Swimming in the Monsoon Sea (9 page)

With nothing much to do, Amrith spent hours in the aviary. While some of this time was devoted to cleaning up and rearranging the perches, what he mostly did was try and train Kuveni to speak. He borrowed a few books from the British Council Library on breeding birds and read up on how to make a bird talk. Yet, despite using all the techniques in the books, he had no success. Kuveni remained stubbornly silent.

The mynah had been a gift to him from Aunty Bundle’s friend and partner, the architect Lucien Lindamulagé. Amrith was very fond of the old man and they had spent many mornings of his childhood together in the architect’s aviary. It was Lucien Lindamulagé who had found the
mynah, when they had been working on a project outstation, and brought it as a gift.

Amrith had been planning to visit Lucien Lindamulagé and consult him on Kuveni’s silence when, one evening, he came home from a solitary bicycle ride by the sea to find the old man seated in a Planter’s chair in the courtyard, having tea with Aunty Bundle.

Lucien Lindamulagé waved the moment he saw Amrith.
“Ah
, my dear, how marvelously healthy and flushed you look,” he cried archly. “No doubt you’ve been taking in the bracing air of the ocean.”

He was a little gray-haired gnome of a man, with large ears and nose, and thick glasses. He always applied white powder to his face, and this gave his dark complexion a grayish sheen. He was seated in a manner not at all befitting his age. His feet were up on the chair, tucked under his white sarong, and his knees were drawn to his chest.

There was something scandalous about Lucien Lindamulagé that Amrith did not understand. It had to do with his constant round of young male secretaries. Amrith had once overheard Uncle Lucky warning his wife that Lucien Lindamulagé should leave his secretaries at home when they went on business outstation; that what the old man did was illegal and he could end up getting arrested. Aunty Bundle had been furious at her husband for believing such rumors. Yet, from the heat of her anger, Amrith felt she knew the rumors were true and was deeply saddened and troubled by whatever it was her friend did.

As Amrith parked his bicycle and went across the courtyard, Lucien Lindamulagé watched his approach over the edge of his glasses, a merry twinkle in his eyes. When Amrith was by him, the architect reached up and pulled on his earlobe affectionately. “Growing taller and taller every month,
nah.”

Amrith could not help grinning. Despite Lucien Lindamulagé’s odd maanner and the scandal surrounding him, he really liked the old architect. Unlike with most men, Amrith felt that he could simply be himself around Lucien Lindamulagé.

“Now tell me,” the old man said, squeezing Amrith’s arm, “how are the birds? Has the mynah talked yet?”

Amrith shook his head.

The architect frowned. “How very odd, my dear. What techniques have you been using?”

Amrith told him all the things he had tried, hoping the architect would be able to suggest something else, but Lucien Lindamulagé shook his head. He put his feet on the ground and stood up.
“Hmm
, let us take a look.” He held on to Amrith’s arm, for he did not have his walking stick with him, and they began to make their way across the courtyard.

Once they were in the aviary, Lucien Lindamulagé tried to get the mynah to talk, but nothing he did worked either. He stared at the bird, puzzled for a long time, then his face lit up.
“Ah!
Perhaps it is loneliness that makes our Kuveni mute. She needs a mate.” He nodded. “Yes-yes. I’m sure that is the solution.”

He turned to Amrith. “We are going outstation in a few days and I will keep my eye out for a male mynah. Village children are adept at catching these birds and will readily give them up for a few rupees.”

Amrith looked at Kuveni, who was regarding them as usual with her head to one side, and he hoped that Lucien Lindamulagé’s solution might turn out to be correct.

When they came down to the courtyard, Lucien Lindamulagé’s secretary was waiting for him — a young man in his midtwenties with an olive skin, glossy black hair, and full lips. As Amrith looked at him, he remembered how he had once heard boys in his school mention Lucien Lindamulagé’s secretaries and refer to the old man as a “ponnaya” — a word whose precise meaning Amrith did not understand, though he knew it disparaged the masculinity of another man, reducing him to the level of a woman.

The hole in the living room roof had still not been fixed and, one evening, the family stood around the barrel, which had been placed under the hole to catch the rain, squinting up at the rafters.

“Bundle,” Uncle Lucky said, staring up at the hole, “haven’t you heard anything yet from Gineris and his sons?”

“Of course I have, Lucky,” Aunty Bundle replied, a little defensively. “Mendis and I even drove out to their village. They’ve promised to come next week.”

“But they did not respond to your initial telegram,” Uncle Lucky said. “You know how these village-types are, so lackadaisical. Next week can end up being next month. Why don’t I try and get another roof-baas. I have a good reference for one who lives right here in Colombo.”

Aunty Bundle shook her head, stubbornly.

“Aiyo
, Amma,” Selvi cried at her, “just get this other roof-baas, for goodness’ sake.”

“No, no,” Aunty Bundle said. “Gineris will come. I trust him.”

“But what if he doesn’t come before the party?” Mala demanded plaintively. “We will have to cancel our birthday. People can’t dance with a barrel in the middle of the living room.”

“Gineris and his sons have always been our family baases,” Aunty Bundle said, folding her arms to her chest. “They will not let me down. Besides, I don’t trust these modern baases; they don’t know how to lay out tiles in the old style.”

“Rubbish, Bundle.” Uncle Lucky gave her an exasperated look. “Tiles are tiles. Of course any roof-baas knows how to do it.”

Selvi gestured with disgust to the open rafters and handmade red clay tiles of their roof. “I wish we lived in a modern house with proper asbestos roofing and a ceiling.”

Aunty Bundle turned to her, annoyed. “You children don’t appreciate what you have. This house is a proper Sri Lankan house, not one of those awful Western models that are so unsuitable for the heat.” She was on one of her favorite hobbyhorses, the colonized minds of most Sri Lankans, including her own children, and she would have continued in this vein if Jane-Nona had not come out of the kitchen, bearing the drinks tray.

“Ah.”
Uncle Lucky took the tray from her. “It’s time for my arrack and ginger beer. Let’s go out into the courtyard.”

They were meeting together again to discuss the party and, once they were all seated, Aunty Bundle began with enthusiasm, having forgotten her previous annoyance. “Girls, girls, I’ve had a brilliant idea. Last night, at Chloe Coomaraswamy’s dinner, she had the most wonderful hopper woman. I have never tasted hoppers like that, so light and crisp and delicious. We could hire her to do hoppers for your birthday.” Aunty Bundle had a great fondness for these bowl-shaped crepes.

“But what about godamba rotis?” Mala asked, as they were her particular favorite, “I thought we were getting a godamba man to set his cart up in the courtyard.”

“We will do both hoppers and godamba rotis,” Aunty Bundle declared.

They all nodded. This sounded like a wonderful idea.

“And what about dessert, Amma?” Selvi asked. “My friend Otara knows this lady who makes lovely meringue and chocolate cream puddings.”

They agreed they would consider that for dessert. But there would also be two birthday cakes from Perera and Sons and lots of trifles and soufflés and puddings. Then the discussion moved on to the number of guests. Aunty Bundle had brought a pad of paper and pen with her and they began to make a list. After they had put down their numerous relatives and family friends, the girls each gave the names of students in their class they wanted to invite. All the boys coming to the party would be relatives, or sons of family friends. When they were done, Aunty Bundle turned to Amrith. “And how about you, son? Any boys from your drama society?”

He shifted uncomfortably.
“Um
 … no, Aunty.”

“Well, that’s alright, dear.” She went back to the guest list, a look of concern in her eyes.

As Aunty Bundle began to read the list, which totaled about a hundred, Amrith felt depressed that not a single person on it was his friend or relative.

D
espite having a car and a driver, Uncle Lucky liked to walk in Fort when going about his business. “A chance to keep in touch with the common man,” he called it. “A chance to remember where I came from.”

One morning, he took Amrith with him to the bank. Their walk led them through the colonnaded arcade that ran in front of Cargil’s Department Store.

The arcade was congested. Peons hurried about, carrying large manila envelopes, files, tiffin carriers; businessmen in ties strolled by on an early lunch; Cinnamon Gardens ladies bustled along, followed by servants staggering under the weight of parcels; beggars with all manner of deformities held out their palms, faces twisted in entreaty. There were hawkers on either side of the arcade forcing an even narrower passage for the pedestrians. From vivid pink or blue plastic sheets spread on the ground, they sold Bombay
film posters, cassettes, socks, underpants, dress shirts in their crinkly wrapping, handbags, incense, wind-up toys from China, and knickknacks.

Amrith had to pay attention to where he was going, and he hurried to keep up with Uncle Lucky, who strode along as if there was no one in his way.

So, by the time Amrith was aware of the man and boy, he had already passed them and found himself turning to look at them. They were wearing shorts, which immediately marked them as foreigners, Sri Lankan foreigners in this case. They had stopped, or rather the boy, who appeared about Amrith’s age but was much taller, had made the man stop so they could look at some garishly painted wooden elephants. Amrith, who still walked on even as he looked back, bumped right into Uncle Lucky. He, too, had come to a standstill and was staring at the man and boy.

The foreigners had lost interest in the elephants. They continued on and were immediately lost in the swell of pedestrians.

“Oh,
ah,”
Uncle Lucky pressed Amrith’s shoulder, not taking his eyes off the crowd. “Amrith, just … stand over there by the entrance to Cargil’s. A client … I must go.”

With that, Uncle Lucky, in a manner that was so uncharacteristic of him, practically ran after the foreigners.

It was some time before he came back. He was sweating. “A client, from Singapore. Good thing I caught him, as he was on his way to my office.” Uncle Lucky took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Come,” he said, gesturing
towards the cool interior of Cargil’s, “let’s go and have a glass of passion fruit cordial.”

Amrith followed him, puzzled by Uncle Lucky’s strange behavior, the agitated look on his face.

They were standing by the refreshment counter, sipping their drinks through straws, when, without any preamble, Uncle Lucky said, “Yes-yes, you children are very blessed not to be poor like I was at your age.”

Uncle Lucky’s teenage years — they had risen to mythical status in his narration of the terrible poverty he and his mother had endured after his father died. More marvelous than the martyrdoms of Aunty Bundle’s saints. How poor Uncle Lucky, at the tender age of fifteen, had to give up his schooling, his dream of being an engineer, and go out to work. The sheer luxury of one egg a week; the eating of every unwanted part of a cow; the fact that he did not taste chicken until he was nineteen years old; the one office shirt, which was washed every evening by his mother, and which, during the monsoon, he sometimes wore damp to work the next day. The list was endless, but the ultimate goal of this litany was always the same — a reminder to the children of how fortunate they were to have a father like him; how very lucky they were to have an Uncle Lucky.

So, Amrith waited for the recital with a mental rolling of his eyes. Instead, Uncle Lucky stared into the distance for a while. “My father, you know, had quite a decent civil service job. We should not have been so poor after his death. He had this brother, you see. Their parents had left them a piece of land in Jaffna, to be equally divided, but the
brother simply took it for himself. After all, it made sense — he was the one living up there in Jaffna and my father was here in Colombo. But my father would not see it that way. He took his own brother to court.
Ttttch
, sadly not an uncommon practice among our Sri Lankans. People say family-family, but the courts are jam-packed with children suing parents, brothers suing sisters, sisters suing brothers. Disgusting. And all the disputes are over dowry and property. That’s why I’m not giving a dowry to my girls. And you too, no property. I’ll give you all a good foreign university education, but that’s that. Much better than this dowry rubbish.”