Empire's Children

by Patricia Weerakoon

  The car bumped its way on towards Colombo. The roads grew even more crowded and polluted. Dust swirled around and into the car. Mr Emmanuel’s voice droned on, lulling Anthony into a stupor. He heard less and less of what Mr Emmanuel said.

  ***

  ‘Sir, sorry sir. We are at the hotel, sir,’ Mr Emmanuel’s voice broke into Anthony’s drowsy state. He jerked awake to see an expanse of green lawn. Beyond it stretched the brilliant blue of the ocean with white-capped waves shimmering to the horizon. The setting sun was an orange orb in the pink and grey sky. Families and couples strolled along a mud path that seemed to serve as a promenade.

  ‘Galle Face Green, sir,’ Mr Emmanuel said. ‘And that,’ he said with an extravagant sweep of his arm, ‘is the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘Really?’ muttered Anthony. ‘I thought it was the North Atlantic.’

  Mr Emmanuel smiled and bobbled his head.

  They were parked in the driveway of a large sandstone two-storey building. Tall, white pillars reached up on either side of the large wooden-framed glass doors. Similarly impressive windows, also framed in wood, shone gold and pink in the evening sun. Native men in crisp white suits and white gloves stood at attention by the entrance.

  Mr Emmanuel leapt out of the car. Bending at the waist, he held the door of the car open. Anthony unfolded himself from the back seat and walked up the worn, well-scrubbed marble steps of the hotel. Mr Emmanuel darted in front of him, carrying Anthony’s luggage.

  One of the uniformed men stepped forward and held the door open for them to enter. To Anthony’s bemusement, a flash of resentment momentarily clouded the man’s deep black eyes. Why would the doormen resent him? Mr Emmanuel had said he would be treated like a god.

  He strolled after Mr Emmanuel into a large foyer with a high ceiling. The room was cool and carried the pungent smell of a hothouse full of blooms. Taking a deep breath he stood, looking around, hands in the pockets of his now crumpled linen trousers. Large wooden slatted ceiling fans circulated the air. Hand-crafted tapestries in bright reds, greens, blues and orange hung from white walls. They depicted outrigger canoes, half naked women balancing large urns on their heads, and a parade of elephants. Brass vases of multi-coloured flowers stood on round, ebony tables.

  A slim, dark, young man emerged from behind the teak reception desk. He was dressed in a pale blue suit with an emblem embroidered on the breast pocket. He spoke to Mr Emmanuel in what Anthony took to be the native language. Mr Emmanuel nodded.

  Putting the bags down, he turned to Anthony. ‘The staff here all know your uncle, Mr Irvine, sir. They will look after you, sir. I will come for you tomorrow morning and put you on the train to Diyatalāwa. Good night, sir. Sleep well, sir.’

  Mr Emmanuel pressed his hands together again in what must this time be a gesture of farewell. Anthony nodded, not wanting to extend his hand and definitely not ready to practice the Sri Lankan greeting in public. Mr Emmanuel then retreated backwards out of the hotel foyer, almost tripping over the welcome mat.

  ‘Welcome to Galle Face Hotel, Mr Ashley-Cooper,’ the young man addressed Anthony in flawless English. ‘I’m Nimal, the maître d’hôtel of the Galle Face Hotel. We have booked you in the King’s Suite. It overlooks the ocean. I am sure you will have a good night’s sleep there.’ His clipped, soft voice was a pleasant change after two hours of Mr Emmanuel’s loud blather.

  Nimal ushered Anthony towards the lift. A bellboy in a white uniform lifted his bags onto a small wooden trolley with intricate filigree handwork. He followed Anthony and Nimal out of the reception hall. They passed carved mahogany chaise longues, upholstered in thick woven material of the same bright and vibrant colours as the tapestries in the foyer. ‘Sri Lankan handloom material,’ said Nimal, following Anthony’s gaze.

  Anthony glanced at a large painting of a group of women carrying trays of flowers in their hands. His eyes widened when he realised that the women were topless.

  Seeing Anthony’s raised eyebrows, Nimal pointed to the picture. ‘The Sigiriya Frescoes, Mr Ashley-Cooper. Sigiriya is an ancient rock castle used by King Kassyapa in the fourth century. There are paintings of hundreds of women like this on the walls of the rock. They were the Kings’ princesses and consorts.’

  Anthony looked at the tapestry and sniggered. ‘He must have been quite a man to keep them all satisfied.’ He ignored the look that flashed between Nimal and the bellboy.

  In pointed silence, Nimal held the door of the lift open for Anthony to enter. The bellboy followed him with his bags. The wooden, box-like lift creaked up to the second floor and opened to reveal a carpeted corridor. Nimal stepped out and held the lift door open for Anthony. The wooden panelling, soft hidden lights and piped music gave Anthony a twinge of homesickness. I could be in England, he thought. On the other hand, if it were England, there wouldn’t be paintings of fishing boats with half-naked men, and portraits of brooding, dark, mystic faces on the walls.

  Nimal walked down the corridor and opened the door at the end. He stood aside and gestured Anthony to enter. The walls of the room were painted pale blue. Antique wooden armchairs and a writing table complemented the large, regency style four-poster bed in the centre of the room. Bowls of roses stood on either side of the bed and on the desk. The balcony door was open, and the lace curtain fluttered in the breeze to reveal tantalising glimpses of water. The fresh salt smell of the ocean wafted into the room, mingling with the perfume of the roses.

  Nimal placed Anthony’s bags on a stool. ‘Your room, Mr Ashley-Cooper, I hope you like it.’

  Anthony walked to a large, framed picture on the wall across from the bed. ‘A tea plantation, sir,’ Nimal explained. ‘Similar to where you will be going tomorrow.’

  ***

  Anthony lay on the soft linen sheets of his bed. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Soon after Nimal had ushered him into his room, a waiter had brought up a dinner of rice, spiced roast chicken and mixed vegetables – all labelled in small script. Anthony had eyed the meal, poked around at the separate bits, sampled it and then enjoyed it more than he would be willing to admit. After dinner, he had a long soak in the old fashioned brass tub in the bathroom and now lay in bed trying to clear his head of the myriad images that filled his mind.

  The sun sank slowly into the ocean. The light from the lamps on Galle Face Green filtered into the room, shrouding the picture of the tea plantation on the wall in an eerie yellow light. The swirls in the plaster ceiling took on the appearance of mountains and valleys, first of the rolling downs of his home in the Peak District of England and then of green hilled mysteries of yet unseen tea plantations.

  Dinner parties at the Ashley-Cooper manor in Bakewell were never complete without stories about the tea plantations. He remembered the story of the itinerant Indian preacher. He heard his father’s voice: ‘The bugger came by every few months pontificating about the hellfire and brimstone that awaited me if I didn’t repent of my sins. He bloody well knew I would set my dogs on him but he kept coming anyway.’

  Even as a child, Anthony had felt vaguely uncomfortable at how much the guests at the dinner party in the manor enjoyed the idea of the old Sri Lankan man scuttling away with bulldogs chasing after him.

  Other stories, mainly those concerning the coolie women and plantation hospitality, were explicit and bawdy. The dinner guests would snigger and chuckle, as Anthony’s mother bundled him and his brother William out of the room. Recently, on one of these occasions, his father had grabbed William by his arm. He had raised his brandy snifter to his mother.

  ‘Let him listen,’ he had called out to her. ‘He’ll experience it himself soon enough.’ William had enjoyed that, but Anthony had watched his mother’s eyes burn with anger and then cloud in pain.

  ‘The tea plantations charmed your father,’ she had whispered in Anthony’s ear the night before he left. ‘Take care that the same doesn�
��t happen to you.’

  ***

  Sometime in the night, Anthony kicked the sheets off the bed. He realised why when he woke up. The doors to the balcony stood open, but the sea breeze did little to abate the cloying heat of the tropical morning. He picked up the sheet and wiped the sweat off his body. ‘Like living in a bloody sauna,’ he grumbled to himself.

  A soft tap on the door heralded Nimal. ‘Good morning, Mr Ashley-Cooper. I am sorry to wake you so early. Mr Emmanuel asked me to bring you breakfast. He will be here at eight-thirty to take you to the station.’

  Anthony looked with grudging interest at the items on the plate that constituted his breakfast. ‘Mr Emmanuel asked me to bring you bacon and eggs, sir, but I thought you may like to try the egg hoppers. It is a traditional Sri Lankan breakfast.’

  ‘Leave it on the table.’ Anthony looked at the tray of food, not particularly hungry. ‘Please let me know when the car is here.’ Nimal bowed and turned away.

  Anthony stared at the two egg hoppers. They looked like pancakes with a crisp brown border, each with an egg fried sunny side up on a cushiony centre. On the rim of the plate were small bowls of colourful sauces. The blend of aromas was not like anything Anthony had experienced. And yet, it was enticing to his taste buds. Suddenly ravenous, Anthony sat down, and ignoring the knife and folk, devoured the food with his fingers – which, he reasoned, was probably the correct way to eat it.

  Anthony showered and threw his overnight clothes into his bag. He rang for the bellhop and sauntered down to the foyer.

  Mr Emmanuel arrived at eight-thirty, even more sycophantic than the day before. ‘Sir, your uncle Mr Irvine called me this morning, sir. He will meet you at Diyatalāwa station.’ Mr Emmanuel wiped Anthony’s bags with his hanky before carrying them to the car with his customary delicacy.

  Leaving the air-conditioned hotel, Anthony walked down the steps, opened the back door and got into the car. Mr Emmanuel came bustling after him to shut the door and then rushed over to the driver’s side. ‘Sir, I have booked a seat for you in the first class compartment of the train. I have also ordered chicken sandwiches for your lunch, sir.’ Mr Emmanuel pulled away from the hotel.

  Recovered from the half-asleep stupor of last evening, Anthony was more aware of the traffic and noise that surrounded them on the drive to the train station. Even in the business heart of the city, rickshaws and bull carts shared the road with bicycles in various states of disrepair and cars of indeterminate age belching foul brown fumes.

  In contrast to the drive from the airport, however, there was a controlled purposefulness about the activity on the streets in Colombo. Men and women, many with bags tucked under their arms, strode along the pavement. The men were mostly dressed in white cotton business suits, the women in what he now recognised as saris. The women held up black umbrellas in a vain attempt to ward off the burning rays of the morning sun.

  They wound their way through the traffic. Mr Emmanuel pointed to the Edwardian buildings lining the streets. ‘Sir, we are driving through Colombo Fort. It used to be a British fortress in the nineteenth century, now all business and trade buildings, sir.’

  Anthony turned to look at a group of men dressed in bright orange robe-like garments, their heads shaven and glistening in the sunshine. ‘Buddhist monks, sir,’ said Mr Emmanuel. ‘Buddhism is the main religion in Sri Lanka. But in the tea plantation, the coolies are all Hindus. They are Indian labourers, no, sir? But sir knows that, of course.’

  Half an hour later they drew into a parking spot in front of the railway station. The white arches bore the name ‘Fort Railway Station’ in English and what were presumably the two native languages of Sinhalese and Tamil.

  A larger than life bronze statue of a bearded old man holding a large book stood in a fenced enclosure at the front of the station. Mr Emmanuel followed Anthony’s gaze. ‘Ah, you are wondering who that is, no, sir? He is a white man, sir. Colonel Henry Steele Olcott. He was important in taking Buddha’s teaching to your country, sir. He wrote the Buddhist books here also.’

  Anthony looked up at the stern countenance, now marred by pigeon droppings and adorned by two large cawing ravens. Railway lines, tea plantations, Christian missionaries and the Buddhist catechism. He was only beginning to understand the effect of the British Empire on the colonies. He turned to follow Mr Emmanuel into the railway station.

  Mr Emmanuel ignored the offer of help from a number of scruffy urchins and carried Anthony’s bags to the platform. The crowd of native men, women and children parted to allow the two of them passage. ‘Sir, the British built the station in about 1910,’ Mr Emmanuel said, his voice rising above the chatter that surrounded them. ‘In those times the trains were used to transport tea and coffee from the hill country to Colombo, sir.’ He flung his free hand to encompass the walls and arches, ‘The sandstone blocks and the wrought iron arches were all made by local people, sir. Good work, no?’

  Anthony looked around. The arches were imposing and the whorls in the metal delicate and beautiful, even under layers of grime and soot. The wooden doors were adorned with ornate brass handles and stained glass panels. It was an unabashed effort of his forefathers to replicate a British railway station in this squalid colonial outpost. And it was well done.

  The announcement rang out, loud and strident, probably to make up for the hiss and wheeze of the big-wheeled steam locomotive at the head of the train and the clamour of the crowd struggling to board the carriages.

  ‘The train on platform four is the day train to Badulla.’

  It was repeated twice more. ‘Sinhalese and Tamil, sir,’ Mr Emmanuel explained. He ushered Anthony along the platform.

  Native men walked up and down the platform hawking food, carrying their produce in cane baskets on their shoulders. Their calls of ‘vadai, vadai kadalai, kadalai’ and ‘thambili, thambili’ had a practiced, almost musical rhythm.

  Mr Emmanuel stopped at a carriage with FIRST CLASS emblazoned in large, intricate gold lettering on the side. Anthony looked around. The carriage was empty and no one seemed eager to enter it.

  ‘The natives all travel second class and the coolies in third, sir. No one will bother you, sir.’ Opening the door, Mr Emmanuel scrambled into the carriage. He stored Anthony’s suitcase in the overhead luggage shelf and wiped the seat with his handkerchief. ‘You will be comfortable here, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Emmanuel.’ Anthony climbed in after him and sat back in the leather seat covered with white linen. The shrill whistle from the locomotive sent Mr Emmanuel scuttling off the train.

  With another loud, drawn-out whistle and a bone rattling jerk, the train drew out of the station. A cloud of steam and smoke drifted from the locomotive, partially obscuring the platform. People were hanging out of the windows, waving and screaming goodbyes. Anthony looked back. He could just about make out Mr Emmanuel, waving in the air with both hands. Anthony raised his hand in goodbye – and good riddance. Flecks of dust and soot flew in the wind and into the compartment. Hooking his fingers in the brass knobs, Anthony dragged the glass window shutter down.

  He wiped his face and hands with his linen handkerchief and then cursed when he saw that it was black with soot and dust. Oh well, he would be ready for a shower when he reached his uncle’s bungalow. He thrust the handkerchief in his pocket and sat back with his eyes shut.

  Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto piped through the sound system, competing with the racket outside the compartment and the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails. The carriage swayed as it gathered speed. The locomotive whistle was muffled and distant. Tired and jet lagged, Anthony dropped back into a stupor.

  ‘Welcome aboard the Uderata Maniké, sir.’

  Anthony’s eyes jerked open. A young man in a white uniform stood in front of him. ‘The name is meaning upcountry girl. I am the rail supervisor in charge of first class carriages. My name is John.’

 
The man poured some mysterious fizzy orange fluid from a bottle bearing the label ‘orange barley’ into a glass and offered it to Anthony.

  Anthony groaned. Eight hours with another one of these idiotic natives, just as he had got rid of Mr Emmanuel.

  ‘You must not mind him, young sir, he is only trying to look after you. This must be your first visit to Sri Lanka.’

  Glass in hand, Anthony looked at the stout figure of the Sri Lanka man settling into the window seat in front of him. He wore a white shirt that reached down to the knees with what looked like a long, white skirt under it. The lower garment was held up by a leather belt. The hair on his balding head was well oiled and combed down, stretching down to his ample neck. He sported a walrus moustache, which wobbled as he leaned forward.

  A native in first class?

  ‘I am Don Mudiyansalage Premawansa Somaweera Hemachandra …’

  Anthony’s eyes widened at the cascade of syllables.

  ‘But people call me Hemachandra Mudalali.’

  Well I’m not people, thought Anthony, and I’m damned if I’m going to make a fool of myself by trying to say your name.

  ‘I own a big fleet of lorries that take tea from the estates to Colombo. I employ ten drivers. I own the biggest shop in my town, where everyone comes to buy their food and clothes and things. That’s why people call me Hemachandra Mudalali – it means Hemachandra, the town merchant.’

  Hemachandra Mudalali did not stretch out his hand to shake Anthony’s hand, neither did he put his palms together in greeting. Noticing Anthony’s eyes on his clothes he smiled. ‘Native dress. You can say sarong and shirt. How far are you going?’

  Anthony appraised the man. The two of them were stuck with each other for the better part of the day; he might as well make the most of it. ‘I’m travelling to a station called Diyatalāwa.’

  ‘Why, that is where I am going too, sir! My shop is in Diyatalāwa. Are you staying with the Superintendent of Watakälé?’ Hemachandra rubbed his palms together. ‘Ah, that is why you are looking so familiar. Your brother visited last year, no? Stayed in Udatänná?’