The Hungry Ghosts (38 page)

We parked under a banyan tree and soon were joined by other motorists, cyclists and pedestrians. Half an hour later, we heard horns and the revving of motorcycle engines, as if a parade were drawing near. Soon the cavalcade came into view, swinging around the Kannatha roundabout. Four motorcycles roared past us, followed by five limousines with tinted windows, followed by army Jeeps blasting their horns, crammed with soldiers at the ready with guns. I glanced at the people around me, who stared with resignation at the passing vehicles. Chandralal’s man was parked a little distance away, sharing a cigarette with one of the soldiers.

By the time I got home, my body felt clammy, teeth rattling against each other. In a fevered state I hurried to my room, pulled out my suitcase and began to throw things into it. Then a weakness overtook me and I curled up in bed, facing the wall, shaking with cold. I heard the clack of my grandmother’s stick as she made her way across the saleya and came to stand in my doorway.

“Sriyani Karunaratne wanted me to give you a message,” I said, still facing the wall. “Tell Chandralal the story is Mili drowned. He went for a midnight swim alone and never came back.” When my grandmother did not reply, I said, “Do you understand? Now go tell him.”

“Are you ill, Puthey?”

“I don’t know.” I left my bed and went to gaze out the window, hands in my armpits for warmth.

“I’ll tell Rosalind to get you a Disprin.” She let out a cry. “But what is this?”

Even though I was turned away, I knew she was referring to my suitcase.

“I have to leave for Canada.” I continued to look out at the side garden, where the gardener had left some saplings in tin cans to sun on the path. “It’s what your man, your thug, wants. I have no choice in the matter.”

“No, Chandralal would never harm my grandson. He would never do that.”

“He is having me followed again. And this time, the man does not even pretend to be discreet. It is clearly a message.”

“I will go and speak to Chandralal. He would never harm my grandson.”

“Are you blind? I am already harmed.” I opened my arms. “Look, look, I am damaged. And you have done this to me.”

“Ah, Puthey, don’t say that,” she said, her voice cracking. “You’re speaking in anger.”

“Remember how you said our Sinhalese ended up eating themselves by causing the riots? Now you have eaten yourself. Through your stupidity and evil, you have lost the thing you value most.” I went back to packing my suitcase, folding my clothes neatly so they would all fit. After a moment she left, and I heard her hobbling towards the front door, calling for the driver.

Rosalind brought me a Disprin, put her hand on my forehead and declared I did have a fever. Once she had persuaded me to lie down, she drew the curtains and left. In the gloom, the sight of my desk, my almirah, my bookshelf, caused a vertigo in me. I closed my eyes and soon the nausea subsided. I fell asleep for a couple of hours and then the ayah woke me to drink some chicken broth. Afterwards I felt well enough to do something I had planned since coming back from Sriyani’s. I went into the saleya, found the phone book and began to call hotels to see if they had a room—not the five-star ones, but simpler, cheaper places. Surprisingly, they were full. There was a meeting of South Asian leaders in Colombo, and as part of the conference cricket matches were being played between India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. This had brought a lot of people from outstation into Colombo, one of the clerks informed me.

I was still calling hotels when the car returned. I put down the phone and watched from the saleya as it pulled into the carport. My grandmother got out with difficulty. She signalled impatiently for the driver to give her his arm. Leaning on him, she stumped up the steps. When she came inside and saw me, she was still for a moment, gaping as she caught her breath. Then she hobbled over, pinched with exhaustion, face streaked where she had wiped the perspiration.

“He would not see me,” she whispered in disbelief. “I sat for two hours in his living room, on that awful velvet sofa, but no one came out to me. I was not even offered a glass of water.”

She craved some comfort, but I turned away and dialled the next hotel in the phone book. “Yes,” I said, when the reception clerk came on the line, “I am looking for a room in your hotel.” I heard my grandmother exclaim and I turned more fully from her. “Preferably tonight. But I’m willing to wait, if I have to, until tomorrow.” The clerk went to check.

“Please.” My grandmother put her hand on my arm. “Don’t go.”

I shrugged her away.

The clerk came back to say they did have a room available, starting tomorrow, late afternoon.

“Yes, I’ll take it. Make the reservation for three days to start.”

I put the phone down and went back to my room without a glance at my grandmother.

22
 

T
HE NEXT DAY OUR NEWSPAPER
, which was government owned, carried the story of Mili’s death on its second page. There were quotes from fishermen confirming strong currents that night; also a quote from the “grieving father” on what a decent, intelligent son Mili had been. “A star has gone out in the firmament of our brilliant youth,” Tudor Jayasinghe was reported as saying. There was no mention of the parents’ separation, of the mistress. Mrs. Jayasinghe was, according to the father, “too indisposed with sorrow for commentary.” There would be no funeral until the body was found. The article spoke of his father’s accomplishments and family lineage, then went on to list Mili’s achievements in school with no mention of his work at Kantha. The piece continued to another page, and turning to it I found a photograph of Mili from when he was a teenager, wearing our school tie and blazer, holding aloft a cricket trophy won under his captainship, grinning in that old, easy way.

I had taken the newspaper to my room and read it seated on my bed. When I was done, I leaned back against the wall and stared at the shifting pattern of sunlight on the curtains as they swelled and crumpled in the breeze. I felt nothing because it was too soon for feelings. I tore the article out of the paper and folded it away in my knapsack.

That morning, I visited the Air Lanka office. They had space on a flight in five days, but I would have an eighteen-hour wait in London for my connection.

I went to tell Rosalind of my departure. The ayah was pounding dry chilies, and she leaned against the mol gaha and listened to me with great sadness. “Ah, baba, I shall miss you so much. You will never come back, I know that.”

“I want you to tell her.”

The ayah squared her shoulders. “No, baba, it is your duty to do so.” And to make her point, she turned her back on me and continued with the pounding.

My grandmother had stayed in bed and not gone on her usual morning errand. She lowered her forearm from over her eyes when I entered.

“I have only come to tell you that I leave in five days. It would be rude not to inform you, since I have enjoyed your hospitality these past months.”

She struggled into a sitting position. “Puthey, you don’t have to go. Please, everything is alright now, everything has returned to normal.”

“Normal?” I said bitterly.

After lunch I was seated on the verandah, waiting for the hours to pass so I could go to the hotel, when an SUV stopped outside the house. One of Chandralal’s golayas opened our gate and the Pajero sped up the driveway. Even before it had come to a complete stop in the carport behind my grandmother’s Bentley, Chandralal jumped out. “Ah, baba, here you are!” he cried, as if he had not seen me in a long time.

He strutted up the steps in great spirits. “What’s this I hear, baba? Your aachi telephoned to say you were leaving on my account?”

His swaggering buoyancy caused that hot whiteness to bloom in my head. “Yes,” I leaned back in my chair, “isn’t that what is expected of me?”

“Ah, no, baba, you must stay.” He smiled down at me. “Stay and let your aachi finish her bana maduwa.” He sat across from me, uninvited.

I pulled away into a corner of my chair as if to avoid pollution, not taking my gaze off him. “Why? What good will any of that do? A bana maduwa cannot erase a murder. In fact, as you well know, Chandralal, everyone must pay for what he does. It is the law of karma. There is no escape from our evil deeds. We pay in this life or the next one.”

He laughed, disconcerted. Then, leaning in to me, he asked, “But, baba, do you not know the story of Siri Sangha Bo?” He proceeded to tell me the tale of Prince Siri Sangha Bo, who refused to become a king because the actions required of a ruler, either in war or in sentencing criminals to death, were ruinous to a person’s chance of a good future birth. A delegation of Buddhist monks finally changed his mind by describing how a leech, when it came into
contact with a woman’s breast, gave pain, whereas an infant suckling on a breast produced pleasure. In the same way, an ignorant, vacillating king earned nothing but demerit for his future life whereas a wise and composed king gained merit. Siri Sangha Bo, convinced, assumed the throne but was unable to perform the necessary harsh actions and his kingdom was plagued with crime. Eventually he had to renounce his title and retreat to the forest, where he became an ascetic.

As Chandralal spoke, I saw for the first time the madness in his eyes. This man believed that though his deeds were harsh they were for the greater benefit of others too ignorant to know what was best for themselves.

“And see, baba, because of me, everything is alright now, nah? Everything is back to normal.”

“But the man I was in love with has been killed.”

He gaped at my admission of love. I had truly shaken his composure and left him speechless.

“Ah, Chandralal!” My grandmother hobbled out onto the verandah pretending surprise at his arrival, though I was sure she had been standing in the saleya, listening.

He sprang to his feet.

“How kind of you to come and see me.” She held out her hand and he took it in both of his, bowing.

“Kind, madam? If anyone has been kind, it is you to me.”

“No, no, Chandralal, whatever generosity I have showed, you have repaid it manyfold. If anyone is in debt, it is I.”

“Ah, madam, I am so sorry about yesterday. I had no idea you came to visit. I was very upset when my security man told me you had sat in my living room for two hours and no one even brought you a cup of tea.” His voice grew resonant with anger. “I scolded my servants for such rudeness. What pariah dogs they are! Even my wife, I was furious at her. What can I do, madam? Despite all my efforts, she is a crude village woman. You cannot make gold from brass, you cannot.”

My grandmother and I looked at him askance. Chandralal collected himself, then inclined his head towards her. “I should go, madam.”

“What, already? But you just got here. Please stay, Chandralal, you must let me give you a cup of tea. After all—”

“No, no, madam,” he said impatiently, “I must go.”

I saw he could no longer stand to be around her. Unlike everyone else in his life, she had been unafraid of him until now, and her lack of fear made him feel a good person. It was the reason he’d had such affection for her. Now she did fear him, and he could not bear her new wheedling tone. I was not sure if she understood his change towards her or not.

That afternoon, when my grandmother was asleep, I left her house. Rosalind waited with me on the verandah for my taxi. As the car pulled up the driveway we watched it transfixed, as if we had never seen a taxi before. When it stopped at the carport, behind my grandmother’s Bentley, I picked up my bags and nodded to Rosalind.

“Will I see you before you leave, baba?”

“Yes. We won’t say goodbye yet.” Then I went down the steps and got in the car. As the taxi drove away, I did not glance back at my grandmother’s house.

In the days that followed, I spent most of my time in my hotel room. Mili’s death seemed a remote event and sometimes I would forget he was dead. I’d be passing time in a bookstore and see a new Robert Ludlum or Jeffrey Archer novel and think I ought to get it for Mili; or I’d wake in the morning and wonder if Mili might be able to steal away from the office for lunch today. I would remember something I wanted to tell him, then realize I could not do that anymore. Whenever I slipped up like this, I felt no pain or grief, just an emptiness that both surrounded me and was inside me, as if I were encased in a casket of thick silence; as if I were silence itself.

This emptiness grew more profound when late one night I received a call from my mother and sister.

“Son,” my mother said, her voice resonant with worry, “we have heard.” I did not ask who had told her. It might have been Rosalind, Sunil Maama or even Sriyani.

“Shivan,” Renu said on the extension, “I am so glad you are coming back.”

I felt no surprise, no longing, no gladness to hear their familiar voices. Their words simply reverberated in the emptiness.

“I am fine.”

“Son, how can you be fine?”

“No … not fine. I suppose just numb.”

“Ah.” My mother sighed to say she understood that feeling well.

Sriyani somehow found out where I was. She sent her driver with a note inviting me to stay with her. She had not come herself, wanting, I supposed, to remove any obligation I might feel at her kindness, to give me the freedom to decide what I wanted. By sending the driver, she was letting me know she was there if I needed her.