The Flower Boy (27 page)

Chandi was disappointed but practical.

“Maybe it's better that we didn't go,” he said to Rose-Lizzie. “The wind might have turned and we might have got burned ourselves.”

But Rose-Lizzie was bitter about having been cheated out of her Buddhist burning and was not to be consoled. “I don't care,” she said mutinously. “They should have let us go. We were the ones who knew he was going to die and you were the one who first told them. You even found him!”

“Maybe it would have smelled bad, the burning meat,” Chandi said, trying to placate her.

“
I
wanted to smell it,” she said angrily. “Oh, it's just not fair. We waited so long for him to die. Years and years.”

Chandi looked pensive. “Isn't it funny that someone as old as Appuhamy takes so long to die and someone as young as Rangi dies so soon?” he said.

Rose-Lizzie looked doubtful. “Is it?” she said. “I don't know.”

Chandi looked at her. “Do you think I'll die soon?”

“Oh no,” Rose-Lizzie said definitely. “You'll live for years and years, like Appuhamy.”

“Well, if they burn me, you can come. I'll tell them to let you,” he said generously.

“How will you tell them? You'll be dead.”

“I'll write it down in a book and tell you where the book is, then you can show it to them.”

“They probably won't let me go even then,” she said gloomily. “Anyway, it won't be the same as Appuhamy.”

“Does it matter? You want to see someone being burned, don't you?”

“Yes, but not you!” She was quiet for a bit, then she turned to him. “Chandi, what happened to Rangi?”

“She passed away.”

“Passed away where?”

“To the next world.”

“Where's that?”

“I don't know.”

“But what actually happened to her? I heard Father Ross saying she jumped over the edge,” Rose-Lizzie said, watching him intently.

“She didn't jump.”
She walked.

“How do you know? Were you there? I woke up and you were not there with the others, and then they came and said Rangi was gone. Didn't you see her near the trees?”

I saw her but I didn't stop her.

“Do you think of her?”

I see her every night, but then she disappears.

Chandi jumped up to his feet. “Come on,” he said, holding his hand out to pull her up. “Let's go down to the oya for a walk. All this dying talk is making my head hurt.”

Rose-Lizzie allowed him to pull her along, but she wondered what had happened that day. Chandi had never been the same. He had tried to fool everyone, including her, but she was his best friend. She knew something more had happened.

As they walked down the path, Chandi determinedly pushed the memories to the back of his head, which really hurt. He hadn't been lying about that part.

He remembered every detail of that afternoon. If he forgot during the day, his dream came back at night to remind him.

Even now, he couldn't think of Rangi without feeling a clutch of pain in his heart, and guilt. He often went through the whole scenario in his head and wondered if he might have been able to do something to prevent what had happened from happening. He could have gone to her immediately. He could have run to his mother and told her Rangi had seen and heard everything. He could have followed her faster, held her hand, shouted for help. Something.

But, every time he thought those things, he knew it wouldn't have helped. Nothing would have changed. The day might have been different, or the method, but Rangi would have passed away sooner rather than later.

Perhaps he had always known that, and that was why he had loved her extra. Everyone had loved her extra. Even a little bit. Even Appuhamy, who didn't love anyone, had loved Rangi just a little. His mother used to laugh and say Appuhamy had a soft spot for Rangi.

He missed her. She was his sister and she had passed away.

chapter 25

ON CHANDI'S AND ROSE-LIZZIE'S NEXT BIRTHDAY, THERE WAS NO PICNIC or party or birthday cake. Nobody felt much like celebrating. But they remembered. Premawathi went to the pola and bought jak fruit, gotukola, drumsticks—vegetables Rangi used to like—and a few chickens, and spent the morning cooking them in huge pots.

After lunch had been laid out for the family, Premawathi, Leela, Chandi, Jinadasa and Rose-Lizzie, who insisted on coming along, went to the homes of Glencairn's poor and handed out parcels of food. In Rangi's memory.

Chandi enjoyed doing that. He knew Rangi's soft heart, wherever it had passed away to, would have been touched by the gesture.

“It's my daughter's dana,” Premawathi said, as she handed out the banana-leaf-wrapped parcels. Some people had known Rangi and said a prayer for her soul as they took the food. Others just took it. As they opened the packets, they forgot everything but the food.

THAT YEAR WAS a year of happenings.

After six long years, the war finally ended. It took two atom bombs and thousands of lost lives, a high price to pay under any circumstances, but people were weary of the fighting, bombing and rationing. So the war ended without postmortems. Except for the trials of the war criminals, of course.

Justice was meted out selectively, but apparently satisfactorily.

On the streets of America, joyful young girls kissed sailors and soldiers.

London raised itself wearily and began the painstaking task of rebuilding.

In Germany, people avoided one another's eyes and struggled with guilt as concentration camps were opened and gas chambers exposed.

In Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people buried their dead amid rubble and radiation.

At Glencairn, Chandi read the newspapers and remembered.

He sat on the veranda steps and thought back to their innocence. To that one grand escapade that didn't even happen properly, but that changed everything. The course of their lives. Their loves.

LEELA AND JINADASA had announced to Premawathi that they wanted to get married just as soon as the traditional one-year mourning period for Rangi was over, and Premawathi had gladly given her consent. Jinadasa was not only educated, employed and kind; he was also the only eligible young man to cross her daughter's path. Much as she didn't want Leela to make a bad marriage, she feared even more that she would end up a spinster. An unmarried daughter was to be pitied far more than an abused wife.

After they had shyly told her, she had sat Leela down on the kitchen step and talked to her.

“Be respectful, be loving, be kind. Always have a meal and a smile ready when he comes home from a hard day at work. But remember, he too must be the same to you. When times are bad, be patient. They usually get better soon enough. And if he ever speaks badly to you or, God forbid, lifts his hand to you, leave him immediately and come home.”

Leela looked at her with wide eyes. “Amma, Jinadasa would never be anything but kind and loving and respectful, and he would
never
hit me!”

“People change, my daughter,” Premawathi said, stroking Leela's glossy hair.

“Amma, did our father ever hit you?” Leela asked tentatively.

Premawathi sighed. “No, child, although sometimes I wish he had. At least I would have known he was alive!”

“Amma!”

Premawathi laughed. “I know, I know. That sounds silly, but you know what I mean.”

Leela rested her head on her mother's lap. “Yes. I think I do,” she said sadly. “Ammi, I wish Rangi was here.”

Premawathi blinked back her tears. “So do I, Leela, so do I.”

After a long time, there was a happy occasion at Glencairn. Leela and Jinadasa's marriage was celebrated simply, but with great joy, because all who knew them could clearly see they loved each other.

John had given them a prewedding present of fifty rupees, a small fortune that would pay for the wedding and give them something to put away besides. The date was set for June fifteenth, and for a month before, Premawathi indulged in an orgy of planning and shopping and preparation. Her daughter was not going to have a hole-in-the-corner affair, and while Rangi's recent death and their always precarious financial situation meant they had to keep it simple, she was determined to make it as tasteful as she could.

Using the precious fifty rupees, she and Leela chose a beautiful white sari with slippers to match. Premawathi bought yards of tulle from the cloth shop in Nuwara Eliya and made Leela's veil herself, a long one, held by a coronet of artificial pearls. Luckily, John had given Jinadasa a suit, shirt and shoes, so no money had to be spent there.

Premawathi dipped into her savings and bought new clothes for Chandi and herself too. Brown long trousers, a white shirt and new shoes for him, and a mint-green sari for herself. Her old slippers would do.

She had sent Disneris a telegram informing him that his daughter was getting married, but she didn't really expect him to show up. He didn't.

There was the question of the car. She steeled herself to speak to John, but still put it off until the last minute.

She went to him after dinner, and found him alone on the veranda. Robin Cartwright had retired for the night.

He looked surprised, for she hardly ever spoke to him anymore. “Yes, Premawathi,” he said gently. “What is it?”

“Sudu Mahattaya, you know the wedding?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was wondering, would it be okay if—I mean, could we—”

“Yes?” he repeated, beginning to look slightly amused.

“I was wondering if we could borrow your car to take Leela to church,” she said in a rush.

“Of course,” he said mildly. “But who's going to drive it?”

“Oh.” The thought hadn't occurred to her.

He laughed. “I'll drive her, and you too. And Disneris, of course,” he added.

“He won't be coming, I don't think.”

John's expression gave nothing away. “Well then, I'll drive the two of you.”

She looked uncomfortable and he laughed again. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You want my car but not me, even though there's no one else to drive you.”

She knew he was teasing her and she felt herself flush.

He finally took pity on her. “It's no problem, Premawathi. In fact, I would be honored to drive Leela to the church and back,” he said quietly.

She murmured thanks and fled.

PREMAWATHI FIXED LEELA'S veil on and smiled at her in the mirror. They had been given one of the spare bedrooms to use. “You look so beautiful,” she told her daughter through the hairpins she held between her teeth.

Leela smiled back. “So do you, Amma,” she said, looking at her mother's still-slim figure in its mint sari. She even had a few jasmine blossoms in her hair and their smell hung in the room like a fragrant cloud.

Premawathi laughed. “I'm an old woman and these clothes don't change that.” She sobered up and looked gravely at her daughter. “But you, you are the future, Leela,” she said. “Be careful, both of you. Don't make the same mistakes we have made.”

“Like what, Amma?” Leela asked worriedly.

“Don't bow your head or your back to anyone, child. If you do it often enough, it becomes a habit.”

“
You
don't bow your head. Not really, anyway,” Leela said quietly.

“Ah, but I pretend to, and isn't that the same thing?”

Leela sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and looked curiously at her mother. “Amma, what did you want to be? Before you got married, I mean?”

Premawathi laughed. “A nun, would you believe it?”

“So why didn't you?”

“I suppose because you can't pretend with God, like you can with people.”

“Do you regret it, Amma?”

Premawathi sighed. “Not really. I wouldn't have been a very good nun. I took the easier path, and look what a lot of good I've done with that!”

Leela frowned. “You're a good wife and a good mother!” she declared. “What are you talking about?”

Premawathi had paused to talk, and now started fixing Leela's veil again. “Nothing, nothing. Just the foolish ramblings of a mother on her daughter's wedding day.” Seeing Leela's face, she laughed lightly. “Don't look so worried, child. Mothers are entitled to behave oddly on days like this. Now hurry up. You don't want to keep Jinadasa waiting.”

“Do him good to sweat a little,” Leela said carelessly, and they both laughed because they both knew she wouldn't be a moment late.

CHANDI RAN HIS finger inside his collar and grimaced. It wasn't tight, but it felt like a noose around his neck. That might have been on account of the tie that Premawathi had insisted he wear. He felt uncomfortable and stupid and hoped none of the boys from school spotted him. It would take him weeks to live down the tie.

He stood in the veranda and wondered how long it took for a bride to get dressed. He had been banished from the room ages ago.

It was hot and he was starting to sweat. He moved into the shade, hoping he wouldn't have damp patches at his armpits.

The car looked splendid. He had polished it until it shone and he and Rose-Lizzie had spent the better part of the morning decorating it with flowers which were already starting to look a little limp. They'd be dead if his mother and Leela didn't hurry up, he thought in alarm.

Rose-Lizzie had also disappeared, and was presumably getting ready too.

John strolled out, smoking a cigarette. He too was wearing a suit with a tie and he looked a little nervous.

“Hello, Chandi,” he said. “The ladies not out yet?”

“No. I don't know what they're doing. They've been so long.”

John ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Well now, that's something we men will never understand, old chap. Why women take infernal amounts of time to get ready when we do it in fifteen minutes.”

“Must be makeup, Sudu Mahattaya,” Chandi said.

“Yes, yes. I'd forgotten about the makeup.” He paced the veranda slowly. “Beats me why they bother with the stuff. Makes them look—”

“Funny?”

John laughed. “Yes, funny. But we'd better not tell them that. Not after all the time they spend with it. Not to mention the money.”

Chandi stuck a finger in his collar and tried to scratch his neck.

“Collar giving you trouble?” John asked sympathetically, unconsciously doing the same thing with his collar. “Bloody nuisance, these things,” he muttered.

Chandi nodded sympathetically.

“What's this then? No ladies?” Robin Cartwright said, emerging from the house.

“Dressing,” John said laconically.

“Oh.” Robin nodded understandingly. “Be a few more hours, then. That's why I never married, you know. Strange creatures.”

“That's what Chandi and I were just discussing,” John said.

“Oh, you've discovered it too, Chandi?” Robin said with a laugh. “Never too early to stay away. Well, I'd better be off and find young Jinadasa. Wouldn't be good to have the best man arrive after the bride.”

Although Jinadasa's family had arrived from Maskeliya the previous morning, he had no brothers, and none of his close male relatives had been willing to make the trip for the wedding. Robin Cartwright had volunteered to be Jinadasa's best man, an offer Jinadasa had taken up with alacrity. After all, how many houseboys had British private tutors as best men?

He went off whistling, and John and Chandi resumed their companionable pacing.

Five minutes later, Leela and Premawathi emerged. Both John and Chandi stopped in their tracks and stared, their mouths falling open in surprise, for never had they seen the two look quite so beautiful.

Leela looked like a vision, and for a moment Chandi wondered if they had hidden away the real Leela and brought someone else out. Through the gauzy veil that covered her face, he saw her grin at him and relaxed.

He looked at John, who was still staring, and nudged him. John shook himself out of his shock.

“Worth waiting for, eh, old chap?” he said to Chandi, who grinned and nodded.

“What?” Premawathi said, looking from one to the other.

“Nothing, nothing,” John said airily. “Just man talk.” He held his arm out to Leela, who blushed and took it. He helped her into the car and then Premawathi, who blushed just as hard as her daughter had, drawing a grin from her daughter and a disapproving frown from her son.

Once veils and sari ends were safely tucked away, Chandi got in the front seat and John drove to the church.

They passed a few people, who stopped to stare and wave. Few brides and bridal cars were seen around Glencairn.

PREMAWATHI KICKED OFF her slippers, tucked the end of her sari into her waist and leaned back thankfully into the chair. The garden was empty except for a few crickets, who chirruped sleepily. The lawn was a sea of discarded paper serviettes, streamers and confetti.