The Hungry Ghosts (31 page)

I felt an increasing gratitude towards Chandralal. He had come to my rescue with the man at the Pettah property and done so diplomatically, not tarnishing my masculinity. We both knew that without him I could never get these flats built. I would be cheated by the baases and blocked at the government offices, not knowing who to bribe. He never even hinted at how unequal my contribution was.

Occasionally he brought one of his daughters. Under Chandralal’s smiling eyes, I would, out of nervousness and some helpless desire to please him, become charming and attentive, asking them about their lives, offering advice on living in the West and even making them laugh with some droll sarcastic comment. Then later, on my way home, I would berate myself for being such a fool and vow to be more reserved next time. Yet having become friendly, I could not retreat without giving offence, and was forced to be equally friendly and charming the next time we met.

Within a month of taking over my grandmother’s duties, I became aware, while looking at legal paperwork for the enterprise, that Chandralal was co-owner of the flats. When I saw this, I realized I had not asked myself what his stake was in the development, having vaguely assumed my grandmother was paying him a fee and he was being extra helpful out of fondness for her. Sunil Maama, who had shown me the papers, saw my consternation and a secretive, distressed look crossed his face.

I queried my grandmother about the co-ownership when were sitting on the verandah that evening.

“Ah, Puthey, why are you surprised?” she asked mildly. “Did you honestly think an old woman like me could undertake such an arduous concern?”

I took a sip of my beer, not knowing what to say.

“I consider myself lucky to have a partner like Chandralal. Do you know how dishonest the average person is here? Chandralal will not cheat me, even though it would be easy for him to do so.”

She was waiting for my agreement, and I nodded. This man, who was a thug and perhaps even a criminal, had a genuine love for my grandmother, and his loyalty now extended to me, her grandson. Men like Chandralal
needed sentimental outlets to lavish kindness on. By doing so, they believed themselves to be good.

I had to visit the flats the next morning. Chandralal was there, and though he greeted me civilly, he looked grim with fury. The risers on the staircase to the first floor were not uniform and it was too late to fix this error, as the concrete had already been poured into the wooden formwork. Some of the steps would always be slightly higher than the others. The carpenter who made the formwork was summoned and he stood in front of us, hands pressed together before him as if handcuffed while Chandralal yelled at him, his eyes bulging with anger, double chin bloated like a toad’s. Watching his rage and the baas’s terror, a memory bloomed.

Sunil Maama was not expecting me. When I walked in he saw the disquiet on my face and stood up alarmed.

“Come, come, putha, sit.” He gestured to a chair.

I shook my head and went to stand at the window, where I stared out onto an alley. “Sunil Maama, how is it that the house in Wellawatte was the only one left standing on the street? It was Tamil owned, after all.”

Sunil Maama sat down slowly in his chair. “I don’t know, putha.”

“You do, and so do I. Really, I’ve known all along, if I think about it. I’ve just not admitted it to myself.” I turned to him. “Chandralal and Aachi made a deal with that family, didn’t they? Protection from the mob for a cheap price on the house. When he came by our house that first morning of the riots, it’s what they were discussing on the verandah. Keeping an eye out for a Tamil family who needed protection.”

Sunil Maama fiddled with the lid of his fountain pen.

“I wonder how many other Tamils Chandralal made that bargain with.”

Sunil Maama licked his lips. “Shivan, putha, you must not judge your grandmother too harshly.”

“But it’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing.”

He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Don’t, Shivan. Just leave it alone. It’s too late to do anything now.” He frowned at me, pleading. “If she finds out I told you … Your aachi is my biggest client, one of the few who has stuck with me. I’m not very good anymore at this law work. The rules, the country, have changed too much. It’s no longer really a gentleman’s profession.”

As I walked towards the door, he called after me, “And he, that man, you must not cross him.”

All the way home, I stared out numbly at the passing world. I simply did not know what I was going to do next. When the car stopped in the carport, I sat lost in thought, then went up the steps and into the saleya, my footsteps clacking heavily against the cement floor. I could hear my grandmother hobbling about her room, the tip-tap of her stick. I started towards my bedroom, then went to hers instead.

She was standing before her bed, contemplating a document laid out on it. “Ah, Puthey, come and see the plans for my bana maduwa. It’s going to be magnificent.” I went to stand by her and she squeezed my arm with excitement and affection.

“It’s wonderful, Aacho,” I said after a moment.

There was nothing I could do. By bringing up the Wellawatte property with her, what would I gain? And the moment I asked myself that question, I saw all that would be lost by doing so.

The next time I met Chandralal was at the Wellawatte property a few weeks later. He was waiting by his Pajero, and as I got out of my car he came forward grinning. “Baba, we have the shuttering to the first floor in place!” He slapped my shoulder. “Come, come, you must see the view.” He ushered me towards the entrance as if I were an important guest, unaware of the dark mood that had come over me on the way here, a mood grown blacker at the sight of him, his hand on my shoulder a dead weight.

When we were on the wooden platform over which the concrete of the first floor would be poured, I was astonished at the vista before me. We were already higher than the surrounding houses and had an uninterrupted view of the sea, ships passing on the horizon. It was cooler up here, a breeze coming up from the water with a tang of salt, the tops of coconut trees fanning gently in the wind.

“Baba, I have been thinking about something.” He came to stand by me. “Perhaps we should turn the third floor into one big flat. You know, ‘penthouse suite,’ as they call it in English. After all,” he looked at me with a little smile, “you will not live with your grandmother always, nah? One day you will want to get married and start your own family. It is becoming fashionable now to live in flats like this, above the dirt and heat and diesel fumes of Colombo.”

“I don’t know.” I turned away and pretended to stare at the view, bothered by this allusion to marriage. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea in terms of profitability.”

The architect had come up and Chandralal went to talk with him. I looked at the view again and found myself thinking of Mili and me living even higher up than this, waking together to this view, the privacy of being far above prying eyes.

“What do you think, baba?” Chandralal asked, rubbing his hands with boyish enthusiasm as he came back to me. “Changed your mind? A ‘penthouse suite’?”

“Yes,” I replied, “why not?”

“We must tell your grandmother.” He winked. “She complained to me, the other day. You are not keeping her fully informed.”

“No, let it be, Chandralal. She doesn’t need to know everything.” I had already decided to have Sunil Maama arrange the legal papers to make this suite mine.

He laughed and gently punched my arm.

As we went downstairs, he walked ahead with the architect and I followed. “What has been done cannot be reversed,” I said to myself, flicking a hand across my face as if to remove a cobweb.

One of my greatest delights was to buy Mili an occasional shirt or a book I had seen him looking through with longing. When I presented the gift, he would always say, “Come on, Shivan, I’m not some desperately poor bugger.”

“Oh, don’t be so proud, Mili.” I would hug him, or squeeze his knee. “It’s only given with love.”

He would acknowledge this with a wry smile, then say lightly, “But it’s not really your money.”

“It might not be mine in name yet, but I bloody well work hard to keep things going.”

His smile would grow stubborn. He never wore the shirts I gave him unless I pestered and pouted, and then only if his friends were not around.

When I had told Mili about taking over my grandmother’s properties, explaining she was not well and wanted to build a bana maduwa as her last great act of merit, he had accepted my explanation impassively. When I pushed him to acknowledge my sacrifice he’d murmured, “Yes, yes, you are a good grandson, Shivan. She is truly lucky to have you.”

With my newfound wealth I liked to treat us to dinner and drinks at the various five-star hotels around Colombo. It was always a struggle to get Mili to come, and sometimes I had to settle for the places he and his friends frequented.

We ran into his father one evening in the lobby of the Galadari Hotel. He was having a drink with his mistress, the former film star. There was a moment of awkward staring, then Mili turned away. In the same instant, Mr. Jayasinghe raised his hand in greeting and beckoned him. Mili sighed. He strolled over, hands in pockets.

I had not met the mistress but had seen all her films. In her forties now, she was still beautiful, turned out in a diaphanous white organza sari with magenta border. Her hip-length plait glistened, studded with araliya flowers.

Mili ignored her even though she gave him a willing smile. He introduced me to his father, saying I was visiting from Canada.

“Ah, how nice to see you, son,” his father said enthusiastically, as if we had met before.

“It’s very nice to meet you, too, uncle,” I said, thrilled to be in the presence of such a powerful man and to be able to call him “uncle,” this familiarity reflecting we were social equals. He introduced me to his mistresses and I blushed as I shook her hand. “I am such a fan of yours. I love all your films.”

Her laugh was a tinkle. “And which one is your favourite?”

“Oh, that is a hard choice.” Ignoring Mili’s brooding presence next to me, I recounted the first time I had seen her, when I was eight years old. Rosalind had taken us to the cinema, and I had been enchanted by the singing and dancing, her marvellous saris and bell-bottom pantsuits.

Tudor Jayasinghe tried to appear interested in my story, his smile tight, eyes slipping to Mili. The moment I was done, he asked, “How is your mother?”

Mili glared at him, then looked away.

“And your human rights work?”

He continued to stare across the lobby, face immobile.

Tudor Jayasinghe sighed. “When are you going to give up this nonsense and let me send you abroad to university? Or at least come and work in my firm.”

“You know my answer to that,” Mili said, and walked away with a quick frown for me to follow.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, uncle.”

“You too, son,” he said, gazing after Mili as he shook my hand.

His mistress offered her hand, and I held it briefly in both of mine. “My family will be so envious I met you.”

“And what will your report be?” she asked, with that imperious coquetry of the star.

“That you are still as beautiful as ever.”

She let out a peal of laughter and clasped her hands together. Then she smacked Mr. Jayasinghe on the knee to distract him from his son. “My, Tudor, darling, you must ask this boy to come and have dinner sometime.”

He shook my hand again, forgetting he had just done so.

I found Mili slouched in a chair by the pool. A waiter came up, and knowing what Mili liked I ordered two Lion Lagers.

“Is everything alright?” I finally asked.

“Why did you fawn over that bitch?”

“Well, I love her movies. She’s one of our greatest stars.”

“You should have ignored her.”

“But that would have been impolite.”

“But that would have been impolite,” he echoed with a mocking whine. “You know what your problem is, Shivan? You love all this glamour and sucking up to people who you think are dazzling, but who are really vile. It’s disgusting to watch you.”

“Mili, you’re being ridiculous,” I snapped. “Don’t take out your anger at your father on me.”

After a moment he sighed, reached across the table and pressed my arm. “Sorry, I’m an awful bugger. It’s just seeing that bastard with his whore …”

As he sipped his beer, I watched him curiously. I had assumed his father would not pay for his studies abroad, and I’d admired Mili’s dignity in accepting this misfortune. But his decision was aimed at thwarting Mr. Jayasinghe’s ambitions for him, even though it meant giving up his aspiration to study international relations abroad.

I had got to know Mili’s mother, Charlotte, well. She was grateful Mili was invited so often to my house and reciprocated by having me to Sunday lunch every week. She was an excellent cook and made the old Burgher foods, like
lamprais and bolo fiado, which I praised lavishly. She would often say to her son, “Now, see, Mili, what a polite boy Shivan is,” as if he was not. I often came in my grandmother’s car and after lunch would take Mrs. Jayasinghe shopping or to visit relatives.

A few days after I had met Tudor Jayasinghe, Mili’s mother and I were in the car together when she said, “I understand you bumped into my husband.”

I nodded, taken aback Mili had mentioned it, given the mistress was there.

She smiled faintly. “It was my husband who told me. He called this morning.” Seeing my surprise, she added, “Tudor and I have been married twenty-six years. We raised Mili together. You can’t just erase all that time, no matter how much you might want to. That woman knows it, which is why she persuaded Tudor to put me out on the street. It eats away at her that I won’t give him a divorce.

“The thing is, son,” she said, changing the subject to relieve me of my discomfort, “you are a good influence on Mili. I have noticed how happy he is since you returned. Tudor also knows the effect you are having on our son. We both feel it’s not right for Mili to give up his education because I have been cast off. I’ve begged Mili to take up his father’s offer and go to university, or at minimum work in his firm. Human rights work pays so poorly and is very risky. I worry so much about him, given all the madness that is happening right now, the dangers to anyone who speaks up. I wish you could persuade him to give it up.”