Cinnamon Gardens (10 page)

“Gentlemen, whatever our differences, we are agreed on one thing. Universal franchise would be the ruin of our nation.”

A collective murmur went through the party and someone said, “Hear, hear.”

“People like Dr. Shiels do not understand what it would mean to an Oriental society like ours. It would put the vote in the hands of the servants in our kitchen, labourers, the beggar on the street. Illiterate beings to whom the sophistication of politics is as incomprehensible as advanced mathematics to a child. It would lead to mob rule.”

“It would lead to A. E. Goonesinha and his Labour Union thugs running this country,” a guest said.

This was greeted with another murmur of agreement.

Goonesinha was the
běte noire
of the Cinnamon Gardens élite and the British administration. A few years ago, he had led a general strike that had crippled the country. His was one of the few groups asking for universal franchise.

“In the good old days, people like him would have had to go around to the back entrance,” a guest said, alluding to Goonesinha’s low caste. “Now we have to shake their hands and treat them like equals.”

At that moment, dinner was announced. The guests began to pair off and leave the drawing room, mounting the stairs to the ballroom. Balendran offered Sriyani his arm, and F. C. did the same to Sonia.

“I don’t know what gets into people sometimes,” Sriyani said to Balendran as they went in. “After all, we are one country, one people. Why can’t we just exist amicably.”

Balendran did not reply. He felt that Sriyani’s sentiment dismissed the obvious fears and concerns of the Tamils.

When limited franchise was granted in 1921, six years ago, the Tamils, who until that time had been treated by the British as a majority community, alongside the Sinhalese, found themselves a minority because of the numerical superiority of the latter. The behaviour of the Sinhalese members of the Ceylon National Congress had done nothing to assuage the fears of people like his father about a Sinhala Raj. When the Tamils, after the 1921 elections, had requested a special reserved seat in the Western Province, the Sinhalese had refused. Balendran felt that the Sinhalese politicians had been obtuse in the matter. By granting this minor request, they could have easily won over the Tamils to the Congress. Now he felt that it was too late for sentiments that suggested they should all simply exist amicably.

Sriyani tugged at his arm, distracting him from his thoughts.

“I want to talk to you about your wife,” she said softly. She waited until Sonia was far enough ahead of them, then she turned to Balendran. “You men never notice things, but I am worried about her. What on earth does she do all day now that Lukshman is gone?”

Balendran was confounded by the question. “I … I don’t know,” he said. “She has the Girls’ Friendly Society.”

Sriyani waved her hand in dismissal to say that such work was hardly enough to occupy a person’s time.

“And then there are her tasks around the house. You know she relishes gardening.”

“But it’s unhealthy, Bala. A woman, of course, must attend to her household duties, but to spend so much time at it? What on earth are servants for? The other day I visited and found her up a ladder breaking cobwebs and the houseboy standing there looking very put out that he had been denied his work.” She shook her head. “You should be encouraging her to go out more. I try and try to get her to attend at-homes with me, but it’s like enforced labour. If you’re not careful, she’ll become a real hermit.”

“I’ll have a serious talk with her,” Balendran said playfully. “I shall order her to attend a minimum of two at-homes a week from now on.”

Sriyani sighed. “I see you are no help. Well, I have just the plan for your wife. Something that will get her out of that house and into society a little more.”

They had reached the stairs now and they began to go up to the ballroom.

Balendran glanced ahead of him at Sonia. He was, of course, aware of Sonia’s deep attachment to their home and to
domesticity. He had only understood it many years into their marriage when the Mudaliyar had tried to send Lukshman off to boarding school in England. It was one of the few times his wife had openly clashed with his father. She had firmly refused to acquiesce, even in the face of the Mudaliyar’s wrath. Sonia, so she told Balendran then, had always felt the lack of a real home, real parents, despite Lady Boxton’s kindness. Further, she had spent her youth in boarding schools, only returning to her aunt’s for holidays. This was simply the way things were done in that set, but Sonia had been miserable. That was why she had determined her son would not suffer in the same way. Balendran, at the time he had found this out, had felt a new, protective tenderness towards his wife. Before, she had always struck him as extremely self-sufficient, but, after that conversation, he had come to understand how very much her home, her husband and child meant to her. They were her world.

As for refusing to attend at-homes, Balendran knew that his wife, who had been sent to finishing school, who had been trained to be the perfect society lady, abhorred and rebelled against that schooling.

The meal, efficiently served by a host of houseboys under Pillai’s supervision, was impeccable. After dinner, as was customary, the men remained in the ballroom to have port. The women began to retire to the drawing room, where the men would presently join them for coffee.

Sonia was descending the stairs with Annalukshmi when Sriyani caught up with them. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but you know how it is with men. A woman can’t get a word in edgewise.”

Sriyani took Sonia’s arm. “Some women from the Congress are getting together to form a Women’s Franchise Union. To press the Donoughmore Commission for female franchise. What do you think about women fighting for the vote? Are you interested in joining?”

“It’s not just Congress women,” Sriyani added hastily, in case that would put Sonia off. “Lady Daisy Bandaranaike has agreed to be the president.” She listed the other women involved, most of whom were well-known society ladies. “Please say you will join.”

Sonia frowned contemplatively. “And will they ask for limited or universal female franchise?”

“It’s thought best to ask for limited,” Sriyani said, somewhat apologetically.

“But the poorer women need it most,” Sonia said, thinking of her students at the Girls’ Friendly Society and their difficulties.

“I know, I know,” Sriyani said placatingly. “However, we do think it might be wiser in the first instance to limit the franchise to the better-educated and better-qualified women. Later we can broaden it out to include others.”

Sonia sighed. “Let me think about it,” she said. “If one joins an association, one must comply with its rules and I am not sure I will be able to do that.”

As Sonia spoke, however, she happened to glance at Annalukshmi and saw that she had been following the conversation with much eagerness. “Are you interested, Annalukshmi?” she asked.

“Oh yes, Sonia Maamee.”

“Then you’d like to attend?”

Annalukshmi nodded enthusiastically.

Sonia smiled and lifted her eyebrows. “Well,” she said to Sriyani, “looks like we might come after all.”

She offered her arm to her niece. Annalukshmi took it and squeezed her hand to express her thanks. They had reached the bottom of the stairs and walked on into the drawing room.

A lively discussion was in progress, with Miss Lawton at the centre of it.

A former pupil of hers, Lady Dias-Rajapakse, a wealthy heiress, had decided to build a school for girls in the district of Ratnapura, where her ancestral home was located. She wanted to name the school after Miss Lawton.

“Absolutely not, my dear,” Miss Lawton was saying when Annalukshmi came in. “I do my work for the Lord. If you wish to please me, you must name it the Ratnapura Mission School.”

“But, Miss Lawton, you have done so much for female education in Ceylon,” Lady Dias-Rajapakse said. “You deserve to be honoured in this way.”

A number of the assembled women nodded in agreement. Since the Colpetty Mission School was one of the best girls’ schools in the country, many Cinnamon Gardens women had attended it.

“I would never have gone on to be a doctor if you hadn’t come personally and cajoled my father into letting me go to medical college in England,” one of the women said.

“Never mind being a doctor,” another added. “My grandmother was trying to pull me out of school when I was fifteen and marry me to some cousin of mine. If Miss Lawton had not spoken to my father, I would be an ignorant, unhappy woman now.”

“Look at the difference between us and our mothers,” Lady Dias-Rajapakse said. “Because we have education, we have been able to be helpmates to our husbands rather than millstones around their neck. And our children have benefited too. All because of the tireless effort of people like you.”

“I don’t see why you won’t let her do this,” another former pupil added. “Other headmistresses have had streets and schools named after them in Ceylon.”

“Exactly,” Lady Dias-Rajapakse said.

Miss Lawton began to demur again, but her protests were drowned out by the voices of the other women telling her that she should allow such an honour to be bestowed on her.

Annalukshmi, who was standing against the wall near the door, felt an intense glow of pride that so many of these well-known women esteemed Miss Lawton in this way. She thought of a dream of hers, the possibility that, one day, she, as headmistress, would find herself surrounded by grateful pupils who had gone on to lead fulfilled lives as a result of her efforts.

Balendran felt it important to impress on Sonia the need to keep his acquaintance with Richard secret. The reason he gave himself was that it would damage his father’s reputation if people thought he was using his personal contacts to affect the decisions of the commission.

When they got home, he said to her, “You were a little indiscreet this evening, Sonia.”

She felt annoyed by his righteous tone. “Why shouldn’t I mention that a friend of yours is part of the commission?”

“You obviously don’t understand. It was a private conversation. Between myself and my father. Appa will not like F. C. knowing about my connection with Richard. He is, after all, a Congress man.”

“Don’t be silly, Bala,” Sonia said. “You sound as if you are involved in some important espionage.”

Her dismissive tone irritated him. “You have to be careful what you say around these politicians.”

“But he’s your friend,” Sonia said.

“Nevertheless.”

“Don’t you feel any shame pressing your father’s views on your friend?”

Balendran turned away and began to walk towards the study door.

“Ah, I see. You do feel some qualms. That’s interesting.”

Balendran slammed the door.

Sonia clenched her fists, feeling the frustration she always felt when they argued, the way Balendran would shut off her needs, her emotions, her convictions. She turned and walked away.

In her bedroom, Sonia sat down in front of the mirror and took off her jewellery. Then she removed her sari and underclothes and put on her nightdress. She had just finished when she heard her husband’s study door open and the sound of his footsteps going towards the front door. He was off on one of those late-night walks he took when he had eaten too much or was too agitated to sleep. The thought of his leaving her alone in the house filled Sonia with a sudden, irrational dread. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she was at the bedroom door.

“Bala,” she called out.

She was too late. He had already left and she could hear his footsteps going down the front drive.

Sonia felt foolish now at her impulse, her childish fear at being left alone when there were so many servants in the house. She turned and went back into her bedroom.

As she sat down at her toilette table to wipe off her make-up, the mirror reflected her bedroom. It looked cavernous and forbidding. Her grand four-poster bed, made of ebony, was
covered on all sides with mosquito netting. Elevated high above the floor, it suddenly reminded her of a funeral bier. She shivered. The side panel of her toilette-table mirror was positioned in such a way that she could see through the connecting door into her son’s room. After he had left, she had kept the door open. Sonia closed her eyes tightly and tried to conjure up his image in the other room, to will him to be there if only in her mind. It did not help. She opened her eyes and stared at the reflection of his empty room. Then a swift sadness rose in her and, before she knew it, she had put her head down on her arms and was sobbing. “I miss him,” she murmured to herself. “Oh God, how I miss him.” After a moment, she looked around agitatedly for her handkerchief and blew her nose. She got up hastily and went towards her son’s bedroom, taking his letter with her.

Lukshman’s room was small and Sonia felt secure in its tightness. She sat down on the bed, reassuringly narrow and hard, unlike her own, whose softness made her feel, of late, as if she were drowning in it. She looked around the room at the cheery prints of childhood scenes, children fishing, picnicking, an Impressionist reproduction of a woman walking in a field of poppies hand in hand with her child. Unlike her room, where the electric light did not reach the shadowy corners, this room was completely illuminated.