Swimming in the Monsoon Sea

My first and greatest thanks goes to Kathy Lowinger, who cast her silver net into the turbulent monsoon sea of my words and drew in this novel. As always, my love and gratitude to my partner, Andrew Champion, who, with his editorial advice, good sense, and love, steered me through the writing of this book. Thanks also to Catherine Bush, Judy Fong Bates, and Rishika Williams for invaluable advice on various drafts of this novel. Many thanks to my agent, Bruce Westwood, for all his support; to Natasha Daneman, who looks after my interests with such care and affection; and to Sue Tate at Tundra Books for her meticulous copyediting. I am indebted to the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Toronto Arts Council for their financial assistance.

A
mrith, reaching the top step to the terrace, paused for a moment and looked out over the rooftops toward the sea, visible through the palm fronds of coconut trees in the various gardens between his house and the beach. In the dawn light, bands of silver were appearing on the crests of the waves, as if a giant louver in the sky was opening up, one slat at a time. A breeze was coming up from the ocean, bringing a saltiness to his lips. Amrith could usually tell, by the sound of the waves against the sand, whether the tide was in or out. But this was a monsoon sea, wild and savage, and it had eaten up the beach. Even at low tide, the waves still crashed against the rocks that held them back from eroding the land.

The birds in the aviary had noticed Amrith’s presence and, as he crossed the terrace, the budgerigars twittered in anticipation of the food he might be bringing them. There
had been a monsoon storm last night, and Amrith had to walk around large puddles to reach the aviary. Once he had let himself into the safety porch, he secured the door behind him and looked around.

The storm had not caused any damage to the aviary. A few feeding cups had been knocked over by the wind, their seed scattered on the ground, and a perch broken. These were minor destructions, considering the fierceness of the storm. Kuveni, the mynah, was already in the shelter part of the aviary, where the food and water were kept. She was flapping her wings and making little darts in the direction of the hexagonal flight area to keep the budgerigars away so she would have first rights to whatever food Amrith was bringing. Kuveni, named after the mythical demoness of Sri Lankan lore, was vicious and spiteful and bossy, and not really suitable for colony breeding. Yet Amrith could not bring himself to isolate her. He liked her spunk, her bossiness. He just wished that she would talk. He had been trying for the last four months, since she was brought to him, to try and get her to say his name, but she remained mute. Now, he stood back, holding out the halved papaw he had brought and repeating, “Amrith, Amrith,” over and over again, hoping that, by tantalizing her, she would speak out of desperation or annoyance. Yet she said nothing, and only beat her wings against the mesh that separated them.

With a sigh, he let himself in. The moment he put the papaw down on a ledge, Kuveni flew to it and began to devour the pulp.

Until Kuveni had been given to him, Amrith had not realized how beautiful mynahs were. Here in Colombo, they were common as crows and he had not paid them the slightest attention. Being this close to one, however, had made him see how exquisite they were — their silky black heads; their warm brown plumage; the golden yellow of their throats, upper breasts, bills, and feet; the snowy white tips of their tails.

Voices in the side garden below distracted Amrith from his contemplation. Aunty Bundle and her old ayah, Jane-Nona, were discussing the damage caused to the living room roof by the storm last night. Some of the tiles had blown away, leaving a gaping hole. Roofers were very busy during the monsoon period, and the women were worried that, if the hole was not repaired in time, they would have to cancel the big birthday party for Aunty Bundle’s daughters, which was to take place next month.

The women had finished their conversation and Aunty Bundle started up the stairs that led to the terrace. As her footsteps drew near, a black mood, which Amrith had managed to hold at bay, swept over him like a wave, carrying him out to a darkness he did not want to face.

“Amrith?”

Aunty Bundle stood on the top step, looking towards him in the aviary. Her plump face, usually merry, was sober and stark without any makeup, and her eyes, which always sparkled with laughter, were dull and red from crying. Instead of her regular bright sarong and crisp lace blouse, she wore the plain white sari of mourning. The jeweled
peacock that hung from a chain around her waist was gone, as were her gold bangles. The only jewelry she wore was her gold cross on a chain.

Amrith felt a sharp anger take hold as he looked at her through the mesh. Why did she insist on dressing in clothes of mourning every year on this day? It had been eight years since his mother’s death and yet, from Aunty Bundle’s clothes, one would think it was the day of the funeral itself. He wanted to yell that it was all too ridiculous — this remembering, this anniversary. He was sick of it, sick of the whole thing. Today was the first day of his holidays. It was unfair, utterly unfair, that he had to get up so early and go to Mass and then the graveyard. He should have been allowed to sleep in.

“Son,” Aunty Bundle said, taking a step forward, “it’s time to go.”

“Um
, yes, Aunty,” he replied politely. “I’ll come in a moment.”

She nodded and went back down the terrace steps.

The moment she was gone, Amrith leaned against the mesh and closed his eyes. He thought of how, on the first anniversary of his mother’s death, he had rebelled against going to church and the graveyard. He wished that he was seven again and not fourteen — that he could once again throw a tantrum and refuse to go. On that first anniversary, he had lain on the floor and screamed when Aunty Bundle tried to make him put on his church clothes. Finally her husband, Uncle Lucky, had intervened. Though Amrith, by then, loved and trusted Uncle Lucky more than anyone
else in the world, he was still afraid of him. Uncle Lucky would not let him get away with anything. And so, while Uncle Lucky had stood over him sternly, he had hiccuped and sobbed, but got dressed. When he was done, Uncle Lucky had sat on the edge of the bed and made Amrith stand between his thighs, while he combed his hair. As he did so, he had spoken to him gravely, telling Amrith he must never forget his mother; that the past was very important as, from time to time, we could call on it to help us. And if we did not know our past, then we could not call on it.