The Flower Boy Page 15

  He stopped at the edge of the clearing, almost light-headed with relief.

  As the evening had got cooler, they had moved toward each other for warmth, and now lay sleeping with their arms around each other. He looked up at the darkening, purpling sky and sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

  They stirred and opened their eyes at the same time. Rose-Lizzie jumped up and into his arms squealing “Daddy!,” happy that the adventure had at last come to an end for she was tired, hungry and sunburned.

  Chandi woke more slowly and with more reluctance. He sat up and looked for signs of censure in the Sudu Mahattaya’s eyes but only saw relief. When he extended his hand, Chandi took it with only a little hesitation.

  They walked slowly to the car, Rose-Lizzie chattering away about her adventure.

  “Daddy, we walked so much, then we stopped at the small temple and I had to take off my socks because my feet were so sore. And Chandi plucked mangoes and there was this beautiful butterfly . . .”

  John drove with one hand, holding her hand with the other.

  The car stopped at the gates of Glencairn and Premawathi ran up. She pulled the door open and gathered Chandi to her, hugging him tightly. He buried his face in her neck, relieved that she wasn’t angry. Maybe she would be later on, but that was later.

  Over his head, Premawathi’s eyes met John’s. She smiled through her tears. His own smile was tired.

  Chandi, now washed and changed, lay down on his mat next to his mother and tried to understand why she wasn’t angry with him. Ordinarily, it would have been the guava cane as well as a sound scolding. All this tenderness and kissing made him feel guilty. He wondered about the fate of his immortal soul.

  chapter 14

  CHANDI HAD CHANGED. EVEN HE FELT IT.

  Rather than feeling any sense of accomplishment about their short trip, all he felt was guilt and unease. He grew quieter now and more thoughtful.

  A week had passed, a long limping week fraught with strange tensions and unspoken words. The children felt it keenly.

  Premawathi had not said a word about it to Chandi and once, when Leela had hissed something about him being an ungrateful devil, Premawathi, who was sitting on the step staring out into nothing, quietly told her to leave him alone.

  Chandi kept well out of her way, but thought she wouldn’t notice even if he bumped into her every two minutes. She no longer rushed, but drifted, and seemed to have found a new tolerance even with Krishna.

  Rangi sensed the strangeness and it worried her. She drifted around like a bewildered wraith, wondering what had really happened. She instinctively knew that it was something more than Chandi’s running away that had affected her mother so much. The tensions that ebbed and flowed from her came from far more than leftover worry or disappointment.

  Chandi was deeply disturbed.

  She wasn’t bad, this new Ammi, but she wasn’t the Ammi he had known all these years. He missed her scolding and impatience, although if they were there, he would have wished them gone.

  Funny how people always want the opposite of what they have, he thought.

  Rose-Lizzie had also sensed a change in her father, a sadness that hadn’t been there even when her mother had left, although she could hardly remember that time.

  Unlike Chandi, it didn’t frighten her, but it occasionally made her wonder if he too would leave, like her mother. She wondered if it was all her fault, and tried to talk to him about it.

  “Daddy, what are you thinking?”

  “Oh, nothing, darling heart.”

  “But it must be something, Daddy. Are you thinking of Mummy?”

  “What? No! Well, not right now, anyway.” He ruffled her wild curls.

  “Are you sad because I went to Colombo with Chandi?” she persisted.

  “What? Oh no, darling, although you must promise me never to go off on your own again like that,” he said absently.

  “We didn’t really go to Colombo, you know,” she said.

  But he had already slipped away to other thoughts.

  EXACTLY TWO WEEKS after that Saturday, Premawathi and Chandi were hanging out the washing by the well when they heard Rangi calling.

  They walked back slowly. At the kitchen door, Premawathi stopped in sudden confusion, because there stood Disneris, a happy smile on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked baldly.

  “Don’t you know, then?” he asked, now equally confused.

  “Know what?” she said impatiently. “I thought train tickets were too expensive and that the mudalali needed you in Colombo.”

  “The Sudu Mahattaya sent me a telegram,” he said happily, oblivious to her sudden stillness. “Seems they have a job for me at the factory and I can live here at the house with you and the children. I thought you knew,” he ended on a note of puzzlement.

  She stood there and tried to understand what had happened and, more important, why she didn’t feel anything. She was dimly aware of them talking excitedly, her children and their father.

  She smiled a funny little smile. “Yes, yes, he told me. I just didn’t know you were coming so soon,” she said, taking his cloth bag and leading him into their small room.

  Appuhamy came into the kitchen. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “We didn’t know when to expect you.” He saw Premawathi going into the little room. “No, no, Premawathi, not there. The Sudu Mahattaya has already made arrangements. You two are to have my room, the children will sleep in your room and I will be taking the small room next to the pantry,” said Appuhamy.

  Premawathi silently put the bag down and waited while Disneris helped Appuhamy to move his things.

  Chandi looked curiously at his mother. “Didn’t you know, Ammi?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she replied vaguely.

  She hadn’t known. Not really and not at all. He had seen it in her initial surprise, in the stiffening of her body. She didn’t seem happy. Or sad. She seemed—nothing.

  Oh well, he thought hopefully, now that Thaaththi’s here perhaps she’ll be happy and everything will be normal again. But deep down inside, he doubted it.

  Later on, while Disneris was sleeping off the effects of his long train journey and a hearty rice and curry lunch, Premawathi slipped down the corridor, too preoccupied to notice Chandi padding silently behind her.

  She knocked softly on John’s bedroom door. There was no response. She continued down the corridor to the veranda and found him sitting there with a newspaper he wasn’t reading. She stood there waiting for him to notice her.

  Chandi hid behind the door.

  John was aware of her approach even before he saw her, but let her wait while he schooled his face into a carefully impassive mask.

  After what felt like an eternity, he turned around.

  Careful to avoid eye contact, she spoke one word. “Why?”

  The mask slipped and he turned to stare out into the achingly green garden. “You know why,” he replied.

  “Should I thank you?” she asked, expressionless.

  He turned his blue gaze on her. “No,” he replied, “for I cannot thank myself. Call it nobility, futility, call it what you like,” he said quietly.

  “Protection?” she asked quietly.

  “From whom?” he asked mockingly.

  She flushed painfully and left.

  Chandi flew down the corridor, his thoughts in a whirl. Although his bare feet made no sound, he heard them amplified in his ears. While he couldn’t fully understand what he’d heard, the intimacy was not lost on him.

  In the dining room, he slipped out into the side veranda and quickly climbed up the guava tree.

  His eyes were open but they were closed. What had happened between his mother and the Sudu Mahattaya? As far as he remembered, he had never heard her speak to him that way, look at him like that.

  And the Sudu Mahattaya. Even when he spoke directly to her, he almost never looked at her. He’d ask for a cup of tea without lifting his eyes from a news
paper he was reading. He’d glance up to say thank you, but that was all. A glance. Not like this. Even at Christmastime when he smiled at her, he’d smile politely, sometimes even affectionately. But she did cook for him, wash his clothes, keep his house clean.

  What was going on? Chandi felt small and scared. Now he wished he hadn’t followed her. Hadn’t seen or heard.

  “ I WONDERED WHEN you were coming,” a small accusing voice said and he almost fell off the tree. Rose-Lizzie sat on a branch higher up, looking down at him. For once, he wished she were somewhere else.

  “Sssh!” he snapped. “I’m thinking.” He closed his eyes.

  “Of what?” she asked with interest, climbing down to the next branch below. “And why have you closed your eyes? You’d better open them or you might fall off.”

  “Be quiet,” he said shortly.

  “But we’re best friends,” she protested. “You have to tell me everything.”

  Have to tell her what? he thought. He didn’t dare say anything. Words validated things, made them more real and true. More possible. He ignored her.

  Ayah’s voice calling to Rose-Lizzie broke into his thoughts, and sent them careening all over the place in little fragments. Ayah the savior.

  Rose-Lizzie glared at him and slid down the tree. “When you want to be best friends again, you can come and find me,” she said haughtily and stalked away.

  Chandi waited until she had left and climbed down himself. He walked slowly through to the back garden, out of the back gate and found himself beside the oya.

  He sat down and stared at the water. It was clear and happy and uncaring.

  He sat there for a long time, oblivious to the mosquitoes and the birds and the fading light. In the distance, he thought he heard his mother calling his name, but he deliberately shut the sound out, along with everything else.

  He didn’t want to hear her. He didn’t know if he wanted to see her. She was a stranger, temporarily at least.

  PREMAWATHI MECHANICALLY CHECKED the chicken roasting in the oven, turning it over so it would brown evenly. She arranged the vegetables on the serving dish and tossed the green salad without seeing it. That was the beauty of being so efficient. Even when one’s brain shut down, one’s hands continued doing the things that needed to be done. An out-of-control airplane on autopilot.

  She didn’t think, because she had trained herself to shut out her thoughts when her brain and body were tired. Distressing herself with thinking would only result in burned chicken and overdone vegetables, and that would never do.

  When Appuhamy came in to take the food to the dining table, she handed him the big platters and even managed a light response to something he said.

  Disneris was going down to the factory tomorrow morning and would probably begin work immediately, which was a relief. If he was a little puzzled by her lack of excitement, he didn’t show it.

  But he wouldn’t be puzzled, she told herself dryly. He wouldn’t even notice.

  Disneris was a comfortable, self-contained package that came with its own happiness and peculiar lack of guile and suspicion. To him, people were good, the world was good and their lives had just got better. That was enough.

  He was easily satisfied and easily thankful. Nothing seemed to worry him much, mostly because he didn’t care about anything very much.

  He loved his wife and children, of course, but that was because they were his wife and children. He was supposed to love them, and they were easy to love.

  No effort was required.

  Premawathi made a concerted effort to appear normal although she felt anything but. In just over two weeks the carefully arranged layers of her dictated world had caved in, exposing her. She was forced to look at herself, at him, at their life.

  She had been forced out of safety, and into a seething maelstrom of long-denied emotions. And with Disneris arriving so suddenly, she hadn’t even had the time to feel and then stop feeling.

  Rangi carefully sliced the bread and arranged it on another plate in readiness for Appuhamy. She glanced a few times at her mother, but Premawathi’s face was calm and devoid of expression.

  Rangi had been born with the gift, or the curse, depending on how you looked at it, of sensitivity. She sensed her mother’s upheaval and despite the fact that she was ignorant about its cause or origins, she felt sorrow.

  Unlike Chandi, she knew she could do nothing about it, and that was her own burden. She was pleased that their father had come to stay but was perceptive enough to realize that this was only a beginning and not a happy ending.

  Rangi the woman saw heartache and shattered dreams ahead.

  Rangi the child had no idea what to do about it.

  Appuhamy came into the kitchen and took the plate from her. Some of her thoughts must have shown in her eyes for he looked hard at her. “Are you okay, podi duwa?” he asked. Podi duwa. Little daughter. Old young person.

  “No,” she replied baldly. She had not yet learned the social art of deflecting unwelcome questions with untruths or half-truths.

  Appuhamy bent toward her. “Don’t worry, child,” he whispered. “Everything happens in its own time.” He liked Rangi. He thought she had a quality about her that made people want to protect her from the ugliness of the world. A sensitivity that would serve her great joy or great sorrow, depending on what life dished out to her. Even when it came to pondering life, Appuhamy could only think in terms of serving and dishes.

  Rangi returned to the bread board although there was no bread left to cut.

  Everything in its own time. How much time was that?

  chapter 15

  LIFE CALMED DOWN WITH THE TEDIOUSNESS OF A LARGE BIRD SETTLING down after a particularly exhausting flight, slowly and shiveringly.

  Premawathi was tight-lipped and everyone assumed that Chandi’s escapade had upset her. They were sympathetic toward her and made clucking noises at Chandi whenever they saw him. Leela shot him nasty looks which he studiously chose to ignore.

  Premawathi’s initial confusion at Disneris’s sudden appearance had settled down to a stoic acceptance. She was struggling to get used to having him around again. It had been a long time.

  He woke up with her at five every morning, laid the three wood fires and lit them in preparation for the day’s cooking. Then he woke the children and got Chandi ready for school. When he came back from the factory, he helped to take in the laundry from the lines outside, and helped the children with their homework.

  Small things that eased Premawathi’s workload.

  In the evenings after the children had fallen asleep, they sat on the kitchen step and drank tea and talked.

  Amiable strangers discussing their mutual children.

  “Chandi is very bright. He got all his sums right,” Disneris said proudly.

  “How about the other two?” Premawathi asked.

  “Not bad. But they’re girls,” he replied.

  She didn’t see the relevance. A small silence broken by sipping noises and chewing-of-jaggery noises. Small silences punctuating even smaller conversations.

  “So how was the factory today?” she asked.

  “Same as usual. Can’t complain.”

  “Is the work difficult?”

  “What’s so difficult about shutting and sealing crates?” he said, laughing.

  “Does the Sudu Mahattaya treat you well?” she asked curiously.

  “Same as everyone else. He’s a good man,” he answered.

  Another silence, this one longer than the last.

  Disneris yawned and stood up. “Better get some sleep. Tiring day.”

  She still sat in the middle of the stretched-out silence which had somehow grown less depressing. She was comfortable on her own.

  Too comfortable for comfort, if that made any sense at all.

  THREE YEARS PASSED in this state of carefully hidden unhappiness.

  John was his usual self, kind and considerate around his two girls, and kind and remote around his staff.<
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  Inevitably, the episode with Premawathi had put a strain on their relationship. He referred to it in his mind as an episode, because it made it a fleeting thing and removed any lingering intimacy.

  Although it didn’t really.

  Even now, the sight of her would bring it all back, and even though he didn’t dare dwell on it, he was aware of a sharp sense of regret.

  Regret for what, he didn’t know or care to know.

  Sometimes he wished he hadn’t lost control, that it had never happened, and then his practical British mind took over, and he told himself it would have anyway. It was one of those utterly inevitable things that wait to happen. That breed futility and regret and sudden rememberings.

  Even Chandi was a reminder of what had happened and so John avoided him whenever possible. John was aware that the boy was hurt by the distance he had suddenly and deliberately put between them, but his own hurt was bigger.

  It was an adult hurt.

  Chandi still played with Rose-Lizzie. They still talked and they were still best friends. It was as if the farther apart the adults drifted, the closer they became. They drew comfort from each other.

  During these hot July days, they went swimming in the oya. They had found an old blanket in the bungalow, and it now hung among the branches of the stunted mora tree that grew beside the water.

  Every day, they followed the same ritual.

  After school, they changed hurriedly, bolted down their lunches, left their homework for later when the sun went down and rushed down to the oya. They stripped down to their underwear and dived in, shrieking as the icy water brought the goosebumps running up and down their bodies.

  They splashed and still sailed their leaf boats, only now they were old enough and tall enough to follow them as they spun crazily downstream. But even now, they stopped short of the dark lake.

  Afterward, they lay on the blanket with their arms and legs stretched out and their eyes closed and sometimes they talked. And sometimes they didn’t.

  The silences were replete silences, though.