Empire's Children

by Patricia Weerakoon

  This woman, Malar, had cupboards full of them. Malar walked through a back door and down a red carpeted corridor. Lakshmi followed. There were two closed doors on either side of the corridor and Lakshmi could hear voices and laughter from behind one door.

  The kitchen at the end of the corridor was completely different from the sitting room. It was a simple room. A wooden table with four rattan chairs stood in the middle. On one side was a wood-fired stove, the sink, a cupboard of plates and other bits and pieces. On the other side was a large chest of drawers. Malar pointed to a chair and sat opposite Lakshmi. A book that looked like a factory ledger lay on the table between them. Opening it Malar looked across it at Lakshmi. ‘So you want a job? I can do with more girls like you. Tell me your name. How old are you?’

  ‘My name is Lakshmi, Amma. I am about twenty-three years old,’ Lakshmi stammered.

  ‘You must call me Malar.’ She scribbled something on the book. ‘Have you had any children?’

  ‘I had a baby four months ago Amm – Malar,’ she whispered.

  ‘You have given him away?’

  Why did Malar want all these details? ‘He is in the Salvation Army orphanage in Nuwara-Eliya.’

  ‘Who is the father?’

  Lakshmi couldn’t take it any longer. ‘Am – Malar, please help me. My child, Daniel, I must take him out of the orphanage. Make a home for him. Please, please help me. I will work for you.’ Her voice broke on a sob, ‘I have the Sundays free. I will do anything. Please.’

  Malar stood up and walked around the table. Her hand was gentle on Lakshmi’s head. Lakshmi’s sobs subsided. ‘This Daniel. Your son,’ Malar’s voice was soft. ‘He is the child of a Periadorai? A white man?’

  Lakshmi nodded. Her body trembled with remembered pain and horror. ‘And this man, the father, did you go to him willingly or did he force you?’

  ‘He forced me.’ The memory was still a shaft through her soul.

  ‘You are working somewhere already?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lakshmi whispered, ‘At Hemachandra Mudalali’s place.’

  ‘But you want a lot of money fast, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lakshmi raised her head and looked into Malar’s eyes. A tear formed in the corner of Malar’s eyes and slipped down her cheek. ‘Lakshmi, I too had a child by a British Periadorai. But he didn’t throw me away. He bought this house for me. Got the furniture and all the things you saw. He paid for me to bring up the boy.’

  Lakshmi followed Malar’s eyes to a colour picture on top of the refrigerator. It was of a young man about Lakshmi’s age, maybe a little older. He was dressed in a blue suit and stood in front of a red brick building. Lakshmi could see that he was fair, a little like Daniel.

  ‘That is my son, Jega. He is studying in England. He will come back soon as Dr Jega Jayaseelen. His father in England is paying. He will be a doctor. A specialist, he tells me, whatever that is.’

  A sob rent Lakshmi’s body. ‘You are lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Malar’s lips twisted. ‘Taken from the line rooms at fifteen and kept as a slave by the British Periadorai. Then when he went to England and brought his wife back. I was thrown out by her. She hit me. Called me a prostitute. She was a white pissasu – a devil. I was pregnant with my son.’

  ‘But at least your son’s father looked after you?’

  Malar nodded. ‘So that is why Watakälé Periadorai’s Appu sent you to me. He knows what happened.’

  Lakshmi watched as Malar wiped her face on the end of her sari and sat down at the table, picking up her pen again.

  ‘Lakshmi, do you know what type of work the girls do here in my house?’

  Just then a short, dark and chubby woman dressed in a red blouse and long black skirt came down the corridor into the kitchen. ‘Malar, the army man gave me an extra two hundred rupees.’ She giggled.

  Malar glanced at Lakshmi and then addressed the other woman. ‘You can keep it. And here’s the rest of your payment for today.’ She handed a few folded notes to her. Lakshmi recognised them as hundred rupee notes. The woman counted it and laughed. ‘Nice. I can go shopping at the pola markets.’ She left by the back kitchen door. The laughter hung in the air between Malar and Lakshmi.

  Lakshmi remembered the army men she had passed on the road, their mocking laughter and the word they had used – vesi. The truth dawned on her. This was a whorehouse. It provided women to the army camp. Yes, she wanted money, but to sell her body? To go through that pain and shame over and over again? No. She couldn’t do it. She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Malar, I am sorry. I can’t, I shouldn’t have come.’ Even as she spoke she realised that she had said the last few words in English.

  ‘You speak English?’ Malar gasped.

  Lakshmi nodded, her hands grasping the edge of the table.

  ‘Lakshmi, sit down. You want to make money? I can do that for you. Let me help you.’ Her eyes met Lakshmi’s. ‘You don’t have many choices, girl. You are young and pretty.’ Her eyes roved over Lakshmis body. ‘You look after your hands and your nails.’ She looked at Lakshmi’s mouth. ‘You don’t chew betel and have good teeth.’

  What am I doing? Lakshmi pulled the chair back and sat down. The world slowed down around her. She was about to agree to be a prostitute. What would Periamma say if she knew? Why think of her? She didn’t care about her. Anger boiled up in her heart and spilled over.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Malar nodded. She bent and wrote in the ledger then turned the book around to Lakshmi. ‘Sign here. I will set up appointments for you on Sunday, your day off. It is the busiest day of the week. On a good day, you can get through five or even six appointments. I will pay you two hundred rupees for one session. Like you saw, whatever else you make is yours. The men who come to you will pay you well if you are good.’

  Lakshmi picked up the pen and signed her name in English. Lakshmi Ramen. It was an act of defiance and a renunciation of all that the Rasiahs stood for. To use the manners Periamma had taught her and the English she had learnt to earn money as a vesi.

  Malar smiled. ‘That’s better. Now I will give you a medicine you have to take. This will keep you from getting pregnant. If something still happens, we will see to it.’

  There was a sharp knock on the front door. Malar glanced at the clock on the wall over the drawers. ‘Goodness, it’s ten o’clock. Sumi was supposed to be here.’ She bit her lip. ‘Lakshmi, when did you have your periods?’

  ‘I just finished. Why?’

  ‘Would you like to start work today? This is an important client and the girl he asked for hasn’t come. I think he will like you.’

  Lakshmi glanced down at her white cotton blouse and threadbare skirt. ‘I am not ready …’

  Malar interrupted her with a hoarse chuckle. ‘Don’t worry, girl. Clothes are the last thing on their minds when they come here.’ Grasping Lakshmi by her hand, she dragged her to the nearest bedroom door, opened the door and pushed her in. ‘There’s a nightdress on the bed. Take all your clothes off and put it on. Pull your hair down. And from today, when you are working, you will be called Devi.’

  Lakshmi stood by the bed. She picked up the lace nightdress. It felt like she was out of her body, watching herself take her clothes off and put on the lace attire, changing from Lakshmi with the dream of a better life into Devi the prostitute. She pulled her hair free of the tight knot and let it cascade down her back. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

  Daniel, my child, this is for you.

  She heard a male voice, speaking in accented British English. ‘A new girl, you say? Better than Sumi? Well, I’ll expect a bang for my bucks. Let’s see what she has to offer.’

  The door opened and Lakshmi stared into the white skinned face. The expression of arrogant lust in his eyes made her shudder. Bile rose in her throat. Her breathe caught in her chest.

 
His hands reached for her. Lakshmi muffled a scream as his lips came down on hers.

  Chapter 21

  December 1967 Colombo

  ‘Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind, Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine, Quiet thoughts come floating down, And settle softly to the ground, Like golden autumn leaves around my feet.’

  Shiro hummed her song, the one Lakshmi had sung with her when they were children. Lakshmi my dear, dear friend. You sounded so sad in your letter. I wish I knew where you are. I feel you thinking of me.

  Images of Lakshmi from two years ago were imprinted in her memory. Lakshmi dressed in her simple, long skirt and white blouse hugging goodbye at the station. Lakshmi waving as the train drew away. Now it was all gone. And no one would tell her where to find Lakshmi. Her letters spoke of her baby. But Shiro, who knew Lakshmi well, sensed the hopelessness, and under it, anger.

  There were new friends in Colombo. There was Lalitha and others. But there was no one who could enter that special corner of her heart where Lakshmi lived. Not even Anthony.

  ‘I’m so proud of you.’ Her uncle George looked at Shiro sideways as he wound his Ford Consul through the cars and other sundry vehicles crowding the entrance to Fort Railway Station. ‘When you next come to Colombo, you’ll be starting medical school.’

  Shiro leaned over and kissed her uncle on his cheek as he pulled into the parking lot. ‘You spoil me, uncle. The way you were running around telling everyone. Honestly, I thought you were going to put posters in the streets.’ She waved her hands above her head. ‘My niece is going to be a doctor!’

  They got out of the car. Uncle George opened the boot of the car. ‘Bag, sir?’ A sarong-clad, bare-chested porter, smelling of sweat, appeared as if from nowhere and placed her trunk on a trolley. ‘Badulla train, no, sir?’ together they negotiated the motley group of people bustling and shoving their way onto the station platform.

  Shiro hopped on board the carriage and found a seat. She pulled the window up and leaned out. Uncle George stood on the platform just below. ‘Have a good trip,’ he called out. ‘Send me your booklist for medical faculty and I’ll buy them all for you.’

  ‘Oh Uncle, you’ve bought me all those lovely clothes already. I’ll ask Daddy to call you when I get home.’

  The diesel locomotive’s horn echoed through Fort station. The Udarata Menike pulled away from the platform among the usual shouted goodbyes in English, Tamil and Sinhalese. Leaning out, Shiro waved to her uncle until the train drew away and around a bend.

  With a contented sigh, Shiro flopped into the linen-covered, leather first class seat Uncle George had booked for her. She opened her bag and pulled out the university entrance examination certificate. Three distinctions and a credit had guaranteed entry to the Colombo Medical Faculty. School teachers and fellow students had been amazed. Bratty little Shiro, drama queen and dreamer, top of the class and one of the best results in all the Colombo schools. Now, one of only two from her school accepted to the Colombo medical school. The other, her best buddy and study partner, Lalitha.

  How Shiro longed to share these experiences with Lakshmi, the one person who would understand her dreams. No. Not the only person. There was now Anthony – or Ann. The letters had kept her focussed on her study, kept her mind away from what she knew her family were planning for her.

  In the last letter under the nom de plume of Ann, he had promised to be at their place. She needed advice on how to deal with her parents. Anthony would help.

  She pulled out her mother’s last letter to her.

  ‘Darling Shiro,’ her mother had written.

  ‘Daddy and I are so proud of your achievements. Victor explained to Daddy that the grades you have achieved are hard to reach. We are honestly happy for you.’

  Then followed the rider:

  ‘However, we would like you to consider if this is what you want to do. Five years in medical school and then two years internship is a long hard road for a girl like you.’

  A girl like her indeed! The train rocked and rattled through the dusty, dirty Colombo suburbs. Shiro sat back and imagined the conversation that would have preceded the letter.

  Victor would have said something like, ‘She loves her study and she’s smart. We shouldn’t stand in her way.’

  Daddy would have responded with, ‘True, but can she stand the pressures of university life on her own in Colombo?’

  Mother would have pounced on that. ‘Why does she need to go to university? She’s already well educated. There are such nice boys available. That Chelliah boy has just finished university. I hear he’s looking for a bride.’

  Sure, Mum, Shiro thought. Marry a nice Tamil boy and settle down. That’s what well brought up Tamil girls do, isn’t it? The boys studied and went to university, the girls went to a good school and married a suitable boy. If the girls were lucky, their parents sent them to finishing school to learn the finer points of cooking, entertaining and flower arrangement. Medical school? For a girl? Heavens, that’s not part of the Jaffna Tamil script.

  No. I have a place in university and no one, not even you, my beloved mother, is going to stand in my way. I will go to medical school and be a doctor. Marriage, arranged or otherwise, can wait.

  The familiar scenery sped past. The deep, rushing, muddy waters of the mighty Mahaweli River was filled with cattle and even a couple of elephants having their daily bath. The bright green, terraced rice fields stretched into the distance beyond the river, the endless undulating sea of paddy stalks interrupted by collections of shanty dwellings. Little children in colourful cotton dresses and shirts stood on the verandas of the little homes by the railroad track, calling out and waving to the passengers on the train.

  Shiro reached out and threw a handful of wrapped lollies to one group of children. She looked back as they swooped on them.

  Shiro’s heart throbbed to the beat of the diesel locomotive as the Uderata Maniké wound its way through the Nawalapitiya Ranges. She could see the shiny silver-blue shape of the locomotive as the rail track weaved around the mountains.

  The sound of the locomotive’s diesel engine changed to a deep rumble as the train muscled its ascent into the tea country. Shiro breathed in the clean mountain air. The train entered tea country. The smell of partially processed tea drifted into the carriage, making Shiro’s heart long to be back in Watakälé, back in her special place by the stream.

  Rolling hills in shades of green and lavender reached as far as the eye could see. Gossamer fingers of mist clung to the top of the hills, loath to let go of their hold on the tea bushes, even in the afternoon sun. Standing in stark contrast to the green of the tea bushes were three and four storey silver-white tea factories, each announcing their name in bold, black letters on the roof. Shiro read off the names as the train rumbled past – St Clair, St James and St Coombs. All these saints. The original British owners must have been very superstitious!

  The superintendents’ tudor-style houses or bungalows were perched on the hills. The manicured lawns and neatly trimmed rose bushes were hidden from the eyes of native, coolie and commoner by tall cyprus and eucalyptus trees planted by the British when they first developed the plantations. As a child, she and her brothers had played a game they called ‘spot the bungalow’. Whoever saw one first got a chocolate. Shiro laughed at the memory. She was usually mighty sick of chocolate by the time they got to Watakälé. She knew now it had been their way to keep her entertained on the eight hour steam train ride. At least the onset of diesel had cut the travel time by almost half.

  Shiro pulled out her book, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. She imagined a scene from the book in each of the bungalows as they whooshed by the window.

  She thought of the tea parties the new school principal hosted for the senior girls in the boarding school, teaching the girls how to entertain ‘the British way’. Apparently it was an i
mportant skill for an accomplished young lady. Did British planters in the bungalows actually take their evening tea around lace-covered tables, laden with a silver tea service? With dainty cupcakes and cucumber sandwiches on crystal plates? She would have to ask Anthony about that. If he did, she would like to entertain for him one day. Show the budding British Raj what natives could do.

  The Uva valley signalled to Shiro that the train was approaching Diyatalāwa. The hills, now shadowed in the evening sunshine, stretched out to eternity. When she was a child, Victor had called this God’s playground. She had believed him, as she always did, and looked for angels frolicking on the hills.

  With the loud wheeze of air brakes, the train sidled up to the platform at Diyatalāwa. Shiro hung out the window and looked around. Her brothers were not on the platform. Victor was working that day and Edward was still in Colombo. She waved to Raaken, the man servant from Watakälé, who was there to help her with her trunk. As usual, they would travel home in Hemachandra Mudalali’s tea lorry.

  Raaken boarded the train, grabbed Shiro’s suitcase and hauled it onto the platform. Shiro picked up her handbag and followed.

  The train drew out of the station with a long, drawn-out hoot. Shiro glanced at her watch. There were ten minutes before the lorry was due. Time enough for some discreet snooping.

  ‘Raaken, do you know where Lakshmi –’ A sharp voice cut across the chatter on the platform. Shiro turned to the source, but not before she caught the look of fear on Raaken’s face.

  ‘Where the hell are those coolies? And where is my car? I told that bloody Tea-maker to make sure it was here to meet the train!’ The British-accented voice dripped with conceited authority.

  The tall Englishman towered over the cowering form of Mr Velu, the Diyatalāwa stationmaster. The man was strikingly handsome, with a muscular and athletic body, his hair blonde and thick, curling at his neck. The lean, angular features of his face were relieved by a generously sculptured mouth.