change the subject or look at his watch and declare, “Look at the time! My mater will begin to worry.”

Once, I asked him about that encounter between us at the American Center, if he’d invited me to his home hoping we would have sex.

“Of course not,” he replied, grinning teasingly. “I asked you back so we could look at Cinnamon Gardens’ titties through my binoculars. Remember, I am the Sex Fiend of Cinnamon Gardens.”

I punched him lightly in the side. “But would you have made love to me?” I persisted.

“Would you have?” he countered, an edge to his voice.

“Yes, of course.”

“Rubbish.”

“I would have. The moment we got to your room.”

Mili shrugged and lit a cigarette.

After he left, I would often curse myself for having driven him away and vow that the next time I would not ask about his sexual past. But the need to know would writhe in me until I found myself blurting out some question. Then once again we would be sparring and dodging, our tone light to hide the darker currents below.

16
 

O
NE MORNING MY GRANDMOTHER PAID ME A VISIT
while I was putting away some clothes Rosalind had washed, ironed, folded and left on my desk. She sat on my bed and watched as I went about the task. “Don’t think I, too, have not been sad, Puthey, at how little time is left.” She nodded at my surprise. I hadn’t realized she’d noticed my recent melancholy. There was only one week left to my holiday.

“Puthey, why don’t you stay on?”

“Forever?” I blushed at my involuntary reply.

She gave me a keen look. “Well, just a few months. It would mean so much to me.”

“But Aacho, what about my getting a job? I have a student loan to pay.”

“How much?”

I told her, and she snorted. “That is all? I can easily pay it off.”

“You can?”

“Of course, from my London account.”

I thought of Mili and the way he would press his lips together in suppressed delight when he came to visit in the evening and found me waiting on the verandah, as if I was the thing he had been contemplating all day; thought of the slow comfort of my days here, getting up late, having a leisurely breakfast, a nap after lunch, no scramble to find work and pay my loan, no evenings in that basement with its musty smell, fake wood veneer and lumpy mattress.

“So, Puthey?”

“I can’t take money from you, Aacho.”

“Why not?” she cried indignantly. “You are my grandson. Who else is the money for?”

Then a thought struck me. “What about Amma and Renu?”

She gave me a sharp look, taking in my dismay. “This doesn’t concern anybody else.”

“Aacho, it does. They are my mother and sister. They need to at least be asked.”

This was the first time I had raised my mother and sister with her. From the few comments she had made and her look of distaste when a letter came for me from Canada, I knew she was not interested in mending the breach with her daughter. I remained silent on the subject of my mother as well, telling myself I should not reveal anything about her plight which would allow my grandmother to gloat at her mistakes and failures.

My grandmother straightened the pleats of her sari. “Very well, you must call your mother and ask her permission.” A coy, almost sly, expression came over her face. “But you do want to stay, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

She clapped her hands. “Good!” She called Rosalind to tell her the news and the ayah wept predictable tears of joy.

I felt I had been bested in some way I could not explain.

In the last week, Mili and I had become more distant, hardly speaking as we sipped beers on my front verandah, drifting apart when swimming at Mount Lavinia. Yet we spent all our free time together. We never mentioned the dwindling days, but his friends would bring it up, saying they had got so used to having me around and would miss me. When they said these things, Mili and I would not look at each other, but later we would embrace fiercely in my bedroom or be reckless and kiss outside our gate at night.

I waited until after dinner when we were seated on the verandah to announce my news. Mili was silent after I told him, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. A man selling lottery tickets passed by on a bicycle, calling out the dates and prizes into a cheap microphone he held in one hand, his voice chirping hoarsely, like a frog in the grass.

“Mili?” I could not see his face in the shadows.

He straightened up in his chair. “That’s great, Shivan.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“No, no, I’m really happy.”

“You’re not.” I went to sit on the balustrade, looking out at the garden. He came to stand behind me, running a finger up my back. “It’s just that, you know, you must go back to Canada at some point.”

“Only temporarily. I want to return for good, like a lot of people do.”

“But things are getting worse here, don’t you see? Sri Lanka is really heading into a time that will make the ’83 riots seem like nothing. It’s going to be a bloodbath here, what with the Indians, the Tigers and the JVP all increasing their violence, all vying for power. The bodies on the sides of roads, floating down rivers, on the beach, keep increasing. If the JVP succeed in gaining control of the country, we English-speaking Cinnamon Gardens types are finished. They’ll hang us from trees. Sri Lanka could end up like Pol Pot’s Cambodia. And don’t forget you’re Tamil. They despise the Tamils. Then there is the murder of that lawyer, the ridiculous way the government is still trying to tarnish his name by accusing him of murdering Vijaya Kumaratunga. It’s a frightening time.

“What about us, Shivan?” he continued into my silence, dropping his voice to a murmur. “You know the rules here. We can’t set up house like people do in Canada. Always and eternally we will be two bachelors living with our mother and grandmother. I accept the situation because I have no choice. But are you willing to?”

“You think I haven’t considered that?” I demanded in a fierce whisper. “Don’t patronize me. Yes, I am willing to make that compromise.”

“But Shivan,” Mili said in a low voice, holding out his hands in appeal, “to always live with your grandmother? To rarely sleep with me?”

“Here I am, doing this so we can be together, and this is how you treat me? With all these silly objections?”

My voice was trembling with anger, but he must have thought I was close to tears, because he touched my hand, saying, “Shh, shh.” After a glance around, he drew me back against his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m a terrible bugger.” He kissed the back of my neck, then released me. “I … I love you, Shivan, I know I do, and I have never said that to anyone else.”

“I love you too,” I replied, my voice husky from having to hold back my emotions and speak softly. “I have been with so many men and never felt this. I want it, Mili, I want it no matter what.”

I led him to my bedroom, closed the door and locked it. I did not care
anymore. With our shirts on, our pants around our knees, we made love as best we could, Mili’s body trembling, half with desire, half with fear.

The next evening, when my grandmother was at the temple, I called my mother. As I waited for the operator to put the trunk call through, I was nervous. Soon after arriving, I had called to leave a message that I had arrived safely, timing it for mid-morning when everyone would be out of the house. Since then, I had written a brief aerogram with little bits of bland news, leaving out all the interesting developments during my visit.

My mother answered, and instead of returning my greeting, said, “Son, are you alright? Has something happened?”

“No, Amma,” I replied impatiently. “Not at all.”

I heard my sister’s voice in the background, and my mother said, “Yes, he’s calling from Sri Lanka.”

“So, you’re sure everything is alright?” my mother repeated, and now I heard the receiver click as Renu picked up the extension.

“Yes, Amma.”

“Good,” she said doubtfully.

“Why are you calling, then, Shivan?” Renu demanded. “It’s just barely seven thirty in the morning here.”

“I’m having a wonderful time, Renu. I’m so happy, you know.”

“You are?” my mother asked.

“Yes, and guess what, Amma?” I feigned excitement. “I’m going to stay for the summer.”

My mother was silent. “But you can’t, Shivan, the ticket …”

“I can extend it for three months.”

“But … but what about a job, you have to pay your loan.”

“Aacho will pay it from her London account.”

“No,” my mother said firmly, “no, I want you to come back. Shivan, you must return.”

“What for?”

“Your life is here.”

“No it isn’t. I hate my life there. I don’t want to come back at all, really, but I will before my ticket expires. Then I … I’m seriously thinking of returning to live here.”

“Shivan, are you mad?” Renu said after a moment of silence on the other end. “Are you blind to what is going on in that country? You are a Tamil, have you forgotten that?”

“Only in name.”

“What do you mean?”

“I speak Sinhalese, I eat Sinhalese food, I live in a Sinhalese house. If I change my name, I will be Sinhalese.”

“Change your name to what?”

“Ariyasinghe, what else?”

I could hear one of them breathing fiercely on the phone. “Let me speak to your aachi,” my mother demanded.

“She’s gone to the temple. There is no need for you to talk to her. And no, she has not influenced me. I am a grown man. I have come to this decision on my own.”

“Shivan,” my mother cried, “you come back next week, you hear?”

“No, Amma, I will not.”

“You must, I insist.”

“Amma, I’ll write soon.” And with that I put down the phone.

I went to sit on the verandah, hands clasped as I leaned forward, gazing out at the garden. The thought of what awaited me in Canada—my basement, the scramble for money, my mother’s depression—sickened me. I should have felt gladness and relief for this extended reprieve from all that, but instead I felt threatened by my Canadian life, as if even at this remove it had the power to destroy my current happiness.

How quickly things progressed from there. A few days later, I was awakened in the early hours by Rosalind, saying, “Baba, come, your aachi is not well.”

I tied my sarong and followed her to my grandmother’s room.

She was lying in bed, forearm over eyes.

“Aacho?” I went and sat by her.

“Ah, Puthey,” she said faintly. “I’m fine. Just a little weak today, it will pass.”

“I’ll call the doctor.”

“No, no.” She lowered her arm. “I am just coming down with a cold.”

Rosalind and I had a whispered discussion in the saleya. I telephoned Dr. Navaratnam, our family physician, and also Sunil Maama for good measure.

When I led them into my grandmother’s room, she looked cross. “Now, what is this?” she said to me. “For nothing you are wasting Dr. Navaratnam’s time.” She glared at her cousin. “You better not bill me for this visit, Sunil.”

“Of course not, Daya.” Sunil Maama laughed nervously.

“Let’s see, let’s see, Mrs. Ariyasinghe,” Dr. Navaratnam said with a little smile. She took out a blood-pressure meter from her black Gladstone bag and checked my grandmother’s pressure. “Hmm, seems normal.” She gave my grandmother a thorough examination, then declared, “Nothing really wrong. Might be the flu.”

My grandmother glowered at me in triumph. “Ah, see, you have wasted everybody’s time.”

“Now, come, Aacho, I did the right thing,” I scolded. “You really aren’t that careful with yourself. If you don’t watch out, you’ll end up having another stroke.”

She rolled her eyes at the doctor. “My grandson is far too worried about my health.” Yet she was delighted at this public display of my concern. She lay back against her pillow with a moan. “Aiyo! Now what am I going to do about today? I have to visit a property and collect the rent.”

Sunil Maama offered to go, but my grandmother shook her head and covered her eyes with her forearm again.

The doctor packed her bag with an amused smile. I could feel the expectation swell in the room. “Of course, Aacho, I’ll do it,” I blurted out.

She sighed and lowered her forearm. “See, Dr. Navaratnam, what a blessing my grandson is in my old age. Like rain soaking a parched land.”

“You are very lucky, Mrs. Ariyasinghe,” the doctor replied dryly.

I had to collect rent at the row house in Pettah from which my grandmother had ejected that woman Siriyawathy and her boy all those years ago. The roof was missing even more tiles and had rusting takaran patches all over it, like sores on a beggar’s back, the verandah pillars swollen and warped, the paint blistering. As I went up the front steps, they listed beneath my weight. Boards in the verandah floor had rotted away, the jagged gaps revealing muddy ground a few feet below.