He heard her voice as if from a distance. ‘Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near, If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we meet, as we part, with a tear.’
She looked up. ‘Why are you staring at me?’
Anthony reached forward and touched her hair. A thick curl wound itself round his finger. ‘Don’t let them do it to you, Shiro.’ He withdrew his hand.
She looked back at the book. She flicked the pages. ‘Do what?’
‘Don’t agree to an arranged marriage. Don’t allow them to make you a possession – a chattel to any man. Study hard and get into university. Go to medical school.’
Shiro shut the book. She frowned. ‘I’d love that. You think I should do it, don’t you? But could I?’
She trusted him. This much he could do for her. Give her a future. ‘Course you can, sweetheart.’
Her eyes darkened, flickered with uncertainty. Damn, he wanted to see her eyes burn with love for him. What are you thinking, Anthony? She’s not for you.
Anthony struggled to keep his voice calm. ‘Sweetheart, you told me that you get high marks when you try. Try harder this year. Once you get into medical school, they won’t stand in your way.’
Shiro rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her hands. ‘Hmm. I believe I may be able to.’ Suddenly her eyes lit up and her lips curved. She glanced at his face and let her eyes rove down his body.
She’s up to something. She knows the effect she’s having on me. The little imp!
‘But,’ Shiro mused. ‘It will be hard. I have no encouragement from anybody.’ She drew her lips into a moue. Damn, he should leave – right now.
‘Surely, your brothers and uncle –’
Shiro rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please! They all think I should get married, or at least engaged, before even considering university.’ She lay on her back and looked up at the sky.
‘They think I’ll fall in love with someone totally inappropriate in university. Like a Sinhalese, or Muslim. Or even worse -’ She chuckled and sat up. Her eyes flickered back to his, sending his pulse racing. She lowered her voice to a soft, breathless whisper, clasped her hands together and leant forward. ‘Someone like you.’
She looked serious, except for a tiny twinkle deep in the wide black eyes.
She was Juliet in Romeo and Juliet; Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing; Ophelia in Hamlet. The little minx! It was an ice cold shower on his passion.
He took her hand. ‘To be, or not to be, that is the question: whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; or to take arms against a sea of troubles.’ He laughed at her look of outrage. ‘Maybe you should forget medicine and get on the stage, princess?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not that. You are such a bad actor. And your words are so out of context.’ The curls danced in the sunshine.
Stop it, girl. Anthony drew his hand away.
‘I’m serious, Anthony.’ She grabbed back his hand. ‘No one in my family believes that I want to study. But I plan to stay in Colombo all year and study. I need help.’
‘Help? Tutoring?’
‘Not in my subjects, silly. Help as in encouragement.’ She was quiet for a few moments. He could almost hear the cogs in her brain click.
Her eyes widened. ‘I’ve got it. You can do that for me.’
‘And how do you see that happening?’ She played with his fingers, sending streams of fire streaking up his arm and into his chest. He clenched his teeth, willing his fingers to stay limp as she played with them.
‘Anthony, don’t look so terrified! I’m asking you to write me an occasional letter.’ She chuckled again. ‘Not drive down to Colombo or study zoology and botany or do whatever other scary thought crossed your mind just now!’
An occasional letter – that was safe. She wouldn’t be back here till next December. That gave him plenty of time to get his head and heart under control. ‘I guess that wouldn’t do any harm.’
‘No harm at all, just lots of help.’ Shiro uncurled herself and got on her knees. She slapped her hand to her forehead and leaned back. It was theatrical to a point of exaggerated absurdity. ‘Oh, I forget. We aren’t allowed to get letters from boys.’ The dangerous twinkle was back. ‘No matter. We’ll pretend you’re a girl. You can be Juliet … Mary. No, Ann. That’s it. You’re my friend Ann, daughter of the superintendent.’
‘Shiro.’
She leapt to her feet. ‘Mummy will be looking for me. I’ve got packing to do. I’ll write soon. Ann, care of Anthony Ashley-Cooper. Has a nice sound. Bye.’
She jumped up and scampered up the path to the house. Stopping halfway, she turned and blew him a kiss.
Anthony stood open-mouthed as she disappeared up the path.
Chapter 20
May 1967 Diyatalāwa
Lakshmi leant over the sink in the kitchen of Hemachandra Mudalali’s house, rinsing the used lunch plates and stacking them on the draining board. After sweeping the kitchen floor and wiping the tabletops, she served the leftover rice and curry into a tin plate and sat on a small stool in a corner of the room.
It was now four months since she started work as a servant at the Hemachandra Mudalali residence. She had come to Hemachandra Mudalali’s directly here from the Salvation Army home for unmarried girls, a week after she had given birth to Daniel. Reaching into her jacket she pulled out the black and white picture of her son that the matron of the Salvation Army home had given her. Tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘Aiyoo, my child, my child.’
Hemachandra Mudalali’s wife Hamine stood at the kitchen door. ‘What are you crying about? Are you sick?’ She glanced at the picture in Lakshmi’s hands and shook her head. ‘The child will be well looked after. It is a good thing that Tea-maker Aiya had connections with the Salvation Army.’
Lakshmi leapt to her feet. The tin plate on her lap slipped off, sending the rice and pieces of fish sliding across the cement floor of the kitchen. ‘Why are you talking of Tea-maker Aiya and Periamma as if they did some good thing?’ tears tore out of her. ‘They wanted to get rid of me. They used me as a servant and then when I was in trouble threw me away. They dropped me off five months pregnant like a bag of dirt at the Salvation Army hostel. I begged them to let me stay in the estate. I said I would work for them without any pay. But no, they wanted me out of their life.’
Hamine shook her head. Her hand was firm on Lakshmi’s shoulder. ‘They are good people, Lakshmi. We have known them a long time. We gave you this job because Mrs Rasiah asked us to. You could not stay on the estate after what happened.’
Lakshmi slid the photograph back into her blouse. ‘No! They just wanted an excuse to get rid of me. They didn’t want their daughter to be friends with me. I know. I heard them. They even sent her to Colombo to study to separate us. And after I got pregnant, they refused to tell her what had happened to me, even where I was.’
Hamine shook her head. ‘Lakshmi, listen to me. Shiro is a bright young girl. Mudalali and I have seen her grow up. She needed to study in Colombo. It was not about you.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that they didn’t tell her where you were?’
Lakshmi looked at the floor, scuffing the coir mat with her bare toes. ‘Shiro Chinnamma sends letters to Appu and he brings them to me. I give him letters to post to her. He made me promise that I will not tell her where I am.’ Frightened, she stared at Hamine. ‘Please don’t tell Tea-maker Aiya or Periamma. I don’t want to get Shiro Chinnamma into trouble.’
‘I guess a letter once in a while doesn’t matter. But you must never tell her that you are here. If she comes here, we must tell Tea-maker Aiya.’
To never see Shiro Chinnamma again would break her heart, but what options were there? ‘I will never tell her.’
‘Lakshmi, I know you are sad about your son, but w
e like having you here.’ Hamine smiled. ‘In fact, you being able to read and write English is like having a secretary at home for Mudalali. And you read the English papers and tell the news to us also. Before you came, the Sunday paper would lie unopened all week on the table in the sitting room.’ She stopped and chortled. ‘Mudalali wanted to impress people that came to visit. I felt bad to tell him that an unopened English newspaper folded and creased as it had been in the shop with the original rubber band around it is hardly evidence of our interest in world news.’ She reached out and touched Lakshmi’s hand.
‘Lakshmi, you were the one who refused to see Mrs Rasiah when she came. She was very upset. Who do you think sends you the money and clothes through Appu every month?’
Hamine walked to the door, then turned and looked at Lakshmi. ‘Well, tomorrow is Sunday. You will feel better when you have visited your son. Go and visit, but don’t get too attached to the child. You know he’ll be adopted out soon.’
Lakshmi stood at the kitchen sink. Hemachandra Mudalali and his wife Hamine, were kind to her. They had no children and the work wasn’t hard. Lakshmi’s lips twisted in a grimace. She earned more here than a tea plucker and only did as much cooking and cleaning as in the line room for her family, probably even less, in much more comfort. She looked at the wood burning fireplace and the sink with the tap and compared it with the years she had spent cooking in the back veranda of the line room and standing in line for a pot of clean water from the common tap. No, her life was better here.
Yet, there was a time when she had hoped for better things. A home of her own, a husband who loved her. But it was an unreasonable dream for now.
Periamma, Lakshmi clasped the edge of the sink as the face once so beloved swam into her consciousness. Just a few old clothes and rupees sent through Appu. It was the way of the plantations, after all. The coolies used as unpaid servants, abused, raped and then thrown into the drain. Her parents had been right – once a coolie, always a coolie. She was on her own. She thought of Shiro Chinnamma’s monthly letters. Shiro Chinnamma was still a dreamer, getting ready for her university entrance examination but still the same girl that she was when they had sat together by the stream. Shiro Chinnamma begged Lakshmi to tell her where she was. But telling her would bring her there and that would make Hemachandra Mudalali and Hamine angry. No, that wasn’t worth the risk. Not yet.
The little room next to the kitchen was her room. In it was a little bed and a trunk with all her belongings. Lakshmi sat on the bed and unlocked the trunk. Pulling out Shiro’s last letter she started reading:
‘You remember Watakälé superintendent Aiya? We are friends now! Can you believe it? A white superintendent and a brown native girl! We meet in our place. No one knows, well, no one but you. And there’s more. I write to him monthly too, except I have to address it to ‘Ann Ashley-Cooper’. I ask him to do things like kiss the eagle! Ha, ha. I think I’m a little in love with him. But of course, that is crazy! Sri Lankans and white people can’t be together, ever!’
Shiro Chinnamma’s letters were all like this, full of bits of news and exclamation marks. Lakshmi skimmed down to the end of the letter. Tears filled her eyes as she read:
‘When I get married, I will adopt Daniel. Then you can live with me and we can both be mothers to him.’
There was no doubt that Shiro meant it. But Lakshmi couldn’t wait so long. Daniel may be adopted out any day. The lady who organised the adoptions had said that she had never seen such a fair Eurasian baby. She had also commented on his blue eyes.
Hemachandra Mudalali paid her monthly salary direct into a savings account in the post office, but that was not enough. It would cost a lot to get a small house and get her son Daniel back from the orphanage. And it had to be done quickly, before someone adopted him.
Appu, when he visited her last month, had given her an address of a woman here in Diyatalāwa. He had said that this woman, Malar, may be able to help her. He didn’t tell her how or why. Tomorrow was Sunday, her day off. She would go see this woman, then visit her son in Nuwara-Eliya.
‘Lakshmi, it looks like rain,’ Hamine yelled from the upstairs bedroom window. ‘Take the clothes in.’
‘Yes, Hamine,’ Lakshmi picked up the laundry basket and ran out to the backyard. Heavy drops of cold rain fell on her face and neck. Lakshmi shivered.
***
It was seven in the morning and Hemachandra Mudalali and Hamine were still asleep. The morning breakfast of kiribath and seenisambol was ready and on the dining table. Hamine would take care of lunch. Lakshmi shut and locked the back door of the house. She drew her multi-coloured woollen jumper tight around her. The ever-present morning mist of the tea plantations surrounded her with fingers of damp and cold. Thin rays of sunlight struggled through. She raised her face to their caress.
Leaving the garden, she secured the wooden cross bar across the garden gate. Last week the milk delivery man had left the gate ajar and two of the egg laying hens had wandered out into the street. Hamine had insisted that Lakshmi and Hemachandra Mudalali walk the streets looking for them. They were never found. The hens probably ended up as chicken curry by that evening.
Lakshmi pulled the crushed piece of paper out of the pocket of her blouse and looked at the address. Number 32, Gemunu Street. That was a small road off the main highway, towards the army training camp. She walked quickly. That area of town would be crowded today. Sunday morning was pola time, the market day, when all the locals brought their vegetables and fruit for sale and the traders had pavement displays of clothes, jewellery and all sorts of incense and other treasures. The population of Diyatalāwa increased about tenfold on pola days, transforming the sleepy country town into a busy market town that could rival Nuwara-Eliya.
Lakshmi pushed past women carrying baskets of vegetables and bull carts laden with coconuts, thambili and multi-coloured boxes woven from the coconut palm leaf. She stopped at a display of baby clothes. No, she shouldn’t waste her money. Apparently people donated clothes and money to the Nuwara-Eliya orphanage. The children there, including her son Daniel, were always well dressed and clean.
The shouts of vendors describing their wares and the loud chatter of people bargaining with them for the best price rose in volume as she pushed through the crowd. The smell of ripe Jak fruit tickled her nose. Hamine loved ripe Jak. She must remember to buy some on her way back.
A group of uniformed soldiers approached her. Her movement to the edge of the road into the drain was automatic. Cursing, she stepped back. These were soldiers from the army encampment in Diyatalāwa, not British Periadorai or estate employees. There was no need to behave like a plantation coolie. The men laughed. One pointed at her and said something that sounded like ‘vesi’. The laughter grew louder. Lakshmi scurried down Gemunu Street. Surely she must have heard wrong? Why would they think she was a vesi, a prostitute?
Number 32 was painted in small letters on a fence made of six foot high roofing sheets. It clashed with the other houses in the street, which had front fences of rows of canna plants and jasmine bushes. There was a wide gate also of the same material. Lakshmi walked up to it, half expecting it to be padlocked. The gate was shut but not padlocked. It swung open with a loud squeak. Shutting the gate behind her, Lakshmi hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. What was she doing here? And who was this Malar? How could she help her make money? Well, no use standing here.
Number 32 was an old fashioned brick single story house set in a garden with rose bushes, daisies and other colourful flowers Lakshmi didn’t recognise. A wide gravel path led to the front veranda. Two cane chairs and a small table stood there. Lakshmi took a deep breath and walked up the path to the front of the house.
The front door swung open. A middle aged man in the brown uniform of the Sri Lankan army stepped out from the front door of the house. He held his army cap under his arm and was buttoning his coat. He was followed by a woman dressed in
a pale green cotton sari. Lakshmi stepped behind a tree. The woman looked about the age of Periamma, maybe a little younger. Her black hair was slicked back in a bun and her lips a red slash in her dark face. Lakshmi watched while she fluttered the eyelashes of her kohled eyes at the man, who shook hands with her and handed her an envelope. The woman smiled and slipped it into her sari blouse. The man turned and strode down the path and out of the gate.
The woman had half turned towards the front door when she saw Lakshmi. She bent towards her. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ she snapped in Tamil.
Lakshmi recognised the rough, guttural accent. This was an Indian Tamil woman like herself. What should she say? But Appu had sent her, and he was a good man. At least she should talk with this woman.
‘What do you want?’ the woman repeated.
Lakshmi stepped out from behind the canna plants and took a couple of steps toward the woman. ‘Are you Malar – Amma?’ she stammered. ‘Appu Aiya from Watakälé sent me to see you, Amma.’
‘Hm, Watakälé Periadorai Appu sent you, heh?’ The woman gestured to Lakshmi to come closer. Lakshmi climbed the two steps to the polished cement of the veranda, slipped her sandals off and stood barefooted. The woman looked Lakshmi up and down like examining a cow or goat on sale at the market. ‘Yes, I am Malar. Come in and tell me what you want.’
Lakshmi followed Malar through the front door and into the sitting room, then stopped dumbfounded, gaping at the rich furnishings. A red velvet covered sofa and two matching chairs, all with thick, carved wooden arms, stood around a brown and red carpet. The two windows had what looked like thick red velvet curtains tied back with black cord. Along the walls were three and four shelved glass fronted cabinets with plates, bowls, dishes and statues in glass and white porcelain. Hamine had a few of these types of things. That was how Lakshmi knew what they were. Hamine cleaned and dusted them all herself, telling Lakshmi repeatedly how expensive and precious they were because they were all imported from England. She used words like Royal Doulton and Wedgewood, which were apparently written on the bottom of the pieces. To Lakshmi they had looked no different to the regular plates and dishes they used in the kitchen.
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