Saree

by Su Dharmapala

  The problem had not been so much stabilising Raju but rather dealing with a hysterical Sally and David.

  ‘What is to become of us if Uncle dies?’ Sally screamed.

  ‘We’ll be in the gutter that is what will happen! Is he dying? Is he already dead? Why do these things always happen to us?’ David cried, the console of his PlayStation still in his hands.

  ‘Because you are a pair of nasty brats!’ their mother snapped at them closing the door as Lucky and I carried Raju into the room from the deck where he’d collapsed. Only David and Sally barged in, following us.

  ‘His breathing in fine but his heart rate is fluctuating,’ I observed urgently as Sally started to sob uncontrollably and David started to pace the floor. I looked for symptoms of what was wrong – strapping on the blood pressure cuff and putting on the electrodes from the heart monitor that Jodi wheeled in. ‘Does your father have hypotension?’

  ‘No.’

  I gently prised open his mouth. And his skin temperature was skyrocketing and his tongue was swelling. ‘He is dehydrated. We need to get some fluids into him and cool him down quickly. Lucky, run a tepid bath quick!’

  While Lucky was running the bath, Gauri and I undressed Raju. Even in full crisis management physician mode, I could not stop my sudden intake of breath at seeing the scarring on the older man’s body. ‘Dear God in heaven, who did this to this poor man?’ I asked as Lucky bodily lifted his father and gently lowered him into the bath.

  The passage of decades had healed the burns to a certain extent but the muscle atrophy through the scar tissue was clear. And no one could lose that much of the top three layers of their skin and not live in near constant pain.

  ‘You did,’ David accused in a deadly voice.

  ‘Leave it!’ Lucky roared. ‘I am warning you just the once. Leave it well alone!’

  ‘Or what? You’ll hit me? I’ve had boxing lessons since the last time,’ David growled, throwing a few mock punches in the air.

  ‘No, I will hit you,’ his mother snapped instead. But by then Raju had revived somewhat. I ignored David altogether and bolted into the other room to get an IV drip line and all the equipment needed to place the cannula.

  ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ Sally asked me, seeing that I was struggling to get a vein inflated enough to take the cannula.

  ‘Incompetence! Without us they would not know what to do! No wonder Sri Lanka is going to the dogs now that the Tamils have left!’ David smirked.

  Again I ignored them and focused on my work. Tightening the pressure strap to finally locate a vein on the back of Raju’s un-burnt hand. I only looked up when Raju had sufficient fluids to be revived.

  ‘Leave him in there,’ I sighed collapsing beside the bath. ‘I should have thought of it. Anyone with burns to over 50 per cent of their body is susceptible to rapid dehydration. I’ll keep an eye on him from now on.’

  ‘Why? So you can kill him again?’ David interjected.

  In that instant, something inside me snapped. David was rotund but small, and I used my height to intimidate the bully.

  ‘I have never hurt anyone in my life. Whatever your problem is – take it to a shrink!’

  ‘You don’t intimidate me, you stupid Sinhala cow!’ David roared back charging at me only to be confronted by the rock solid Lucky.

  ‘Shut it, you little turd, before I crack your jaw like I cracked your ribs when you were ten!’

  ‘Why are you defending this Sinhala bitch! You know she was responsible for what happened to your father?’

  ‘How? Your uncle sustained his injuries in an accident!’

  ‘What accident?’ Sally asked. ‘There was no accident. My uncle was set upon by a bunch of Sinhala thugs and set alight deliberately. Murderers, the lot of you!’

  In spite of everything, the end was very quick. Gauri had packed her children and herself back onto a plane. She left to catch her plane home to the UK tearfully, hugging her sister-in-law close. ‘Thank you, Shanthi. Thank you for everything.’

  ‘No, akka,’ Shanthi Nair had wheezed uneasily. ‘I owe you everything that has been good in my life.’

  Over the next week Shanthi deteriorated rapidly. Jodi and I took turns to monitor her around the clock. One night I fell asleep slouched in a chair by her bed and woke to the alarm on her heart monitor beeping. Shanthi’s heartbeat had slowed right down but she was still lucid.

  I woke Lucky and Raju up quickly. ‘You may only have a few minutes with her.’

  ‘Amman? Amman!’ Lucky cried. ‘Don’t leave me! I can’t have another mother leave me!’

  Shanthi used what little strength she had left to turn her head beseechingly to her husband. Raju enveloped his son in his arms.

  ‘Let her go, puttar. Let her go. You were the best thing that ever happened to her. Happened to us, our dearest boy. Without you, we would never have learned to love. Let her go with love.’

  Raju and Lucky sat on either side of Shanthi and held her hands. Raju opened his mouth and started to chant in an unsteady voice. ‘Om Visvam vishnur-vashatkaro bhutbhavyabhavatprabhuh bhutkrd bhutbhrd-bhaavo bhutatma bhutabhavanahVishwam . . .’ When he faltered, Lucky joined in.

  ‘Bhaavo, Bhootaatmaa, Bhoota-bhaavanah, Pootaatmaa, Paramaatmaa, Muktaanaam.’

  ‘What are they saying?’ Jodi asked.

  ‘They are reciting the thousand names of the god Vishnu, so that no evil or harm befalls her as she crosses over to the gods,’ I said. Lucky had explained this to me a few days ago when we’d gone for a stroll along the beach for some air.

  When the end did come, it was soft and gentle. I was sure Shanthi held Raju and Lucky in her celestial arms before she flew across the bay into the heavens above in the cool minutes of that autumn morning.

  While father and son grieved, I gave Shanthi a sponge bath, like I would a baby. Then, as I’d been instructed to by Gauri, I smeared holy ash all over my patient’s body.

  Unlike the thousands of deaths that I’d officiated at, I actually went to the funeral this time. I saw Raju prise his wife’s mouth open and fill it with raw rice. I stood behind Lucky as he pressed two gold coins into the palms of his mother’s hands. ‘To pay the ferryman, Amman,’ he whispered softly, tears streaming down his face. ‘Do you remember how you always gave me extra money for the school canteen?’

  Gauri had not been able to make it back to Australia, so I accompanied Raju and Lucky to the crematorium in Carlton. The father, son and I piled Shanthi’s body with sweet-smelling flowers – pungent late summer roses, gardenias and jasmine. I don’t know how on earth Lucky found jasmine at that time of year, but I knew it’d been his mother’s favourite flower.

  After the cremation, I hadn’t had the heart to drive them back to the great big house in Brighton, so I took them back to my place instead.

  ‘It’s not very big. It’s quite old actually. Not very glamorous,’ I stuttered as I took them in. A sum total of two people – my mother and Simon – had been inside my apartment, and they’d both disliked it.

  Neither Lucky nor Raju answered, following me like blind men seeking light up the narrow flight of stairs. I took Raju into my bedroom and drew the curtains, turning down the covers on my bed for him lie down and have a rest.

  I left him alone and went to join Lucky in the living room, but I didn’t find him there. He wasn’t in the little room where I kept my computer and paperwork, either. I felt a cool breeze waft through the apartment. Panic gripped my heart as I realised he was in the rooftop courtyard.

  ‘I can sand that door back if you have some sandpaper,’ Lucky said as I rushed out. He was swinging in my hammock. ‘Though I can understand it if you’d prefer to leave it as it is. The door to my office in India has an uneven hinge. I know I should get it fixed, but there’s a certain . . . I don’t know . . . charm in having to shove a door open.’

  ‘Look at this,’ I said to him, pointing to a loose concrete paver. ‘I can’t bear to have it fixed either. See, if you sit on
the hammock and rock your foot on the paver like this, you get this amazing swing. Try it.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s perfect,’ he agreed, swinging himself gently. ‘This whole set-up is perfect, actually. You should have had my mum over here when she was alive – she would have loved it.’

  ‘What? The view of the tops of the elm trees? The tram powerlines? And can you hear that? That’s the butcher downstairs sawing through a cow!’

  ‘No, she would have loved that if you look up, all you see is the blue blue sky. And she would have loved that your studio is just across the way. Perfect place for it really. Nothing but sunshine for inspiration!’

  I looked at him, terrified.

  ‘And no, I didn’t go in. My father is an artist – hasn’t painted much since his accident, but he still dabbles here and there. I know better than to barge in on an artist’s studio. You only ever go in when you are invited.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘Most people don’t understand.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ Lucky agreed. ‘People live mainly on the surface. Flitting like butterflies. But people like you, creative people – they need to sit, absorb and reflect. I guess that explains why you chose palliative care.’

  ‘Really? I thought I chose it because it was one of the least popular courses on offer!’ I laughed, but I was fascinated by Lucky’s insight. Simon always joked that the only reason I’d chosen palliative care was because of the light workload. ‘No diagnosis. No risk. You just get to sit there and dream,’ he’d mocked more than once.

  Lucky laughed. ‘I had a look at some of your fabric paintings before I came out. They’re beautiful, Marion. What are your plans for that side of your life?’

  ‘Perhaps when I retire I can do it full-time. Plenty of doctors have gone on to creative careers after medicine.’

  ‘Why practise medicine full-time, though? Surely it’s not just for the money.’

  ‘Partly that, and the other part is my parents.’

  Just then my phone rang, the sound of the ringtone so foreign that I nearly jumped out my skin.

  ‘Marion! Marion!’ my mother screamed down the line. ‘You have to come to Sri Lanka! There has been a fire at your uncle’s factory. Your brother and your uncle are dying!’

  White was an impossible colour to wear in Colombo. So were taupe, camel and all of the neutral-toned clothes I possessed. I couldn’t even walk from my room to breakfast without getting smudged with something. The problem is the humidity combined with the residue from all the diesel fumes; it leaves a grimy coating on everything from the walls to the pot plants.

  Now I finally understood why Sri Lankan women wore such brightly coloured sarees. The yards of cotton are easy to wear in the horribly humid weather and the bright colours hide the grime. When all my clothes were covered in grease, I found myself at a boutique called Barefoot, looking for a pair of trousers.

  ‘No, madam,’ the softly spoken but steely-eyed sales assistant had insisted as I naturally drifted towards the lighter colours. ‘Those colours are not for you. They are good for old people going to temple. Madam, you are a beautiful lady of good years. Come, come with me.’

  What was a lady of good years?

  He waved aside all of my concerns, insisting that I try on soft brushed cotton skirts and blouses of the brightest of bright hues. I ended up buying them simply because the fabric felt so luscious against my skin.

  ‘See, madam, you are beautiful now. And you must be trying a saree, too. It is very easy. See – knot, drape, pleat, drape another one time, put fall over your shoulder and finish off,’ the young lad had explained, deftly draping a saree over my skirt. ‘Very simple, madam. Very simple.’

  I’d been so excited by how easy it looked that I’d bought a saree in a shade of iridescent blue. It had a taupe border, though – I couldn’t help myself. But after spending about ninety minutes trying to drape the saree on myself, I had only given myself a headache and had to concede that I perhaps did not have the dexterity required.

  ‘Marion, your uncle and brother are dying and you are playing dress-ups!’ my mother snapped, walking in on me.

  ‘Ryan is not dying and there is every likelihood that Uncle Manoj will recover as well,’ I murmured before donning a pair of linen pants and following my mother out to visit them both at Nawaloka Hospital – an expensive resort-like facility whose menagerie of peacocks on the front lawn gave the elegant splendour of St Judes a run for its money.

  ‘Your brother will never be able to walk again!’

  ‘Mum, he has burns to less than ten per cent of his body. He just needs to shake himself out of this apathy he is in.’

  When we arrived my uncle’s doctors told us his recovery was not proceeding as fast as they’d hoped, but that it was only a minor setback and there was no need to worry.

  ‘What? What do you mean my brother’s recovery is not going as planned? You said that he should be fine to leave within a few weeks?’ As my uncle’s only living relative willing to tend to him, my mother had taken the role with gusto. My mother’s other brother Herath had long been estranged from the family and my uncle’s ex-wife and children wanted to have nothing to do with him.

  ‘Such setbacks are normal, Mrs Gamage,’ the chief of the burns unit, Dr Gurusinghe, had insisted.

  But my mother completely ignored him, instead turning to the British volunteer doctor beside him. ‘Is it normal? Is the treatment plan this local doctor is following any good? How do we know my brother will recover?’

  The doctor looked at me confused before turning to my mother. ‘It is perfectly normal for tiny infections to take place if you’ve suffered significant burns. Your brother was very lucky. He sustained significant burns but is still well enough to sit up and have a joke with the nurses,’ he said, pointing to my uncle. ‘And I am here to learn from Dr Gurusinghe, and not the other way around,’ the doctor said. ‘This man wrote the book on treating burns victims. He saved so many people during the war.’

  ‘Dr Gamage,’ Dr Gurusinghe spoke to me quietly, ‘Your uncle is on the mend and your brother is doing very well. Can I interest you in some volunteer work?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘As you’ve probably heard on the grapevine,’ he said, jerking his head towards the nurses, ‘I am out of favour with the government. They cut funding to my burns clinic in Keridamadu. We need some generalist doctors to help. Would you be interested in coming up with us for about a week?’

  ‘Sure, I am on extended leave, and I’d be more than happy to come up. I don’t think Ryan needs me,’ I replied. Ryan was sitting in his bed at the other end of the ward being fussed over by our mother. By the looks of it, he wasn’t enjoying our mother’s presence any more than I was.

  Dr Gurusinghe told me that there was an orphanage attached to the hospital, so when I got back to the hotel that afternoon I ducked back into Barefoot to buy some handmade toys.

  ‘These toys will last those children for a lifetime. Made from the best Sri Lankan cotton!’ the familiar sales assistant smiled brightly, his eyes widening as I paid the two lakh rupee bill without batting an eyelid. I was finally using the money I had saved on rent for something worthwhile. ‘We are the last true fabric weavers left on the island,’ he added.

  ‘Not for long,’ an even more familiar voice observed from behind.

  ‘Lucky! What are you doing here?’ I cried delightedly. ‘How are you? Where is your father?’

  ‘Appa is back in Panadura. And I am here to meet someone you know!’ Lucky smiled, pointing over my shoulder to the courtyard cafe behind the shop. Sitting sipping coconut water from a kurumba was the fabric merchant from Melbourne, Mahinda Ratnayaka.

  ‘How are you going?’ I greeted my old friend. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you, though, I understand you’ve pipped me to the post and bought out all the soft toys in the store!’ Mahinda smiled warmly back.

  ‘I’m heading up north tomorrow. I want to spend a fe
w days volunteering at one of camps, so I thought I’d buy some toys for the kids.’

  ‘We’ll meet you up there, then,’ Lucky grinned.

  ‘Why? I understood that there is nothing much to see up there yet.’

  ‘We’re not going up there on holiday, my dear! We are going up there to work! And we are taking with us something worth more than gold,’ Mahinda said, opening the little box he had on the seat next to him. ‘These are Bombyx mori moths. Your friend Lucky and I are going to set up a sericulture farm. People up north don’t need charity. They need development.’

  ‘Never in my wildest dreams,’ I murmured as I stood at the summit of the rock citadel Sigiriya looking out over the northern plains.

  Lucky came to stand next to me. ‘I had heard of this, but even I am . . .’

  ‘Speechless?’

  Yes, the amazing rock citadel of Sigiriya was perhaps one of the few things that could silence the loquacious Lucky. And rightly so.

  Most of the fortress had been built around 477 AD by Prince Kashyapa.

  ‘They say the prince built this on the run after murdering his father,’ I told Lucky, looking through my guidebook. ‘Good thing he took some architects, artists, builders and landscapers with him.’

  If the summit of the rock was impressive, with its twin swimming pools carved out of solid granite for the king and queen, it was nothing in comparison to the extensive gardens in the surrounding area complete with water fountains and a water feature mirror that reflected the paintings on the rock itself.

  ‘You don’t say,’ Lucky said, helping me scramble over some rocks. It was fortunate I’d gone with Lucky because I was terrified of heights. Without his gently coaxing and encouraging me, I would never have made it up.

  In the end, it had been fortunate too that Dr Gurusinghe and I had decided to hitch a ride with Lucky, or we would never have made it through the checkpoints. ‘Do not doubt for a moment just how corrupt everything here is,’ the doctor had said after Lucky handed over yet another ‘facilitation’ payment.