On Sal Mal Lane

by Ru Freeman

  “I don’t like maths or science or Sinhala or Buddhism. I only like English and social studies,” Devi said, as though this expression of preference were sufficient to release her from the usual rules for those other, less desirable, subjects.

  “You can’t choose like that in grade three. You can pick what you like when you finish your O-levels.”

  Devi looked at her sister and marveled at the way in which she conducted her life, free of tribulations, and never ruffling anybody’s feathers; not their parents’, not the teachers’, not Sister Principal’s, not the neighbors’, not Mrs. Silva’s, or even Sonna’s, who, Devi had noticed, though he did not speak to them, looked at Rashmi with a disturbingly longing expression whenever she walked by. She wondered if it took work or if it came easy to Rashmi, this way in which she flowed through the days, competent and serene.

  Later that day, Nihil commiserated as they sat on the back porch, dipping Marie biscuits into their evening tea, staring at the brown-orange brew and the way it swirled inside their white porcelain teacups. They had to raise their voices a little to be heard above the sound of Kamala’s ekel broom as she swept the pink and yellow flowers and leaves that drifted down from the sal mal trees and settled in the gardens of all the homes down the lane, work that had to be done twice each day.

  “It’s okay. You didn’t really get into trouble anyway,” Nihil said, and Devi felt happier. This was her kind of response, to be grateful for the worse that had been avoided rather than bemoan the bad that had happened.

  “I wanted to tell her that friends help friends, but I don’t think Sister Principal has any friends, so I didn’t,” she said, sure that Nihil would understand this line of reasoning, that had the Sister Principal experienced real friendship, she would have understood the copying.

  “Don’t try to talk to principals. If you do they’ll tell Amma and Tha and then you’ll be in real trouble.”

  They sat and chewed, thinking about Real Trouble: wordy sentences of remorse re written one hundred times, always one hundred times, no playing outside, and, when things were really bad, the sensation of their mother’s school slippers on bare skin. Yes, there was no need to bring that to pass, Devi thought. Maths was not worth that.

  “Can you help me with the stupid subjects?” she asked Nihil, who nodded and continued to drink his tea.

  “Helping” became, like everything else, a joint effort. Suren taught her maths, patiently breaking every sum into its composite parts until she no longer saw them as problems but rather as patterns. Rashmi taught her Sinhala and Buddhism, tying them together with Jathaka tales full of princes and vanquished demons until the language became an expression of faith, and scripture a version of known fairy tales intended to soothe pain rather than dictate life. Nihil sat beside her and listened to her repeat the stories that she made up from the facts passed down to her in social studies, the other foot of the compass she used to outline her world, its better half being the language she chose to describe it. Her parents responded to her advancement into the rank and file of their gifted older children, each according to their own preoccupations.

  “All A’s and B pluses!” her mother exclaimed, holding Devi close on the day the report card came home. “Even a B plus in maths! I’m so proud of you, darling.” She kissed the top of Devi’s head, breathing in the smell of sweat and play.

  “Why no A in Sinhala?” her father asked, ever conscious that mastery of the native tongue was a pre requisite for true nationalism.

  Suren, Rashmi, and Nihil, whose own report cards barely elicited a response—they were expected to be superior—stood by and said nothing; they had already decided exactly how they would indulge their sister as a reward for her achievements.

  Devi’s Report Card

  And here it was: Devi’s day of rebellion had arrived. The report card, which had finally turned from an embarrassment—a feeling that Devi had religiously expressed, but only because she understood that it was expected that she would be ashamed—into a source of pride, made Devi bolder. She had information she wanted to share with the neighbors that she did not feel required the accompanying voices of her siblings or even their presence. She waited until Rashmi was deeply absorbed in the Nancy Drew mystery she was reading, ducked behind the fridge to hide from Kamala as she passed by on an unknown errand, opened and shut the heavy front door, holding the new brass handle in her hand and turning the latch soundlessly into its groove, tip toed through the front veranda, opened the gate, and ran down the road.

  “I got six A’s and three B’s!” she announced to the Bolling girls, who were taken aback by her sudden arrival in their midst, bursting through the half-shut door to their compound without even pausing to knock.

  “Gosh! How did you manage?” Rose said through a mouthful of rice. They were still in their school uniforms, though they had loosened their ties and unfastened some of the buttons. “In my class mostly Tamil girls get such good marks.”

  “We barely got two C’s each and all the rest D’s!” Dolly informed her, following that up with her customary gale of laughter.

  “Sit, darling, sit. Where’s your brother?” Mrs. Bolling buttoned the top of her bright red shirtdress before stepping out to look up the road. She shut the door and came back in. “Never see you without Nihil. Takes good care of you, doesn’t he? Such a nice boy,” she said and smacked Sonna lightly on his head, as though it were a deserved reprimand for a crime he was sure to commit sooner rather than later.

  “Oww, Mama!” Sonna rubbed his head and frowned. “You’re always comparing me to them! But I’m not like them!” he said.

  “I know,” his mother replied, and smacked him again to confirm her agreement as well as her disapproval of this difference between her son and the Herath boys.

  A small argument erupted as Mrs. Bolling and the twins discussed in which ways, exactly, Sonna was different from the Herath boys, and in the ensuing noise, Sonna, who happened to be sitting right next to Devi, looked at her curiously. He had never been this close to one of the Herath girls before. Devi, dressed in a drop-waisted blue-and-white-striped stay-at-home dress and a matching Alice band on her head, looked like a well-loved doll. She had taken her body-wash before going on her adventure, and she smelled fresh, a mix of baby powder and sandalwood soap. Something about that scent stirred Sonna. He felt an overwhelming urge to take her hand and lead her back to her home where she would be safe. Safe from dust and dirt, from cars and buses, from rude boys and crude words, safe from the people in his house. He offered her his glass of water and breathed out.

  “Where’s Nihil?” he asked at last.

  Devi took a sip, then tucked her lips in as if this could excuse her from answering, but he asked the question again. “He’s at home,” she said. “He’s very, very busy today. And Rashmi is busy and Suren is also busy. Even Kamala is busy. That’s why I came alone.”

  “Don’ go walkin’ aroun’ by yourself. It is not safe. Nihil must ’ave told you, no, about the bus an’ everythin’?”

  “Yes, he told me, but I’m not going near the buses. Don’t worry. I just came here to tell everybody about my report card.”

  Sonna glanced around the table at his family. He smiled, filled with pride, though none of them could have known why he was so pleased.

  Devi turned fully to face Sonna and made her announcement again. “I got six A’s and three B’s.”

  “Those are very good marks. Nihil mus’ be very proud of you,” Sonna said, smiling.

  “Yes, he taught me, and Suren and Rashmi too. They all taught me.”

  “Then you wait here, I will go an’ get a strawberry milk for you,” Sonna offered, surprising himself. He had no money and he would have to steal the bottle, but what was that compared to being able to bring a treat for a girl like her? “I’ll go an’ come then I will take you back home, okay? Mustn’ walk by yourself,” he said, and got up from the table, feeling important. He pictured himself, Devi’s hand in his as he walked ov
er to the Heraths’ house and returned her to her family. They might invite him for tea, offer him biscuits on a tray. He whistled a tune as he went, a melody he had heard Suren play and that had caught his imagination though he did not know its name, “The Skye Boat Song.”

  Devi, who would ordinarily have cheered up at the thought of the sweet drink, had just had a glass of fresh lime juice at home, a drink she had cajoled out of Kamala on the merits of her report card, and so she simply watched him leave. It would not do to wait for him to take her home; if he did, everybody would know she had crept out of the house by herself. Real Trouble reared its ugly head. Devi tuned in to the voices left behind.

  “Wonder what the Silvas got,” Dolly said.

  “Not Silvas, you are only wonderin’ what Jith got!” Rose teased her sister.

  Dolly tried and failed to hide her smile. “Must ’ave done well, no?” she said.

  “Gosh, I don’ know about Jith, but Suren must ’ave got good marks for music again this term,” Rose said, her thoughts fleeing from the boy her sister had a crush on to the one who was always on her mind. “When he plays his music it’s so nice, no, Mama?”

  Devi listened to the discussion, which revolved entirely around Suren’s music, his voice, and his long list of desirable traits, a conversation conducted with each person around the long table shouting louder than the next. Nobody here, it seemed, was interested in her grades but for Sonna, and even he had left. She cracked the door just wide enough for her to squeeze out and stood contemplating where she could go next.

  She gazed down the lane and thought about visiting the Silva boys, who had become much more friendly with her and her siblings, but then decided against it; they lived too close to her own home. Next door to the Bollings were the Bin Ahmeds, but they were so quiet and kept to themselves and in any case she only met them during Ramazan and the Sinhalese and Tamil New Year when the families exchanged sweets. She continued to stand, weighing her options. The wide, main road beyond the Bin Ahmeds’ house was uncharacteristically quiet and empty for a few moments before three vehicles went roaring by. She was almost about to turn back when, in the distance, she saw Lucas shuffling toward his hut. She ran to the edge of the road, her heart picking up its beat at the prospect of crossing the busy road that she had never been permitted to even stand beside without each of her hands being held by a sibling, one on either side. She had to try several times before she managed to dart across between a motorcycle, two buses, and a car. To avoid walking along the road, which had even less space that could be described as a pavement on this side, she stepped carefully through the loose barbed-wire fence that bordered the property, holding the wires apart and still managing to scrape herself slightly. She rubbed the scratch with spit.

  “Lucas Seeya!” she called out, catching up with Lucas just before he stepped into the wattle-and-daub veranda of his hut. She couldn’t see Alice, but she could hear her voice and the sound of her washing a pot somewhere behind a grove of plantain trees.

  “Appoi!” Alice said. “Good that the Tamils are being taught a lesson. Should have thrown them out long ago. Think they own this country. Have you noticed, all the good shops are Tamil. Cloth shops. Goods shops. All Tamil.”

  Devi, confused for a moment, wanted to ask Lucas how a shop could be Tamil, a detail that she felt could be introduced to her social studies teacher since it had not thus far been discussed in class. Perhaps her teacher didn’t know this; it would be another opportunity to impress her. But she was prevented from asking the question by the barrage of scolding that spilled out of Lucas’s mouth, which frightened her into simply nodding or shaking her head in affirmation and denial.

  “Devi Baby! What are you doing here? By yourself?” he asked. He stepped carefully down the uneven steps to his house and walked a little way past her to stare up Sal Mal Lane, which was visible from the Ratwatte compound. “Is something wrong?” he asked when he returned. “Then why are you here without Nihil Baby? You are not supposed to cross that road! You know that, right? And anyway, why are you coming to our house? This is not a place for you to be! Okay, okay, don’t look so scared. Here, come, come,” he said, and escorted her up the steps, taking her hand in his. “I’ll give you ginger beer. You sit, and I will go and come with ginger beer.”

  Devi was too afraid to say that she did not like ginger beer, its sting and fizz far too strong for her taste, or that her belly was already full with her lime juice. Besides, Alice, dressed in her customary soot-and curry-stained cloth and blouse, had emerged with two pots, one in each hand, consternation further souring her already disapproving features.

  “Ah, this is Devi Baby, no. What are you doing here? Where is that man? Lucas Aiyya!” she called out. “Lucas Aiyya!”

  “Lucas Seeya went to bring ginger beer.”

  Alice spat a stream of betel out the side of her mouth. “Ginger beer? Did he offer tea?”

  Devi shook her head, though she did not want to cast any blame on the old man. She wished she had not come. She should have turned around and gone home. Or to Kala Niles. But no, she would have to get past Mr. Niles and he would definitely notice if she showed up without Nihil. Uncle Raju, she thought, her face brightening, she should tell him! He was always so impressed with everything that her family did, but he was clearly most especially fond of her. Why hadn’t she gone to see him first and saved herself all this trouble?

  “Everything is good, Devi Baby?” Lucas asked, holding out the lukewarm bottle of ginger beer that he had already had opened at Koralé’s shop. “Bring a glass! Bring a glass!” he said to Alice, as though delay combined with a lack of finesse might make Devi decide against the beverage.

  “I got six A’s and three B’s!” she said, sipping the ginger beer through a straw and deciding that she would at least thank the old couple by sharing her good news.

  “Not like that, must get all A’s, no, Devi Baby? Like your aiyyas and your akki. I have heard that they never get even B’s!” Lucas said.

  Devi swallowed the rest of her drink in several long gulps, holding the glass in both hands and wheezing from the effort between mouthfuls. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her dress and giggled after the burp that followed. “I’ll go now,” she said, standing up.

  “Deiyyo saakki! You can’t go like that. I must come and put you to the other side,” Lucas said. “Wait a bit, I will go and get a shirt and come.”

  Devi sat back down to wait. She listened to Lucas bickering with Alice, a low resonance of voices that were most unthreatening as though this was a form of communication, not disagreement. Nothing like when her parents argued, she thought. Their arguments, always about the government or each other’s families, woke her from deep sleep and made her get up and pour water from the boiled and cooling bottles in the fridge or pee with the door to the bathroom open, making as much noise as she could in the hope that they would stop. Sometimes they did, other times they did not. When they did not, she woke up Rashmi and the two of them woke up the boys and sometimes Devi would cry and ask Suren to go and stop the arguing. He never did. He simply sat next to her and stroked her head. She wondered if Lucas and Alice had ever had that kind of fight. She doubted it. There was an air of calm about their hut. She looked up at the thatched roof and counted four beedi and one cigarette tucked in between the woven coconut fronds that made up their roof. The bench she sat on was lined with an old sari and several mats so that it was almost like a cushioned sofa. The flies buzzed outside and there was a quick smell of sewage that came and went and then came back to linger a while longer.

  “Okay, now I’m ready. Let’s go,” Lucas said, holding out his hand. He was wearing a smart striped shirt in blue and white that Devi recognized as one that had once belonged to her father, and he had unrolled his sarong so it fell to his feet. He shuffled into his slippers, which had been repaired multiple times and quite crudely, the string all in different colors.

  “That stink is back,” Alice said, coming out from the da
rk room from which Lucas had just appeared. “Those slum people are constantly throwing their dirt into the canal and that’s why. Devi Baby, maybe your father can fix this problem for us?”

  “Don’t ask these questions from Devi Baby!” Lucas said. “I will ask Master Sir. These things men must talk between men.”

  When Devi looked back, Alice was still standing on the top step, her hands planted on her waist. She had resumed muttering.

  “I can walk from here,” Devi said after they had crossed. As far as she could tell, it had taken Lucas just as long to get across as it had taken her, but she was grateful for his help nonetheless.

  “No, no, I will take you all the way home,” Lucas said, eyeing Sonna, who had just arrived at the bottom of the lane. He was carrying a bottle of pink milk that, even from afar, looked deliciously cool to Lucas, whose mouth watered at the thought. He swallowed and glared at Sonna, who was staring at them in a way that made Lucas uneasy.

  Devi’s concerns were elsewhere. “If you take me home then they will know I crossed the road and I will be in trouble,” she pleaded in a whisper. “Please, Lucas Seeya, don’t tell.”

  Lucas looked down at her. “Okay. But then you must promise me. Promise Lucas Seeya that you will never cross that road again. You understand? Never again.”

  “I promise,” Devi said, her convincement absolute; the things she needed, her siblings, her friends, her home, they were all on this side of the street after all. And school and birthday parties she was taken to, so there was no chance that she would ever want to cross that street again. “I really promise, Lucas Seeya,” she said again.

  “I will walk you past Mr. Bolling’s house,” Lucas said, glancing back again at Sonna, who was still watching them, and Devi relented. When they reached the end of the Bollings’ aluminum-bordered compound, she ran up the road and turned and waved, then hid herself in the Silvas’ fence, pressing herself into the plants until she was sure Lucas had gone back home before darting back across the lane and opening the gate to Old Mrs. Joseph’s house.