Cinnamon Gardens (35 page)

But Arul had said something else. About those who lived by the rules despite their nature.

Balendran looked around him at the shabby furniture of Seelan’s bedroom, the bare walls, the faded, threadbare coverlet, the almirah propped up by bricks where the legs had fallen off. Arul had foregone his wealth, his status. He had worked in a
lowly job. Yet he had a happiness that eluded Balendran with his fine house and high position. He thought of his own study, its expensive furniture, shelves of books, the ebony stand with the bowl of flowers on it, the sea breeze that gently moved the lace curtains back and forth. He recalled the day, six months earlier, when he had heard about Richard’s imminent arrival in Ceylon, how he had stood in his study, Edward Carpenter’s book in his hands, and said that he truly believed what his father had done had been for the best, saving him from an unhappy fate.

Balendran saw that what had changed now was that the thing which had comforted him in his exile from himself had been taken away. His love and admiration for his father, his understanding that his father had, ultimately, done what was right for him, were gone. The prop of his existence had been dislodged. He could no longer count on it for succour. All that was left was the heaviness of regret for a time, for a moment, that was irredeemably past.

In the days that followed, Balendran mourned the loss of his father, the one he had imagined was his, though he was not conscious that he was mourning. In fact, he would have been hard-pressed to give a name to the variety of emotions that passed through him in a day.

Mirroring Balendran’s volatile emotional state, Arul’s disease ebbed and flowed, changing direction sometimes from hour to hour. None of them was quite certain what to expect, save that the end would come soon. There were mornings when Arul was not conscious of the world around him and they were sure he would be gone by the evening. Then by mid-afternoon he would
stir to life, able to talk without coughing much. Balendran and Arul spent most of their time in companionable silence, because of his brother’s increasing breathlessness. When they did talk, they chose not to discuss their father. Instead, they talked about their holidays, their escapades as boys, the old neighbours, the Kandiah girls at Lotus Cottage. A bond grew between the brothers that had not existed before. Or perhaps it had. For as they talked of their childhood, even of their quarrels, they found in those shared memories a life lived together.

Balendran began to call Pakkiam “akka” to show his respect for the person she had become despite her past, to show his desire to be accepted as family by her. Pakkiam tried to return his affection and respect, though understandably her attention was absorbed by the impending catastrophe of her husband’s death.

With Seelan, Balendran saw, one evening, the person beneath his nephew’s formal manner. Pakkiam had retired early to bed from exhaustion, leaving them alone to watch over Arul. They sat in silence, Seelan reading and Balendran lost in his thoughts. After a while, Balendran glanced up to find his nephew staring at him. Seelan quickly looked away. Yet, after a moment, he returned his gaze to his uncle. Balendran could tell that his nephew was struggling with something and he waited.

“What is it like … Brighton?”

Balendran was surprised. “It … it’s quite nice. A three-storey house. A large front garden.”

“Do you live there?”

“No. I … my wife and I live alone.”

“I’ve often thought that I should like to pay a visit to Ceylon.”

Seelan had spoken casually, yet he was watching Balendran intently all the while to gauge his reaction.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” Balendran said, because he could not think of what else to say without sounding rude. “You should come and visit us.”

Seelan’s face lit up, making him suddenly handsome. “Do you really mean it?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

Seelan looked down at his hands, then glanced up shyly. “I would like that,” he said, a depth of feeling in his voice. Then he was silent, playing with the pages of his book. He spoke again, his voice low. “I’m finding it so hard to get used to life here after London. I was so happy there. I … I really felt as if I belonged. I hated to come back.”

At that moment, Arul stirred in his bed and moaned. Seelan got up and went to see if he needed anything.

Balendran looked at his nephew and he felt a welling up of tenderness towards him, the same tenderness he would have felt for a lame cat or a broken-winged bird.

When Balendran had been in London, he had been well provided for. Yet there had been other students from the colonies, scholarship holders or those from less-affluent families. They had lived in unheated garrets, sometimes three or four to a room; hollow-cheeked, constantly coughing or sniffling. They were despised by their landlords and shunned by the more prosperous students from the colonies. This was probably how Seelan had lived. It must have plagued him to see students like his son, Lukshman, carefree and rich, and know that, if not for his parents’ banishment, he would have been of their rank. Then to come back from even that poor existence to this flat, surrounded
by people who did not understand his aspirations or tastes. It must be truly unbearable. His nephew’s self-important, dandyish manner, his anglophilia was an attempt to bridge, in some way, the space between who he was and who he felt he should be.

When Balendran retired for the night, he noticed that the doors to Seelan’s almirah had been left open. He was aware of the sparsity of clothes and their shabbiness. The suit Seelan had worn to meet him was his only fine one. It was carefully sheathed in a cloth covering. Balendran thought of his son’s almirah, with its abundance of clothes, the bottom lined with shoes, and he felt the unfairness, that the only thing that stood between Seelan and his desires was his grandfather. Then an idea struck him. Once Pakkiam was settled and provided for, if his nephew wanted to come to Colombo to visit, why shouldn’t he do so?

The next morning, Balendran was returning from an errand when he noticed a lot of activity on the balcony of the second floor. As he got closer, he saw that people were congregated outside his brother’s doorway.

When he entered the flat, the curtain to Arul’s room had been pulled back. Some neighbours had gathered in the flat, while others hovered outside. Seelan was by the side of the bed, feeling Arul’s pulse. He was still in his white doctor’s coat so he must have rushed back from the hospital. Pakkiam was at the foot of the bed, watching anxiously. They looked up as Balendran entered.

Seelan straightened up. “His pulse is barely there.” He repeated the same thing in Tamil to Pakkiam. She kneaded her arm with her hand, her face distraught.

Seelan started to leave the room. As he passed Balendran he said, “It’s Amma’s wish that she is alone with Appa when he dies.”

Balendran did not hear him. He was staring at his brother, stunned by this rapid turn of events, despite everything unprepared for his brother’s death.

Seelan repeated himself. Balendran nodded and followed him out. As he left, he saw Pakkiam sit down on the side of the bed and take Arul’s hand. Just before Seelan drew the curtain across, he turned to see her lying her head on Arul’s chest.

The neighbours had left, giving them their privacy. Balendran and Seelan sat in the drawing room for what seemed to them an interminable amount of time. Balendran glanced at his nephew, at the frightened look on his face, and wondered how he could have ever seriously thought he would ask for the return of his brother’s body to Ceylon. He vowed to not even request a little ash to release into the sea at Keerimalai.

His thoughts were interrupted by a movement from the bedroom. They stood up quickly.

“Mahan,” Pakkiam called out, “mahan.”

Seelan hurried into the room and Balendran followed. Pakkiam was standing by the bed, her eyes wide with fear. She stared intently at her son, her entire body an entreaty that what she suspected was not so. He went to the bed and took Arul’s hand in his.

After a moment, Seelan laid his father’s hand down and looked up at his mother. The room became still. Then Pakkiam sank to her knees by the side of the bed. She buried her face in
Arul’s arm. After a moment, her hand fell open, palm upwards. “Mahan,” she said in a muffled tone. “Please give me something. This pain is unbearable.”

The funeral was the next day and, contrary to the Mudaliyar’s wishes, it was a simple affair. Arul had laid down very clear instructions for his funeral and, when Balendran saw them, he felt admiration for his brother. They were exactly what his father would have feared. It was a burial that befitted a simple man whose family name was not important. Balendran tried to offset whatever expenses there were, but Arul had put away enough to pay for his funeral. Balendran was surprised by the number of friends Arul had made in his time in India. Every neighbour from the building dropped in to pay their respects, as did his fellow workers.

Balendran and Seelan accompanied the bier to the crematorium. There, Balendran watched as Seelan began to walk around the pyre, setting it alight with a torch at each corner.

Seelan had come to the last corner now and he turned on impulse and offered the torch to his uncle. Balendran looked at him, surprised. The kurukkal who was conducting the funeral came towards them to try and stop the irregularity of the proceedings, but Balendran quickly took the torch from Seelan and set fire to the last corner. Then he handed the torch to the kurukkal and stepped back. He looked at his brother’s corpse as the flames began to surround it.

H
ow marriage changes a person, Annalukshmi thought. She looked at Kumudini propped up on their mother’s bed, the bulge in her stomach beginning to show through her sari. Kumudini had been back only a day, and Annalukshmi saw that there was a strange new confidence to her sister that had not been there before. A slightly superior, bossy manner, a way of ordering everyone around. Kumudini said she was happy, yet Annalukshmi could not help feeling that there was something amiss. She had come upon her sister once or twice crying, and when she questioned her, Kumudini had put it down simply to the emotional vagaries of a pregnant woman.