Swimming in the Monsoon Sea Read online

  They were approaching Pettah from a route they did not usually take and Aunty Bundle suddenly exclaimed, “Ah, here we are.” She indicated for her driver, Mendis, to stop. She rolled down her car window and beckoned for Niresh to lean forward and look out. “Over there are the last remaining Dutch houses.” She was pointing to a row of one-storied houses with tiled roofs that slanted down sharply and were pitched low over a deep veranda. The roofs were supported by slim wooden or brick pillars. The verandas were raised a few feet above the street, and a wooden railing ran along the edge of them. The houses were in a terrible state, some of the verandas falling apart, the walls with green rot climbing up the side of them.

  Aunty Bundle grimaced. “There is little effort to preserve houses like these. In our two thousand-year-old civilization, something from the seventeenth century seems so new. We are a poor country and there isn’t enough money to keep up the ancient monuments and these as well.”

  She pointed out features of the houses, explaining to Niresh how this house style was adapted by Sri Lankans. She showed him the details of the massive framed doors, with heavily paneled shutters and the equally lofty windows on either side. Though they were not going to go in, she laid out for him the interior of the house. When one entered, there was a long narrow passage, from which doors led into the bedrooms. It ended at the zaal (which became “saleya” in Sinhalese) — a wide and lofty room stretching nearly the whole breadth of the house, which was the eating and living room of the family. Beyond the zaal was the back veranda.

  Once she had finished her description, they drove on for a bit and then, because they were entering the oldest parts of Pettah, where the roads were very narrow, Mendis parked the car and they continued on foot.

  As they hurried through the congested streets, Amrith noticed how fascinated his cousin was by the thick press of people, the hawkers calling out their wares from the makeshift pavement stalls. There was a smell of mothballs and incense in the air mixed with the aroma of teas, spices, ayurvedic medicinal balms, and frying food from the snack stands. A lorry carrying chickens blasted its horn as it tried to maneuver its way through the pedestrians who took up the streets.

  Aunty Bundle and Amrith were used to the sights and smells and they hurried along, but they kept losing Niresh and retracing their steps to get him. He had noticed a snake charmer, who was tempting him to pay for a show by lifting the lid of his woven basket so Niresh could see the cobra lying inside. Then Niresh joined a crowd around a couple of performing monkeys, which were dressed as a man and a woman and were enacting a lewd tale, narrated by their master. The male spectators were grinning and hooting; the women pressing their handkerchiefs or sari palus to their mouths in a pretense of modesty, but really to hide their titters.

  When they finally arrived at Kundanmal’s, where Aunty Bundle was a regular customer, they were immediately attended to.

  The clerk led them to a counter and, from glass-fronted cabinets on the wall, he drew out the rolls of fabric that Amrith pointed to, and flung them with practiced flair along the counter, bolt upon bolt upon bolt. Amrith had a photograph of the shirt he wanted made, torn out of an old American teen magazine he had found at a bookstall on Maradana Road.

  Niresh grimaced as Amrith laid it on the counter. “That’s a bit out of date,” he said, “too disco.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  Niresh narrowed his eyes at the bolts of fabric in the cabinet and pointed to a material that was not shiny like the ones Amrith had chosen. The clerk spun the cloth out over the counter saying, “Good choice, sir, very new.” It was a fairly somber blue, with white stripes.

  Aunty Bundle was waiting and Amrith nodded to say he would get it. The clerk began to put the other bolts of fabric away.

  “Uh, do you think I could have a shirt made, too?” Niresh asked, turning to Aunty Bundle.

  “But why, dear? You have such nice shirts in Canada. Ours must seem so homemade by comparison.”

  “I’ve never had a shirt made just for me.”

  She smiled. “Which material would you like?”

  He pointed to a green version of Amrith’s fabric. “Do you mind?”

  “No, no, not at all.” Amrith was thrilled that they would have matching shirts.

  When the clerk had cut the two materials and put them in a brown paper bag, he began to write out a receipt.

  “I’ll pay for my own.” Niresh reached for his wallet.

  “Definitely not, dear.” Aunty Bundle indicated to the clerk to put everything on one bill. “This is my gift to you. Something to remember us by.”

  Niresh smiled and thanked her.

  The tailor needed to be summoned to sew the shirts. He was a tiny wizened man they called Cut-and-Put because he would say to Aunty Bundle, in the poor English he insisted on speaking with her, “Lady, we must cut-and-put the dress like this,” or, “Lady, it is not fashionable to cut-and-put in that way.”

  His clothes were always a very good fit, though the inside seams were done messily and so, invariably, the garments would have to be dispatched to another tailor to be tidied up.

  Aunty Bundle sent a note with her driver to Cut-and-Put: Tailor, please come immediately. Urgent sewing needed. Mrs. Manuel-Pillai.

  He turned up the next morning. They were at breakfast, when Jane-Nona brought him in. He was bent over with age, and wore thick glasses and a polyester safari suit. He came towards them, holding out the note. “Lady, you have called for me?”

  Once Aunty Bundle had greeted him and inquired after his family, Jane-Nona took him to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  When he had gone, Aunty Bundle turned to Amrith and Niresh. “Now, you boys, please stay home this morning. Go by often and give him lots of praise. He’s terribly temperamental and touchy.” She shook her head. “Oh, dear, he’s so fussy about lunch. Jane! Jane-Nona!”

  When she came out, Aunty Bundle said in a hushed tone, “Check with him before you cook; you know how he is.”

  “I already did, missie.” She smiled. “Evidently, he’s only eating fish these days. Seer fish, at that.” They looked at each other and giggled.

  “Well, I guess we should be grateful it’s not prawns or crabs,” Aunty Bundle said.

  “Yes, missie, or some vegetable that is out of season.”

  Niresh had done a rough drawing of a shirt so Cut-and-Put could see that now the collar lapels were narrower than they were a few years ago during the height of disco, and that shirts were looser fitting. His cousin was skeptical that Cut-and-Put would be able to sew a shirt from such a rough sketch, but Cut-and-Put glanced at Niresh’s sketch, asked him a couple of questions, and then began to measure him.

  Cut-and-Put set himself up in the living room on a mat, in front of the sewing machine that had belonged to Aunty Bundle’s mother. The shirts would be done in a few hours, as he worked fast. Amrith and Niresh came by to duly praise him. He seemed taken with Niresh and said to him, “Young-master, I will make better shirt than from Canada.”

  When they had their first fitting, the pins gently sticking into their bodies, he said, “See young-master, better than imported, I make.” And Amrith and Niresh agreed, with an amused glance at each other.

  When the tailor was done, the boys stood next to each other in the mirror, looking at their reflections. They smiled to acknowledge that they liked wearing matching shirts.

  Yet, Amrith also felt sad. His cousin would not be here to wear his new shirt at the birthday party. He would return to Canada a few days beforehand.

  14

  Amrith’s Troubles

  The afternoon before rehearsals began, Amrith and Niresh returned from errands with Aunty Bundle to find a meeting of the Catholic Students’ Union in progress in the courtyard. Suraj was present and he sat with his hands clasped to his breast, his head bent, a pious look on his face, as he fervently recited the rosary along with the others. Amrith could not help grinning at his devout expression, clearly meant to impress Ma
la, who was leading the rosary.

  Niresh was standing by the car, gaping. He leaned close to Amrith. “What kind of freak show is this?”

  Amrith was half-shocked, half-titillated. He told Niresh what was going on, surprised that he knew nothing about the rosary, even though he must have been baptized a Catholic.

  They went to their bedroom. As they passed the group, Suraj, even though he was supposed to be praying, followed Niresh with his eyes. He frowned when Mala smiled at Niresh, while she waited for the others to say the second part of the Hail Mary.

  In the bedroom, as Niresh sat in a chair and began to remove his shoes and socks, he said, “Who’s the guy with the single eyebrow?”

  Amrith giggled. Suraj’s eyebrows were so thick they met in the middle, forming a continuous line. He would never have thought to comment on this irregularity, as Suraj was revered in school.

  “So,” Niresh said, tilting his head to one side, “unibrow has the hots for Mala.”

  Amrith nodded, grinning. He found this budding romance very amusing, and he told Niresh how Mala, since she realized that Suraj was interested in her, had taken to saying little coy, flirty things to him whenever they met. Suraj was delighted by these exchanges.

  “In-teresting.” Niresh threw his shoes into a corner and put on his rubber slippers. “Will he make the moves on her?”

  Amrith shook his head. “Suraj would not dare cross that line because our families know each other well.”

  Niresh grabbed his arm. “Hey, let’s go by them again.”

  He led the way out of the bedroom. Amrith followed, excited to see what mischief his cousin had in mind. Mala had finished her half of a Hail Mary and the other students were reciting the second half, their heads bent. She looked up at Amrith and Niresh as they passed by. His cousin grabbed his chest, crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and made his legs buckle. Mala snuffled and quickly bent her head. Amrith and Niresh ran towards the living room, giggling. Suraj had turned to watch them and, before he went in, Niresh gave him a cool look.

  “Hey, let’s do something else,” Niresh said, when they were in the living room.

  “Yes.” Amrith looked around and saw a broom. “Why don’t you pretend to be Christ on the cross and I’ll pretend to be Mary Magdalene weeping at your feet?” He was delighted by his own daring, his blasphemy.

  “Good idea.” Niresh grabbed the broom and laid it across his shoulders. They waited until they heard Mala’s voice reciting her half of the Hail Mary and they took their positions in the doorway. Niresh stood with his arms outstretched, a pious look of suffering on his face, his eyes rolled to heaven. Amrith knelt at his feet, his hands clasped, looking up at him adoringly, but with half an eye on his sister.

  Mala finished. She glanced up, saw them, and gave a small cry of surprise, which she quickly turned into a cough. She bent her head in prayer, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

  Amrith and Niresh darted back inside, giggling.

  The students had finished the last decades of the rosary and they began to recite the creed together. The moment they were done, Mala stood up and hurried to the living room. Niresh and Amrith were waiting for her.

  “Stop it, you boys, stop it.” She was laughing so hard, she had to hold her stomach.

  Amrith tried to tickle her and she shrieked and ran into the pantry. When they found her, she was pouring out passion fruit cordial into glasses on a tray.

  “Hey, let me bring that out,” Niresh said, when the drinks were ready. He tried to pick up the tray.

  “Certainly not.” Mala placed her hand on it. “This is a serious meeting.”

  “Come on. I promise to be nice.” He moved the tray away from her.

  “No!” She made a grab for it, but Niresh held it out of reach.

  Jane-Nona was watching all this with interest, from the kitchen.

  Niresh took the tray to the pantry door and pushed it open for Mala. He bowed. “After you, madam.”

  “Oh, what is this, men?” Mala cried with false exasperation as she went out.

  Amrith followed, grinning. He was sure Niresh was going to do something funny.

  As his cousin passed around the tray, he bowed before each person, calling them madam or sir. The girls were amused and charmed, but the boys were not. Particularly Suraj, who glared at Niresh. When he reached Suraj, he held out the tray. “A drink for you, madam. Oh, sorry, I mean sir.”

  Mala giggled and, though Suraj tried to take the joke in good form, he was furious.

  When Amrith stood before the school gates the next morning, he knew he was unprepared for this rehearsal. It had been over three weeks since he had memorized his lines for the audition and he had forgotten most of them.

  Last evening, he had intended to run through his part with Niresh but, instead, they had lain on the bed, chatting away about various things, the copy of Othello open between them. Time had passed rapidly, as it always did when they were talking, and, just as Amrith was finally insisting that they must pay attention and run through lines, Aunty Bundle had knocked on their bedroom door and asked them to turn the lights off.

  With a sigh, Amrith pushed open the school gate and went up the front path. Not only was he worried about being unprepared, but he was also loath to spend the morning away from Niresh.

  When Amrith came into the auditorium, he found the boys seated around Fernando, who was conducting a quick line rehearsal before Madam arrived. “Ah, De Alwis,” he said, beckoning him forward, “let’s start at the beginning and run through your part, too.”

  Amrith swallowed hard as he went to sit beside Fernando. Now that he was actually here, his failure to learn his lines was more serious than it had seemed this morning at breakfast. None of the other boys had their copies of Othello open. Peries was present and, when Amrith happened to meet his eye, he looked away.

  Suraj began Othello’s opening monologue, his eyes closed in concentration, Fernando prompting him every so often. Amrith surreptitiously opened his book and glanced at his lines. He read the first one over and over again, hoping that by knowing it, the rest would return to him spontaneously.

  He was paying so much attention to his task that he did not realize Suraj had come to the end of his monologue. He glanced up to find that the other boys were staring at him.

  “De Alwis.” Fernando reached over and shut Amrith’s copy of Othello. “Give us your first line.”

  The moment the book closed, Amrith could not even remember the line he had looked at just now. The others were waiting. “Um … um … cue, please,” he said, softly.

  “Who’s …” Fernando prompted.

  “Who’s there?”

  Fernando nodded, but then indicated with his hand that there was more.

  “Um … who’s there? Othello?”

  “Good-good.” Fernando gestured to Suraj, who said, “Ay, Desdemona.” Fernando indicated to Amrith, who looked at him blankly and finally said, “Cue?”

  “Will …” Fernando prompted.

  “Will … will … will.” Amrith could not remember.

  There was a rustle of feigned impatience from Peries. He called out, in a bored voice, “Will you come to bed, my lord?”

  “Will you come to bed, my lord?” Amrith scowled at his rival, who smirked back at him.

  “Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?” Suraj continued.

  Again, Amrith did not know what to say and Peries chimed in, “Ay, my lord.”

  “If you bethink yourself of any crime

  Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,

  Solicit for it straight.” Suraj was now addressing himself to Peries.

  “Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that?” Peries replied.

  The two of them began to volley lines back and forth, Peries thoroughly enjoying showing Amrith up, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

  When Peries and Suraj came to the end of their exchange, there was clapping from the back of the auditorium. The boys spun around. Madam was st
anding by the door. She had probably been there quite a while. Amrith felt a sinking within.

  Madam came briskly down the aisle. “Okay, let’s set up the scene.”

  The boys rose from their seats. Amrith got up to follow them, but Madam called his name. She beckoned for him to follow her out of the auditorium, indicating that Fernando should come along, too.

  When they were outside, she turned to Amrith. “De Alwis, what is going on? Didn’t you learn your lines?”

  “I … I did, Madam. I’ve just not practiced them in a while. I meant to run through lines last night, but I didn’t have a chance.”

  “That’s not good enough, De Alwis,” Madam said, severely.

  “I … I know, Madam.” But then wishing to justify his lapse, he said, “My cousin is visiting from Canada and so I’ve had to show him around and there hasn’t been much time for anything else.”

  “Make the time, De Alwis, make the time,” said Fernando, frowning at him. “This is important; you can’t let down the school colors.”

  “I’ll accept your excuse this time.” Madam patted him on the arm. “You’ve always been very conscientious.”

  He nodded gratefully.

  “But I want you to stay out here and learn your lines.” She raised her eyebrows as he looked at her, dismayed. “I’ll send one of the boys who is playing a courtier or some other supernumerary to run through lines with you.”

  Amrith hung his head. Peries would be taking his place today.

  He spent the next hour practicing and, when he was confident he had his lines down, he went back into the auditorium. He made sure to sit where Madam could see him. She noted his presence, but did not invite him to replace Peries onstage. Amrith watched his rival with hatred. Peries was really showing off, taking advantage of Amrith’s lapse.

  Amrith’s only consolation was that Madam did not make him play the part of Cassio. Instead, when they got to that point in the scene, she called on Peries to get off the bed — where he lay pretending to be the murdered Desdemona — and assume his role.