Funny Boy (21 page)

“He’s an idiot,” I said, referring to my father. “Just ignore him.”

“I wish I could,” he said. “Who knows. Maybe everything will go back to normal in a few days.”

Later that evening, I was helping Sonali with her homework when we heard my parents in their bedroom. They were talking about what had happened. We looked at each other and we stopped talking and listened.

When my father had finished relating the incident, Amma said, “You should have taken Jegan’s side. After all, he is more important than the peon.”

“As Tamils we must tread carefully,” my father replied. “Jegan has to learn that. Even I have to be circumspect when I’m talking to the staff. If I was Sinhalese, like Sena, I could say and do whatever I liked.”

Amma sighed. “It’s so ridiculous,” she said.

“What to do? One has to be realistic.”

“I know. I’ve stopped talking to our Kolpetty Market butcher in Tamil,” Amma said. “Poor man is quite relieved. One doesn’t feel safe speaking Tamil these days.”

“It’s just a bad time,” my father said. “Once the government destroys these damn Tigers, everything will go back to normal.”

“Maybe these Tigers and their separate state are not such a stupid idea, after all.”

“Are you mad?!” my father said, incredulous that she should say such a thing.

“I know,” Amma said, “I should have my head examined. But seriously, what do we have to offer our children when they grow up? I don’t want them to live like we do. Always having to watch what they say and do.”

Sonali and I glanced at each other. It was so odd to hear
Amma speak in favour of the Tigers. I wondered what had brought about this change of feeling, then remembered Daryl Uncle’s death.

Then, a week later, inspection time came around. My father didn’t have to go, because Mr. Samarakoon could supervise Jegan, but he and Sena Uncle decided to accompany him.

“It’s better this way,” my father explained to Jegan. “Both Sena and I being there will show that we support you and will discourage any dissension among the staff.”

Jegan nodded and, probably because of the incident with the peon, he seemed rather relieved.

Chithra Aunty was going, too, this time, and my father wanted Amma to come with them. Since Neliya Aunty was also going away for the weekend, Amma took us along as well.

It remained a holiday we would never forget, because of the effect it was to have on Jegan’s life.

From the moment we entered the hotel premises, I found myself watching the staff carefully to see how they reacted to Jegan. Mr. Samarakoon came hurrying down the front steps to greet us. He shook Jegan’s hand warmly, as if nothing had happened. The reception staff and our guest-relations officer also made a point of coming to the front steps to greet him. I was grateful to them for their kindness, and I felt sure that this visit was going to be uneventful after all.

Then later that evening, Chithra Aunty, Amma, Diggy,
Sonali, and I went for a walk along the beach. Jegan came along too. We walked past the entire row of hotels and came to a fishing village. We noticed a van parked on the beach ahead of us and some young men dancing in front of it. Even from a distance, we could hear the sound of singing and laughter. As we drew near, we saw that they were passing a bottle from one to the other.

Amma stopped and said, “Let’s turn back.”

“Nonsense,” Chithra Aunty said, “it’s just some students having a little fun.”

Amma looked at Jegan.

“Best to avoid them, Aunty,” he said. “Since they’re drinking, you never know.”

“Don’t be silly,” Chithra Aunty said. “Come, come.” She grabbed Amma’s hand.

As we drew nearer to the van, the men became silent. They regarded us closely, but once we had passed they went back to their singing.

“See,” Chithra Aunty said, “it was nothing.”

We reached our destination, which was a big rock that jutted out into the water. While Sonali ran around gathering shells, Amma and Chithra Aunty sat on a ledge in the rock and chatted. Jegan, Diggy, and I climbed to the top of the rock and looked out at the sea.

When the sun had almost set, we began to walk back to the hotel. The van was still there, but now the singing had subsided. When we drew near, I saw that the back was open and the men were sitting there with their legs hanging down. They looked at us silently as we passed, and this time I felt more
uncomfortable than I had earlier. We had only gone a few yards beyond the van when one of the men called out, “Ado, Tiger.”

We turned involuntarily.

Jegan took a step towards them.

“Don’t,” Amma said, and she put her hand on his arm. He stood looking at the men for a long moment and then turned around.

“Let’s go,” Chithra Aunty said.

We began to walk rapidly away from them. Amma kept her hand on Jegan’s arm, as if she feared that he would go back.

Just then a bottle flew past us and landed in the sand with a dull thud. “Run!” Amma cried. “Run!”

We hurried across the beach towards the hotel. Amma kept her hand around Jegan’s arm, making sure he stayed with us. Only when we were a safe distance from them did she let go of him.

“Who are those men?” said Chithra Aunty. “How did they know about the Tiger thing?”

Jegan was gazing back at the van. The look in his eyes disturbed me.

“Jegan,” Amma said, and she touched his arm. “Let’s go.”

He shook her hand off roughly.

She motioned to us and we continued towards the hotel. After a while Jegan turned and followed us.

As we drew near our hotel, we saw my father and Sena Uncle having their drink at a table near the beach. They waved to us, gaily. When we were a little closer, however, a look of concern crossed their faces.

Sena Uncle got up from his seat. “What’s wrong?” he called
out to us as we approached. Amma held up her hand to say that she would explain.

When we reached them, Amma said, “We had such a close shave just now.”

We sat down and she began to explain what had happened.

I noticed that while she talked, Jegan seemed lost in thought. When she finished, both my father and Sena Uncle were silent. After a moment, my father sent a waiter to fetch Mr. Samarakoon. When he arrived, my father asked Diggy to get up from his chair and said to Mr. Samarakoon, “Come, come, sit, Mr. Samarakoon.”

“Tell him what happened,” my father said to Amma.

She repeated her story. When she was done, Mr. Samarakoon shook his head and sighed.

“Do you know these characters, Mr. Samarakoon?” my father asked.

“They’re the Banduratne Mudalali’s sons and their friends, sir.”

“Oh,” my father said, “those are the ones who …” He stopped himself. Mr. Samarakoon glanced quickly at Amma.

“The ones who what?” Amma asked.

Nobody answered her.

“Do you think that there’ll be more trouble,” my father asked Mr. Samarakoon.

“Hard to say, sir,” he replied.

My father nodded thoughtfully. “Tell the night watchman to be especially alert tonight.”

Mr. Samarakoon nodded. My father indicated that he could go.

Once Mr. Samarakoon had left, Amma turned to Chithra Aunty and said, “Chithra, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, darling,” Chithra Aunty said brightly.

“Sena?”

“Nalini … please.”

Amma looked sternly at my father. Sena Uncle and Chithra Aunty sensed that there was going to be a fight and so they got up and excused themselves.

When they had left, Amma continued to stare at my father as if ordering him to speak. Finally, he shrugged and said, “I guess you might as well know.”

Then he told her about what had happened during the 1981 riots, and how the Banduratne Mudalali and his sons were responsible for all the killings and burnings in this area. They wanted this town to be completely free of Tamils, and they were backed by a cabinet minister who was a well-known racist.

When my father was finished, Amma didn’t say anything. She looked out at the sea, and there was a tired expression on her face. Then she shifted in her chair and sighed. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about emigration.”

My father looked at her in shock.

“Canada and Australia are opening their doors. It would be a good time to apply. For the sake of the children.”

My father shook his head emphatically. “I’ll never emigrate. I’ve seen the way our people live in foreign countries.”

“It’s better than living in this terrible uncertainty.”

He turned to Amma angrily. “How can you want to emigrate? You saw the way our friends lived when we went to
America. They come here and flash their dollars around, but over there they’re nothing.”

“It’s not a question of wanting or not wanting to go. We have to think about the children.”

“Don’t worry,” my father said. “Things will work out.”

And then after a while, “Besides, what would I do there? The only job I’d be fit for would be a taxi driver or a petrol station man.”

That evening, Diggy, Sonali, and I sat on the patio outside our bedrooms, waiting for our parents so we could go for dinner. Diggy had a gloomy look on his face, and he began to walk back and forth. Sonali sat close to me, as she often did when she was scared.

“Do you think that anything will happen tonight?” Sonali asked me.

Diggy stopped walking and glared at her.

“No,” I said soothingly.

Diggy clicked his tongue against his teeth impatiently and continued his pacing.

“You know,” Sonali said, “sometimes I wish I was a Sinhalese or a foreigner.”

“I don’t,” Diggy said. He glared at us again. “I’m proud to be Tamil. If those damn buggers come here, I’ll …”

He began to pace again, more rapidly than before.

Amma came out onto her patio and called us. We got up and went to her. Even though she was dressed for dinner, she looked very tired.

At dinner that evening, we were all silent. When we had
finished, my parents decided to have coffee served on their patio. We walked across the sand towards their room. The lamps along our path were only a few feet high, and with their rounded shades they looked like illuminated mushrooms. They provided only enough light for us to see directly in front of us. Thus, we were close to my parents’ room before we noticed a group of people gathered in front of one of the patios.

“What on earth!” my father exclaimed.

We quickly walked over to them.

As we drew near, we saw that they were standing in front of Jegan’s patio. They were all guests, and they were talking agitatedly in various languages. When we reached them, we saw the cause of their excitement. Across the window someone had written in Sinhalese, “Death to all Tamil pariahs.” By now a few of the housekeeping boys had come up to the group as well.

“Sir,” one of the guests said to my father, “what do the words mean?”

My father didn’t reply. He and Sena Uncle pushed through the crowd and stepped up onto the patio.

“Please, everything is all right,” my father said very slowly and loudly so that they could understand him. “Everything is under control. You can go back to your rooms.”

Whether they understood him or not, people continued to stand there. Since the crowd was attracting more guests, my father called to one of the housekeeping boys to fetch Mr. Samarakoon and our guest-relations officer, Miss De Silva. He
stood on the patio until they arrived. My father told Miss De Silva, in Sinhalese, to inform the guests that everything was fine. She spoke to them in two or three languages.

One of the guests said something to her. She turned to my father and said, in Sinhalese, “Sir, they want to know what happened.”

“Tell them that it’s just a prank,” my father replied.

She told them this, but some of them shook their heads sceptically. One of them pointed to the writing on the window and asked a question. She shrugged and said something that I didn’t understand, and now the guests looked even more doubtful. By now my father, Sena Uncle, Mr. Samarakoon, and Jegan had gone into the room, leaving Miss De Silva alone with the crowd. After a while, some of the guests began to disperse.

We went onto the patio and into the room. Jegan’s suitcase was open and his clothes were strewn all over the bed. Apart from that the room was untouched. Jegan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the contents of his suitcase. When we came in, he glanced at us quickly and then looked down at the bed again. My father, Sena Uncle, and Mr. Samarakoon were examining the lock of the front bedroom door. Now Miss De Silva came in to tell my father and Sena Uncle that the guests had gone back to their rooms. My father thanked her.

She looked at Jegan and said, “Sorry.”

He nodded.

Once she had gone, my father sat down on the dressing-table stool.

“What do you think, Mr. Samarakoon?”

“Inside job, sir.”

“Yes,” Sena Uncle said. “Obviously, the person who did this had a key.”

“You mean, one of the housekeeping staff?” Amma asked, incredulous.

They didn’t reply.

We were silent, letting the implications of this sink in.

Chithra Aunty was the first one to speak. “Who would have thought?” she said. “They all seem so nice.”