Bodies in Motion (2 page)

Not that Thani was really old. Fifty-two was old in the villages, old for a field-worker, bowed down by work and unrelenting sun. But for a resident of Cinnamon Gardens, one of Colombo's privileged elite, it was nothing. Thani wandered onto an empty patch of beach, away from the fisherwomen's nets. He walked down to the water's edge, his step as steady as if he were a young man. The waves were fierce today, the wind whipping them up to churn, to pound against the shore. He sank down to sit cross-legged on the damp sand, his movements smooth, comfortable despite his bulk.

Thani lived a life of pleasure and ease; he lived, in fact, much as the British colonial administrators did. He had been raised a Christian, though he rarely went to church; his grandfather had converted from Hinduism long ago. Thani had studied with the British children, had worn the same clothes, played the same games of cricket. When he was a boy, he would have thought himself exactly the same as they were.

Sitting here on the sands, gazing north and west, Thani could imagine that he could see England, far across the sunlit waves, could almost imagine himself truly a citizen of His Majesty's empire. But the 1915 troubles, the brutality of the British response—those had made it clear to every Ceylonese aristocrat that an English education, a law degree, and quiet subservience to British rule were no guarantee of true acceptance, of admittance to the ruling class. The vaunted jus
tice of the courts and the philosophies of reason had proven no protection for the brown-skinned.

Thani had been ten years married at the time of the 1915 troubles, with several small children to protect; he remembered the fear he had felt then, the sense of betrayal. The British were better masters of Ceylon, perhaps, than the Dutch or Portuguese had been. But they were still masters. They promised freedom and independence, but those promises had not yet been kept.

He rose slowly and turned away from the water, crossing the beach toward the city, thinking hard. Could he imagine his daughter in Britain? He knew what his friends would say about the idea—they wouldn't allow an unwed daughter to travel to Jaffna by herself, never mind across the oceans. And now seemed a particularly bad time; there was worrying news coming out of Europe, rumblings of troubled times, even war. It seemed unlikely to affect England, but it was possible. Yet Oxford might still be the best place for his Shanthi. If what Sister Catherine had said were true, it might be the only place for her. Should he care what his friends would say? None of them had a daughter as clever as his. Thani felt a swell of pride filling his chest, a glow of satisfaction as he remembered the nun's words.
Exceptional. Brilliant
.

Thani himself had done well under British rule. He was widely read, cultured, prosperous, strong. The patriarch of a growing clan. Thani could easily live into his nineties, as his grandfather had. Or so he had once thought. Lately, his doctor had been saying some worrying things. His heartbeat was a little fast, sometimes irregular, and though Thani felt fine, healthy and strong, the doctor was concerned. Thani hadn't told Bala anything; with no proof of a problem, there was no need to worry his wife. Still, it made a man wonder. Made him think differently about the future, take a wider view. It would be good to have a place in the history books, a place earned not simply by being born in the right place, to the right family. He had always hoped that his son would mark Thani's place in the world, but Rajan seemed con
tent to live a small life with his wife, his first child. Perhaps Thani should be looking to his daughter instead.

Thani paused in the road, lost in contemplation, and was jolted from his thoughts by a bullock cart rumbling past, inches from his nose. The street was lined with vendors shouting, hawking fresh curry buns, steaming hot samosas; it was almost suppertime. His wife would be worrying. Thani hurried toward home.

 

“
YOU
'
RE A MESS
—
THERE
'
S SAND ALL OVER YOUR PANTS. WHAT HAVE
you been up to?” Bala's voice was annoyed, but she was smiling. She was sitting at the grand piano, elegant in a green silk sari. Despite thirteen children, his wife was almost as slim as a girl. Thani felt the full weight of the extra kilos that had settled around his belly in the last few years. The doctor hadn't been pleased about those either. He leaned against the piano, watching her fingers running quiet scales, up and down the keys. She liked to practice for an hour or so before supper,
just to keep her hand in,
she said. Bala had been quite the pianist as a girl; one of the many accomplishments which had made her so very suitable for one of Cinnamon Gardens' most eligible sons. “Just out walking, kunju,” Thani said. “Had some thinking to do.”

“You and your thinking,” she said dismissively yet fondly. “Go and get washed up; we're dressing for dinner tonight. Rajan is joining us; his wife has thrown him out of the house for the evening, and the boy with him. Says they talk so much that she can't hear herself think.” Bala played a few loud notes, then quieted again. “What she has to think about, I don't know. Isn't thinking about her husband and son good enough for her?”

Thani smiled. “Ah well—not all wives can be as perfectly patient as you, my rasathi.” His princess, he called her, a fair description of the girl she had once been. She was more of a ruling maharani now; they had servants, of course, but it was Bala who arranged everything, who made sure that the servants knew each family member's preferences
and desires. She saw to their comfort, their happiness. Bala had worked so hard to find good matches for the children, and Thani knew that she already had her eye on a few suitable boys for Shanthi. Good families, good prospects, good hearts.

Bala blushed at his compliment. “Enough of your foolishness. Go say hello; they're in the library. No need to hurry—Shanthi isn't home from the club yet.” Bala was frowning now. “You should never have given her that bicycle; it's become impossible to keep track of her. I'm not going to have an easy time finding a husband willing to put up with her wild ways.”

Thani reached down, touched her hand, stilling it on the keys. “She's not really wild, just restless.” He hated to hear anything negative about Shanthi, about any of his children. They were gems to him, pearls of great price. He had been blessed.

His wife shrugged helplessly. “I know, I know. She's a good girl. But look at what happened to that poor girl of Ranjee's—caught fooling around with the Sinhalese chauffeur, and now no one will have her. Wild before marriage, wild after—that's what everyone says, and what man wants a wife who will run around? So no husband for her, no children; that girl will die in her parents' house, miserable and alone.” Her tone was bitter, grieving. Ranjee's child had brought it on herself, but their Chella faced the same grim future, utterly unwarranted.

Thani's chest felt tight, thick with old sorrow. “I know.” He squeezed his wife's hand, released it, took a deep breath. There was nothing they could do now but look to the future of their other children, try not to make the same mistakes again. “But our Shanthi is a good girl. All our children are good—even that lazy boy of ours. I'll go see him now.”

Whether she went to Oxford or not, they
would
find a good husband for Shanthi, someone to take care of her, cherish her like the treasure that she was. That was what every parent wanted for their children, to give them every chance at a good life—if possible, a better life than their parents had had.

Thani's own parents had done an excellent job finding a match for
him. They hadn't tried to find a girl who was his intellectual equal; Bala wasn't interested in his books, his dabblings into mathematics, physics, philosophy, and literature. It would have been pleasant to have a wife more engaged with the life of the mind—a woman more like Sister Catherine. That's what Thani would have chosen for himself, if his parents had been foolish enough to let him choose. But his parents had known that there were more important properties in a wife than the ability to carry on an interesting conversation. Bala was beautiful, still, and she worked tirelessly to ensure his comfort. He was one of Ceylon's luckiest men.

 

THANI
'
S STEP QUICKENED AS HE WALKED DOWN THE CARPETED
hall—he could clearly hear his grandson's voice, its brightness seeming to light the hall, to lighten the dark wood. It was a beautiful house, but so empty these days, with most of his children grown and gone. Thani wondered what it would be like to live in a small house on the beach, some place constructed of mud walls, a clay-tiled roof, a dirt floor—and a door always open to the churning sea. He had inherited this vast space from his parents when they retreated to a tea plantation in the high hill country, at Nuwara Eliya, where it was always pleasant and cool. Perhaps it was time to gather the children and visit his parents. It had been too long; it would be good to have all the family in one place again. And then perhaps a trip to Jaffna, visit their ancestral home. Remind them all where they'd come from.

“Father!” Rajan sprang up as Thani entered the library, the small boy rising as well. “It's good to see you again.”

“And you as well, son—come, Velu, embrace your old grandfather.” The boy came forward shyly for a quick embrace, then pulled back again. He was growing so quickly, only three, but taller than Thani's knees already—he wouldn't be a boy for long. “What have you been showing him?” A book lay open on the floor, thick with text. Not a children's book.

“He wanted a story about kings, so I was trying to tell him about Ceylon's history; I wasn't sure of a few of the details, so I had to look them up.” Rajan smiled sheepishly. “Reminded me how much I don't know, actually. Did you know about these irrigation channels? Apparently once they were the most advanced system in the world. Fascinating stuff, quite impressive, considering how backward those people were.”

Thani raised an eyebrow.
Those people
, was it? And his son's voice, those intonations—had he never noticed how British his son sounded? “Glad to see you're taking an interest,” he said dryly.

“It's Velu, really.” The boy was standing quietly by his father; Rajan ruffled his son's hair. “He's completely caught up in this stuff. Can't seem to get enough of our ancient history. It's all kings and elephants right now. I keep telling him that he should be paying attention to English literature, Shakespeare and Dickens and all that. He's a little young for that now, of course, but it's never too early to start. And in a few years, perhaps we'll introduce him to the great philosophers.”

“Aristotle and Plato?”

“That's right. That's what will help him get ahead, you know.” Rajan frowned in concern. “I say—are you quite all right, Father? You look a bit odd.”

Thani forced a reassuring smile, though his head was suddenly pounding. “Just faint with hunger, I suppose, and, oh no”—he pointed out the tall library windows—“there's Shanthi, riding her bicycle across the lawn again. Your mother will be annoyed. I must go wash up and dress. I'll see you in the dining room.” Thani patted Velu's head and turned to head out the door.

“Look, Shanthi's taken a bit of a fall on her bicycle.” Thani turned quickly, following his son's gaze out the library windows to where his daughter sprawled on the grass in a tumble of limbs. The girl appeared all right—and though he couldn't hear her, she certainly looked as if she were cursing her bicycle. Kicking it too, despite her prone position.
Rajan continued cheerfully, “Think her sari's gotten caught on the chain again; that'll take her a bit to put right. So you have plenty of time to wash up.”

 

AFTER DINNER, WHILE THEY LINGERED OVER CARAMEL PUDDING AND
coffee, it was Bala who brought up the subject of Shanthi's future. “So, mahal, I've had word of a few exciting prospects.” Thani glanced at Chellamani, but his eldest daughter seemed calm, unbothered by this reminder of her own unfortunate state. She was serving a little extra pudding to Velu, her slender hands steady on the porcelain dish, its accompanying silver spoon. Chella would have been a good mother, Thani was sure of that. It was too late to think of such things now.

“Oh-ho, is it time for little Sammie to be married off?” Rajan asked cheerfully.

“No one's being married off here,” Bala said, frowning. “You make it sound like we're putting her up on an auction block. We're not barbarians. We've just found a few nice, handsome boys for Shanthi to meet, in appropriate circumstances. She might like them. What do you think, Shanthi? Are you ready?”

There was an uncomfortable pause, with Shanthi quiet and blushing, her eyes cast down. It was impossible to tell what the girl was thinking. Into that pause, Thani found himself speaking.

“Actually, Sister Catherine had a suggestion for Shanthi.”

“Oh?” Bala said, a bit sharply. “I wouldn't think she would have had much…opportunity, to meet suitable young men.”

“Not that kind of suggestion.” Thani wasn't sure why he was bringing this up now; he had meant to discuss this quietly with his wife, in private. Something was pushing him to say the words now, out loud, for everyone to hear. “She thinks Shanthi should go to Pembroke, then university—and then, if they'll take her, to Oxford.”

The table erupted into a storm of voices, arguments, protests. Velu was asking his father if
he
could go to Oxford; Rajan was congratulating Shanthi heartily, with just the slightest tone of smothered envy. Chellamani was asking questions, wanting more details, while Bala was simply refusing, flat out, saying that it was an impossible idea, what was that ridiculous woman thinking? Thani ignored them all, his eyes locked on his youngest daughter. When Shanthi looked up, her face was shining with a mix of fear and excitement. Thani hadn't known before he said the words, hadn't known what the girl would want. Now he knew.