The Hungry Ghosts (58 page)
“And then, Puthey, the nights, oh, how awful those long nights were, for she had to lie on a hard plank of a bed, because, as part of her karma’s curse, any cloth, even sheets, even a mattress, would burn her body. She would lie on that bed and look out her window at the moon, imagining all the people of the world, the gods in the heavens, asleep in their luxurious bedding of soft cotton sheets and down-filled mattresses. At midnight, a cold, cold wind would come off the sea, and she would hug her naked body, trembling. Soon the cold would become unbearable, and she would rise and go to an antechamber where garments hung in rows with enough room between them so she could pass without touching the cloth. She would walk up and down, up and down, looking at those fine Benares silks, those shawls and shifts made
from the wool of pashmina goats, those cotton gowns so gauzy and light, patterned with tiny flowers and paisleys, those heavier silks woven with real gold thread. And finally her craving for beauty, for warmth, would overcome sense. She would seize a garment and hurriedly slip it on. Now the curse of her karma allowed her a moment in which to feel the soft brush of wool and silk on her skin, this respite of warmth and beauty really a greater punishment when snatched from her. For soon heat rushed through the cloth as if a live thing, and she would hurriedly start to pull the garment off. But every time she touched the cloth her hands would sear. The garment would burn her body like a hot sheet of metal. The peréthi could do nothing but scream until her slaves came to strip her naked again.
“But then, finally, one day, that ship carrying the disciple of our Lord Buddha came drifting, storm-tossed, to her island.”
And I imagine my grandmother leaving the story there so I can finish the tale in my head, and winking at me, a child again, seated on that mat in her bedroom.
The memory of my grandmother’s voice, her gestures, are with me now as I sit on her new bed and watch the grey light come into this room. I think again of her bedroom in Sri Lanka, its teak four-poster bed with mosquito netting that spills down on all sides; her heavy almirahs that release an odour of camphor and cloves when opened; her art deco ebony vanity table that was her husband’s bridal gift and which she keeps polished and oiled; the old chests with their elaborately carved brass handles and locks, their massive oiled keys, each trunk placed, in the traditional way, on a woven red-and-white coconut-frond mat; her lace curtains that rise and fall with a sigh in the sea breeze.
By contrast, this new room is joyless, despite my mother’s attempts to make it cheerful—despite the lovely wallpaper with its design of Chinese pagodas and birds of paradise, the goose-down pillows and duvet, the frilly pillowcases, the vase for flowers, the well-padded armchair. For this is the room where my grandmother is coming to die. The metal bed has an adjustable railing that slides up and down so that when she is finally too frail to get around, she can be bathed and given a bedpan. The head of the bed can be raised so the patient might be propped up and fed. A bell hangs from a cord.
Yet I know by now that my grandmother will not use this room, will not die in this country.
This understanding has revealed itself to me not in a flash, but slowly through the course of the night, like the persistent lap of waves that wear down the surface of a rock to reveal the glittering mica beneath. It is my fate to remain in Sri Lanka so she can pass her last years in her own home. It is I who must give up Michael, not he who will leave me; I who must break us out of our cycle of anger, then peace, then anger again. This time, I will save the person I cherish most by giving him up. My past has tainted Michael, changed him from the man who opened his door, his life, to me two years ago, wearing that ridiculous batik shirt to impress. He has become someone he does not recognize. And I, like that naked peréthi, will find release only by offering it to another, by putting another before myself.
In Sri Lanka it will be late evening now, and in my grandmother’s house the light will be receding rapidly from the verandah, chased across the garden by shadows. The sky will be burning with oranges and reds and golden yellows. In the kitchen, the grinding of the miris gala and the thump of the pestle and mortar will have grown more hurried. Sinhala film music will drift in from the servants’ quarters next door. The last of the commuters will be straggling home and the last crows heading to their banyan trees. The sound of water and children’s voices will ring hollow in bathrooms and drift out through windows. Now that she is unable to visit the temple anymore, is my grandmother in bed or seated on the verandah listening to pirith on the radio? Is she chanting along to it?
Soon I will take my place in her world, and there will be little that is joyful about doing so. My days will be as dull as they were before I met Mili—long evenings of sitting at the dining table, eating slowly and reading to make the hours pass. All those people I knew, those actors in the drama of that long-ago summer—I have no idea what has become of them, who among them is alive.
The one person I have scoured the Sri Lankan newspapers to find is Sriyani. Human rights activists are freer to express themselves under this new government, and there are many articles and pronouncements from them, especially since the war recommenced. I search these pieces carefully, but find no trace of her. The JVP, I know, were punitive with left-leaning
academics, journalists and politicians they deemed traitors. The communist man’s daughter might, I fear, have been on their list of enemies.
The only person I have discovered much about, because any reading of Sri Lankan news brings one ultimately to his name, is Chandralal. He has switched sides and is prominent in the current government, no doubt arriving there by doing the dirty work of the powerful. He is occasionally quoted making pious platitudes about the triumphant destiny of the Sinhala race, making declarations about embracing the Tamil race as part of Mother Lanka. Sahodara, sahodari—brother, sister—he calls them, while at the same time valorizing the war for peace. I shudder to think that I am willingly committing myself to a place where the derangement of a Chandralal is seen as sanity; committing myself to a world of security checks, disappearing Tamils and suicide bombers. I am giving up Michael, our apartment with its sea view, our weekends together, our peaceful evening routine, my prestigious position in the university for the whirlwind of this war. “Turn back, turn back,” a voice within me cries. But as in my grandmother’s story of King Nandaka, the road behind me has disappeared.
My mother’s car is pulling up in the driveway. I get my coat from the closet. As I slip it on, I look at myself in the mirrored doors. I seem bleached out, as if my skin has developed a greyish undertone over the course of the night. But there is also a calm within me now, the inner stillness of someone who has finally given up, who has stopped clinging to the ridiculous notion that he, or any of us really, can avoid our fate. My mind is light, as if released from a sharp and overwhelming pain, and soaring, soaring like that hawk.
“Shivan,” my mother calls as she comes through the door. “Shivan.”
“I am here, Amma. Yes, I am here.” I catch the rictus of terror on my face as I turn from the mirrors. Taking hold of our suitcases, I settle my back into the base of my spine. Then, chin lifted, I pick up the bags and go towards the door, staggering under the heavy load of them.
My thanks to:
Early readers Anar Ali, Judy Fong Bates, Catherine Bush, Andrew Champion (who suggested giving Hema and Daya their own voices), Tissa and Lilani Jayatilaka, Will Schwalbe.
Ashok Ferry for information on construction Sri Lanka-style. Rishika Williams for some important thoughts on Renu’s Canadian life.
I am particularly indebted to Ranjini Obeyesekere for her marvellous translations of Buddhist Stories in the
Jewels of the Doctrine
and
Portraits of Buddhist Women
, and also for her general guidance in terms of Buddhist stories. Without her translations and advice, this book would have taken a very different direction.
A very special thank you to my editor Lynn Henry at Doubleday Canada for all her insights and guidance. Also thanks to the Doubleday team. My agent Bruce Westwood for his support over the years. Somak Ghoshal at Penguin India.
Lovely places where I stayed and wrote: The magical Civitella Ranieri Foundation (particular thanks to Dana Prescott and the rest of the staff there). The equally lovely Green College at UBC (particular thanks to Mark Vassey, the Principal), where I was writer in residence during the editing of this book. Thanks also to Geoffrey Dobbs for three weeks at The Sun House, and the Fundación Valparaiso.
The Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Toronto Arts Council for their generosity and support. Also the University of Guelph where I was writer in residence during the writing of this novel.
The quote from Kalidasa’s
Shakuntala
is based on
The Recognition of Sakunatala
, translated by W.J. Johnson (Oxford World Classics). I have
changed the translation slightly to reflect more strongly the combination of predestination and free will that is a theme of the play, the Buddhist stories in this novel, and indeed my novel itself. Many thanks to Professor Adheesh Sathaye at the University of British Columbia’s Asian Studies Department for affirming that my change does not dishonour the Sanskrit original. The line on
this page
from the story of the Naga King Manikantha and the Hermit, is taken from
Indian Serpent Lore or the Nagas in Hindu Legend and Art
by J. Vogel.
