She smiled in the darkness. “You’re not being fair. You ask me anything now and I’ll agree. Ask me when you know for sure that you have to leave.”
“And what will you say then?” he persisted.
She became serious once more. “I don’t know, John. I honestly don’t know. It’s not as easy as saying yes, you know. There’s so much else involved. I don’t know if I could leave. This might not be much, but it’s my home. If I came to yours, it would be the same thing as you being here. I wouldn’t belong. And perhaps one day, I’ll have to leave.”
What could he say? He wanted to shout and say no, it wouldn’t be like that at all, to stamp his foot and insist that she change her mind, to use all the emotional blackmail he could—Chandi’s education, Chandi’s future. But he didn’t. He stared bleakly into the darkness, waiting for the ax to fall on his happiness.
IT WAS OBVIOUS to everyone that John and Premawathi had regained their lost paradise. At least for the time being. Chandi felt an easing in his heart and for a while, it seemed as if the house were sighing with contentment.
Perhaps it was infectious, this happiness, or perhaps it was simply a time when decisions became easier to make, for Ayah announced that she was leaving to make a new life with the firewood man, whose name, they discovered, was Pala. He was going south to start a small poultry farm with his savings, and Ayah was going with him. No one knew if they planned to get married or not, but it didn’t matter.
She left in June with her bag of belongings, fifty rupees from John and tears in her eyes, for she had spent thirteen years of her life at Glencairn and even though she was going to a new life and a new love, it was still a wrench. She clung to Rose-Lizzie for long moments, and whispered endearments in her ear, the same endearments she had whispered to her since she had been a baby. Rose-Lizzie blinked back her own tears and tried desperately to come up with a flippant comment, but for once was at a loss for words.
Chandi watched silently as she surreptitiously wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and then looked around to see if anyone had seen her.
In the days that followed, he tried to maneuver casual meetings in the garden and after lessons. He didn’t want her to think he was feeling sorry for her, because that would have wounded her far more than all the departures life had in store for her. But perhaps she sensed it anyway, because she took care to avoid him.
Chandi unreasonably felt dejected at her rebuffs, conveniently forgetting that he had been guilty of meting out the same treatment just months ago. Now he was the one to slouch around getting in everyone’s way, irritating people and initiating arguments during their study time.
On Saturdays and Sundays there were no lessons, and Anne, Rose-Lizzie and Chandi were usually left to their own devices.
Anne was always busy, and spent her weekends planning the week’s menus and going through the linen closet looking for things that needed mending. At almost twenty, she showed no signs of wanting a life other than the one she currently had, but then again, there were no real options available to her except to return to England, which she refused to do.
She wanted to start a school for the children on the plantation, or at least teach at the church school, but John had advised her to wait awhile. Besides, she always had a lot to do. Lessons and Glencairn took up most of her days. Technically, she had learned all that Robin Cartwright could teach her, and both he and John had no doubt that she could pass any university entrance examination with ease if she wanted to.
She just didn’t seem to want to.
She seldom went out and when she did, it was usually to the factory to speak with the workers and listen to their problems, or sometimes down to the oya with Rose-Lizzie.
One particularly hot Saturday, they sat in the shade of the old flamboyant, which cast its shadow, and occasionally its flowers, on the water. In spite of their thin cotton dresses, they were hot from their walk down here. They lay in the grass and fanned away the heat with their straw hats, laughing with delight at the small butterflies that appeared in droves at this time of year and hovered above the flowers like yellow clouds. Unlike butterflies in the city, which flew away at the sight of people, these actually ventured closer to see if these strange ugly flowers contained some secret cache of nectar.
Little had changed here in the last decade. There were no people to foul up the water and no new factories to empty their effluents into its clean, clear depths. Very few people ventured here, and the few who did only dipped their hands into the water to wash hot faces or to slake their thirst. The grass remained cropped to a comfortable height thanks to old Jamis’s cow, which was brought up here to graze during the hot months, while old Jamis napped beneath the same flamboyant tree that Anne and Rose-Lizzie reclined under now.
During these months, little weeds sprang up in the grass, and in the mornings, their tiny yellow star-shaped flowers bloomed prettily. Long ago, Chandi had looked at them and wished he could get his mother a reddha that looked exactly like that. But even back then, he had known that even the most skillful fabric designer could never quite capture the same effect.
Flowers that bloomed only in the mornings, sunsets that lasted minutes, these sights would forever remain nature’s exclusive property, and remain as fleeting as nature wanted them to be.
A swarm of butterflies suddenly rose from the grass and the two girls sat up to see what had disturbed them. Chandi was walking toward them, but he hadn’t seen them yet because he was deep in thought.
“Chandi!” called Anne, before Rose-Lizzie could stop her. “Over here!”
Chandi halted and surveyed them, as if wondering whether to approach or turn back. Rose-Lizzie lay down once more and covered her face with her arm.
Anne patted the grass next to her invitingly. “Come and sit down. You look hot,” she said.
Now he had to come. He was vaguely annoyed, for he had wanted to be by himself, but apparently it was not to be. He walked over reluctantly and sat down.
“Hello,” he said politely.
Anne flapped her hand in return. Rose-Lizzie pretended to be asleep.
Chandi let his body sink back into the grass, loving the smell of it and the feel of it tickling his body through his shirt.
“Where were you off to, in such deep thought?” Anne asked.
“Nowhere,” he replied briefly.
“You must have been going somewhere,” she commented.
“No. I was just walking,” he said.
“Do you know if lunch is ready yet?” Anne said.
“No. Ammi was still cooking when I left,” he said. Actually that was the reason he had left. His exasperated mother had asked him to.
Rose-Lizzie sat up and slid closer to the water. She cupped her hands, collected water in them and drank, then splashed some on her face and neck.
Chandi did the same.
Between them, Anne lay there with her eyes closed. “What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.
They both stopped, seized by the same thought. They looked at each other and read the same idea in each other’s eyes. They quietly gathered handfuls of the icy water, turned to Anne and splashed it on her face at the same time.
She squealed and sat up. “Oh, you monsters!” she said, laughing and brushing the water from her face and neck where it had trickled down.
They burst out laughing and within seconds had waded into the oya, clothes and all, and begun splashing her in earnest now. She jumped to her feet and ran up the path to the house. “I’ll get you both for this!” she called out, still laughing.
As Anne disappeared up the path, they suddenly became aware of each other and the laughter stopped abruptly. They eyed each other warily.
Suddenly, Chandi longed to be friends with her once more, to get back to the laughter and games that only they played. He solemnly held his hand out to her. “Friends?” She hesitated for a moment and laid her hand in his. “Friends,” she said, and screamed as he pulled her forward into the water.
They collapsed together, laughing helplessly, splashing each other and diving down to pull at each other’s feet. Finally exhausted, they crawled back onto the bank and lay down in the grass, still firmly holding hands.
“Chandi?” Rose-Lizzie murmured.
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad we’re friends again.”
“Me too.”
But the female in her couldn’t be content with that. “Why did you suddenly not want to be friends with me?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not that I didn’t want to be friends with you . . . I just had so much to think about . . . it’s hard to explain.”
“Did you have a row with your mother?” she persisted.
“Yes, but that was only a part of it.” He didn’t want to talk about this now. It was still too confusing and a lot of it was far from resolved.
She closed her eyes once more, sensing his reluctance. For a few minutes they lay there listening to the buzzing of the insects in the grass and the gurgling of the water. Occasionally a koha flew overhead, its peculiar strident call echoing through the hills.
“Do you feel you’re too old to play with me now?” she asked suddenly, propping herself up on one elbow to see his reaction.
“Not really,” he said doubtfully, wondering where this line of questioning was coming from, and where it was leading to. He knew how volatile Rose-Lizzie could be and was worried that he would shatter this fragile peace before it had begun.
“I mean you’re seventeen and I’m only thirteen,” she continued doggedly. “Do you think that you should be with older people now?”
“Like who?” he said ungrammatically. “There’s no one else, anyway.”
“Well there’s Anne. And Sunil,” she said, still looking closely at him.
“Anne?” he said incredulously. “Anne’s not my friend.” Then he realized what he had said. “What I mean is, Anne’s nice, but she’s not—” he broke off, searching for the word. Not finding it, he moved on. “And Sunil is my friend, but not like—like you,” he ended.
Satisfied, she lay back once more, a small smile playing on her lips. Now it was his turn to look closely at her.
“What are you grinning about?” he demanded.
She closed her eyes. “I’m not grinning,” she stated, the smile widening ever so slightly.
“Yes you are. I can see you.”
She didn’t answer, only turned on her side, heaved a great sigh of satisfaction and promptly fell asleep.
He stared at her back for a few minutes and shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. Then, he too allowed himself to be lulled into sleep by the warm sunshine, the cool breeze and the buzzing of the hungry bees, foraging through the flowers for some forgotten sip of nectar.
EVERY NIGHT HIS mother made her way down the corridor and every night he watched her, wondering why he didn’t feel angry or betrayed.
Sometimes he wondered where his father was and what he was doing, but Disneris had always been such a distant figure, even when he lived with them, that Chandi could feel no more than fleeting regret that things had happened the way they had. He wondered if things might have been different if his mother had never come to Glencairn to work. They would have lived in Deniyaya and he would have been happy because that would have been all he knew. Rangi would have never died, Leela would never have met Jinadasa, his mother would never have met the Sudu Mahattaya and he himself would never have met Rose-Lizzie.
They would have all lived happily ever after.
Or sadly ever after.
Separately.
Perhaps it would have been better.
When he went with Premawathi to the pola or down to the small shop near the workers’ compound, he searched faces for knowing looks or whispered comments, but there were none. None that he knew of, anyway. Everyone liked Premawathi in spite of her sharp tongue, for she could always be relied on for ice in case of emergencies, or a piece of chicken or beef when one of their children was ill. Besides, many of them had been there when she had buried her daughter. No mother should have to go through burying her own child, they said compassionately. Then Disneris left and although they didn’t know why, they sympathized with her. A daughter and a husband in such a short time, they said sadly.
None of them knew of her nocturnal relationship with John, for she was very discreet. During the daytime, when Sunil was in the house, John was at the factory. People didn’t think he was the type to dally with his female employees or that Premawathi was the type to further her interests through a dalliance with her employer. Still, Chandi worried for her, for he knew that people could turn in a day. Or in a few hours for that matter.
So it came as a shock when one day, Sunil casually brought the subject up.
They were going down to the workers’ compound together, Sunil having finished work and Chandi to run an errand for Premawathi. They walked close together because they had only one torch between them.
“Your mother gave me some vegetables,” Sunil said.
Chandi didn’t reply. His mother often gave Sunil vegetables.
“She said to give them to my mother to make some soup. She’s been ill lately.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Chandi inquired politely, although he didn’t really want to know. In his opinion, Sunil’s mother would have been far healthier if she ate a little less. She didn’t need any more fattening up.
“Arthritis,” Sunil said. “From the damp. The Veda Mahattaya said it seeps into people’s bones and gives them aches, especially when they get older. He gave her some special tea but she hasn’t got any better.”
Chandi wondered how long it must have taken for arthritis to seep into Sunil’s mother’s bones, what with the fat and all. “What did she go to the Veda Mahattaya for? Everyone knows he’s a quack. He probably gave her some ordinary tea from the factory.”
“We can’t afford to go to the fancy doctor in Nuwara Eliya,” Sunil said defensively. “Anyway, you know what a fuss they make when I try to take her on the bus. Wanting money for two tickets, making all those comments. The last time, she cried all the way there and back. We don’t have cars, you know.”
Chandi felt mounting irritation. “Neither do we,” he said briefly, now wishing he hadn’t allowed himself to be drawn into this conversation.
“The Sudu Mahattaya would take you if you wanted to,” Sunil said.
“Well, we don’t ask him,” Chandi replied shortly.
“Even if your mother was ill?”
“She hardly ever gets ill,” Chandi said dismissively.
“But if she did, you wouldn’t have to ask him. He’d take her anyway.”
Chandi stopped and shone the torch full onto Sunil’s face. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
Sunil started to look a little shifty. “You know,” he muttered.
“I don’t,” said Chandi, not moving.
“I haven’t told anyone anything,” Sunil said hastily, trying to step around Chandi, but Chandi moved too so he was still blocking Sunil’s path.
“What is there to tell?” Chandi asked in a dangerous voice.
Sunil looked miserable now. “Nothing. Nothing, Chandi,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that. I was just talking, you know,” he ended pleadingly.
Chandi slowly unclenched his fists, turned on his heel and strode off, ignoring Sunil’s shouts behind him. When Sunil finally caught up with him, he only said one word, “Go,” and he said it with such ferocity that Sunil went, glancing behind to see if Chandi was following him.
After Sunil had disappeared into the darkness, Chandi’s steps slowed. His chest felt tight, as it always did when he was very angry or very afraid. Although he would have preferred to have been very angry, he was in fact very afraid. He knew Sunil and his big mouth and wondered how long it would be before he tried to impress someone by sharing his juicy little secret.
“The Sudu Mahattaya and Premawathi are—you know,” he would say archly.
Sunil would nod his head. “Yes. I saw.”
The other head would move closer, not daring to breathe. Sunil would make him wait a bit, sweat a bit before he continued.
“I saw him and her and they were . . .”
They were what? Chandi reined in his imagination and forced himself to think logically. Whatever they did, they did at night when the rest of the house was asleep. In fact, the only reason he himself had seen anything was because he had followed his mother that night. Sunil didn’t even stay at the bungalow, so how or what could he have seen? He was probably just guessing, having heard stories about other women working in other white houses. And he, Chandi, had reacted too hastily. Too guiltily. Too stupidly. If his mother’s reputation got dragged in the mud, it would be all his fault. All his stupid fault, he berated himself as he went onward toward the shop, the workers’ compound and goodness only knew what else.
PERHAPS CHANDI’S REACTION had scared Sunil or perhaps some shred of common sense had asserted itself in his head, for he never brought the subject up again. Chandi avoided him mostly, but couldn’t resist shooting him scornful looks whenever his mother gave Sunil any leftovers to take home. Premawathi noticed, but beyond a casual “Is everything okay with you and Sunil?” said nothing else, imagining that they had had one of their many rows, which would be sorted out at the next cricket match, or on the next walk they took together. She was too busy being happy to care. Her attitude exasperated Chandi, who couldn’t understand why people couldn’t just be medium. Not happy. Not unhappy. Just—normal. This happiness was almost as exhausting as the unhappiness had been.
These days, she did her housework with a smile and paused in the middle of it to think of yesterday’s intimacies. She didn’t complain that her back was killing her when she bent down and straightened up dozens of times while hanging out the washing, she didn’t rub tiredly at her legs when she sat down on the step, or press her fingers to her forehead when Chandi became too voluble or noisy.
The Flower Boy Page 33