Empire's Children

by Patricia Weerakoon

  Picking up the slate and the piece of chalk, Lakshmi copied the words Periamma had written on the piece of paper. The chalk screeched on the slate. Lakshmi struggled to form the words. It was hard work writing English. The letters were different from the Tamil alphabet she had learned in the few years she had gone to the estate school.

  It was almost seven years since Shiro had gone to boarding school in Colombo. Lakshmi had settled into a routine. She went to tea fields to pluck in the morning then finished the work in the line room and spent the evening with Periamma. She was supposed to help out in the house but with Shiro gone to school and the boys in Colombo there was little to do. So the evenings were times when Periamma taught her English. Lakshmi lived for the evenings and for the twice-a-year holidays when Shiro came home.

  Shiro wrote long letters to her. They were about the boarding school in Colombo. Lakshmi still couldn’t read all the words in these letters. Lakshmi numbered the envelopes and saved them in a box under Shiro’s bed. Then begged Periamma to read the letters to her over and over again till she knew them by heart. Periamma didn’t mind reading Shiro’s letters. She said it brought Shiro closer to them both. Lakshmi repeated the letters to herself when she felt alone in the line room.

  Putting the chalk down, she pulled out the box of letters and picked up letter number three. She traced the scribbled handwriting of her friend. This was an early letter.

  Periamma walked in. ‘You’re travelling memory-lane again are you, Lakshmi?’ She laughed at Lakshmi’s expression. ‘It means you are thinking back to what is in that letter.’

  Lakshmi nodded. That was a nice word, memory-lane.

  She held out the letter. ‘Periamma, do you have the time?’ She said in English, happy to see a smile of acknowledgement.

  Periamma took the letter from her and picked up the slate full of Lakshmi’s poorly formed words in her other hand. ‘You are getting good in your English writing. Soon you will be able to write letters back to Shiro.’ Smoothing down the purple cover on Shiro’s bed, she sat down.

  Miss Grace Rowling told us today that the British missionaries built the Methodist boarding school in Bambalawatte in 1910. In her words, it was to be a little seaside oasis of England in the busy, hot and humid capital of Sri Lanka. Miss Grace is our school principal – she also looks after the God side of what we study, like reading the Bible and praying. Miss Grace is old.

  Periamma stopped and smiled. Lakshmi knew why! She continued reading.

  Not as old as Mummy and definitely not as ancient as Achchi. Miss Grace is white like the Periadorai’s daughter, Janet. She is a little like the angel we put on top of the Christmas tree. She wears starched print cotton dresses that reach to below her knees, the neckline of the dress high with a pure white lace collar. Her golden hair is curly and shiny.

  Now about the school. I am going to tell you about it so you can imagine what I am doing every day – all the time.

  A high brick wall, six feet tall, separates the school from the seaside railway line and the sea. You will love the sea, Lakshmi. Remind me to tell you about it when I come home at Christmas. The wall is topped by barbed wire and broken glass. I asked Miss Grace if it was to keep the girls from escaping. She thought it was very funny. She said no, it was to keep, in her words, undesirable elements from the compound. I told her that I would like to see an undesirable element, which made her laugh even more. She has a laugh like little bells ringing. The buildings …

  Lakshmi’s thoughts drifted as Periamma continued to read about the rooms and the verandas, the study and music areas and the tennis and netball courts. She listened again as Shiro described a typical morning at the school.

  The rattle and hoot of the train carrying early morning workers from the villages down south into their work in Colombo shakes our second floor dormitory. We have a big fat ayah – a sort of servant called Soma who wakes us up at five forty-five in the morning. She stomps around opening all the windows, letting drops of salty sea spray and wind into the room. Then to make sure we are up she clangs a huge big brass bell!

  We have prayer time every morning. I like prayer time. Miss Grace reads the Bible. Lakshmi, you MUST learn to read the Bible. At least get Mummy to read it to you. It’s full of really interesting stories. The other day she read to us about this guy who had to never cut his hair…

  Shiro’s letters were full of happy, fun things. But when she’d visited last December, she had a different story to tell. She told Lakshmi that there were girls who bullied her because she was an estate girl. She said she hated the boarding, but loved going to classes. Lakshmi had to swear on the eagle to keep their secret. She was never to tell Periamma that Shiro was not happy.

  Periamma finished reading the letter. Lakshmi reached into the box and handed her another one. It was a new one, written just a month ago.

  She laughed. ‘You want to hear about Shiro’s new friend? It is good that she is making friends in Colombo.’ She stopped and glanced at Lakshmi. ‘Don’t worry. You will always be important to our Shiro.’

  Important. No one cared for her. Maybe it would be different with Shiro? Maybe they would stay friends? Soul-mate was the word Shiro had used last December. Periamma continued to read.

  There’s a new girl in the boarding this term. She actually came in about halfway through. Poor thing was so lost. Miss Grace asked if I would help her settle. Lalitha Pragasam is a Hindu. She’s a little older than the others in our class. She grew up in a rubber plantation, so we sort of fit together. Her mother is an Indian like Lakshmi, but her father owned a small shop in a village down south near a place called Kalutara. He is dead and her mother married again. Lalitha says that’s why she is in the boarding. Lakshmi, you will like Lalitha. I’d like to bring her home one holiday. We could have the best times ever – the three of us.’

  Shiro wanted Lakshmi to write to her. What was there to write about? That she had started working as a tea plucker? Walking barefoot between the tea bushes, trying to pluck more leaves than the others? She could describe life in the line room – the smells, the dirt. Maybe she would write of how Periamma has taught her to clean her nails every evening. How she now had her own toothbrush in the toilet in the garden.

  Periamma folded the letter and put it back in the box. ‘You miss her, don’t you Lakshmi? I do too, but it’s good for her to be in Colombo. She is learning to behave like a lady. Making friends of her own class. She is happy there.’

  Lakshmi nodded. She understood. Shiro needed friends of her own class, not like her, a coolie. ‘Yes, she is happy.’

  ‘And,’ Periamma continued, ‘I have a surprise for you. Shiro is coming home next week for the Christmas holiday.’

  Lakshmi leapt to her feet, beaming. ‘Periamma, that is very good.’

  A rumble of thunder drowned out her words. A flash of lightning lit up the room. Periamma switched on the light. ‘You should go home now, Lakshmi. It’s getting dark and –’ they both jumped at another closer crash.

  Lakshmi slipped the slate and chalk under the bed. She ran down the corridor to the back door.

  ‘Take a sack to cover your head, Lakshmi,’ Periamma called after her.

  ‘No Periamma, I am used to the rain.’ Lakshmi shut the back door and ran down the path leading to the line rooms. She would love to stay forever at the Tea-maker’s house. But her mother wanted her at home to help in the night. And she had to go out in the morning with the coolie women plucking tea leaves. It was a hard job. She was tired by afternoon when they carried the leaves to the weighing shed. Worse still, she didn’t get to keep the money she was paid. Her father took almost all of it. He bought ganja and arak with it. She owed it to him for tolerating her, he said. He threatened to beat her and worse if she refused.

  Lakshmi did whatever her father and mother told her to do. That way they didn’t stop her from going to the Tea-maker’s house.

&nbs
p; Lakshmi slowed down as she came close to the line rooms. Meena was in the front veranda of the adjoining line room, sweeping with a broom made of dried coconut fronds. ‘Oh, you are wearing a nice frock,’ she called out. ‘Ribbons on your hair also. Soon you will be wearing socks and shoes, no?’ Meena grinned, her betel stained red lips parting to expose chipped teeth.

  Lakshmi looked down at her dress. In her hurry to get home, she had forgotten to change back into her own clothes! She wouldn’t dare tell Meena that Periamma had already given her a pair of socks and shoes.

  Her mother came out of the line room. ‘My, my, you look like a bride today. So now they are buying you clothes also? What do they expect in return? Are you sleeping with Tea-maker Aiya? Or maybe he is hiring you out to the Periadorai?’ She guffawed in laughter. Meena joined in.

  The insult stopped Lakshmi in her tracks. ‘Amma, Tea-maker Aiya and Periamma are good people. They are kind to me because I am Shiro Chinnamma’s friend. They would never harm me.’

  Her mother swung on her with a scowl. ‘A friend? You think you are a friend to Tea-maker Aiya’s daughter?’ She laughed, then hawked and spat at Lakshmi’s feet. ‘You’re more stupid than I thought if you believe that. People always want something from us coolies, you fool. If it’s not your body, it will be your sweat and work. Don’t think you are any different. Just because –’

  Lakshmi stared at her mother ‘Just because what, amma?’

  Her mother spat in the dirt, then turned and shuffled back into the line room. ‘Go and get the food ready before Appa gets home.’

  Lakshmi slipped into a corner of the line room. She removed and folded her dress and wrapped herself in her threadbare skirt and blouse. Sighing, she went out to the back veranda and started the fire for the rice and lentil meal. She cooked the food and set it aside. She picked up Shiro’s old blanket and the cloth that served as her sheet. Wrapping them around her, she found a dry spot in the corner of the room, curled up and fell into a fitful sleep.

  Lakshmi heard the clatter of the tin plate as her father gobbled the food she had made. He hawked and spat before coming back into the room. Lakshmi smelt the arak on his breath as he leant over her. His hand crept under the blanket. He ran his hand down her body. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that he would think she was asleep.

  A little later she heard her father and mother arguing. Her father growled at her mother: ‘Nandri illatha kaluthai.’ She heard the sound of a heavy slap and a gasp of pain from her mother. Lakshmi screwed her eyes tight. She heard a scuffle and groans and grunts from her father. Lakshmi turned to the wall and tried to shut out the moaning sounds coming from her mother.

  Dear God, she didn’t want to end up like this.

  Chapter 8

  December 1965 Watakälé

  Heads bent, the coolie women vied to fill their baskets. Their work-worn, brown hands flew over the dense tea bushes, picking their fresh green shoots. Soon the siren from the factory would signal the end of the morning shift. They would form a line at the weighing shed and have tea leaves weighed and entered in the ledger. That would determine their daily wage.

  At twenty-three years of age, Lakshmi had the wiry figure brought on by the active life of a tea plucker. She was however, fairer, prettier and healthier than the other young coolie women. She had good teeth and skin thanks to Periamma’s training and the food, toiletries and medicines she gave her. She also bathed regularly at the Tea-maker’s house and didn’t chew betel. Her hands were soft with the sesame oil Periamma got her to rub on them every day.

  Lakshmi smiled. Today Shiro was coming home for the holidays, She was now sixteen and very pretty. In her last letter she had promised to bring Lakshmi some things she called makeup. Her fingers flying over the tea bush, Lakshmi smiled to herself, as if she would have any need of all that stuff that Shiro used to colour her nails and lips.

  ‘Over there,’ Kangani shouted, pointing to a couple of tea bushes by the mud road that the coolie women had missed as they swept the hill.

  Lakshmi lowered her head and moved to where Kangani pointed. She continued plucking.

  ‘Aiyoo, Lakshmi can’t pluck fast like us, no,’ one of the other women, Sunderi, called out with a hoarse laugh. ‘She thinks she’s a lady because Tea-maker Aiya looks after her. Look at her hands! She must keep them soft for her other jobs in the Tea-maker’s house.’ A cackle of laughter rolled through the women.

  ‘She won’t chew betel also, no? Must keep her teeth white. What use she must have for her mouth when she is there?’ Meena called out. She hawked and spat a red spray of spittle into the roadside ditch. The laughter grew louder.

  ‘Shut up! Get to work.’ Kangani yelled. Continuing the chatter, the multi-coloured chain of women swept through the tea bushes, their bags now almost full of fragrant green tea leaves.

  Lakshmi looked up at the rumble of a motorcycle on the mud road.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Kangani hollered, poking a figure in Lakshmi’s direction. ‘You want Periadorai to think that I am letting you relax? Go on, work!’

  It was a new Periadorai. One they hadn’t seen before. The coolie women glanced at each other and giggled. ‘Go on plucking! Work, work,’ Kangani shouted.

  The Periadorai parked his motorcycle and walked over to the tea pluckers.

  Kangani pushed his way through the tea bushes to the edge of the road. Removing his towelling turban he held it in both hands and stood in the drain by the road, his head bent and eyes lowered, looking at the ground. ‘Periadorai – Aiya …’ he stammered.

  The Periadorai stood at the edge of the road a few feet away from where Lakshmi was plucking. She continued working, keeping her head and eyes down. She could see his brown leather shoes and white socks. He was so close that she could smell him. It was a sharp sweet smell, nothing like the stale smell of sweat, curry and arak that reeked from the coolie men.

  Maybe white people smelled like lime pickle?

  He reached his hand out to the tea bush she was working at and picked a shoot. Lakshmi had a glimpse of his hand, white skin with long fingers. Clean pink nails and finger tips, tiny flecks of gold on the back of the hand. It was the hand of a statue, even a god.

  The other coolie women stopped plucking and stared at the Periadorai. Lakshmi continued working.

  After a few moments, he turned to Kangani. ‘I am Anthony Ashley-Cooper. I am taking over from Mr Irvine. Do you speak English?’ His voice was soft, like music. His words were slow and clear. Lakshmi understood every word.

  Kangani shook his head.

  Lakshmi raised her eyes to the Periadorai. ‘I speak a little, Aiya, sir,’ she said in English.

  ‘Shut up!’ Kangani barked at her.

  The Periadorai looked straight at her. His eyes were deep blue, like a clear morning sky after the rain. Lakshmi looked down at the tea bush. The other women fell silent.

  ‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.

  Lakshmi kept her eyes down. ‘Lakshmi, Aiya,’ she murmured.

  ‘Luksiimi.’ A wave of soft giggles from the women acknowledged the mispronunciation of her name. ‘Can you please ask the ladies if they are happy?’

  She turned and translated his words to Tamil.

  Kangani turned to the coolie women. ‘Nod your heads, everyone,’ he commanded in Tamil. They all responded.

  ‘Good, good. Now please ask them if they are paid enough.’

  Again Lakshmi translated it to Kangani.

  He repeated his order. The women nodded again in unison.

  ‘I am glad. Thank you, Luksiimi.’ Ashley-Cooper Periadorai smiled at her. His teeth were white. They sparkled like jewels. Lakshmi didn’t smile back. She looked down and continued plucking.

  The Periadorai raised his hand in salute to Kangani. Swinging onto the motorcycle, he roared off up the road.

  The coolie women br
oke into excited chatter. Kangani clapped his hands. ‘Enough, enough.’ He yelled, ‘Go on, work harder. You have wasted time.’

  ‘Lakshmi won’t have to work much longer. She will get a summons from the Periadorai’s house. She is fair, no? White men like girls like that!’ one of the older women called out.

  ‘Then she can use her soft hands, no? And her mouth also.’ Meena hooted with laughter.

  Lakshmi lowered her head and plucked faster. Her face burned with shame.

  The strident hoot of the siren signalled the end of the morning plucking. It was a welcome respite. Lakshmi bowed her head and ran towards the weighing shed.

  Mocking laughter followed her.

  ***

  Shiro was due home anytime now. She would travel as usual in Hemachandra Mudalali’s lorry. Hemachandra Mudalali had one driver he trusted completely. This man was the one he sent when Shiro or her brothers hitched a ride from the station.

  Lakshmi bent over the ironing board, eager to get her work done before Shiro arrived.

  Periamma and Tea-maker Aiya sat at the dining table with their mugs of hot tea. Periamma leant forward towards Tea-maker Aiya. ‘That Anthony Ashley-Cooper who replaced Mr Irvine looks like a nice young man. I met him when I was returning from the staff wives meeting at the Wrights.’ I was so surprised when he stopped his motorcycle, and said good morning.’

  She lowered her voice, and Lakshmi listened carefully to get the words that followed. ‘You know how Mr and Mrs Irvine always ignored us on the road? Anthony didn’t seem to mind that someone may see him talking to a staff wife. We had a little chat about when we last met – he was only sixteen. He said that since then, he’s done a university degree in political science and international diplomacy, or something like that. He said he understands the situation in the tea estates much better now.’

  A shadow crossed Tea-maker Aiya’s face. He frowned at his wife. ‘Don’t tell me you got taken in by his behaviour? You should know better than that, Lilly. He just wants to wheedle some information from you that he can use against the staff.’