Once Upon a Tender Time

by Carl Muller

  ‘Chee! Wait, I’ll tell Mummy what you’re telling.’

  ‘You tell to see. I’ll take the scissors and cut your hair when you’re sleeping.’

  ‘As if you can.’

  ‘As if I can’t. You wait will you one day.’

  ‘I’m going to tell Mummy.’

  ‘So tell.’

  When they reach the seminary gates, Carloboy whoops away and Diana is dragged six blocks farther to the convent. Beryl’s formula seemed to be working . . . until Carloboy raced across the Galle Road to talk to a classmate, and was run down by a car. He was struck, fell, and the wheels passed on either side of him with a whine of torment. The boy saw them sizzle by and as they whipped past, he reached up, felt his fingers close on metal and hung on.

  He was dragged for forty fiery seconds and the burning of his bruised flesh made him gasp, let go, and lie still.

  The roar of people, traffic pounded on him. A sea of faces seem to wash over him and sounds of fierce argument broke out. He was picked up and struggled to be put down. His shirt was tattered and the flesh of his chest smarted and he had lost a shoe. Somebody picked up his books and Father Cyril rushed up and Mrs Ekanayake, who taught English, danced on the pavement and croaked that a boy had been killed. ‘Cars, cars, cars,’ she grated, ‘only know to knock down children. Catch the driver! Take to the police!’

  When Diana arrived, her brother had already been taken to the Bambalapitiya Police Station where Inspector Leembruggen summoned the police doctor to put salve on the boy’s bruises and press him here, there, and ask, ‘Paining here? Not here? Where does it hurt? Lucky no bones broken.’

  ‘Just running like that,’ the driver of the car said hollowly, ‘What can anybody do? Suddenly in front. Blood went cold when I saw. And how to stop? Not that I was going fast or anything. If going fast and knocked would have got thrown, no? See will you. Only bruised and blue mark on the hip. And catching the back bumper. Just got dragged for nothing.’

  Leembruggen looked severe. ‘Running all over the road. You’re mad or what? If it was a bus? Would have got killed. Now come go home . . . you know where your house is? And tell to take for a check-up. You’re hungry?’

  Carloboy shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you go to do silly thing like this again, did you hear? And catching the back of the car.’

  A sergeant, grinning, said, ‘Mussbe tried to catch and bring here.’

  So, while Diana and the rickshawman each had their own brand of hysterics and were told to go to the police station and the general hospital and also ‘go quickly home and tell your mummy’ and Mrs Ekanayake expressed her conviction that ‘poor child must be dead by now’, Carloboy rode home in a police car and caused, as expected, quite a rumpus.

  Sonnaboy said, ‘Told, no, this will happen. Just putting and sending with nobody to keep an eye.’

  Beryl was annoyed. She dosed Carloboy with Venivalgata,8 fomented his hip, and took him to Doctor Raeffel who looked him over, shone a light in his eyes, hummed and hawed at the bruises and said: ‘Take him home and give him a slap.’

  Beryl glowered at father and son. ‘So you want me to take and go I suppose?’

  The upshot was that Poddi sat Diana on her lap and the three did the school safari, which pleased Poddi no end, and Carloboy was told, ‘You get out of the gate after school to see. Skin you alive, that’s what I’ll do!’

  And life rolled on. Abridged versions of Mill on the Floss . . . ‘No! sundries are not what ladies wear under their dresses . . . ?’ ‘Why didn’t you do your homework? You want me to send a letter to your father?’ ‘No! You cannot leave the class?’ ‘Bring that catapult here!’

  Rowdy games in the seminary garden were frowned on and Father Theodore, who did most of the frowning, was never in the best of moods. He had enjoyed being in the real St Peter’s where the tennis court beckoned. Now, the army marched all over it and it irked him . . . and when he was irked he developed a fierce dislike for small boys. He also disliked Carloboy with growing passion.

  ‘Come here, you little liar!’

  Carloboy would jerk his head nervously and shuffle up.

  ‘What is this famous story of yours, then? You like to tell stories, eh?’

  Carloboy stares vacantly at the dark priest’s face. He has this trick of fixing his eyes at some point past a person’s head, gazing through bone and brain to see something only his mind could create. It unnerves his teachers and annoys Beryl. Mrs Ekanayake felt that she was always expected to squirm. The boy would look at her, then the look would fix and pass through her. Focus disappeared as the big eyes burrowed through her, making her unseen, unacknowledged. There was not a hint of thought or emotion in that look. Just a boy and his eyes, looking into a world no one else could enter.

  At staff meetings, his looks aroused much comment. ‘Lord know what’s going on in his head. Suddenly he goes blank.’

  Father Benedict would harrumph: ‘Boy’s a dreamer. No use for dreamers. Dreamers are bad news. Trouble makers. Take him by the ear. That’s the thing to do.’

  It was Father Theodore’s turn, to growl. ‘Don’t look like that!’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘What’s this story about someone lying on the railway line and an engine going over him?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘What do you mean yes Father? Do you know how dangerous it is to tell lies like this?’

  ‘Father . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My daddy told me, Father.’

  The boy had lapped up the story—and it was absolutely true. Sonnaboy had come home, showered and gone to the General Hospital. It seemed that he also had to pay driver Armstrong twenty-five rupees. So did several other drivers, guards and sundry railway officials.

  Armstrong, who was a wiry little daredevil who roared the rails, making streamers of black smoke and battling railway authority at the drop of a hat, had decided that he could make a packet. He had strutted into the Way and Works Office and said that he could lie between the tracks and an engine—any engine—could be driven over him . . . so there! ‘Like to bet?’ he asked.

  It was opined that Armstrong had to be mad, it being too early in the day to be drunk. The man was neither. He just needed to liven up, as he later muttered in his hospital bed, the generally grimy outlook most railwaymen affect when it is the middle of the month, money is at low ebb and it is another thirteen days to pay day.

  ‘What’s the bet,’ he crowed, ‘I’ll sleep on the track. Send an engine over me.’

  In the railway yard all manner of railway engines were doing all manner of things. They shoved wagons and freight cars around, hauled stock cars to sidings, introduced some to others, and chugged here and there with black intent. Driver van der Wert set the process in motion. ‘Twenty-five rupees,’ he said, ‘twenty-five rupees if you’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ll do it, don’t worry. Fifty bucks.’

  ‘Nothing doing. You’ll die or something and how will I get my money then?’

  ‘All right, all right, twenty-five. Anybody else?’

  Sonnaboy had grinned and bet twenty-five. Guard de Vos entered the lists and others followed. ‘Let’s go to the coal sidings,’ Armstrong invited.

  Armstrong had done his homework. He had found that the lines humped inordinately at a spot where engines were diverted to the coal shed. It was a much travelled track, thick with the grime of the bucket trolleys which were hauled to the tipping point. Armstrong pointed. ‘Here. I’ll lie down here. Engine is sure to come soon.’

  The engine did come, hooting querulously because the driver couldn’t understand why so many people stood around and energetically waved to him to come, men, come! Also, there was someone lying in his path, face down, unmoving. The driver, named Schumacher, was nonplussed. He stopped, and hung on the whistle cord.

  Sonnaboy ran up. ‘It’s all right. You just go.’

  ‘Go?
How to go? Who is that bugger? He’s dead or what?’

  ‘Just lying, men. Never mind him, you go, will you.’

  ‘What? Run over him! How if he dies or something?’ ‘Tchach! Good thing you said. Wait a little, I’ll tell the other fellows and come.’

  Schumacher shrugged. He examined his fingers, shrugged again and began to pluck hairs from his nostrils. Sonnaboy had an issue to raise. ‘How to get our money if the bugger dies?’ he asked. ‘You think the wife will give?’

  Assistant Electrical Engineer Algy Ferreira scratched his head. ‘What nonsense. Might even say we put him and told the engine to go. Women are like that. I know, no? Ado!9 Armstrong!’

  Armstrong raised his head. ‘What, men, send the bloody engine, will you. How long you want me to lie here in the sun?’

  Meanwhile, half the population of the yard had streamed up to gibber and jabber and take side bets while a cheer party stood around the engine and jollied Schumacher.

  ‘You put the money down now,’ Sonnaboy insisted.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If you die, who’s going to pay?’

  ‘Who says I’ll die? Anyway, I haven’t any money now.’

  ‘Ho! You’re going to die like a bloody pauper?’

  ‘Shut up and send the bloody engine!’

  ‘Ado! Schumacher!’

  Schumacher, poised on the footrail had taken note of the humped rails and felt a lot easier. ‘What?’

  ‘Drive, men, drive. Come slowly. If cowcatcher touches him you stop, you heard!’

  So Schumacher sent his engine over Armstrong. The humping track ensured that the cowcatcher passed a comfortable inch over the letter’s head. The rest was easy. And then a nugget of fiery coal fell onto Armstrong’s thigh. The coal smouldered through his khaki boiler suit and bit angrily into his flesh. He kicked out in agony. A wedge of moving metal caught his foot, pushed at it, twisted it as one would screw a wad of crêpe, and the scream seemed to come from every direction. Armstrong passed out, Schumacher passed on, applied vacuum and peered out. Men were picking up Armstrong and a leg dangled grotesquely. Schumacher asked: ‘Is he OK?’

  Sonnaboy said yes. ‘Leg broken. That’s all.’

  Schumacher eased the regulator. Never a dull moment, he thought. He had come for coal. Coal he would collect.

  This was the story which Sonnaboy brought home, and all Beryl did was sniff and say, ‘Twenty-five rupees! You’re also mad. Should have said five rupees, no?’

  Father Theodore was also inclined to sniff. ‘Rubbish, boy! This is all your make-up. You’re a born liar, do you hear?’

  ‘But, Father—’

  ‘No games in the lunch interval. After you eat, you sit in the class. I’ll see that Mr John gives you some work. And don’t let me hear any more lies from you, did you hear!’

  Carloboy gulped. ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Now get along!’

  The boy went; and he was angry and couldn’t understand why one part of the grown-up world did things which, when described by a child, are dismissed as pure piffle by other grown-ups. He was miserable too. It was a new feeling—the hurt of being misunderstood and cruelly labelled.

  Last year, before the army had moved in, his parents had taken him to St Peter’s College hall. Neighbour Vernon Coteling had given Sonnaboy two tickets to a recital which was to be held in the hall. St Peter’s was noted for its many cultural concerts, plays, recitals and soirées. A great many Tamil events were staged there because the college was ideally located between Wellawatte (which had a large Tamil population) and the thriving Tamil community which lived around the Kathiresan Kovil (Hindu temple dedicated to Kathiresan, also known as the deity Murugan) in Bambalapitiya.

  Carloboy had been taken because Sonnaboy had remarked: ‘He’s under ten, no? Under ten children free. Have here written on the ticket.’

  A young Malabari named Madhavan had launched his Bharathakalalayam Ballet10 to open a season of cultural events at St Peter’s.

  Carloboy had sat through the recital entranced. Here was music and colour he had never experienced before. It bewildered him, stormed his senses, and he sneakingly ran a hand on his thin arm to feel the tingle of goose pimples as he watched each graceful gesture, each sharp, darting movement, the vitality that seemed to stream in crimson ribbons from the lithe, vivacious dancer who seemed to hold a heartbeat in every step he took. Carloboy pestered his father with questions and Sonnaboy had no answers. ‘Just sit and look and don’t worry, men,’ Sonnaboy had growled.

  Then a kindly lady with fat cheeks and a double chin who sat beside the boy told him that this was no ordinary dancer, but someone who was quite the best in the world.

  ‘What is this dancing called, Aunty?’ he asked.

  “This is Kathakali, child. You know what that is?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Not like the way we dance, no?’

  ‘Oh no. Definitely not. In the Kathakali every dance tells a story. Stories of gods and heroes and kings and queens.’

  Eyes glued on the stage. ‘I also know . . . about King Alfred and Hercules and all.’

  The lady smiled. ‘This is Indian,’ she said. ‘India had great kings and the most beautiful stories in the world.’

  Beryl, listening, looked across and smiled. She had thought Carloboy would fidget and be a nuisance but he seemed to be quite taken up with the show. Strange little devil, she thought.

  ‘See,’ the lady said. ‘This is a dance about Parvathi. Parvathi is a goddess,’ and later, ‘this is the peacock dance.’

  ‘But where . . . there’s no peacock.’

  ‘He is the peacock. Have you seen a peacock?’

  Carloboy nodded. ‘In the zoo, I saw.’

  ‘Ah, then you think about that peacock. And look at him dancing. Can you imagine a peacock now?’

  Carloboy stared and his gaze went beyond the red velvet backdrop and suddenly there was Madhavan the peacock, full in the glory of an opal-studded plumage and the colours that swirled out of his mind hurt his eyes and he blinked and nodded his head, acknowledging some fertile power that seemed to stream out of his head like a sequinned river.

  And so the enchantment went on and his foot tapped to the beat of the Samhara Thandavam11 and the Kamadhahanam12 wrapped him in the embrace of the god of love and he rose, too, as an ecstatic audience gave the young dancer a standing ovation.

  Madhavan, let it be recorded, was lionized wherever he performed. The Governor of Ceylon, Sir Andrew Caldecott and Lady Caldecott honoured him. Sir Andrew garlanded him and referred to his performance as ‘nothing finer in the world of Indian dance’.

  It would be appropriate to record what the Times of Ceylon and its Sunday edition the Sunday Illustrated said of the great Madhavan:

  The Times of Ceylon—23.9.40: Madhavan, the great Indian dancer, gave conclusive vindication of the encomiums paid to him as the outstanding exponent of the Kathakali . . . It was a bewildered audience that left the hall, bewildered at the mastery of the art displayed by this young Malabari. This was the first wholly Kathakali recital ever seen in Colombo. Madhavan’s remarkable music control, quick, sharp and darting movements, all lend flavour to the minutest action in his performance . . .

  The Times of Ceylon—Sunday Illustrated 22.9.40: Madhavan made the Western world sit up and take notice of the national dance of his country, the Kathakali, which he was the first to take to Europe and America . . . the young Malabar dancer soon became the sweetheart of the ballet world of Europe and America. Madhavan created a revolution in the ballet by carrying out a re-orientation of the Kathakali. He succeeded. The West applauded him. This man was described by art critics as a magnificent human . . .

  Sonnaboy took his son by the hand and steered him through the crowds. They walked home and Sonnaboy wondered why the boy was so quiet. Beryl, eminently practical, said, ‘Now will want to dance like that, I suppose.’

  ‘Like that?’ Sonnaboy could be practical too: ‘Who can dance like that?’
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br />   And on that 21st day of September 1940, he never said a truer word.13

  Seated in class, kicking at the leg of his desk, Carloboy made a furrow of his forehead and thought darkly and fiercely of how he had seen a man dance as a peacock. Or was this, according to the epistle of Father Theodore, another lie? What are lies to a boy who has a whole world to understand? A spirit of rebellion seized him. Mr Johns stalked in, glowering. ‘Do these sums!’ he barked, tossing an open arithmetic text before the boy, ‘and stop kicking that desk! If these are not finished by the time interval is over you’ll get it from me.’

  The twenty L.C.M.s were no big deal but Carloboy was in a bad mood. He glared.

  ‘What are you staring at?’

  ‘Sir, I won’t, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sir, this is my interval, sir.’

  ‘Interval? You’re punished! Do those sums!’

  But the iron seemed to have entered Carloboy’s soul. He just stared. He was rapped on the head and kept staring. Johns twisted his ear. He winced and the tears came. He jerked away, pushed back his chair and fled into the coconut grove. Johns’ roar had no effect whatsoever. All he wanted to do was hide, hide until the rickshaw came. He would scale the wall and get into the rickshaw and go home. He chose a huge knot of ground palm and skulked behind it. And what of his bag of books? How can a seven-year-old have so many problems?

  Sonnaboy was furious. He cycled to the seminary and came back with a tropical storm on his face. ‘Going to tell everyone what’s said in the house in the school,’ he fumed, ‘why can’t you just keep your mouth shut and learn? Any more nonsense from you and I’ll keep you at home and make you the servant-boy, did you hear?’

  Carloboy stared dumbly. But later he heard his father tell his mother, ‘I gave that bloody priest tight. Punishing for nothing, no? Said he’s telling lot of lies in the class. Only went to tell what Armstrong did, no?’

  ‘So what for he’s going to repeat all that?’ Beryl demanded. ‘Listening to everything we’re talking, that’s what. Other children go and come and no trouble.’