Cinnamon Gardens (46 page)

Annalukshmi looked up from the newspaper to see her mother making her way down the garden to her.

“We had planned to go and do a little shopping this afternoon,” Louisa said when she came up to her. “Are you going to get ready?”

“I don’t think I’ll go.”

After a moment, Louisa put her hand on her shoulder. “It would be good for you to get out of the house. We thought we might have tea at the Cave’s Tearoom.”

“Thank you, Amma, but I would rather remain.”

“Well, merlay, you must do what’s best for you.”

After her mother and sisters had left, Annalukshmi went into the house to get her book and she found inside it the invitation that Chandran Macintosh had given her that day in his studio, almost two months ago. The location of the exhibition was at a house on Gregory’s Road, ten minutes from where she lived.

As she walked down the steps into the garden, she caught sight of a messenger handing Letchumi a letter. Letchumi brought it to her, and she opened it as she sat down again.

The letter lay open in Annalukshmi’s lap as she gazed out over the garden. She was moved by Seelan’s words. They were addressed from his heart and brought back the feeling of anticipation she had felt so keenly the day before, as she had awaited his arrival. She remembered the conversation she had with her uncle yesterday. He was right, she thought. Seelan was an honourable man. The devotion with which he had looked after his mother showed that he was a man of kindness and sensitivity, someone who shouldered his burdens with a sense of responsibility that was admirable. He had apologized to her for his deception and asked for her forgiveness. She could imagine that he would make a very caring husband. She found herself picturing the life she would have with Seelan. She saw them living in a house like Sevena, the sea breeze that blew continuously through it, the comfortable armchairs in the corner for curling up and reading in, the bowls of flowers. In a house like this she could be happy. She pictured them walking arm in arm through the garden, watching the steamers going towards the harbour. She imagined him working at his desk late into the evening, his face half lit by the lamp. As she went about some task, he would, without his eyes leaving his book, reach out his hand to touch her as she passed, a smile on his face.

But the possibility of marriage to Seelan seemed so fraught. There would be the obstacle of her family. Her mother and
grand-uncle would do everything in their power to stop the marriage. Could she really love him enough to overcome all that?

It was true that they did share some interests. And yet … did they really share so much? Were they really suited for each other? She remembered some of the things he said yesterday, opinions they most definitely did not share, the way he seemed to turn away from his own traditions. A persons opinions, as she well knew, were not simply to be dismissed, for they did mark the way someone conducted their life.

Annalukshmi picked up the letter and read it again, remembering the way his eyes had looked into hers when they had spoken on the verandah, the fine features of his face. She sighed at the thought of what she must give up. Seelan had implied that they were to maintain an exchange of letters only if she returned his affection. She would write to him, nevertheless. But how she would express what she felt, she did not know.

Once Annalukshmi had set off along Horton Place, her umbrella open against the sun, she wondered if meeting Chandran Macintosh again would be uncomfortable and embarrassing for the both of them. She almost thought to turn back home, but she had never been to an art exhibition before. Besides, Nancy would be there.

The house where the paintings were being shown was not very different from any of those of Cinnamon Gardens, with its deep verandahs, whitewashed walls, and red roofs. Yet the garden was rather more elaborate than any she had seen before, with a miniature water garden in one corner. There was a gazebo in the middle of the garden and she noticed that a pair of lovers was
involved in a passionate embrace on the bench inside. She shifted the position of her umbrella so that they would not notice that she had seen them. From the house she heard a man singing in Sinhalese, accompanied by a sarpina and tablas. The verandah was deserted, but the front doors were wide open. As she came up to them, she could see into a large room. A small stage had been set up at the far end. It was decorated with coconut leaves that had been twisted into the shape of flowers. The singer she had heard from the garden was on the stage, accompanying himself on the sarpina. He and the tabla player were sitting on cushions. Behind them jasmine and araliya garlands hung down from the ceiling, forming a curtain at the back. Chandran Macintosh’s paintings were on the wall. As she looked around the people present, she could not see him or Nancy anywhere.

Annalukshmi noticed that the room was empty of furniture. Instead, most of the floor was taken up with a red Persian carpet and there were large, mirror-worked cushions and bolsters scattered around the room. The guests disported themselves amongst the cushions, picking at the rich array of food that was artfully arranged on large platters in front of them. There were beef cutlets, pinwheel sandwiches swirled with orange, green, and dark-red filling, fish patties, crisp kokis in the shape of birds of paradise, slices of moist love cake filled with cashew and pumpkin preserve, devilled prawns with a yoghurt dipping sauce, bibikan fragrant with the smell of cardamom and cloves, kadalay fried with coconut, mustard seeds, and chilli, fruit of various kinds.

A lot of the women present were smoking, and Annalukshmi quickly noted that two of them were not wearing blouses under their saris. One of these women lay with her head in the lap of a woman she recognized as Srimani, Mr. Jayaweera’s landlady.
She was wearing a sarong and a shirt. The men were unusually dressed. Instead of suits and ties, most of the men wore sarongs or vertis, clothes that were usually worn at home. One of them had an elaborate shawl draped about his body. From the way he signalled the bearers, he was probably the host. The scene before her was not what Annalukshmi had expected at all.

The performance came to an end and the audience applauded. They began to rise from the cushions. It was now that Annalukshmi noticed Chandran Macintosh stand up from behind a bolster. He was wearing a sarong and a white cotton kurtha shirt open at the neck. He saw her and his face broke into a smile. He came quickly towards her. “I’m so glad you remembered,” he said and held out his hand to her.

The friendliness of his greeting, his frank pleasure at seeing her, put Annalukshmi immediately at ease. She shook his hand warmly and said, “How could I forget, after having enjoyed your paintings so much the last time.”

“There are people here who would be very keen to meet you, having seen your portrait. Shall I impose them on you?”

“I think I’ll sustain myself on your paintings first, Mr. Macintosh.”

He bowed slightly and waved his hand to tell her to proceed.

Annalukshmi, ignoring the looks of interest she was getting from people who had obviously recognized her from her portrait, began to examine the paintings. She started to walk around the room, only glancing at the portrait of herself but a little embarrassed to linger in front of it. On the wall next to it was a series of watercolours depicting village life.

She was halfway through the exhibition when she came upon
Mrs. X At-Home
. The painting had not changed. Still the servant woman in the arms of the gardener. Still Mrs. X regarding
herself in the mirror. Perhaps it was the angle of the light, perhaps he had altered the picture, but Mrs. X looked different. There was no longer a haughty expression on her face. Instead, she had a smile that Annalukshmi found oddly familiar. She bent closer, but then the face became a blur of paint. She stepped back and studied Mrs. X. Then, with a start, she realized who it reminded her of. That smile on Kumudini’s face when she had said, “One must go on.” Annalukshmi’s eyes now travelled to the mirror image of Mrs. X, her truer, sadder self, and it was there that her gaze rested a long time. Somehow, the painting affirmed for her the importance of being faithful to one’s spirit. She knew she must wait, even if it might take a long time, to find whatever it was that she desired.

Annalukshmi folded her arms to her chest and prayed, not to God but to her better self, for the strength to wait, to hold fast to her ideals, even when there was nothing to pin her dreams on.

She heard her name being called. She turned to see Nancy, who had just arrived, coming towards her. Chandran Macintosh, thinking that Annalukshmi had finished her tour of the exhibition, was also making his way in her direction.

I
t was November and the days were once again cool and pleasant. The recommendations of the Donoughmore Commission had been published in the newspapers. Balendran, as he read them, saw that they would bring satisfaction to hardly anyone.

The members of the Congress Party would be furious and disappointed, for the commissioners had not recommended self-government. The Congress’s suggestion of a Whitehall-type cabinet government had also been rejected. Instead, the legislature was to be divided into seven executive councils, each with a minister. The system, modelled on the League of Nations and the London County Council, was the commission’s recognition of the multi-faceted nature of Ceylonese society. The councils would give minorities a chance to participate in government. While this would be the first time any executive power had been granted to the Ceylonese, the most important departments – the Treasury, External Affairs, and the Public Service – remained
in the hands of British officers. Since no minister could act without the aid of the Treasury and the Public Service, his ability to make real changes was doubtful. In addition, the authority of the governor to veto any measure was increased. In other words, power had been given with one hand and taken with the other.

The various minority groups, too, would be disappointed, Balendran saw, for all members of the legislature would be territorially elected. There were to be no more seats allocated on the basis of communal representation, thus drastically reducing the number of minority seats in the council. Balendran wondered how Richard would interpret these measures in his report, begun now almost a full year ago.

The commission recommended that the governor no longer had the prerogative to nominate members, who would henceforth be elected by popular vote. This would mean that his father, who would never deign to canvas for votes, would lose his seat on the council. The verandah at Brighton, always crowded with petitioners, would soon be empty of people coming to seek his father’s favour. Balendran knew, however, that the men who would replace his father – F. C. Wijewardena and other younger members of the Cinnamon Gardens élite – while they would make the necessary gestures to the lower classes, would continue to maintain, even increase their own advantage. The first families of Ceylon, irrespective of race, would ensure that.