The Beach at Galle Road

by Joanna Luloff

  At the end of club meeting, Lucy reminded the students of their upcoming field trip to Galle Fort. So far, neither Chitra nor Devika had turned in their permission slips. The Galle Fort idea had been Achala’s. She had suggested that they visit the fort museum, walk the circumference of the fort, and then maybe finish the day with some ice cream by the beach. When Lucy had been skeptical, Achala promised she would take care of the details, including asking her cousin for the use of his van and raising money for gasoline. Now, as she watched Chitra and Devika scrutinize the charades game, crafting their distorted stories, she wished she had never thought to bring the club to Galle. A coed field trip out of the watchful gaze of the girls’ school could only fuel the gossip that trailed Achala wherever she went these days.

  THE RUMORS WERE worse than Achala imagined. The next afternoon, Madam Principal called Achala into her office. Miss Gayathri stood in the office doorway as Achala approached, shaking her head slowly. “An embarrassment,” she whispered into Achala’s ear. “Madam is not pleased at all.” Achala was already on the brink of tears. Her science teacher had given her a B on her report on photosynthesis. She couldn’t remember the last time a teacher had slashed a B on her paper in angry red ink, and she knew she hadn’t deserved the scolding grade.

  When she entered the principal’s office, she quickly bowed to worship Madam’s feet and waited with her head hung low for Madam’s permission to rise. She waited and waited until finally Madam snapped, “Get up! Get up! Enough now.” Achala straightened but kept her eyes focused on the ground. “You look guilty,” Madam observed. “What are you feeling guilty about?”

  “Nothing, Madam.” Achala’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Nothing? According to what I’ve been hearing, you should be feeling quite ashamed. This coed English Club, which I believe was your idea, has brought shame to you and to our school. I was informed by some of the other prefects that Miss Lucy had you and the boys exchanging clothes, dressing and undressing in front of one another, and playing the part of movie starlets. They said, specifically, that you were swinging your hips and flirting with the boys, particularly one whom they say you also meet alone after school hours.”

  Achala knew better than to interrupt her principal, but the shame and anger that was burning her ears made it impossible to keep silent. “It is not true.”

  “Are you calling your classmates liars, then? And Miss Lelani, who also confirmed—”

  “But Miss Lelani hasn’t even—”

  “Do not interrupt Madam,” Miss Gayathri spat into her ear. Achala felt the frayed edges of the caning stick against her leg.

  Madam continued as though no interruption had taken place. “Achala, your behavior is personally shameful, and shameful to the school as well. I forbid you to take part in this English Club, and you will have to give up your prefect status until you earn the school’s trust again.” Madam returned to her chair and started shuffling papers. Without lifting her eyes, she stated flatly, “Leave your badge, and then you may go.”

  ACHALA DIDN’T TELL Lucy or her mother about Madam’s decision; she would wait until after the field trip. When her mother asked her about her uniform’s missing badge, Achala explained as best she could, without including any specifics. “I received a B on my science paper, and as a warning, Madam took my badge away until my grades improve,” she had offered. Achala surprised herself with the calmness of her lies. Her mother didn’t question her further, but Achala noticed a trace of confusion in her eyes.

  The decision to go forward with the field trip had come just as easily, surprising Achala as she had stared up at her ceiling after lunch. The harm is already done, she counseled herself. I will enjoy this day I have planned and organized, and then I will fix things. She closed her eyes and imagined the movement of the waves hitting the Galle Fort, the whitewashed buildings overlooking the sea. She thought about walking along the footpath with Chamila, pointing out the lighthouse and relating its history, the various Dutch and Portuguese sailors who had used it as a guide hundreds of years ago. She would perhaps also point out the national school up on the far hill and explain that she expected to start there next year, that she had been preparing for it for as long as she could remember. Her daydreams filled her with a sense of friendship that seemed both necessary and impossible. When her eyes opened, she knew she would have to start facing the damage she had done, but for now she sank into the comfort of her make-believe.

  ON THE DAY of the field trip, Mr. Jaya got behind the wheel of the van as the boys clambered into the back seats. Lucy waited outside with Achala until her watch hand crept fifteen minutes past the hour of departure.

  “Should we go?” Lucy looked at her watch one more time.

  “I don’t think anyone else is coming,” Achala answered, and she climbed into the middle front seat.

  “What about Chitra and Devika?” Lucy asked, climbing in beside Achala.

  “They won’t be coming to club anymore either.”

  Lucy glanced at Mr. Jaya, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What to do?” he answered shyly.

  “I told you this would happen,” Lucy said. “It’s my fault.”

  Achala felt the boys grow silent in the back of the van. She felt that there was a long list of blame for why the club had collapsed around her, but most of it didn’t rest on Lucy. The list included Chitra and Devika, but at the top of it was her own name, proud and selfish and blind. “Please, can we just have a good day and talk about this later?”

  “If you’re sure,” Lucy answered, and she nodded at Mr. Jaya, who then pulled the van onto the dusty road. The boys’ voices drifted into the front seat. They were arguing over who would win the World Cup this coming season. Sri Lanka had won it the past year, beating out Australia and India, but both India and Pakistan looked strong this season.

  Lucy whispered to Achala, “The girls’ not coming. Is this connected to your prefect badge?”

  Achala nodded.

  “Does your mother know?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure you should come today?”

  Achala nodded again.

  As they approached the fort, the air grew saltier and the wind swayed the palm trees to and fro. In the distance, the turquoise sea stretched out along the horizon. Except for the fort itself, Galle Road stretched flat, northward and southward. As they entered the break in the stone wall, the national girls’ school, bleached white and many storied, gazed down at them from a hilltop.

  THE MUSEUM WAS a bit of a bore. Most of the focus was on the early colonizers—the Portuguese, Malay, and Middle Eastern sailors, the Dutch, and lastly the British, who had stayed the longest. It was here, they read, that different languages twisted around their own, mosques dotted the landscape, and the markets exploded with fish, silks, and spices. Chamila kept close to Achala as they toured the museum’s faded plaques and exhibits.

  “Your spies are gone,” Chamila joked.

  “Yes.” Achala continued reading about a photograph of an old whaling ship.

  “So you can smile.” He nudged her.

  “As long as I’m not at school or thinking about my scholarship, I’m happy to smile all day long.” She turned from the plaque. “You can ask me any questions you like later, but for now, let’s try to persuade Lucy to take us to the water for a sea bath.”

  Between the two of them, it was easy to persuade Lucy to journey down the beach to Unawatuna, a quiet bay south of Galle. Here, there were fewer tourists and it was easy to sit by the water, sip some sweetened lime juice, and dip your feet into the calm ocean. Achala sat down with Lucy as Mr. Jaya took the boys into the water for a swim. They dove into the water fully dressed, only their shoes and socks discarded along the dry stretch of sand. Achala knew that Lucy wanted to join them—she kept waving at their splashing laughter—but she was a good friend and wouldn’t abandon her little sister. Silently they watched the local fishermen step along the distant reef, looking for bright, sparkly
fish to sell to the local hotels. Achala suddenly stood up. “Let’s go for a swim, too!”

  “But do you know how?”

  “You can teach me.” Achala had already started walking to the water. The white sand burned the bottoms of her feet as she stepped between discarded shells and seaweed. The boys started cheering and clapping, appearing and disappearing between the occasional waves. Her whole body felt as if it were smiling back at them, these silly boys who only thought of cricket and different ways to tease her. She waved and kicked the water in their direction.

  Lucy gathered up the ends of her dress and charged straight into the water. She dove headfirst, kicking up her pink feet. In a few moments, her head appeared alongside Chamila’s, who laughed and nodded, looking in Achala’s direction. Soon the two appeared at Achala’s side, Chamila on her left, Lucy on her right. They guided her toward the water until her knees were covered by the sea and her dress billowed up around her. The water was slightly cooler than the air and carried bits of sand and shells that tickled the tops of her thighs.

  Instantly a larger wave approached them, and Achala’s mouth was suddenly filled with salt, her eyes stung by a murky cloud of silty water. She gasped, certain that she was about to drown. But then, just as quickly, she was on her back, riding gently on the surface of the sea. The sun pressed in on her closed eyelids, making the world orange and yellow. She felt the slightest pressure of hands beneath her back, under her thighs. She couldn’t be certain whom they belonged to—perhaps Lucy, perhaps Chamila, or perhaps it was just the grip of the waves themselves, carrying her in some unknown direction.

  THE SUNNY BEACH HOTEL

  K. tucks the letter into his pocket and promises himself he’ll reread it later. He has looked it over, allowed the truth of it to sink in, but tries to convince himself it is just like all his mother’s previous letters, that nothing is different. That he should brace himself for several months of silence, but that she will, eventually, make contact with him again, with another offer perhaps, another astrologer’s insistence that he can’t pass on this match. He tells himself this as he burns incense into the corners of the rest house, getting Sunny Beach ready for the slow-to-wake guests tangled in their postdrunk sleep upstairs. He knows, though, that this letter is different and he is running out of time.

  The Sunny Beach Hotel is nestled into the sands of Unawatuna. The hotel isn’t K.’s; he is only the live-in manager, but he treats it and his guests as if they belong to him. He is protective of this responsibility, valuing his fatigue as he sweeps sand from the patio floor and orders butterfish for the guests’ dinner later that night. The sky is morphing from early morning pink toward lavender, and soon it will match the turquoise sea. The touts will start strolling the beach, offering batiks and carved sculptures to the few tourists who have risen early for a quick sea bath before the sun brings its late morning heat.

  K. has been watching over this tiny stretch of beach since his cousin Suranga found the job for him eight years ago. Suranga worked at the regal Unawatuna Beach Resort several yards away, but now both are long gone, his cousin back to Tangalle, and the resort up the coast to the more prosperous tourist town of Hikkaduwa.

  K. remained behind and, after two promotions, became not only Sunny Beach’s head chef and number one maid, but also the manager of the four-room rest house. This tiny hotel that has become K.’s home caters to backpacking tourists who seek a quieter, more tranquil beach holiday than the overcrowded bustle of Hikkaduwa and the expensive resorts just south of Colombo can offer. These aren’t K.’s descriptions—he has never actually been to Hikkaduwa nor to the sprawling expanse of the Bentota Beach Hotel up the coast—but words from a guidebook page K. has proudly taped to his manager’s desk.

  At first his mother was pleased to hear of his promotions. He neglected to mention the hotel’s humble size, or that there was only one other employee, now also vanished, but he assumed Suranga explained the modesty of his accomplishments long ago. Although she has always sent him monthly notes written in others’ hands, after Suranga’s return her tone changed significantly to one of impatience.

  Suranga tried to counsel K. before he left: “Get out of this forgotten place while you can. Soon you’ll be the only soul on this strip of beach except for the reef walkers.” Suranga was exaggerating, of course, only trying to be helpful, but K. couldn’t help resenting his cousin’s warnings and feels certain that the same judgment has been communicated to his mother. K.’s response to Suranga was simple. “I am happy here,” he explained. Suranga is two years older than K. and has always enjoyed bullying his younger cousin. Now he is married, with three children, and helps look after his father-in-law’s pharmacy. “Suit yourself, Little Brother,” Suranga grumbled in return. “Feel free to disappear, you stubborn buffalo. See if I care.” K. rarely hears from him these days and assumes he has found other people to boss around.

  His cousin didn’t mean to be unkind. Everyone is worried these days. With the war and the highly publicized suicide bombings of recent years, the tourist industry is failing. One by one, K. and Suranga watched as the bigger hotels boarded up their windows, then became overrun with stray dogs still searching for the tourists who had once thrown bits of fish over the fences to silence their whines. One of these dogs has taken to sleeping under K.’s tables, despite K.’s charging broom and his shouts of “Get lost!” The American volunteers who often stay at Sunny Beach have adopted this mutt, naming him Bruce, and the name has stuck, as has the dog itself. In the weeks between the Americans’ visits, Bruce bides his time, much as K. does, waiting for the attention and distraction the Americans bring every few weeks or so. When the rest house grows quiet, K. finds, much to his dismay, that he has taken to chatting with Bruce. Just this morning, he caught himself teasing the snoring mutt, tickling its legs with the uneven bristles of his broom. “You lazy boy. Why don’t you make yourself useful like those touts and bring me some tourists?” Bruce responded with a groan, chewed at an old scar on his leg, and then proceeded to go back to sleep. As he works his broom up the stairs, K. leaves Bruce a bowl of water and some day-old fish.

  JUST AFTER SURANGA’S departure, K. received a letter from his mother: “Perhaps now is a good time to return, Son. Business is no good and we have found you a bride. She is a good match. Born in September of 1970, an auspicious year. She will bring sons and a lucky life, Madam Daksha promises us.” K. crumpled the letter and then immediately felt sorry. His mother must have paid their neighbor, a local teacher, ten rupees to write it, plus the postage, a cost that didn’t even include the preposterous sum she was probably paying this Daksha person. The letter ended with reminders that K. was already twenty-eight, getting too old for bachelorhood, and—did he remember?—his mother was alone and waiting for her son and a daughter-in-law to look after her in her old age. Underneath the unfamiliar script of a stranger’s hand, K. heard his mother’s voice, her scolding, maybe even a hint of warning.

  It wasn’t that K. didn’t miss his mother or his village, but when he looked out on the newly raked sand in front of Sunny Beach, the thought of leaving filled him with such a strong combination of loss and sadness that he began to feel a muted anger developing toward his family. Such exaggerators, such drama! All of them, he thought. How can she possibly claim to be alone? That house is always filled with nosy busybodies, aunts and cousins, to the point of overflowing. When K. thought of all of them gathered there, discussing his life, planning his marriage, his teeth clenched and he swept harder with his broom, wiped the windows with even more vigor. When he didn’t answer this first letter to punish her meddling, his mother countered with four months of silence.

  This morning, three of the bedrooms are empty and one is filled with the American and British volunteers—stuffed with them, in fact. Sam came from nearby Baddegama two nights ago, and his friends Melissa and Lena arrived yesterday from Ratnapura with two others, bus-weary and sleepy. This is the way they stayed when they came, sometimes sleeping s
ix to a room despite the vacancies. Boys and girls entwined, layered and crisscrossed, K. imagines them, a maze of bodies. Unlike the other white tourists, these Americans live and work here and claim to have no money. A luxurious thing to believe, K. thinks, as they buy beer or sarongs from the local craftsmen. But he charges them only 100 rupees a night per person and allows them to crowd into the bigger upstairs room. He waits for one of them to figure out the math—a room costs only 300 rupees a night, so they really aren’t saving any money—but he guesses they prefer it this way, cramped together. If the rest house isn’t full, sometimes K. will drag an extra mattress onto their floor while they are out taking a sea bath or a walk to the nearby temple to watch the sunset.

  The tourists are friendly. They ask him questions about Sri Lanka; they tell him how it is the most beautiful place they have ever seen. They ask him to pose for pictures with them and sometimes they will send him a snapshot several months later with a kind note: “Thanks for the friendly service! Unawatuna was our favorite stop during our stay on your beautiful island! Your rest house was a perfect escape!” The use of your always pleases K. It makes him feel as if this little stretch of beach, this life and this place, somehow do belong to him.

  While these tourists are friendly enough, the volunteers treat K. almost as a friend, the girls especially. They often barge into the kitchen and ask K. to teach them how to grate a coconut properly, or how to make sure rotis don’t stick to the pan. Their boldness always surprises him and sometimes makes him nervous. Unlike the girls in Tangalle, these girls stand close beside him, sometimes in their bathing suits, and even place their hands on his shoulders when they pass him in the small kitchen. He can often feel the heat coming off their reddened skin or smell the fruity scent of their sun lotion, and K. is surprised he feels no longing for them. If I had sisters, he thinks, this is how it would be.