Cinnamon Gardens (4 page)

The headmistress’s door opened and Miss Lawton came out. She looked around. “Hasn’t the bell rung yet? Nancy dear, could you please go and tell that groundskeeper to ring it now.”

Nancy nodded and left.

“Ah, Anna, there you are,” Miss Lawton said to Annalukshmi. “Come in, I want to talk with you.”

She followed Miss Lawton into her office.

Though Miss Lawton ran the school with clockwork efficiency, her office was always a mess. Her desk was covered with papers and books through which Miss Lawton seemed to
somehow know her way. The rest of the office was similarly cluttered. Against one wall, a dusty, glass-fronted cupboard was crammed with old cups and shields that the school had won over the years, the excess trophies on top of the cupboard, on the floor, and on the windowsills. A sofa seemed to have caught the spillover from Miss Lawton’s desk and was in danger of being submerged by papers too. One corner of the room, however, was neat, the surface of the desk bare. This had been Miss Blake’s area, and she had maintained it in her orderly fashion.

“Anna dear,” Miss Lawton said as she bustled around to her side of the desk and indicated for Annalukshmi to sit down, “I have a favour to ask you. I am in the midst of finding a replacement for Miss Blake and it might take more than a few days. Would you be able to assist me with Miss Blake’s work?”

“Me, Miss Lawton?” Annalukshmi said, surprised and pleased. “But I don’t know anything about the assistant headmistress’s job.”

“Well, of course I wouldn’t expect you to do all of it,” Miss Lawton said, rolling her eyes. “That would be beyond you. What I need help with is the office work, filing, answering some of the correspondence.”

“I … I’d be delighted, Miss Lawton,” Annalukshmi replied, proud that Miss Lawton considered her for the task.

“I’ll be eternally indebted to you.”

At that moment, the telephone rang and Miss Lawton went to get it. Annalukshmi looked at her beloved headmistress – her hair parted down the middle and wound around her head in a braid, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, her long-sleeved plain dress that hung unfashionably loose to a little below her knees – and she felt an enormous affection for this woman. Miss
Lawton had picked her from amongst all the teachers, some of them much senior to her, for this task. She resolved to do her very best so that Miss Lawton would see that her confidence in her had been well placed.

T
he Mudaliyar Navaratnam’s birthday was one of the grandest, most looked forward to social occasions of Cinnamon Gardens. For the family, however, it was a day tinged with sorrow. Twenty-eight years ago, on the Mudaliyar’s birthday, his older son, Arulanandan, had stabbed his father in the arm because of the Mudaliyar’s resistance to his affair with a low-caste woman who worked as a servant at Brighton. This incident had forced the Mudaliyar to banish his son and the woman to India. His birthday had thus always brought with it the discord of that time and sadness for the loss of a son.

The memory of his brother was very much with the Mudaliyar’s younger son, Balendran, as his car turned into the gates of Brighton on the morning of the Mudaliyar’s birthday. Balendran had received a summons. The Mudaliyar had telephoned him last night and requested his presence early this morning about a matter of importance. He felt sure this meeting had to do with the recent misappropriation of the
brass lamps in their temple in Pettah. The chief priest had gone over Balendran’s head and appealed directly to the Mudaliyar. Balendran felt a twinge of nervousness, wondering whether his father disapproved of his actions with regard to the lamps.

In the days before European domination, a mudaliyar, in the domain in which he held sway, had served as a representative of the king. The British had continued the mudaliyarships, but now it was an appointment by the governor based on loyalty to the Empire. The mudaliyars served as interpreters to the British government agents in the different provinces of Ceylon, and they helped the agents execute colonial policy. They were also Legislative Council members.

As usual, the long front verandah at Brighton was crowded with petitioners seeking favours from the Mudaliyar Navaratnam – posts in government, letters of recommendation, help in settling land disputes. The more important, or those who considered themselves so, were seated in the large reclining chairs. The poor simply sat on the outer edge of the verandah or loitered in the shade of the araliya trees.

Balendran had grown up in this house and knew it intimately, yet he felt himself a stranger as he got out of the car and walked up the steps. In fact, he hesitated briefly, too timid to actually ring the bell and have himself admitted to the vestibule. When he did visit Brighton at this time of day, he would usually have the driver take him to the back, where he was sure to find his mother in the kitchen, her palu wound tightly around her waist as she worked alongside the servants. This morning, however, he did not wish to disturb her, as she would have her hands full with the birthday dinner.

“Sin-Aiyah!”

He turned to see his father’s old retainer, Pillai, in his white coat and cloth, his long grey hair in a knot at the back of his head. He was hurrying down the verandah towards him.

“What is Sin-Aiyah doing here?” Pillai asked in Tamil as he came up to him.

“The Peri-Aiyah sent for me,” Balendran replied in Tamil.

“But nobody told me. You could have stood here for half an hour and we would not have known.” His eyes widened with horror at the thought that the son of the Mudaliyar Navaratnam might have waited on the front verandah of his ancestral home like a lowly petitioner.

He took a large ring of keys that hung from a chain around his waist and selected one.

The heavy front doors of Brighton were panelled and made of teak. Above them was an elaborate, floral-patterned fanlight of stained glass. Pillai unlocked the doors and pushed one of them open for Balendran. “Does at least Peri-Amma know you are here?”

“No,” Balendran replied, beginning to feel annoyed at the big to-do Pillai was making over something inconsequential.

Pillai shook his head at this state of affairs. He shut the front door after him and hurried away, no doubt to inform the Peri-Amma and Peri-Aiyah of their son’s arrival.

Balendran stood in the vestibule, gazing around him. It had been a long while since he had been in the house at this time of the day. Wide wooden stairs, with a red carpet in the centre, rose from the vestibule to a landing. From there, a set of doors led into the ballroom and the banquet hall. Sunlight streamed down on the landing through a stained-glass skylight. Balendran looked up at the landing and was reminded of his childhood –
of those years before he started school when he would lie on the landing and imagine the brightly-coloured patterns of light on the floor to be deer or monkeys, then wriggle around to catch the patterns on his body.

Balendran had a sudden wish to see the designs of light again and he walked quickly up the stairs. As he stood looking down at the configurations, however, another memory from his childhood came back to him. The school holidays when he and his brother would play cards on this landing. A familiar gloom descended on him at the thought of his brother. He turned abruptly and walked down the stairs.

When he reached the bottom step, he stopped in surprise. His father’s secretary, Miss Adamson, was standing by the study door, watching him.

“Good morning,” he said.

She bowed humbly in reply.

Balendran found, as he often did in the presence of this American woman, a desire to laugh at her incongruence in a white sari, her long fair hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head.

“The master will see you now,” she said softly.

She turned and led the way into the study. He followed, thinking how her accent, the way she dragged out the vowels of “master,” made the word sound almost like a caress.

The Mudaliyar Navaratnam’s study was an unfortunate example of what happens when the furnishings of Europe are adapted, without modification, to a tropical climate. The curtains and the upholstery of the chaise-longue and chairs were all of a thick red velvet. The upholstery had very quickly worn off in places, and the curtains, despite repeated cleaning, were always
full of dust. The effect was gloomy and musty, and, as Balendran walked in, he could feel a tickling in his nostrils.

The Mudaliyar pushed his chair out from his desk and leant back in it as he watched Balendran, escorted by Miss Adamson, come towards him. Very little brought him such pleasure as this, the sight of his son, and one of the Mudaliyar’s favourite verses from the
Tirukkural
came back to him. “The service a son can render his father is to make men ask ‘How came this blessing?’ ”

For a moment, because his face was in shadow, the Mudaliyar let his normally stern expression soften.

Birthdays are often a time for recollection and nostalgia, and the Mudaliyar felt he was looking at a younger version of his own late father. Balendran had inherited his grandfather’s small but well-proportioned frame and fine features, his long eyelashes and aquiline nose, his mouth with its thin upper lip and full lower one. At forty, Balendran’s hair was greying slightly at the temples, but this only enhanced the dark glow of his skin. His being clean-shaven, at a time when moustaches were the fashion, gave him a youthful look. He wore neatly pressed, white drill trousers and a coat for, despite the heat, most Ceylonese gentlemen conformed to the standard of European attire and dressed in a suit. The Mudaliyar’s pride in him was well warranted.

The Mudaliyar, at seventy, was still healthy and robust. He was tall and strongly built and had stately features – a long nose that flared out at the nostrils, a high forehead, slightly hooded eyes, and a neatly curled moustache. He was an imposing and handsome figure in his cream cotton sherwani and matching turban, with the holy ash and the sandalwood potu on his brow.

Balendran had reached the desk now and he shook hands with his father, wishing him a happy birthday.

“Pillai says you came through the front entrance.”

“Yes, Appa.”

“Next time use the back. We were not ready and you could have been standing there for an hour. It would not do for people to say that the Mudaliyar Navaratnam keeps his own son waiting like a common petitioner.”

“Yes, Appa.”

The Mudaliyar indicated for Balendran to sit. Miss Adamson had seated herself cross-legged on a cushion. She was looking at some correspondence on the low table in front of her.

“I asked you to come today because something important has taken place.”

“Appa, if it is about the lamps, I can explain …”

The Mudaliyar waved his hand, dismissing this triviality about which he wished to know nothing.

“After meeting with members of the Ceylon Tamil Association yesterday, I have decided to throw in my lot with them.”

Balendran frowned in astonishment. His father belonged to the Queen’s House set. They were statesmen whose only loyalty was to the British governor and Empire and they had no interest in local associations and their demands and needs.

The Mudaliyar shrugged, reading his son’s mind. “I hold my post because I am nominated by the governor and I intend to stay in the Legislative Council only so long as I am nominated. However, the arrival of this Donoughmore Constitutional Commission in two weeks makes it necessary that we Tamils unite together. It is rumoured the commission will be granting greater self-government in the new constitution. This must be stopped. The governor must retain all the powers he possesses.
Otherwise, we will replace a British Raj with a Sinhala Raj and then we Tamils will be doomed.”

Balendran tried to keep his expression attentive so his father would not be able to perceive how much he disagreed with his political views; how much he hoped for, prayed for, the possibility of self-government. He was a respectful son and hence had never expressed his views to his father. Further, Balendran felt sympathy towards him. His father belonged to the old breed of statesman who had come of age at a time when even the mention of self-government would bring the mighty fist of the British Empire down on them. They had learnt to negotiate themselves within this tyranny. His father was like a prisoner who had spent so much of his life in a penitentiary that he was unable to accommodate himself to a life outside of it.

“Besides, self-government would be fatal to this country economically,” the Mudaliyar continued. “We are a mere dot in the ocean. Without the might of the British Empire behind us, we would be reduced to penury. Let us first put our house in order, show that we are worthy of self-government, before it is granted to us.”

The Mudaliyar leant forward in his chair, silent for a moment. “Fortunately, the commission is to be headed by Lord Donoughmore, a man of noble standing. The pale horse in the whole thing is, of course, that Labourite, Dr. Drummond Shiels, who has very fixed ideas on what is good for Ceylon. European ideas that are at odds with our great cultural tradition.” The Mudaliyar paused. “I am speaking specifically about universal franchise.”