The Flower Boy (12 page)

“Adam and Eve had everything,” he repeated.

Chandi wondered if they had burgundy woollen sweaters.

“But their biggest sin was disobedience. God told them to eat anything in the garden except the apple. But when the serpent came and told Eve to tempt Adam, she forgot God and, as a result, they were cast out from Paradise.”

Personally, Chandi couldn't see what all the fuss was about. After all, it was only an apple. He couldn't understand why God had put it there if they couldn't have it. Actually, when he thought hard about it, it was all the serpent's fault. And what was a serpent doing in Paradise anyway? It didn't make the slightest sense.

“So that's why we are born with the stain of original sin on our souls. Because of the sin of our first father and mother,” Father Ross continued, quite unaware of the waves of confusion that threatened to swamp Chandi's immortal soul.

“We are baptized with water to wash away that sin and make us clean and pure again,” he said.

Chandi wondered if Rose-Lizzie had been born with the stain of original sin on her soul. He didn't think so, but perhaps she had. That might account for the Sudu Nona's pain and screams at the time of her being born.

He wondered if the Sudu Nona had been born with the stain too. Maybe she had and no one had washed it away to make her clean and pure again. That might account for her ill-temper and general unhappiness.

Such un-Christian thoughts had no place in Father Ross's Christian classroom, but what Father Ross didn't know didn't hurt him.

“Every time we sin, we hurt God and put our immortal souls in peril,” he said. “If we ask God for forgiveness, we can go on living in the light of His love, but if we don't and continue to sin against Him, we will burn in the fires of hell for all eternity,” he said benignly.

CHANDI SAT WITH Rose-Lizzie on the edge of the drain, eating sour nelli dipped in salt and chili powder. The nelli fruits sat in the skirt of Rose-Lizzie's dress, while the salt and chili powder lay on the side in a torn piece of newspaper, weighted down with four small stones to keep it from flying in the breeze and into their eyes. These days, Ayah let them roam through the gardens at the back of the house on their own.

“We must no sin, Rose-Lizzie,” he said seriously.

“Why? Do we usually?” She expertly spat out a nelli stone.

“I don't think so, but we must careful from now.”

“Why from now on?” she asked curiously.

“Because when die, our immortal souls burn in fires of hell for all eternity,” he quoted gravely.

She looked hard at him. “I thought you said only Buddhists got burned when they died,” she said suspiciously.

“I thought too, but Father Ross say we burn also if sin,” he said.

“But how do we know if we're sinning or not?” she said.

“Father Ross say conscience tell us,” he said.

“What's conscience?” She was beginning to look bewildered.

“Don't know,” he replied. “Must listen.”

They sat there and listened hard, but if their consciences spoke, they were drowned out by the crunchy nelli and Buster's distant barking.

DISNERIS CAME TO visit.

Chandi saw him coming up the mountain path at the back of the house and ran out to meet him, shrieking, “Thaaththi!” which meant “Daddy” in Sinhalese. Disneris swung him up on his shoulders and continued on to the house.

Premawathi came to the kitchen door to see what all the noise was about. He greeted her with his gentle smile.

“Ah, Haminé,” he said. He called her Haminé, which was a title usually reserved for high-caste Sinhalese housewives who presided over walauwwas, ancestral homes.

“Kohomada?” she asked.

“Can't complain,” he said serenely.

She felt a flicker of irritation.

“How's the mudalali? Still making money and paying you next to nothing?” she asked acidly.

Disneris only looked amused. “Now, now, Haminé,” he said mildly. “That next to nothing helps to feed us, doesn't it?”

You, not us, she thought. My hard work helps to feed us. Then she felt ashamed. He couldn't help being the way he was. She had known what he was like when she had married him. And he couldn't really help not having a better job. It was not as though they grew on trees these days. She straightened up.

“Well come in, come in. You must be hungry, and I have some hot kiribath and katta sambol ready,” she said.

They didn't talk again until he was seated on the kitchen step with a plate in his hand. A small sparrow hopped over to the bottom step and stood there hopefully.

“How are the girls?” he asked. “Doing well at school?”

“Same as usual,” she replied. “Don't know about Chandi, though.”

“Why? Been in trouble?” he said.

“Not exactly trouble,” she said vaguely.

“Nona been complaining?” he asked.

“No, she's gone back to England. Trouble there too,” she said.

“Aiyyo! That's a shame,” he said, genuinely distressed by the news.

“Yes, well, it's not like she was the pillar that held the house and family up,” Premawathi commented. “In fact he seems happier now that she's gone.”

Disneris looked horrified. “Aiyyo, woman!” he said. “What's this talk? That's their business, no? You just do your job and don't interfere with the white people. That only brings trouble.”

Premawathi had said enough and heard enough to bring back the irritation she had felt before. She left him eating and went about her business.

CHANDI WAS IN the kitchen listening to the exchange with avid interest. Like most adults, they talked as though he was not there.

He silently agreed with his mother that the Sudu Mahattaya seemed happier these days. He also sensed her irritation with his father and was disturbed by it. He had been only a year old when Premawathi had come to Glencairn, and so had no recollection of living with his father. To him, Disneris was a nice father who came and played with him and talked with him and then left.

When he saw Rose-Lizzie riding on her father's shoulders and being swung round and round by him he felt envious, but when he compared the Sudu Nona and his own mother, the envy dissipated quickly.

That night he lay awake on his mat, although his eyes were closed. His head was too full of thoughts to allow sleep to slide silently in like she did on other nights. Tonight, like all nights when his father came to stay, the children slept on one side of the curtain while their mother and father slept on the other.

They had still not come to bed and he could hear the murmur of their voices outside in the kitchen. He hoped they weren't arguing.

He wondered if the problem was money, and if he should give them his England fund, which had grown to almost ten rupees now. It was a lot of money even by the Sudu Mahattaya's standards, and while he didn't know exactly what it could buy, he knew it was a small fortune.

He thought of what Father Ross had said last week and wondered if his flower business was a sin. He thought about the fires of hell and immediately felt hot. He threw off the thin sheet covering him.

He wondered if he ought to go to confession and get clean and pure once more, but then decided not to. There was the risk of five Hail Marys. Or worse still, Father Ross might tell him not to do it again and then he'd have to obey, because he knew that if he didn't obey a priest, then it was hellfire for sure.

He turned to look at Leela and Rangi, who were sound asleep, worn out by the day. They slept with their heads in the opposite direction to him, because he kicked in his sleep. Rangi's feet were cracked and sore, but Leela's were already horny and hard. They hardly ever wore slippers around the house and garden.

He heard his parents come in. He heard the rustling noises as they changed, the deep sighs as they finally settled down. He heard fumbling noises and small grunts. He heard his mother saying “shhh.”

He hoped they weren't angry anymore.

chapter 12

WHEN YOU COME OUT OF THE SMALL WOODEN BACK GATE OF GLENCAIRN, you find yourself on a mountain path, the same path Chandi takes to school each morning.

It's not a wide path, not like a road. More like a lane. Taking a car on it would be difficult on account of the uneven surface and sudden boulders. Two cars trying to pass each other is a virtual impossibility unless one of them is prepared to drive through the coffee trees. But since the only cars that come to Glencairn drive up to the front entrance of the house, the problem doesn't arise.

The coffee trees are the few straggly survivors of the blight. They grow in clumps here and there and a few industrious people actually pick the ripe red berries, dry them, roast them, grind them, brew them and drink them. The coffee is rich and fragrant although it does leave fine grounds in one's mouth.

No one bothered to pick the berries on the trees outside Glencairn except the birds, who ate them, and Chandi and Rose-Lizzie, who made necklaces with them.

Farther down the path, the coffee trees give way to other trees, and still farther, wildflowers break the brilliant green monotony of the tea slopes.

If you keep walking, you arrive at a fork in the path. The main path keeps winding downward, sometimes so steeply that if you're not as surefooted as a goat, you could lose your footing and roll down. But the old gnarled roots that stick out of the red soil of the hillside act as good handholds.

Ancestors of tea trees, perhaps.

The path curves suddenly to the left and you find yourself on the main road to Glencairn. If you were walking out of the back garden gate, you would probably continue down the path to the school or to the bus stop where the No. 12 Nuwara Eliya bus chugs by every three hours on a good day.

On a bad day it doesn't come at all. Then you have to start walking and hope someone rides by on a bicycle so you can hitch a ride on the center bar.

Not many people around here have bicycles.

If, at the fork, you turn right, you find yourself climbing again.

This path is actually a footpath, and so narrow that a goat and a person cannot pass each other at the same time. Not that there are many goats around, but still.

It disappears into the grass sometimes, but reappears a little later. There are no ancestral tea roots to hold on to here so if the path gets steep, as it does in many places, you simply drop down onto your hands and knees and crawl.

The path is flanked by endless stretches of green with a few big gray boulders strewn here and there. Tufts of African wild grass hang out of the mountain like light green ponytails. The path reaches the top of the hill and then starts downward again.

As you near the top, you hear the sound of laughing. The sound of the oya.

Oya means “small river” in Sinhalese. Actually this was more of an ala than an oya. An ala is a small stream. But since it was the only body of water for about two miles, the residents of the area preferred to call it an oya. It made them feel more important to have an oya rather than just an ala.

As you crest the hill you see it just a few feet below. It wends its way sideways down the mountain, not straight down, which would make it a sort of waterfall. If you have seen the sidewinder snake slither, you'll know how the oya moves. Only the sidewinder hisses and the oya laughs.

This was where Chandi and Rose-Lizzie often came to sit and talk or sometimes just to watch the water.

The water rushes past, tripping over small smooth rocks and fallen branches in its haste. It is clean, clear and shallow in this part of the stream, which is about eight feet wide, and you can see the polished pebbles and grainy sand at the bottom.

But later, it widens into a small lake that is dark and still. Here, its bed is shrouded in lichen and moss which grow on the rocks and branches that litter its depths.

Here, mosquitoes obey Father Ross and go forth and multiply, and slimy bullfrogs frolic after dark like fat old men playing children's games. Fish die alone and float on the surface of the water like silvery-white leaves.

No one fishes or plays or bathes here.

The water stops running and tripping and tries to limp past the lifelessness to where it can run and trip again. Some water survives. Other water pauses for a rest and then dies and floats to the top like the dead fish.

From there, the oya continues sluggishly for about twenty yards, trying perhaps to recover. Then, suddenly, it regains its momentum and burbles on once more.

Chandi and Rose-Lizzie spent hours watching the water, for it held a million things and stories.

The shoals of slender translucent fish that flickered past like swarms of fireflies on moonless nights.

The pebbles, polished smooth like rare gemstones.

The weeds that danced and swayed dreamily, elegant ladies in a watery green ballroom.

The logs that lay like sleeping policemen, whose orders to halt the mischievous water chose to ignore.

The water snakes that drifted down the oya like slim, stately barges, only swimming when they sensed danger.

The pilihuduwa, the fisher bird, who swooped down in a flash of blue lightning and left triumphantly with a surprised fish in her beak.

Things that adults saw every day and never noticed.

They sailed leaf boats down the oya and ran alongside, cheering their tumultuous progress through the wild, laughing waters.

Then the boats arrived at the little dark lake, drifted round and round a few times and stopped.

The cheers would stop too.

ONE EVENING, CHANDI and Rose-Lizzie walked slowly back to the house in silence. They were tired and Rose-Lizzie was scratching absently at a mosquito bite on her arm. Chandi was looking up at the sky and trying to walk in a straight line.

They were both hungry.

From the small gate, they saw Rangi looking out. Their steps quickened.

“Chandi, where have you been?” she asked anxiously.

“Down at the oya,” he said. “Why?”

“You mustn't go into our room now. And tonight, you'll have to sleep in Appuhamy's room,” she said.

He felt afraid. “Why? Has something happened to Ammi?”

“No. Amma is okay. It's Leela,” she said.

Leela. It was strange but he almost never thought about Leela, probably because he hardly ever saw her, but he did love her, almost as much as he loved Rangi, who was so easy to love.

“What's wrong with Leela?” he asked worriedly.

“Nothing. It's just that she— I don't know. You'd better ask Amma,” she said vaguely. Chandi scanned her face for information but only saw confusion.

“Come. I'll take you back to Ayah,” he said to Rose-Lizzie.

She hung back. “No, I'll stay with you.”

Chandi nodded, secretly glad she was staying.

They went inside and the first thing that Chandi noticed was that the door leading to their room was shut. It was never shut, because even when Ammi changed her clothes, she just went behind the curtain.

As they stood there and wondered what to do next, the door opened. Ammi came out and shut it firmly behind her. She looked worried, but she was smiling. Chandi ran to her.

“Ammi, what's wrong with Leela?” he asked.

“Nothing, child. She's—well, nothing. She's fine,” she replied.

“So where is she?”

Premawathi sat on the step and sat them down on either side of her.

“Your sister is fine. Something happened to her today and now she's a big girl,” she said.

“Is she sick?” asked Rose-Lizzie curiously.

“Will she die?” asked Chandi fearfully.

“Goodness no,” Premawathi said, laughing. “Who put these dying thoughts into your head? Must be that crazy Father Ross. Always talking about Heaven and Hell and frightening children. No, child, Leela is not going to die. She is a big girl now.”

Chandi didn't understand any of it. The half answers irritated him and he wondered what the big-girl talk was about. They were talking as if Leela had suddenly spurted up a few inches, which even he knew was impossible. The only other things that could grow in Leela were her kukkus, her breasts, but they were already almost the size of Ammi's, whereas Rangi's were still only bumps on her chest.

He'd seen, because none of the females in his family bothered to cover themselves from him. He was only a child, after all. Once he had asked why he didn't have any, and they had all dissolved into laughter and although he hadn't got an answer, he had been pleased that he had been so funny.

So if it wasn't her legs and it wasn't her breasts, what was it?

Why was she in the room and why couldn't he go in? Rose-Lizzie looked equally perplexed. His mother was smiling in a faraway way that made him irritated too.

There was obviously no point asking any questions.

No one seemed capable of giving him a rational answer.

THE AFTERNOON HAD been just like any other.

Appuhamy had been taking the short nap he needed these days to keep going. Anne was reading in her room, Leela and Rangi were sitting on the kitchen step doing their homework, Chandi and Rose-Lizzie were down by the oya. Ayah was ironing Rose-Lizzie's clothes and the Sudu Mahattaya was at the factory.

Premawathi had been in the Sudu Mahattaya's room dusting and folding. He was a neat man, but Premawathi still liked to keep his room spotless. She liked him and liked doing these things for him.

She was folding his pajamas when she heard a commotion in the corridor. She stepped out and saw Leela and Rangi running to her, their faces frozen with fear.

She ran to them. “What? What is it?” she asked urgently.

“It's Leela, Amma, she's bleeding!” Rangi gasped, tears already starting in her eyes. Premawathi looked at Leela. Other than her white drawn face, she looked fine. There was no blood to be seen.

“Bleeding from where?” she asked.

Leela turned around. She began to cry.

Premawathi looked at the stain on the back of her skirt in shock. She still thought of Leela as a little girl. A child.

Stupidly, her own eyes filled with tears. She put her arm around Leela's shoulders and led her gently back to the kitchen.

“Come child,” she said softly. “This is normal, natural. It's nothing to be afraid of. Come and I'll show you what to do.”

In Ceylon, the passage from girlhood to womanhood is celebrated with rituals as old as the country itself.

As soon as her first blood shows, a young girl is kept away from the eyes of males for seven days.

The reason for the seclusion is twofold: having just become a woman, she is considered to be sexually vulnerable, and seeing a man before the appointed time could result in her becoming too interested in men. And being sexually vulnerable, she is considered attractive to men and therefore a temptation of sorts.

Leela spent her seven days with only her mother, sister and the three female servants for company.

Rangi had stopped being afraid and was now unbearably curious.

“Leela,” she asked on the fourth day. “Where did the blood come from?”

“Down there,” Leela replied, ashamed at her body's behavior.

“Where? The susu place?” Rangi asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes.”

“Did something get hurt?” she asked in concern.

Leela grimaced. “In my stomach, I think.”

“Will it happen to me too?” Rangi asked, a little frightened by the possibility.

“I don't know. Maybe later,” Leela said.

Chandi finally got Rangi to himself.

“Rangi, please tell me what happened to Leela,” he pleaded.

“Ask Amma,” Rangi said.

“But she won't say anything. Just something about big girls. It doesn't make any sense,” he complained. “Please tell me. I swear I won't tell anyone else.” Except Rose-Lizzie, he added silently.

“I'll tell you, but don't tell Amma,” Rangi warned.

She told him and he listened, wide-eyed.

Chandi and Rose-Lizzie sat in the drain.

“From the susu place?” Rose-Lizzie asked in disbelief. “She must have cut herself or something.”

“No. It happens to all girls. Rangi told me.”

“So it's going to happen to me too?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And they'll lock me in a room for seven days?” She was outraged. “I'm going to tell them that I want you to stay in the room with me.”

“They will say no.”

“Then I won't stay.”

“Better you don't say.”

“You mean keep it a secret? Oh that's a good idea! I'll only tell you.”

ON THE SIXTH day of Leela's confinement, Disneris arrived in answer to an urgent telegram that said only:
Leela Big Girl. Come immediately
.

He too felt the initial shock that Premawathi had felt. He had immediately been given leave by his Muslim mudalali, and he had borrowed ten rupees for expenses.

He stood at the kitchen door talking with Premawathi. Although he was the girl's father, he wasn't allowed to see her either.