Cinnamon Gardens (11 page)

Sonia made herself comfortable in the bed and began to reread the letter. As she did so, she imagined Lukshman in her Aunt Ethel’s house, occupying the bedroom that had been hers as a girl. The thought of that room, with its chintz curtains and view of the park, made Sonia homesick. It was odd that she had never missed England until now, never thought of it with nostalgia. These days, she thought about her life there all the time
and with those memories always came the thing that had brought her here to Ceylon. Her love for Balendran.

She had heard about her cousin Balendran in letters her Aunt Ethel wrote to her while she was at finishing school in France. Even after she came back, she did not meet him for a while, as he had come down with pneumonia after his father’s arrival in London. Their first meeting had been at her aunt’s autumn ball. A young man who was interested in her had accompanied her outside to the garden. They had just come in again and she was removing her cape when she had seen Balendran at the front door with his father. The Mudaliyar had signalled to her to come over and meet his son. Balendran, who was handing his coat to the footman, had turned to her and she had almost stepped back at the sight of his face. She had expected him to look sickly, but the haggard look in his eyes made her feel that she was looking at a dying man, not one who was in recovery. He had shaken her hand, his lips pressed together diffidently, and she had seen, despite the illness, that he was handsome. Sonia always traced the moment she fell in love with him to that first meeting, the feel of his hand in hers, the beautiful vulnerability of his face with its long eyelashes, fine nose, clearly defined cheekbones.

What a difference there was between her expectations and what her marriage had really turned out to be. She belonged, she knew, to that group of women from Europe who had married non-European men as an escape from the strictures of their world, a refusal to conform. What they did not know, could not have known, was that these men, so outcast in Europe and America, were, in their own land, the very thing women like her were trying to escape. This was what she had not been prepared
for. Balendran’s unquestioning obedience to familial and social dictates, his formality even in their lovemaking, his insistence that they maintain separate bedrooms.

Still, there was love. Despite the roughness of the early years of their marriage, despite his aloofness, she had always known that she loved him.

The thought of her love for Balendran made Sonia shake herself mentally. “I’m being ridiculous and morbid.” She got up and went to stand at the window, which looked out to her garden. In the moonlight, she could see the plants and trees, all so well known, all bearing testimonial to years of care and the pleasure she had derived from tending them.

After a while, she went back to Lukshman’s bed and lay down. Thinking of her love for her husband and her son, she drifted off to sleep.

Balendran’s house was the last one on the road and then it was only vegetation that opened out to the railway line and the sea beyond it. He could make out the silhouettes of coconut trees against the night sky, swaying in the wind like ghostly apparitions.

When he reached the end of his street, he began to walk along the railway line, away from his property. It was rare that a train came by at this hour. Still, he always made sure to pick the line along which the trains came towards him. In a couple of minutes his eyes adjusted to the dark and he looked out at the sea. It shimmered in the moonlight like black silk. Against the horizon, he could see the lights of a ship and far ahead of him the illumination of the Fort area. He walked about a mile,
not meeting anyone. The railway tracks, popular with strollers in the evening, were now deserted. Balendran finally rounded a bend and saw ahead of him the Bambalapitiya railway station. Though long closed for the night, the platform was busy with men, cigarettes butts glowing red in the dark. Balendran faltered, as he always did, the blood rushing to his head. He knew what it took to keep walking, had taught himself how to go on. He closed his eyes and willed himself to take the next few steps. Then he opened his eyes and continued, pulling his hat low over his forehead.

There was a roof over the portion of the tracks in front of the platform. It was supported by a wall on the other side. Balendran avoided the railway platform. Instead, he walked quickly along the deserted outer edge of the wall, his head lowered. He saw ahead of him the one he always went with, Ranjan, a private in the army. The young man was leaning up against the wall. He noticed Balendran approaching and stubbed out his cigarette.

“Good evening,” he said in English as Balendran came up to him.

“How are you, Ranjan?” Balendran replied softly in English, for he knew that Ranjan liked to practise his English with him. “How is your mother? Did she finally see a doctor about her problem?”

“Thanking you very much, sir,” Ranjan replied.

The last time Balendran was here, he had learnt about Ranjan’s mother’s illness and given him money to take her to a doctor.

They began to walk away from the others, and Balendran asked him a few more questions about his mother’s health. Balendran was fond of Ranjan in a disinterested way. Mostly,
he felt gratitude because Ranjan was extremely discreet. The one time he had seen him in public, he had taken the initiative and ignored him. Further, he never haggled over money, took whatever was given to him. Occasionally he would mention something, like his mother’s illness. When Balendran gave, he did so generously to ensure Ranjan’s tact.

They were a sufficient distance from the wall now and they scrambled down the rocks to the beach, Ranjan taking Balendran’s hand and helping him. Amongst the rocks, they found a fairly private place, a smooth flat stone for them to sit on. A silence fell between them. After a while, Ranjan put his hand on Balendran’s crotch and began to gently massage it. He undid the buttons on Balendran’s trousers, and Balendran lifted himself slightly, so Ranjan could slide his trousers down his thighs. Ranjan bent over him and, at the feel of Ranjan’s breath on his arousal, Balendran sighed and lay back on the rock. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked up at the night sky.

Balendran liked to take his time with Ranjan, to prolong his bliss as long as possible. For, once it was over, he knew he would be visited by a terrible anguish. Then, walking quickly away from the station, he would curse himself for his imprudence, for putting everything at risk, his marriage, his family name. The precautions he had taken would seem absurd: the fact that he had avoided the station altogether; the fact that, were Ranjan not there, he would have turned around and gone back home. Balendran would look back to see if he was being followed, step off the tracks, and stand in the bushes to ascertain this was not so. He would not be comforted by the fact that Ranjan did
not know his name, that Ranjan was discreet. He would find himself attributing to Ranjan the worst characteristics, make him out to be a devious blackmailer who was waiting to seize the right chance. Then Balendran would vow never to visit the station again.

P
hilomena Barnett acted quickly in the matter of finding Annalukshmi a suitable groom.

A week after the Mudaliyar’s birthday, Louisa was gardening one morning when she saw Philomena come in through the gate of Lotus Cottage. She removed her straw hat and anxiously went to meet her cousin. Philomena signalled to her that she was in no fit state to talk until she was seated comfortably on the verandah. Louisa sent Letchumi to bring a glass of thambili, which always worked wonders on Cousin Philomena’s humour.

Philomena gulped down the thambili, wiped her mouth with her handkerchief, and said, “Cousin,” in a tone that portended no good.

Louisa moved to the edge of her chair.

“I am afraid it is not good news. The Lights and the Worthingtons have both declined.”

“But why?” Louisa cried in dismay. “If it’s a matter of dowry, there is the rubber estate in Malaya.”

Philomena raised her hand mournfully to say it was not. She looked down at her lap before she spoke. “The unfortunate thing is, cousin, Annalukshmi has gone and got herself a reputation.”

Louisa’s eyes widened. There was no worse predicament for a girl in Ceylon than to have a “reputation.”

“They say she is fast.”

“Our Annalukshmi
fast
? She has nothing to do with boys.”

“I know that. But the Lights have a relative who teaches at the mission school and the report was not good.”

“What has she done to deserve a reputation?” Louisa queried, completely bewildered by the whole thing.

“It’s not what she has done. It’s what she might do after marriage, once –” Philomena coughed. “Once she has been … you understand me, cousin. A woman who has a wild temperament may be chaste before marriage but once exposed might seek other fields … numerous other fields.”

Louisa had heard this argument before but had never thought it would be applied to her daughter.

“There is also the matter of education, the one I warned you about so much.” Philomena could not keep the vindicated tone from her voice. “The Worthington boy, for example, barely passed his Senior Cambridge. The only reason he got into the Postal Service is because his uncle is chief clerk. So, of course, they don’t want a girl better qualified. After all, Annalukshmi passed with honours and now she has a
teacher’s certificate
.” Philomena stressed the last two words to remind Louisa that she had been cautioned about this. “Flora Worthington says she wants a girl who will build up her son, not try and cut him down.”

Louisa’s spirits sank. These premier families should have welcomed Annalukshmi with open arms.

“Don’t be disheartened, cousin,” Philomena said, satisfied that Louisa was suitably chastened. “All is not lost. The Macintoshes have agreed to look at Annalukshmi.”

The Macintoshes were the last ones Louisa had expected to be interested, given their wealth and prestige. She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Is there something wrong with the boy?”

“Cousin?”

“He’s not epileptic or simple, is he?”

“Of course not.”

Louisa was not satisfied, despite Annalukshmi’s “reputation,” that the Macintoshes had said yes. There had to be something wrong with the boy.

“This is a golden opportunity. Let me arrange a preliminary meeting.”

After a moment Louisa nodded reluctantly. She had to at least see the boy. Something was better than nothing. Yet she felt frightened that people did talk of Annalukshmi in this way. She had thought that they might say she was headstrong, even a little rash, but she had never expected that Annalukshmi’s behaviour had garnered her a “reputation.”

The window-seat in the drawing room was Annalukshmi’s favourite place to read. She would switch on the lamp by the window, draw the lace curtains to cut off the world, prop a pillow behind her back, and, with her knees drawn up to her chest, the book on her thighs, she would lose herself in the world of her characters.

That afternoon Annalukshmi was seated in the window-seat when Louisa, who was also in the drawing room sewing with Kumudini, got up and approached her. She advanced on her
with some trepidation, knowing her daughter’s dislike for these matchmaking attempts.

Annalukshmi was completely lost in her book and did not notice her mother until a shadow fell across her page. She looked up to see Louisa on the other side of the lace curtain, an expression on her face that made her immediately draw her knees even closer to her chest.

“Merlay,” Louisa pushed aside the curtain. “I had some news this morning. Some very good news.” She sat down on the window-seat.

Annalukshmi simply looked at her, holding the open book to her chest as a shield.

“It’s a possible meeting with a young man, kunju,” Louisa said. “For you. Arranged by Aunt Philomena.”

Annalukshmi had an instant image of the boys Philomena had found for her own daughters. Young men without looks or any real brand to them but who would remain in their dull civil-service jobs and retire with a pension. “Pleasant boys” as everyone charitably described them.