December 1967 Colombo
‘Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind, Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine, Quiet thoughts come floating down, And settle softly to the ground, Like golden autumn leaves around my feet.’
Shiro hummed her song, the one Lakshmi had sung with her when they were children. Lakshmi my dear, dear friend. You sounded so sad in your letter. I wish I knew where you are. I feel you thinking of me.
Images of Lakshmi from two years ago were imprinted in her memory. Lakshmi dressed in her simple, long skirt and white blouse hugging goodbye at the station. Lakshmi waving as the train drew away. Now it was all gone. And no one would tell her where to find Lakshmi. Her letters spoke of her baby. But Shiro, who knew Lakshmi well, sensed the hopelessness, and under it, anger.
There were new friends in Colombo. There was Lalitha and others. But there was no one who could enter that special corner of her heart where Lakshmi lived. Not even Anthony.
‘I’m so proud of you.’ Her uncle George looked at Shiro sideways as he wound his Ford Consul through the cars and other sundry vehicles crowding the entrance to Fort Railway Station. ‘When you next come to Colombo, you’ll be starting medical school.’
Shiro leaned over and kissed her uncle on his cheek as he pulled into the parking lot. ‘You spoil me, uncle. The way you were running around telling everyone. Honestly, I thought you were going to put posters in the streets.’ She waved her hands above her head. ‘My niece is going to be a doctor!’
They got out of the car. Uncle George opened the boot of the car. ‘Bag, sir?’ A sarong-clad, bare-chested porter, smelling of sweat, appeared as if from nowhere and placed her trunk on a trolley. ‘Badulla train, no, sir?’ together they negotiated the motley group of people bustling and shoving their way onto the station platform.
Shiro hopped on board the carriage and found a seat. She pulled the window up and leaned out. Uncle George stood on the platform just below. ‘Have a good trip,’ he called out. ‘Send me your booklist for medical faculty and I’ll buy them all for you.’
‘Oh Uncle, you’ve bought me all those lovely clothes already. I’ll ask Daddy to call you when I get home.’
The diesel locomotive’s horn echoed through Fort station. The Udarata Menike pulled away from the platform among the usual shouted goodbyes in English, Tamil and Sinhalese. Leaning out, Shiro waved to her uncle until the train drew away and around a bend.
With a contented sigh, Shiro flopped into the linen-covered, leather first class seat Uncle George had booked for her. She opened her bag and pulled out the university entrance examination certificate. Three distinctions and a credit had guaranteed entry to the Colombo Medical Faculty. School teachers and fellow students had been amazed. Bratty little Shiro, drama queen and dreamer, top of the class and one of the best results in all the Colombo schools. Now, one of only two from her school accepted to the Colombo medical school. The other, her best buddy and study partner, Lalitha.
How Shiro longed to share these experiences with Lakshmi, the one person who would understand her dreams. No. Not the only person. There was now Anthony – or Ann. The letters had kept her focussed on her study, kept her mind away from what she knew her family were planning for her.
In the last letter under the nom de plume of Ann, he had promised to be at their place. She needed advice on how to deal with her parents. Anthony would help.
She pulled out her mother’s last letter to her.
‘Darling Shiro,’ her mother had written.
‘Daddy and I are so proud of your achievements. Victor explained to Daddy that the grades you have achieved are hard to reach. We are honestly happy for you.’
Then followed the rider:
‘However, we would like you to consider if this is what you want to do. Five years in medical school and then two years internship is a long hard road for a girl like you.’
A girl like her indeed! The train rocked and rattled through the dusty, dirty Colombo suburbs. Shiro sat back and imagined the conversation that would have preceded the letter.
Victor would have said something like, ‘She loves her study and she’s smart. We shouldn’t stand in her way.’
Daddy would have responded with, ‘True, but can she stand the pressures of university life on her own in Colombo?’
Mother would have pounced on that. ‘Why does she need to go to university? She’s already well educated. There are such nice boys available. That Chelliah boy has just finished university. I hear he’s looking for a bride.’
Sure, Mum, Shiro thought. Marry a nice Tamil boy and settle down. That’s what well brought up Tamil girls do, isn’t it? The boys studied and went to university, the girls went to a good school and married a suitable boy. If the girls were lucky, their parents sent them to finishing school to learn the finer points of cooking, entertaining and flower arrangement. Medical school? For a girl? Heavens, that’s not part of the Jaffna Tamil script.
No. I have a place in university and no one, not even you, my beloved mother, is going to stand in my way. I will go to medical school and be a doctor. Marriage, arranged or otherwise, can wait.
The familiar scenery sped past. The deep, rushing, muddy waters of the mighty Mahaweli River was filled with cattle and even a couple of elephants having their daily bath. The bright green, terraced rice fields stretched into the distance beyond the river, the endless undulating sea of paddy stalks interrupted by collections of shanty dwellings. Little children in colourful cotton dresses and shirts stood on the verandas of the little homes by the railroad track, calling out and waving to the passengers on the train.
Shiro reached out and threw a handful of wrapped lollies to one group of children. She looked back as they swooped on them.
Shiro’s heart throbbed to the beat of the diesel locomotive as the Uderata Maniké wound its way through the Nawalapitiya Ranges. She could see the shiny silver-blue shape of the locomotive as the rail track weaved around the mountains.
The sound of the locomotive’s diesel engine changed to a deep rumble as the train muscled its ascent into the tea country. Shiro breathed in the clean mountain air. The train entered tea country. The smell of partially processed tea drifted into the carriage, making Shiro’s heart long to be back in Watakälé, back in her special place by the stream.
Rolling hills in shades of green and lavender reached as far as the eye could see. Gossamer fingers of mist clung to the top of the hills, loath to let go of their hold on the tea bushes, even in the afternoon sun. Standing in stark contrast to the green of the tea bushes were three and four storey silver-white tea factories, each announcing their name in bold, black letters on the roof. Shiro read off the names as the train rumbled past – St Clair, St James and St Coombs. All these saints. The original British owners must have been very superstitious!
The superintendents’ tudor-style houses or bungalows were perched on the hills. The manicured lawns and neatly trimmed rose bushes were hidden from the eyes of native, coolie and commoner by tall cyprus and eucalyptus trees planted by the British when they first developed the plantations. As a child, she and her brothers had played a game they called ‘spot the bungalow’. Whoever saw one first got a chocolate. Shiro laughed at the memory. She was usually mighty sick of chocolate by the time they got to Watakälé. She knew now it had been their way to keep her entertained on the eight hour steam train ride. At least the onset of diesel had cut the travel time by almost half.
Shiro pulled out her book, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. She imagined a scene from the book in each of the bungalows as they whooshed by the window.
She thought of the tea parties the new school principal hosted for the senior girls in the boarding school, teaching the girls how to entertain ‘the British way’. Apparently it was an important skill for an accomplished young lady. Did British planters in the bungalows actually take their evening tea around lace-covered tables, laden with a silver tea service? With dainty cupcakes and cucumber sandwiches on crystal plates? She would have to ask Anthony about that. If he did, she would like to entertain for him one day. Show the budding British Raj what natives could do.
The Uva valley signalled to Shiro that the train was approaching Diyatalāwa. The hills, now shadowed in the evening sunshine, stretched out to eternity. When she was a child, Victor had called this God’s playground. She had believed him, as she always did, and looked for angels frolicking on the hills.
With the loud wheeze of air brakes, the train sidled up to the platform at Diyatalāwa. Shiro hung out the window and looked around. Her brothers were not on the platform. Victor was working that day and Edward was still in Colombo. She waved to Raaken, the man servant from Watakälé, who was there to help her with her trunk. As usual, they would travel home in Hemachandra Mudalali’s tea lorry.
Raaken boarded the train, grabbed Shiro’s suitcase and hauled it onto the platform. Shiro picked up her handbag and followed.
The train drew out of the station with a long, drawn-out hoot. Shiro glanced at her watch. There were ten minutes before the lorry was due. Time enough for some discreet snooping.
‘Raaken, do you know where Lakshmi –’ A sharp voice cut across the chatter on the platform. Shiro turned to the source, but not before she caught the look of fear on Raaken’s face.
‘Where the hell are those coolies? And where is my car? I told that bloody Tea-maker to make sure it was here to meet the train!’ The British-accented voice dripped with conceited authority.
The tall Englishman towered over the cowering form of Mr Velu, the Diyatalāwa stationmaster. The man was strikingly handsome, with a muscular and athletic body, his hair blonde and thick, curling at his neck. The lean, angular features of his face were relieved by a generously sculptured mouth.
Shiro gasped. Anthony? No, of course not! This must be the older brother from Udatänná. He looked like Anthony, blue eyed and blonde, but taller and broader. The petulant expression on his face was that of a spoiled child. His eyes shifted to catch hers for a fraction of second before returning their icy stare to the hapless Mr Velu.
Shiro recoiled. Anthony’s brother, if that is who the man was, had the eyes of a devil.
‘Sir, I am very sorry sir, there has been no telephone message from Udatänná, sir,’ Mr Velu stammered. Shiro looked away, sickened by Mr Velu’s grovelling. A year away and she’d forgotten the power dynamics and cultural divides of tea plantation life.
The Englishmen raised his hand and waved Mr Velu away. The sun glinted on the slim gold watch on his wrist. ‘Well go on, don’t just stand here, call them and get them to send the car immediately. I can’t spend my day here in this godforsaken rat hole of a station.’
Mr Velu scurried away with a deferential, ‘Yes sir, at once, sir.’
The Englishman placed his foot on his suitcase and packed his pipe. The shoes were of hand-crafted leather like those Anthony wore. The handkerchief used to flick dust off his suitcase pure white linen.
Conceited eyes swept over at the station peons bustling around on the platform. These are my minions, his posture said. I am lord of my domain. Then, as if sensing Shiro’s eyes on him, the eyes pivoted to stare at her. They were the same deep blue as Anthony’s but hard as flint and as menacing as a crouching tiger awaiting its prey. The look sent a chill down her spine.
Shiro shuddered and turned away, just as Hemachandra Mudalali’s lorry rumbled into the station parking lot.
‘Shiro missy, I am sorry to be late. How are you?’ The driver jumped out, ‘Hemachandra Mudalali sent you sweets.’ He handed her the obligatory box of Black Magic chocolates. Seeing the Englishman, he lowered his voice. ‘Come, missy. Let’s go.’ The driver bundled Shiro into the front seat of the lorry. Raaken heaved her suitcase and bag in and then leapt in the back with it. The driver loosed the handbrake and lurched out of the railway station parking lot.
‘Shiro missy, did you see that English man?’ the driver asked as they bounced their way along the rough road which ran through Diyatalāwa town and on to Watakälé Tea Plantation. ‘He is the superintendent at Udatänná. Not a good man at all. He did not talk with you, did he? I will get into trouble with Mudalali if he talked to you.’
‘Come on, driver! What could happen in broad daylight on a station platform?’
Shiro stumbled over the words remembering the lechery in the man’s face in those moments they had gazed at each other. It was as if he had stripped her naked just with his eyes.
She hoped to never see him again.
***
Watakälé
‘What is wrong with you?’ Her mother nagged Shiro. ‘I hardly know you now. Why can’t you talk to me about what is going on in your head?’
Three days into her holiday and nothing had changed at home. She was dying to go to her place by the river. However, her mother had set her mind on teaching her all the womanly tasks. This meant that Shiro was expected to help in the cooking and cleaning. The fact that she would be a medical student next year was ignored by her mother and even by her beloved father.
Mother had been hassling her that morning about her traditional role as a woman and a daughter. Worse still, she wanted Shiro to agree to an arranged marriage. Shiro was sick of it.
‘What is wrong with me,’ she erupted, ‘is that I cannot, and will not be what you want me to be! I’m sick and tired of being the perfect daughter! I love cooking and craft and I will do it for me! For me, do you understand? Not for a man you choose. I don’t want to marry a suitable boy and be a housewife and mother like you! I want to be a doctor! I want to make a difference in the world! Is that so wrong?’ Shiro’s face was red. Her hands were clenched by her side. Tears streamed down her face.
Mother remained calm. As usual, she turned to the men in the house to resolve conflict. ‘Appa,’ she said to her husband, ‘can you see what I mean? Can you explain to her that we only want what is best for her? Boys don’t want a highly qualified, independent woman.’
Before her father could reply, Shiro’s brother Victor intervened. ‘Mum, boys today are different. They admire brains. Shiro has that, as well as beauty and charm.’ Seeing the shocked look on his mother’s face, he continued. ‘Of course, they still expect her to be a good housewife but you’ve taught her all that.’
Her mother rounded on him. ‘But this boy, Yogan Chelliah. They will be in Nuwara-Eliya for Christmas. They want to meet with us. You have met him in Colombo. He’s a nice boy and a friend of Edward’s also.’
A good housewife? Arranged marriage? A nice boy? Ha! Shiro tossed her head in mockery and disgust. Spinning on her heels, she stormed out of the house. As she left, she heard her father mumble, ‘I’m going to the factory. Call me if you need anything.’
That’s right, Shiro thought, as she wound her way down the familiar path to her place by the stream. Leave the issue unresolved and run away to your precious workplace. Any wonder I don’t want a traditional arranged marriage?
Shiro hoped Anthony would come. She needed to see him.
***
‘Tears, princess?’ Anthony squatted by her side. He drew her hands away from her face.
Shiro swallowed a sob, and then remained silent. Her lips quivered. Anthony held her hands, stroking her fingers. The touch on her lip was feather light but it comforted her. The anger and frustration drained out of her.
He pulled a white linen handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tears from her face. ‘Talk to me, Shiro. You should be happy, thrilled even. You came top of your class, won every award. Your father couldn’t stop talking about it. You’ve been accepted to medical school. It’s everything you wanted. Whatever’s happened?’
She stared up at him. Her lips quivered. ‘I don’t want to get married.’
Anthony lips twitched. ‘I don’t recollect asking you, sweetheart.’
The words had the desired effect. ‘Not funny.’ Her lips lifted a smile.
‘That’s my girl.’ He sat down beside her. ‘What’s up?’ He placed his right hand behind her.
Shiro rested her head on his shoulder. She breathed in the familiar sharp lemon smell of his body. It had been a year since they had sat here last but it felt like yesterday. This was what she needed – Anthony, her friend, her confidante, her rock. The one person in the world she could say anything to.
‘My mother.’ She snuggled into his shoulder. ‘She wants me to meet this guy. His name’s Yogan Chelliah. She wants me to agree to an arranged marriage. Get engaged, even have the marriage registered before I go to medical school.’ Her body shuddered as she gulped back another sob.
Anthony’s arm tensed and then slipped from behind her to around her shoulder. Gentle fingers moved in slow circles over her arm. ‘When and how does this arranged marriage thing happen?’
‘The families meet tomorrow for lunch at the Nuwara-Eliya River View Hotel. His family is already there.’ The feel of his fingers on her skin was amazing. It sent little ripples of happiness shooting to her brain.
‘Can you say no?’
‘To marrying him? I can, but only after I meet him.’’
Anthony was silent. His hand slipped down her arm and rested round her waist.
He turned his head towards her and spoke into her hair. ‘Meet this Yogan,’ he said. ‘Then come here in the evening and tell me about it. We’ll decide what to do about it together.’
Tears forgotten, Shiro threw her arms around him and hugged him. ‘You are the best ever. I couldn’t live without you. Thank you.’