Swimming in the Monsoon Sea (27 page)

The moment he stepped inside the cave-temple, he was surrounded by a great silence. His breath was magnified, and it echoed off the walls. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he went forward, feeling the cool rock against the soles of his feet. He stopped in front of the statue and stood gazing up at the serenity of its face.

“Help. Please help me.”

Amrith had whispered the words before he quite realized it. He started, as his voice echoed sibilantly off the walls and ceiling. When silence had returned, Amrith, taking courage, said again, “Please help me.” This time, strangely, his voice did not echo.

Outside, he could hear Aunty Bundle talking to Niresh as they came past the portal into the temple grounds, the voices of Uncle Lucky and the girls not far behind.

Amrith hurriedly left the cave. He slipped into his shoes and walked to the far parapet wall. He stood, gazing down to the plains below. The monsoon had not arrived in this part of the country yet and everything was parched — the paddy
fields a rutted gray mud; the trees stunted and gnarled, denuded of their leaves. The barest trickle of a stream ran through the clay-colored sand of a broad riverbed.

As Amrith looked at the dry landscape, he thought of that story Uncle Lucky had told him about Miss Rani and her connection to his widowed aunt — how the past sometimes offers a way out of a current dilemma. How the past sometimes offers a gift.

Amrith turned away from the parapet wall. Not far from him, Aunty Bundle was showing Niresh a statue of a Hindu god, explaining the symbolic nature of the objects the god carried in his hands. Niresh was listening to her, his mouth open slightly in concentration.

As Amrith looked at his cousin, he thought of the conflict between Uncle Lucky’s father and brother, and how Uncle Lucky, carrying the scars of that enmity, had denied his aunt the help she needed. Amrith did not want to end up like Uncle Lucky, regretting his actions for years. No, he did not want that. Despite his own despair, he was going to have to save things between himself and Niresh. And he knew what would help him surmount the barrier that stood between them.

T
hat night, once Amrith had brushed his teeth and changed into a sarong, he went to his chest of drawers and took out the leather-bound album that contained the photographs of his mother. His cousin was still in the bathroom and so he sat on the bed, waiting for him.

When Niresh came out, he noticed the album and his eyes widened. Amrith patted the bed next to him.

Niresh hesitated, then sat down beside him.

Amrith opened the album to the studio portrait of his mother. “You’re right,” he said, “my mother was beautiful.”

Then, using the photograph to bolster his resolve, he began to tell Niresh about his life on the tea estate and the arrival of Aunty Bundle. There were things that he did not really know, that he could only guess at. For example, he had no idea what made his mother decide to act. He suspected that once Aunty Bundle found out about his mother’s
situation, she had pushed her to make decisions. This was, he felt, the source of Aunty Bundle’s guilt — that, maybe, if she had let things be, at least his mother would be alive today. What Amrith could tell Niresh was the events of that fateful day when he left his mother. He willed himself to do so, to describe, in a shaking voice, the progression of that day.

He had awoken that morning with a start. The sunlight was flooding in, its rays stretching out to the edge of his bed, a thousand dust motes dancing in the beams. Glancing at the clock on his bedside table, he had seen that school had started an hour ago.

He called to his mother, but when she did not respond, he jumped out of bed and went looking for her.

He found her in the window seat of the drawing room, looking out at the mountains. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her hand on her forehead. She did not move when he called her name again, or when he went and stood by her.

“Amrith …,” she finally said, turning to him. “You’re not going to school today.” She touched the side of his face. “Son, we are going to Colombo with Aunty Bundle. For a while.”

Then, she told him that they were leaving that evening at five o’clock, once Aunty Bundle had finished her work for the day. He clung to his mother’s arm, an incredible joy taking hold. At five o’clock that evening, Aunty Bundle would come in her car and take them away from night sounds and the constant fear of his father.

He wanted to pack right away and they went back to his bedroom. On top of his almirah, there was an old suitcase. His mother took it down. She left it on the floor and went to sit on the edge of his bed, her arms crossed over her stomach, looking out of the window. Amrith hurried about, getting his clothes together. When he called to her, she brushed her hand across her cheek before she came to help him. Together they packed his bag. Once they were done, and the locks were clicked into place, there was nothing more for them to do to get ready.

They went down into the garden and he helped her work on the rosebushes she tended with such loving care. Usually he held the basket with her tools in it. Today, he needed a more vigorous activity that would keep him distracted from his fear that his father might suddenly return. He pestered his mother until she finally allowed him to dig in a spot, to plant some seeds himself. The feel of the cool soil in his hands, the rich smell of it, the various insects and worms that came up as he dug, all kept him so busy that he was surprised when the cook finally came to tell them lunch was ready.

How that last afternoon had stretched. Instead of resting on the veranda, he had been sent to his room. He lay on his bed, watching the clock agonizingly tick away. At one point, he heard a motorcycle on the estate road and ran to the window, terrified that it was his father returning.

By three thirty, the waiting was so unbearable that he got out of bed and put on his traveling clothes. His hands
shook as he did so, and it took him a long time to button his shirt. He even put on his socks and shoes. But then there was nothing more to do. He sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the infuriating tick of the clock behind him. The light was beginning to move back towards the window. It seemed fierce, bright, and alive.

He suddenly fell asleep and became lost in a dream. He was walking through a field of tall grass and flowers, which brushed against his legs. He laughed and held his hands out to the sunlight. Then he heard the
hush-hush
of footsteps behind. He looked back. A man was coming towards him, his head lowered. As he drew near, Amrith saw that the man, whom he knew in his dream was his father, had a face that was contorted with hatred, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Amrith tried to run, but the grass was suddenly higher than him and he fought his way through it, lost.

“Amrith, Amrith.”

He came to himself with a cry and found his mother bending over him.

“Son,” she said, “it is time.”

He stared at her for a moment, then sat up, and rubbed his face. It was almost five o’clock. Jumping off his bed, he hurried towards his suitcase. Then he stopped, staring at his mother. She was wearing the same trousers, the same faded cardigan she had on this morning. Her hair was untidy from sleep. “Ammi,” he cried to her, “hurry up, hurry up, get dressed. Otherwise we will be late.”

She came and knelt before him. He had done his shirt buttons wrong and she fastened them correctly. She drew
him into her arms and held him tight. Something gave in her chest. Her hand was in his hair, her nails rasping against his scalp. He pulled away. She was crying.

Then he heard Aunty Bundle’s car coming up the road to the bungalow.

“Amrith,” his mother said, gripping his arms tightly. “I’m not going with you. I’m sending you to Colombo for a little while with Aunty Bundle.”

The car was in their driveway, its wheels crushing the gravel.

“No, Ammi.” He backed away. “I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Son, son.” She rose quickly to her feet and came towards him, “I’m not sending you away because you’re bad.”

She was holding out her arms to him, but he hurried around the side of the bed. Outside, he could hear the car door slam.

“Amrith, I … I need to be alone with your father. He has a drinking sickness. I have to try to help him. I can’t do that and take care of you at the same time.”

She started to come around the side of the bed. He leapt onto the coverlet and scrambled over to the other side.

He could hear Aunty Bundle calling, “Asha, Asha.”

“Ammi,” he begged her, “please don’t send me away. I want to be with you, no matter what.”

“Ah
, Amrith,” she cried, “don’t do this to me. It’s just for a month or two, that’s all. And I will come and visit. Next week. I promise.”

“Asha, Asha.” Aunty Bundle was coming down the corridor towards his room.

Amrith could also hear the voices of his ayah and the cook in the corridor. He looked around desperately for a way to escape but, at that moment, the door opened and Aunty Bundle walked in. He was trapped between the two women. With a cry, he sank down against a wall and drew his legs to his chest. “Ammi!” he yelled, half in rage, half in despair. “Please don’t send me away. Please!”

Then his mother, as if roused from a dream, ran to him, knelt down, and held him fiercely. “Bundle,” she said, turning to her friend, “I can’t do it. I can’t bear to part with him.”

“Asha,” Aunty Bundle replied, crouching beside her, “it’s only for a short time.” She touched his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t weaken now. What you are doing is only out of love for Amrith.”

His mother looked from her friend to Amrith. Her hold on him began to loosen. He clung to her even more tightly. “No, Ammi, no.”

Aunty Bundle reached out to him, her face full of compassion, but, the moment she touched him, he screamed, “I hate you, I hate you!”

All his affection for Aunty Bundle died in that instant.

His mother pulled his arms off her and stood up, her lips pressed together. Aunty Bundle signaled to the cook, and he came and picked up Amrith. He did not struggle anymore. The only thing he could do was keep his eyes shut
against this horror. The cook carried him down the corridor; his mother, Aunty Bundle, and his ayah followed.

Once he was put in the car and the driver started up the engine, Amrith opened his eyes. His mother placed her hand on the car window, the lines in her palm squashed against the glass. She wanted him to rest his palm against hers, but he would not do so.

Instead, staring her in the eyes, he mouthed,
I hate you
.

He saw the disbelief in her face, as if she was sure she could not have understood right. And to make sure she did understand, he mouthed again,
I hate you
.

Those were his final words to his mother. The car inched forward. His mother walked beside it, hugging herself as if she were cold. The car picked up speed and she walked faster. Finally, she was running. Just before the gate, she stopped.

Amrith swung around in his seat and looked through the rear window. His mother was standing in the driveway, her arms rigid by her sides.

That was the last time he saw her.

A few days after he arrived in Colombo, he heard the news. His mother and father had gone for a ride on the motorcycle early one morning. They had left the bungalow just as the sun was rising. As they sped along the estate road, they had reached a dangerous hairpin bend, and that was where the accident occurred. The motorcycle had gone through a short parapet wall on the edge of the bend and crashed down to the
plains far below. Nobody knew if it was really an accident and what his mother was doing on the back of that motorcycle in the first place. Where had they been going? Had she gone of her own volition and, if so, had she known what the consequences might be? It was all a mystery.

Amrith closed the album and put it aside. He was trembling like a leaf. After a moment, Niresh put his arm around Amrith and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you,” Niresh said, “thank you for telling me about my aunt. I wish, so much, that I could have known her.” Then he hugged him.