The Hungry Ghosts (33 page)

The strain of my grandmother’s worry finally made her speak to me one afternoon at lunch.

“I know you are fond of that Jayasinghe boy, Puthey,” she said, as Rosalind served us, “but it is a good thing he has not been coming by. You have to be careful.” She made to put her hand on my arm, then stopped herself when she saw my expression. “These are difficult times for our government, what with those pariah Tamil Tigers in the north, the Indians trying to take over our country and now the JVP gaining support in the south. The government has to take a firm hand, otherwise our country will fall apart. And all these busybodies going around criticizing the government and shaming us in front of Western countries, they’re all naive and foolish. Traitors, nah, showing us in a bad light to Europeans and—” She caught herself, and this time she did pat my arm. “I am glad you and that Jayasinghe boy are not friends anymore.”

“We are still friends.” My voice rang brokenly. “Mili is my best friend, one of the people I love most in the world.”

“No, Shivan, no, you must cease contact with him. I insist.”

“I’m sorry, but I won’t do that. I will not let Mili down when he needs me most.”

She leaned back in her chair, gazing at me sideways, head cocked and nostrils flared to some dawning knowledge. Then she got up and left the table, lips set in a thin line.

“Friends are people who stand by each other in hard times, Aacho,” I called after her, my pain making me reckless, uncaring of what she felt or surmised. “No, I will not let Mili down in his moment of need.”

My declaration made me decide to go and see Mili that evening. We had been apart four days. It was too long.

When I arrived at his home, a Mercedes-Benz was parked outside. Though the windows were tinted, I could see Tudor Jayasinghe’s mistress in the back.

Mili’s parents were seated on the sofa talking in low voices, and they stood up in surprise when I entered the flat.

“Ah, son, how nice to see you.” His father shook my hand.

“Shivan!” Mrs. Jayasinghe came and took me by the elbow. “Aiyo, son, I am so glad you are here. Can you please help us? It’s Mili—I’m at my wits’ end.”

“Talk to him, make him see sense,” Tudor Jayasinghe urged.

Mrs. Jayasinghe guided me to a chair by the sofa, then husband and wife sat again, leaning forward.

“He has been in there for the last few days and barely comes out,” she continued. “Since yesterday he hasn’t had a thing to eat. Aiyo, I don’t know what to do. I have knocked and knocked on the door, but he just won’t let me in. He won’t even answer. Get him to come out, Shivan. He’ll listen to you.”

“I’ll try, aunty,” I said in a low voice, “but perhaps it’s best if you both left for a few hours.”

“Yes, yes, good idea, son.” His father stood up.

Mrs. Jayasinghe got her purse and flicked a comb through her hair. She made up a tray for Mili of crackers, cheese and thambili. All this while, her husband waited by the door, and when she was ready she asked caustically, “Why are you still here, Tudor?”

“But don’t you want a lift?”

“Get in your car with that woman? You must be mad. I’ll take a trishaw to my cousin’s.” She swept by him and went out.

“Shivan,” he whispered before he left, “Mili must give up this work. I could not bear to lose him. He needs to get out of the country. Charlotte was telling me about your idea of university in Toronto. I would happily pay all his expenses. Please convince him to apply.”

In the disarray of these last few days I had forgotten the idea. But the thought of Mili safe in Toronto softened a brittle tightness in my ribs I had not even been aware of.

Once they had left, I called out, “They’re gone.”

I heard the bed creak, the shuffle of his slippers. Mili unlocked his door and pushed aside the curtain in the doorway. He was wearing a crumpled sarong and singlet. His beard had grown out in irregular tufts.

“Ah, Mili.” I took him in my arms. His hair smelt of slightly rancid Brylcreem. He waited motionless until I let him go, then sat at the table and
began to eat and drink what his mother had put out, chewing in that deliberate, slightly disgusted way of an invalid. I sat across from him, worried at how he had changed, at his indifference to me, yet also aware, after this short absence, of that settled feeling I always had in his presence.

“They wouldn’t let us go to her funeral, Shivan, can you believe it? Ranjini’s parents forbade us because we abetted her affair with Sri.” He dragged the back of his hand along his beard in a curve from one sideburn to the other, something so poignant and vulnerable and childlike in this gesture. “And what did my mater and pater ask you to tell me, ah?

“Come on, Shivan,” he pressed, when I tried to look innocent, “I could hear you all koosoo-koosoo-fying.”

“They want you to give up this human rights work and go to university.”

He gave a small “hah,” then lit a cigarette. He looked at me under lowered eyelids. “And you agree with them?”

“Mili, for God’s sake, don’t put it like that.” My fear made me exasperated. “Your parents and I, we love you, we’re frightened. We don’t want you to end up dead on a beach like Ranjini. I couldn’t bear it,” I added beseechingly, but he seemed unmoved by my personal appeal.

“To give up now would be exactly what this government wants. I won’t be a coward.”

“It’s not a question of bloody cowardliness. It’s about prudence. I have talked to your parents about university in Canada. Your father is willing to pay for the whole thing. Think about it, we could live together and be happy. The University of Toronto has an excellent international development program. With that degree, you could come back and work for the UN or even open your own NGO.” I sensed him weakening and pressed forward. “Mili, this rebellion against your father has to stop. Even your mother is against your—”

He was staring at me in shock. “I didn’t know you saw my work as merely rebellion.”

“But you’re not being sensible, you’re not. I’m just frightened for you and—”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve changed since taking up your grandmother’s work, strutting around like a big mahattaya. The Cinnamon Gardens tone you use with waiters, even your driver, it’s disgusting. The way you flash your money around, paying for things, buttering up my mother with your car.”

Now it was my turn to stare at him in shock.

“And I suppose you want me to be like you. Work at my pater’s firm, help exploit those women in his garment factories. You’re so impressed by my pater’s good-old-chap manners, calling you son and everything. But does he give a damn about those poor women? That stingy bastard makes so much money off them and he can’t buy a fucking bus to transport them to their boarding houses after a late shift. So they have to walk in the dark and be harassed by men. But I suppose you think that’s alright, don’t you, Shivan? What about your grandmother’s business? Don’t tell me it’s all clean and above board. You can’t get rich by being honest and ethical.” He was shouting now.

I stood up, my chair grating back across the floor. “I’m not going to listen to you when you’re being irrational and cruel.”

“Then get out. Go, because you can’t bear to face the truth.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing! You’re such a self-involved arsehole. Hasn’t it struck you that I, too, might be mourning Ranjini?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He went into his room and slammed the door. I was stunned. I had been certain he would ultimately capitulate, as he always did with me. I waited, hoping he would come out. But he didn’t, and finally I left.

I did not hear from Mili for the next few days and I could not bring myself to call him or go to his place. I was frightened by his contempt for me.

My grandmother continued to watch me suspiciously, but I was too involved in my own predicament to pay her much attention. I stayed away from the house as much as possible, not having the energy for a confrontation—as there certainly would be—if she tried again to make me break with Mili.

A few days later, Sriyani hosted a small gathering for her workers to celebrate Ranjini’s life and offer some consolation for being barred from the funeral. Her assistant called and invited me, too. The thought of meeting Mili was frightening, yet I could not miss the opportunity to see if he had relented at all. As the driver took me to Cinnamon Gardens, the nervousness I had suppressed all day flooded in, giving me a sudden headache.

Sriyani was at her usual place on the verandah greeting guests. Her husband was not present, probably away on business. When I got to her, she said, “Ah, Shivan, welcome,” then turned quickly to greet someone else. I did
not know if she was just upset or distracted, but there seemed a new reserve in her manner.

Mili was seated in the sunken mada midula with the other workers from Kantha. He glanced in my direction as I walked towards them, then continued chatting with a fellow guest. The others called out greetings when I reached the steps.

Mili spun around to face me. “Ah, machan! Here you are!”

The hearty “machan” put an immediate barrier between us. He tried to rise, but stumbled and fell against the pillows. The others laughed.

“What, Mili, drunk already?” Dharshini said, giving him a playful rap on the head.

He grinned sloppily.

I walked down the steps with a tight smile and then stood, not knowing where to sit. Mili gestured in a loose way to a gap between him and another worker on the floor. “Come, come, machan.”

There wasn’t much space and we were pressed close, the wet heat of his body against mine, his musky smell of baby powder and sweat strong. I felt a great longing push up in me, which turned to misery at the alienation between us.

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” said Avanthi, the student from America. The others nodded in agreement.

I gave them a diffident smile. “I’ve been a bit busy with my grandmother, helping her out.”

“You’re really great, machan,” Mili cried. “I mean, you’re so good to your grandmother.”

I held his gaze to see if he was being conciliatory, but he smiled back in a hard, bright way.

The others resumed their conversation about the cricket matches to be played in Colombo between India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. There was some change in their faces I could not name, except to say it was like a shifting of bones, a new spareness. The only one who seemed untouched by the tragedy was Sriyani, who came to join her guests and sat in a planter’s chair with that serene, distant smile.

I soon realized that with the exception of Sriyani they were all quite drunk. When they picked up glasses, alcohol sloshed on the floor. Their laughter was
slightly hysterical, bodies leaning into each other for support; cashews and peanuts missed mouths and fell unnoticed in laps. The discussion about cricket was becoming heated, workers sparring over whether Sri Lanka’s captain was the man to lead the team, or if that position should go to their star bowler.

My misery was suddenly unbearable. I excused myself and went upstairs to use the toilet. When I came out, Mili was leaning against the wall, gazing at his feet. A sconce cast a glow on his shoulders, hands and silky hair, as if he were lit from within. He started to cry, his shoulders convulsing. I went to touch him, but he moved away with a hiss, as if my hand would burn.

After a while, he shrugged and gave a bitter smile. “The whole world has gone mad. There is nothing to believe in anymore.”

“There is us.”

He grimaced wryly and walked past me. Yet when he got to the stairs, he glanced back at me with a timid look, which gave me the courage to go, the next evening, to his home.

Charlotte Jayasinghe welcomed me. Mili would soon be back, she said. She seemed calm in some new way, her face scrubbed of makeup, hair pulled back tight in a rubber band. Once she had got me a glass of lime cordial, she said, “Mili and I had a long talk this morning about his job at Kantha. He really believes in this work, you know, he really loves our country and wants the best for it. I am frightened for my son, but also very proud of him. I won’t stand in his way.”

We heard Mili’s motorcycle at the gate. Mrs. Jayasinghe shrugged and smiled to convey she had said all she wanted to.

When Mili came in and saw me, he stood tapping his helmet against his thigh, then said with a dry smile, “Ah, Shivan.” He came and sat across from me, “So-so, what is new?” He was reserved, but there was again that timid look in his eyes.

“Mili,” I said, longing to have him just to myself, “would you like to go out for dinner? I have this urge for thosai.”

“Very good, now you accept, Mili.” Mrs. Jayasinghe pulled his ear tenderly. “Mustn’t take yourself so seriously, nah?”

He grinned boyishly at her, extending his warmth to me, then went to get the spare helmet.

She mouthed “thank you,” and added softly, “He needs some cheering up, he really does.”

“Ah-ah,” Mili called out playfully, “what is this koosoo-koosoo-fying again?”

The restaurant, Shanthi Vihar, was a plain dining hall painted pink, with old wooden tables and metal chairs. It served Tamil vegetarian food and was famous for its thosais, idli and vadais. We went to an air-conditioned inner room with booths, where one paid more for the food. Once we had ordered, Mili pressed his knees against mine under the table. “I have been thinking about you all day and was actually going to call and visit this evening. You are right, Shivan. There is us. And what we have will bring me back to happiness.”

“So everything is okay? You have forgiven me?”

“There is nothing to forgive. You were only thinking of me. I didn’t mean any of those things I said, about you changing and all that.”

“But I have, Mili, I have changed. You were right to point it out.”

“Ah, no, Shivan, don’t take that seriously.”

I wanted this to be a new start for us, without any secrets, so I told him about the Tamil house in Wellawatte and how I’d had that man and his family evicted from the Pettah property. As I spoke, his frown deepened.

“So now do you despise me?” I asked, wretched at the image of myself before me.

“No.” But seeing I was still worried, he squeezed my knee under the table. “It’s not that.” After a moment he asked, “And what is the name of her thug again?”