Swimming in the Monsoon Sea

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “Peries will be assigned Cassio, but will also learn the role of Desdemona and shadow De Alwis. Then, in a few weeks, based on how you do, De Alwis, the role will remain yours or not.”

  Amrith felt his euphoria diminish. He would have to prove himself or he could end up with Cassio. He silently vowed that he would work very hard and not lose the role of Desdemona.

  The boys were going out to a restaurant for lunch. Before they left, Amrith went to use the toilet and, when he came back, he found that they were teasing Peries again — this time about the role of Cassio. Amrith, having missed a part of the conversation, was not sure what exactly the ragging was about, but Peries was clearly disturbed, though he was trying his best to hide it.

  “But you know, Penis, I’m not making it up,” Jayasingha, the assistant head prefect said, with a conspiratorial look at Suraj, who winked back. “The lines about Cassio lying with Iago in bed are right there in act 3, scene 3. Turn to it and see for yourself. It’s in bold print.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Peries shook his head.

  “Aday, Penis, didn’t you read the whole play before you came for rehearsal?” Ahmed, who was to play Iago, asked. “Everybody else read the whole play.”

  The boys nodded, though Amrith doubted they had. Seeing the smug look on Fernando’s face, Amrith suspected that he was the only one who had read the play. Fernando had, no doubt, alerted the other boys to whatever went on in act 3, scene 3.

  Suraj gestured at Peries. “I say, open your damn book and see for yourself, men.”

  Peries did not do so. He stood up, said he was going to the toilet, and left. The other boys watched him go, then grinned at each other. They gave him a few moments. Then Suraj and Jayasingha crept out. There was a shout of triumph, a hoot of laughter. They came back followed by a shamefaced Peries, Suraj holding up Peries’ copy of Othello that he had been flipping through in the corridor. The other boys laughed and began to whistle, making kissing sounds at Peries. Ahmed tried to embrace Peries. “Cassio, you can lie with me anytime.”

  Peries pushed him away and stormed out of the auditorium, followed by catcalls and hoots. Amrith had no idea what they were teasing Peries about, but he could not help feeling glad to see his rival discomfited.

  Amrith discovered that Madam, too, understood the joke about Cassio.

  When they had returned to the auditorium after lunch, and were seated in a circle, ready to do a read-through, Peries raised his hand and said, “Madam, I wish to give up my part.”

  All the boys tittered and a mischievous glint entered Madam’s eyes. “And why is that, Peries? Cassio is a very good role.”

  The boys giggled. Some of them guffawed.

  “Peries,” Madam continued, “you are perfect for Cassio. I need someone who is poetic looking. And you have such lovely fair skin, such pretty curls.”

  The boys clutched their sides with silent hilarity; some of them had tears running down their faces. Even Amrith could not help smiling, though he still did not know what this was all about.

  Peries’ face was red from having to bite back his fury. “But I don’t want to do it, Madam. I would rather play a guard than play Cassio.”

  “Nonsense,” Madam said, opening her copy of Othello. “I don’t want to hear any more about this, Peries. Wanigasekera, read!”

  Since there was still a possibility Amrith could end up playing Cassio, he had a look at act 3, scene 3, the moment he got home. It was the point in the plot when Iago told Othello that he had shared a bed with Cassio, and how, during the night, Cassio had murmured in his sleep of his love for Desdemona and cursed Othello for having her. Iago also told Othello that Cassio mistook Iago for Desdemona and held Iago’s hand in his, kissed him hard on the lips over and over again, embraced him, and pressed his leg over Iago’s thigh.

  Amrith was sure this was what the boys had teased Peries about. He did not understand why Peries was so outraged by what Cassio had done mistakenly in his sleep. Still, Amrith felt even more uneasy now about ending up with that part.

  Madam was going away with her family for a holiday and there would be no further rehearsals for three weeks. Amrith promised himself that he would use this time to work diligently on his role.

  6

  The Holidays Drag On

  The climate in August depended on whether the monsoon had spent itself or not; whether it had arrived at all. This year, the monsoon was late and it lingered into August, much to everyone’s despair. Instead of the rain cooling down the heat, it only caused the air to be thick with moisture. The inhabitants of Colombo moved sluggishly, as if pushing at the yellow humidity before them. The lush growth in the gardens and on the sides of the streets was rotting with too much water, the hibiscus a diluted pink.

  Over the next few days, Amrith found that, without rehearsals, time hung heavy on him. In the past, he and the girls would do things together during their holidays, like going for bicycle rides and walks along the beach, or to a film at the Majestic Cinema and to Gillo’s for ice-cream sundaes. But in the last year, as the girls grew older, they had begun to develop their own interests and social circles into which he did not fit. Amrith felt he had been abandoned by the girls; he could not help being angry at them and secretly envious of their busy lives. He rehearsed his part as much as he could, but he soon grew bored with repeating the lines over and over to himself. Somehow the scene did not really work, addressing an imaginary Othello.

  His mornings at the office, practicing his typing, were the sole source of pleasure and distraction in his life. Though he had been acquainted with the office staff before, it was only now that he began to know about their lives — their husbands and wives, their children, their hobbies and interests. Uncle Lucky’s relationship with Miss Rani remained a mystery, and he often pondered over it. He would watch them together, remarking to himself on their intimacy, which appeared almost unseemly between a boss and his staff member. When they were in a meeting, Uncle Lucky, as opposed to sitting on his side of the desk with Miss Rani across from him, would often come around and sit by her. They would discuss a business problem or a new venture with their heads bent close together. Uncle Lucky would sometimes touch Miss Rani’s arm in a gesture of approval and yet, Amrith did not think there was anything lascivious about this contact. Uncle Lucky often left his cubicle door open and the rest of the staff could see them. They appeared unfazed by this intimacy.

  To relieve his boredom, Amrith went to visit Aunt Wilhelmina one afternoon. He found her playing bridge on the front veranda with her usual coterie of Cinnamon Gardens dowagers — Lady Rajapakse, Mrs. Zarina Akbarally, and Mrs. Jayalukshmi Coomaraswamy. Amrith was a bit frightened of these formidable women, who never hesitated to speak their minds in a very blunt manner. Yet they were always nice to him and often commented on what a polite boy he was, wishing that their grandsons were more like him.

  Once he had greeted them, Aunt Wilhelmina, who was very pleased to see him, led Amrith through the drawing room and dining room, waiting for him to make his choice from her glass-fronted cabinets. He picked the one containing the silver. Aunt Wilhelmina unlocked the doors, then rang a bell for her retainer, Ramu. He laid out newspapers on the dining table and brought in the silver polish and some rags. Amrith was left to his work with a glass of sweetened lime juice, bridge sandwiches, and little iced cakes.

  He did not understand why, but bringing back the luster to silver or dusting carefully around the ridges and indentations of porcelain ornaments brought him great contentment. As he took each silver object from the cabinet to the table, he marveled at its beauty — the two elaborate candelabrums, their bases and knops molded with leaves, their serpentine branches ornamented with foliage; a set of dinner plates with a design of acanthus shells and anthemion ornaments etched along the edge; the cake-basket with its finely pierced sides engraved with foliage, flowers, beading, and trelliswork; a bulbous soup tureen with elaborately cast rose finials and rose bracket handles; a tea and coffee ser
vice from China carved with panels of Chinese landscapes, the spouts on the pots fashioned to resemble bamboo.

  Amrith worked for a while, then needing a break, he walked around the drawing room admiring the furniture. Aunt Wilhelmina had been married in the early 1920s and all her furniture was Art Deco imported from France.

  She had a nicely illustrated book on Art Deco furniture and Amrith, as he often did, took it down from the bookshelf and looked through the pages, glancing up every so often at the pieces of furniture to see, in three-dimension, the simple forms and classical styles, the exotic materials and fine handcraftsmanship, the complicated inlays of ivory, tortoiseshell, gold leaf, and tooled leather, the contrasting veneers of rare and expensive wood, which was Art Deco.

  With nothing much to do, Amrith spent hours in the aviary. While some of this time was devoted to cleaning up and rearranging the perches, what he mostly did was try and train Kuveni to speak. He borrowed a few books from the British Council Library on breeding birds and read up on how to make a bird talk. Yet, despite using all the techniques in the books, he had no success. Kuveni remained stubbornly silent.

  The mynah had been a gift to him from Aunty Bundle’s friend and partner, the architect Lucien Lindamulagé. Amrith was very fond of the old man and they had spent many mornings of his childhood together in the architect’s aviary. It was Lucien Lindamulagé who had found the mynah, when they had been working on a project outstation, and brought it as a gift.

  Amrith had been planning to visit Lucien Lindamulagé and consult him on Kuveni’s silence when, one evening, he came home from a solitary bicycle ride by the sea to find the old man seated in a Planter’s chair in the courtyard, having tea with Aunty Bundle.

  Lucien Lindamulagé waved the moment he saw Amrith. “Ah, my dear, how marvelously healthy and flushed you look,” he cried archly. “No doubt you’ve been taking in the bracing air of the ocean.”

  He was a little gray-haired gnome of a man, with large ears and nose, and thick glasses. He always applied white powder to his face, and this gave his dark complexion a grayish sheen. He was seated in a manner not at all befitting his age. His feet were up on the chair, tucked under his white sarong, and his knees were drawn to his chest.

  There was something scandalous about Lucien Lindamulagé that Amrith did not understand. It had to do with his constant round of young male secretaries. Amrith had once overheard Uncle Lucky warning his wife that Lucien Lindamulagé should leave his secretaries at home when they went on business outstation; that what the old man did was illegal and he could end up getting arrested. Aunty Bundle had been furious at her husband for believing such rumors. Yet, from the heat of her anger, Amrith felt she knew the rumors were true and was deeply saddened and troubled by whatever it was her friend did.

  As Amrith parked his bicycle and went across the courtyard, Lucien Lindamulagé watched his approach over the edge of his glasses, a merry twinkle in his eyes. When Amrith was by him, the architect reached up and pulled on his earlobe affectionately. “Growing taller and taller every month, nah.”

  Amrith could not help grinning. Despite Lucien Lindamulagé’s odd maanner and the scandal surrounding him, he really liked the old architect. Unlike with most men, Amrith felt that he could simply be himself around Lucien Lindamulagé.

  “Now tell me,” the old man said, squeezing Amrith’s arm, “how are the birds? Has the mynah talked yet?”

  Amrith shook his head.

  The architect frowned. “How very odd, my dear. What techniques have you been using?”

  Amrith told him all the things he had tried, hoping the architect would be able to suggest something else, but Lucien Lindamulagé shook his head. He put his feet on the ground and stood up. “Hmm, let us take a look.” He held on to Amrith’s arm, for he did not have his walking stick with him, and they began to make their way across the courtyard.

  Once they were in the aviary, Lucien Lindamulagé tried to get the mynah to talk, but nothing he did worked either. He stared at the bird, puzzled for a long time, then his face lit up. “Ah! Perhaps it is loneliness that makes our Kuveni mute. She needs a mate.” He nodded. “Yes-yes. I’m sure that is the solution.”

  He turned to Amrith. “We are going outstation in a few days and I will keep my eye out for a male mynah. Village children are adept at catching these birds and will readily give them up for a few rupees.”

  Amrith looked at Kuveni, who was regarding them as usual with her head to one side, and he hoped that Lucien Lindamulagé’s solution might turn out to be correct.

  When they came down to the courtyard, Lucien Lindamulagé’s secretary was waiting for him — a young man in his midtwenties with an olive skin, glossy black hair, and full lips. As Amrith looked at him, he remembered how he had once heard boys in his school mention Lucien Lindamulagé’s secretaries and refer to the old man as a “ponnaya” — a word whose precise meaning Amrith did not understand, though he knew it disparaged the masculinity of another man, reducing him to the level of a woman.

  The hole in the living room roof had still not been fixed and, one evening, the family stood around the barrel, which had been placed under the hole to catch the rain, squinting up at the rafters.

  “Bundle,” Uncle Lucky said, staring up at the hole, “haven’t you heard anything yet from Gineris and his sons?”

  “Of course I have, Lucky,” Aunty Bundle replied, a little defensively. “Mendis and I even drove out to their village. They’ve promised to come next week.”

  “But they did not respond to your initial telegram,” Uncle Lucky said. “You know how these village-types are, so lackadaisical. Next week can end up being next month. Why don’t I try and get another roof-baas. I have a good reference for one who lives right here in Colombo.”

  Aunty Bundle shook her head, stubbornly.

  “Aiyo, Amma,” Selvi cried at her, “just get this other roof-baas, for goodness’ sake.”

  “No, no,” Aunty Bundle said. “Gineris will come. I trust him.”

  “But what if he doesn’t come before the party?” Mala demanded plaintively. “We will have to cancel our birthday. People can’t dance with a barrel in the middle of the living room.”

  “Gineris and his sons have always been our family baases,” Aunty Bundle said, folding her arms to her chest. “They will not let me down. Besides, I don’t trust these modern baases; they don’t know how to lay out tiles in the old style.”

  “Rubbish, Bundle.” Uncle Lucky gave her an exasperated look. “Tiles are tiles. Of course any roof-baas knows how to do it.”

  Selvi gestured with disgust to the open rafters and handmade red clay tiles of their roof. “I wish we lived in a modern house with proper asbestos roofing and a ceiling.”

  Aunty Bundle turned to her, annoyed. “You children don’t appreciate what you have. This house is a proper Sri Lankan house, not one of those awful Western models that are so unsuitable for the heat.” She was on one of her favorite hobbyhorses, the colonized minds of most Sri Lankans, including her own children, and she would have continued in this vein if Jane-Nona had not come out of the kitchen, bearing the drinks tray.

  “Ah.” Uncle Lucky took the tray from her. “It’s time for my arrack and ginger beer. Let’s go out into the courtyard.”

  They were meeting together again to discuss the party and, once they were all seated, Aunty Bundle began with enthusiasm, having forgotten her previous annoyance. “Girls, girls, I’ve had a brilliant idea. Last night, at Chloe Coomaraswamy’s dinner, she had the most wonderful hopper woman. I have never tasted hoppers like that, so light and crisp and delicious. We could hire her to do hoppers for your birthday.” Aunty Bundle had a great fondness for these bowl-shaped crepes.

  “But what about godamba rotis?” Mala asked, as they were her particular favorite, “I thought we were getting a godamba man to set his cart up in the courtyard.”

  “We will do both hoppers and godamba rotis,” Aunty Bundle declared.

  They a
ll nodded. This sounded like a wonderful idea.

  “And what about dessert, Amma?” Selvi asked. “My friend Otara knows this lady who makes lovely meringue and chocolate cream puddings.”

  They agreed they would consider that for dessert. But there would also be two birthday cakes from Perera and Sons and lots of trifles and soufflés and puddings. Then the discussion moved on to the number of guests. Aunty Bundle had brought a pad of paper and pen with her and they began to make a list. After they had put down their numerous relatives and family friends, the girls each gave the names of students in their class they wanted to invite. All the boys coming to the party would be relatives, or sons of family friends. When they were done, Aunty Bundle turned to Amrith. “And how about you, son? Any boys from your drama society?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Um … no, Aunty.”

  “Well, that’s alright, dear.” She went back to the guest list, a look of concern in her eyes.

  As Aunty Bundle began to read the list, which totaled about a hundred, Amrith felt depressed that not a single person on it was his friend or relative.

  7

  Amrith Has a Surprise

  Despite having a car and a driver, Uncle Lucky liked to walk in Fort when going about his business. “A chance to keep in touch with the common man,” he called it. “A chance to remember where I came from.”

  One morning, he took Amrith with him to the bank. Their walk led them through the colonnaded arcade that ran in front of Cargil’s Department Store.

  The arcade was congested. Peons hurried about, carrying large manila envelopes, files, tiffin carriers; businessmen in ties strolled by on an early lunch; Cinnamon Gardens ladies bustled along, followed by servants staggering under the weight of parcels; beggars with all manner of deformities held out their palms, faces twisted in entreaty. There were hawkers on either side of the arcade forcing an even narrower passage for the pedestrians. From vivid pink or blue plastic sheets spread on the ground, they sold Bombay film posters, cassettes, socks, underpants, dress shirts in their crinkly wrapping, handbags, incense, wind-up toys from China, and knickknacks.