Cinnamon Gardens (28 page)

Nancy was silent. “Miss Lawton’s life has had its difficult moments,” she said. “Here she might be a respected and influential figure, but in England, in the little town from which she comes, she is merely the daughter of a poor pastor. And one around whom there was some kind of scandal. It seems there was something to do with improper use of church funds. Though Miss Lawton has never said so directly, I gather he may have been relieved of his clerical duties. Can you imagine the shame for poor Miss Lawton? A young woman in a small town constantly living with the burden of her father’s mistake. Perhaps this contributed to the reason why she decided to come out here and work in the colonies. Yet the fact is that one day Miss Lawton will have to retire, and if she were to leave Ceylon and return to her town, she would go back to simply being Amelia Lawton, the daughter of Reverend Lawton.”

Nancy took her friend’s hand. “So you see, Annalukshmi, it’s not often easy to say that a person, be it your father or Miss Lawton or your aunt or your cousin, is simply this or that, bad or good.”

The train now rounded a sharp bend, making their carriage
rock slightly from side to side. They could see the tail end of the train, the passengers in the crowded third class hanging out of the doorways, some even on the roof. The train let out a long, mournful whistle that echoed against the sides of the hills. Annalukshmi glanced at her friend. She realized she would never see Miss Lawton and Nancy the same way again.

When Annalukshmi alighted from the taxi at Lotus Cottage, she saw Parvathy sitting on the front verandah and she felt her hands go cold. She pushed open the gate and went inside. At the creak of the gate, Parvathy turned to squint down the driveway. Then she rose from her chair in astonishment. “Kadavale!” she cried.

The sound of her voice brought Louisa and the girls out onto the verandah.

“Annalukshmi?” Louisa said as if she could not believe it was her daughter standing there at the bottom of the steps.

Annalukshmi waited, not sure what to expect.

Louisa recovered. “Do you think this house is a hotel, miss?” she cried. “You think you can come and go as you like?” She shook your finger at her. “You’re lucky that I even let you in through the gate. And that Miss Lawton, I am disappointed that –”

“Miss Lawton had nothing to do with this, Amma. I’ve acted entirely of my own volition.”

“Don’t you try and talk back to me, miss.”

Parvathy touched Louisa’s arm. “Let her be, thangachi,” she said. “She must be very tired after her long journey.”

Louisa glared at Annalukshmi, then turned and walked back into the house.

The moment she was gone, Kumudini and Manohari rushed down to greet their sister. Manohari took her bag solicitously and Kumudini put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Poor akka,” she said. “You must be exhausted.”

They led her up the verandah steps. Annalukshmi was before her aunt and she bent down quickly and touched her aunt’s feet, as was the Hindu custom. Parvathy raised her to a standing position. She looked at her carefully and then patted her on the arm. “You need to have a bath after your trip.”

They started towards the front door, when someone cleared his throat. Annalukshmi turned and saw Muttiah. He had come around the side of the house and was standing at the other end of the verandah. He looked the same as when she’d last seen him seven years before. The only difference was his luxuriant moustache stylishly curled at both ends.

Muttiah now spoke. “You … you are back.”

He talked just as she remembered, the frown of concentration, the stumbling over his words, and, finally, the inanity of what he said. Muttal Muttiah. She glanced at Kumudini quickly. There was a demure smile on her face. She looked at Muttiah, again perplexed by what her sister might see in him.

“Do you remember that you planted an … an oleander shoot in your Malaya house garden many years ago?”

Annalukshmi looked at him, bewildered.

“And it died,” he continued. “You were so upset. Do you remember how … how we teased you?” He smiled. “Annalukshmi is a silly bee, can’t even plant a tree.” He threw back his head and laughed, well pleased with himself.

Now she studied her cousin, noting the fastidiousness of his cream China silk suit, the carefully manicured nails, the absolutely straight part in his hair worn à la Valentino. He
thinks he’s the cat’s meow, she thought to herself, partly amazed that he could actually think so. Such conceit would surely make him a selfish husband.

“Come, akka,” Kumudini said gently and took her by the arm. “Come inside the house and have your bath.”

“I don’t think you know what you are doing, Kumu,” Annalukshmi said as she sat down at the toilette table to dry her hair with a towel.

Kumudini, who was seated on the edge of her bed, drew herself together with injured dignity. “Oh and why is that, akka?”

“You know how Parvathy Maamee runs her house, Kumu. Could you be happy living like that?”

“Akka, I am not like you. I don’t feel the need to go out all the time and have a say in every conversation.”

“Well, do you love him?”

“I have some intelligence, akka. He has only been here a few days.
I’m
not foolish enough to think that love is like fireworks, puta-puta-puta the moment you meet someone. He is kind and very charming. Why shouldn’t I grow to love him?”

Annalukshmi looked at Manohari, who was standing by the chest of drawers. “And what do you think?”

“To each his own, the old lady said, kissing her cow,” Manohari replied tartly, adding, “I suppose he is handsome in his own way. He does dress very stylishly.”

As Manohari spoke, Annalukshmi watched Kumudini in the toilette-table mirror and saw what she had never seen in her sister’s face before – the flicker of desire in her eyes. She pictured Muttiah again, trying to see him as her sister did, but failed to do so. Still, there was another issue at stake. To marry Muttiah
would slight their mother. And hadn’t her mother’s marriage suffered as a result of these very differences?

“The real question, akka, is whether you will consent or not,” Manohari said.

“What about the fact that he is a Hindu?” Annalukshmi said, ignoring Manohari. “You know this would be a blow to Amma.”

“She is not overly happy about it, but in time I hope she comes to accept it,” Kumudini said.

“Don’t forget, akka,” Manohari added, “if Kumudini returns to Malaya as Muttiah’s wife, Appa will let you off the hook for running away.”

Annalukshmi had finished drying her hair, and she tossed her towel on the bed rather peevishly. “Well I don’t see why my permission is needed. You have all pretty much decided what is to be done. Anyway, you seem to know what you are doing, so I suppose I must give my consent.”

Kumudini’s face flushed. “I know I will be happy. And I won’t forget, akka, that you’ve put me before yourself.” She came and hugged her sister. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she and Manohari went out of the bedroom to tell their mother.

Annalukshmi, left alone, picked up her brush and began to run it through her hair, a pensive expression on her face.

I
n the four months that followed Richard’s departure, Balendran set himself with great purposefulness to put aside the memory of his friend. Sonia had left in early January for England to visit her son and Lady Boxton. She would be away for three months.

The realization of what he had nearly lost helped Balendran in his endeavour. He tried hard to draw pleasure from the things around him. The estate gave him new delight. The reforms he had put into place over the years were now truly bearing fruit, the productivity of the estate soaring. It had become a showpiece and he was often solicited both by Europeans and Ceylonese for a tour so they could study his reforms. These excursion never amounted to anything, however, as the cornerstone of his success, labour reform, was unpalatable to his guests. Still, he felt vindicated that liberal measures could actually result in higher gains. Further, the price of rubber was at a peak, and the debit column of his ledger filled him with satisfaction.

Balendran had also taken up a long-time dream of his, to write a book on Jaffna culture. He was soon absorbed in this
task, and came to love the time he spent with the villagers of Jaffna, discussing their rituals, understanding, with surprise, the variance of custom and language from village to village; the radically different culture of the barren little islands that surrounded the Jaffna peninsula, the language of the inhabitants almost a medieval Tamil.

All in all, it might be said that by the time his wife returned from England, Balendran’s attempt to forget his friend had been an overwhelming success.

One evening, towards the end of April, Balendran stopped by at Brighton on his return from a research trip. He had promised to inform his father about a sale he had conducted on a piece of family property in Jaffna. Learning from a servant that his father was not in, he was walking along the verandah to his car when he heard Pillai calling to him. He turned to see his father’s servant hurrying down the front verandah towards him.

“Sin-Aiyah,” Pillai said urgently, “Peri-Amma wants to see you upstairs.”

Balendran looked at him closely, wondering what was wrong. Pillai took out his bunch of keys and let Balendran into the vestibule.

When Balendran reached the top of the stairs, he saw his mother pacing her drawing room. She came forward without a word and took his hands. “A terrible thing has happened. We got word today your brother is very ill.”

Balendran stared at her in astonishment. “What did Arul say is wrong?”

“Not Arul. The servants told me. It’s fatal.”

Balendran glanced towards the stairs, but Pillai had left.

“Wouldn’t Arul have contacted us directly if there was a problem like this?”

“Pillai’s wife, Rajini, told me.”

“Nonsense, Amma,” Balendran said. “Rajini can’t read or write. How would she have been in contact with them?”

Nalamma waved her hand impatiently. “What matters is not how we heard, but what we’re going to do about it.”

“Let us wait a few days and see,” he said soothingly. “Perhaps some news will come to us.”

“A few days might be too late.”

When Balendran came out of the house, he noticed Pillai supervising the gardeners as they gathered up the leaves on the lawn. It struck him now that Pillai, unlike the other servants, was literate. Could Rajini have got the news from him? He recalled the way Pakkiam, his brother’s wife, would sit between Rajini’s legs every evening as Rajini combed out her hair. Pakkiam had been a surrogate daughter to the childless couple. He thought of the urgency with which Pillai had approached him to go and see his mother. Had Pillai been in contact with his brother? Even as he thought this, Balendran dismissed the notion. Pillai’s favoured position as head servant was due to his absolute loyalty to his father, his absolute dedication to the welfare of the family, his absolute honesty. His father had made them all, Pillai included, swear in the household shrine not to have any contact with Arul. Pillai would never have defied his father in this manner. Even as he said this to himself, however, he remembered that his mother, so dutiful and obedient, had maintained some connection with her oldest son’s family, enmeshing him in her duplicity.