ONE

ragrance of blossom on the tall mango tree in the garden and the smell of damp grass mixed together filled the sky to the stars through evening clouds. The fine raindrops touched the mango leaves with a cracking sound. The full moon in a corner of the sky was washed away by faded sunshine; the hills, wrapped in the invisible touch of the night’s darkness have entered the world of sleep with the retiring sun. A cool breeze blew across the ripening rice fields and entered the open house full of the scent of mango flowers. Finally the daytime tropical heat cooled and the flames blew in the wind. The evening silence echoed with the sounds of the approaching moonlit night. The changings, wavings, movings of the days and nights increased the tension in Rupa’s mind. She could hear her mother’s voice.

   ‘How hard we’ve tried to arrange someone suitable for this child. I can’t remember how many people have visited this house since the day she came home from university, there must have been dozens. It’s all so pointless. We just waste time and money on matchmakers. They don’t care whether it is a man without arms and legs, as long as a marriage can be arranged and they get their commission! I have no idea what’s going to happen. Either the men aren’t happy or she won’t agree with the proposals for one reason or another, there’s always something, Venus and Mars in the wrong place, the horoscopes don’t match! This man is fat and short that one thin and tall; dark or light skinned, whatever nothing’s ever right! Hmm…. We can never give the kind of dowry some of them ask. Money isn’t something that grows on trees or you find under rocks. You remember that Morris Agent in Galle? When his son was proposed for Rupa, the very first thing they asked from the matchmaker was how much money she had in her bank account! They try to wipe their dirty hands on our faces. I'd like us to live our life the way we want, not at the behest of some shark or other. In the end that man managed to marry a semi-literate bitch with a family in Colombo 7 completely loaded, as you’d expect with an address like that and a big house for the dowry thrown in! It’s not easy to do anything with the girl either, I don’t want to ruin our family reputation, I want to walk out of the front door without being covered in shame. If caste and wealth is not a problem, then some-thing else rears its ugly head. You have to have some luck in this world! Family customs must be followed when the girl gets to the right age. I know what she’ll say; she doesn’t want to live with a businessman, not at any price! I’ll only be too happy if the whole thing ends without a major crisis.’

   Dikwelle Hamine raised her voice. Loku Mahatmaya was inside the house pounding betel leaves. He dropped two pieces of dried black tobacco into the mortar and crushed them hard with the pestle, pretending to listen to his wife’s angry voice. The betel mixture turned to a coarse brown powder but still there was no sign of Dikwelle Hamine stopping.

   ‘Can’t you see, she refuses anything even before it reaches her ear! She hasn’t even seen these people from Kegalle. Thank god they are a respectable family. No problem about caste either.’

   The sound of her voice was so loud that it drowned even the pounding of the betel nuts.

  ‘Can you hear me? You wouldn’t believe this. Yesterday morning she asked the matchmaker not to bother to bring any more men to this house. He’s furious about it, I mean, a young woman like Rupa should have some self-respect. Isn’t she embarrassed to argue with the matchmakers? When I was a young woman when a matchmaker came to our house I used to hide in my bedroom, behind the wardrobe. Bringing up unruly children doesn’t give any hope for their poor parents!’ Dikwelle Hamine washed the fresh brown rice. This season there had been a bumper harvest. She put the fingers of her right hand into the water to check the level, emptied out some to the line of her middle finger, lifted the aluminium pan with both hands and placed it on the burner. Before she placed the pot on the lapping flames she put together the palms of her hands and for a second bent her head, in the ritual gesture of prayer that prefaced the cooking of a meal.

   Loku Mahatmaya and Dikwelle Hamine had lived in their house since they married thirty-five years ago. Everybody knew the house as ‘Maha Gedara’. It was the ancestral home, the land passed onto from generation to generation. Long before Ceylon, the ‘Pearl of the East,’ became part of the British Raj, a vast area of land was gifted by the king of the county to Loku Mahatmaya’s great great grandfather, the headman of several villages, a loyal follower from the hill country, the centre of the kingdom. Those days rural parts of the country were mostly tropical jungle and travelling could only be done by walking or by bullock-carts jarring along narrow rutted lanes. No communication system existed. The present house ‘Maha Gedara’ was built a hundred and twenty years ago, since then the house had been greatly extended with six large bedrooms. It was in a small village surrounded by a range of hills, there were only five houses in the whole village.

   The hillside land was used for growing cinnamon, rubber and coconut. The morning sun appeared through the tropical forest beside the hills and covered the lowland paddy fields. The sound of running water through rocks in the narrow canal, the blaring call of peacocks, owls, bats and the howl of the fox broke the silence of the village. The white washed house was built of local stone and roofed with tiles hallmarked ‘Clay hills’, long fermented clay baked in kilns three miles away. The narrow road to Maha Gedara falls through acres of lush green paddy fields and crimson croton hedges. In front of the house there was a portico with lattice windows covered with overhanging scarlet bougainvillaea. As you entered the parlour you caught the smell of decades old ebony and satin furniture and scent of jasmine from the shrine in a corner of the long dining room flowed like fresh spring water. There were two storerooms always filled with bags of rice and flying dust-like moths. The kitchen was enormous with a grey cemented floor. The two-storey house had a balcony overlooking cinnamon land, the home of peacocks dancing at dawn with the rising tropical sun. There was no electricity, the house had to be lit with oil lamps and water had to be drawn from a well. The cooking methods had not changed for centuries. Three stones positioned so that stalks and twigs could be laid across them and then set alight to heat the cooking pot.

   Dikwelle Hamine added a handful of cinnamon stalks and some dried coconut palm leaves to the charcoal already starting to burn. She pulled the coconut scraper, which she used as a small chair forward and blew the fire several times. Patiently she sat by the fire and the bubbling rice pan, watching how the smoke gathered in swirls then crept out of the metal grilles of the windows. Dikwelle Hamine was quiet; perhaps she had at last stopped talking and was getting on with the evening meal. The sound of the mortar and pestle had stopped. Loku Mahatmaya emptied the well ground betel mixture with his fingers and put some of the mix into his mouth. He cleaned the betel stained mortar and pestle with a piece of cloth and pushed it into a corner. The mortar and pestle belonged to Loku Mahatmaya’s father, a Village Headman who died many years before. The Village Headman was responsible for keeping law and order and for the general wellbeing of the locals. Only recently had he found these items in the loft hidden in a brass vase covered with dust and cobwebs. Loku Mahatmaya came out chewing betel leaves and sat in an armchair in the long sitting area near the storerooms.

   ‘It’s not necessary to talk about this matter all the time! I think you should leave Rupa alone, let her do what she wants. Why don’t you mind your own business? Children these days are like that. They are stubborn and only do what they want.’ Dikwelle Hamine did not hear him. He got up and looked round then he walked into the front garden. He spat betel juice into a mound of sand and covered the red patches with his feet.

   The evening sun was moving towards the western sky behind the hills, floating clouds turned red and then dissolved into a dark screen. The woodlands with tall trees were already plunged into darkness. Loku Mahatmaya folded the sarong he was wearing and tied it in a knot. As night approached the wooden gate at the bottom of the sloping garden had to be closed. If he forgot Handaya, the black cow with a moon shaped white patch on its forehead and Ratti the brown-red cow, they would ruin the young banana and coconut plants. He watched the rain-washed blue green tender leaves of banana plants unfolding as a mother watches a baby. Loku Mahatmaya paced towards the gate along the brown gravel path, through the flowing darkness of the night. Ratti and the week-old calf were still grazing in the grassland beyond the barbed wire fence. The pot of rice was well cooked and steaming. Charcoal under the burner was turning to ash. The mouth-watering smell of Dikwelle Hamine’s cooking was spreading all over the house and into the garden. She poured the squeezed coconut milk into a clay pot and mixed chopped onions, chilli and ground cumin to prepare a curry.

   ‘This is a shame to our family, is no one suitable for her? In the end rumours will spread to every village about our daughter running away from home. Whatever happens its us who will have to face the shame. It’s only me screaming and shouting day and night like rain falling onto a tin roof! All I do is talk to her father like playing a vina to a deaf elephant!’ Dikwelle Hamine started to talk again but soon she realised that her husband was not sitting in the parlour. The kitchen door was still open and mosquitoes had begun to enter the house whispering in her ears. She slammed the door, stirred the coconut milk in the pot a few times and poured it slowly into the bubbling yellow plantain curry.

   Dinner was almost ready. Only a little water was left at the bottom of the copper tub. No sign of Loku Mahatmaya in house or garden. She served the boiled rice, ash plantain curry and fish fry into the ‘Johnson and Johnson’ dishes and put them on the dining table. The dinner and tea set with deep blue floral spray design was a gift from her parents with the dowry when she married. It was so precious to her she’d never thrown away a cup or saucer, even when it was cracked or lacked a handle. She covered the food on the table with a wicker food cover until Loku Mahatmaya came home. No one eats before then; it was a custom of Maha Gedara. When Loku Mahatmaya sits at the table first she serves her husband and then Rupa. If a poor neighbour who helped with the housework or any servants were there they were invited to eat. The servants had their meal in the kitchen, sitting on a bench. Dikwelle Hamine never sat at the dinner table with Loku Mahatmaya. She waited until everybody had finished eating and then had her dinner with Tilakawathie. Tilakawathie was a girl who grew up at Maha Gedara. She arrived when she was six. Her parents were too poor to bring up their family of eleven and Dikwelle Hamine had volunteered to adopt the girl.

TWO

here had been no rain for several weeks. At times the sky was heavy with swirling, thickening clouds, which soon dissolved into a blazing red sky. The evening sun slowly moved towards the tall treetops and was ready to sink into the horizon. The hot clammy air stuck your clothes to your skin. Rupa could hear her mother’s voice flowing like broken waves from the kitchen to the room where she was reading. Streaks of her mother’s anger, tropical heat and a slight headache began behind her forehead, swirled round her head and turned to utter discomfort. The portico was shaded with the evening’s dim faded light. If the windows and fanlights were not closed at nightfall the mosquitoes would get in and infest every corner, hovering and buzzing overhead. These tiny flying insects with their needle-like stings even managed to creep inside the mosquito nets, which covered the beds. Soon they turned to round red bubbles. When they were squashed red bloodstains appeared on nets, beds, curtains, face, arms and legs. Itchy stinging irritations made the night unbearable. During hot dry periods the mosquitoes bred in ditches; at night they swarmed into the houses smelling blood.

   Rupa remembered her childhood. She had no one to talk to so she talked to herself. ‘I had heard my mother’s story too often. I never disobeyed when I was young. When I was nine I was ill with typhoid and could not go to school for weeks on end. I still did not understand what illness was, every morning I cried I didn’t want to miss the lessons at school. I had a friend called Dingihami, who came from a very poor family. I gave her some of my colouring pencils and tiny packets of beads, which we used to make bangles and necklaces with. My uncle had a grocery store and on our way to school we went to his shop to buy coloured beads and sweets. Sometimes I was given so many I had enough to share with my friend. She had an unforgettable smile and gleaming eyes and used to hide her beads in a matchbox. Some days after school she came with me and my mother gave her ginger biscuits and tea. Together we made a water lily pond near the paddy fields. We made clay figures and dried them in the hot sun. I remember how we secretly drank pond water from a coconut shell. We had no idea that drinking such water could make us very ill. I lost contact with Dingihami after I left the village school. She married the man of her choice but sadly he became an alcoholic. She never came back to the village. There is a rumour that her husband was also a drug addict and left her altogether. I think she may still be alive, living in poverty somewhere.’

   It was a struggle to concentrate on reading. Rupa closed the book and put it on the bed. She remembered how worried her parents were when she was ill.

   ‘It’s not worth telling these children not to play in muddy water. I always ask you not to let them play out in the fields. You must point out just how easily they can catch infections.’

   Loku Mahatmaya was not happy with his wife. In his view she was entirely responsible for looking after the children and keeping them away from ditches of foul water.

   ‘You are not allowed to go to school until you feel better. The doctor told you to stay in bed until your temperature goes down. I only can give you rice and vegetable soup, orange juice with glucose and king-coconut water.’

   Dikwelle Hamine refused to give her anything to eat. Rupa felt so ill with the fever she could hardly speak or even open her eyes. But the smell of her mother’s cooking was so tempting she felt like stealing some food but it was only a thought. She was frightened and she could not move out of her bed. The soup tasted sickening and the coconut water was undrinkable, but orange juice and glucose drinks prepared by her mother were delicious and the sweet taste stayed for hours on her tongue.

   Rupa remembered one day when she was seven how she had disobeyed her father.

   ‘Don’t you want to go to school today? It’s nearly seven o’clock. Time to get up, get ready quickly.’ Loku Mahatmaya was angry.

   ‘I prepared some milk-rice for breakfast today. Rupa can eat some before she goes to school.’ Dikwelle Hamine looked through the kitchen door and said aloud.

   ‘I don’t want to go to school today daddy.’

   ‘Why?’

   ‘I feel tired. My tummy aches.’

   A few minutes after her father came in with a furious face and she thought he would thrash her, so she threw the bedding aside and got up very quickly.

   ‘Pig.’ She murmured. Loku Mahatmaya did not hear. She put some pink tooth-powder on to her palm and ran to the well to get washed. Only Rupa knew why she didn’t want to go to school that morning.

   In the village school the blackboards had to be re-inked by the children. The ink they used was a mixture of charcoal powder and the sap collected from a shrub called palaini which grew in hedges up to eight feet high and when you cut its fleshy bark a creamy sap came out. It was the day that the blackboard in Rupa’s classroom had to be inked. Although the inking was done by the older boys, every child in her class had to bring either charcoal or palaini sap. Rupa could not take any charcoal because her mother only used cinnamon stalks in cooking. The day before Rupa wanted to go across the paddy fields to collect some palaini sap from the overgrown hedges, but her mother said ‘Don’t go under those bushes and hedges child. The sun is very hot today and in the mid-afternoon reptiles are thirsty and come out to the canal for a drink of water. Palaini hedge is notorious for cobras. Yesterday afternoon I saw a snake creeping along the bund towards the hedge. Pythons like to coil round tree trunks and branches, palaini stems are thick and cool.’

   Rupa listened to her mother. She thought the hedge along the paddy fields was a kingdom of venomous reptiles. She remembered how a snake killed their family dog Boola while he was running through the hedges after a rabbit. The dog lay dead, saliva bubbling out of its mouth. Going to school without at least a piece of charcoal was so embarrassing Rupa thought. She would get a black mark on the teacher’s list. If she could pretend that she had a stomach upset, everybody would forget to talk about blackboard inking.

   The first day after the inking their class teacher did not write anything on the board, it must be left for twenty-four hours to dry. The children were allowed to play all day. The girls played in the grounds in front of the headmaster’s house, the boys played ball games and tug-of-war in the main playground. The girls played ‘the wolf game.’ Mr Wolf wore a red and green woven straw hat and a brown apron while he was hiding behind the large gnarled mango tree. The rest of the girls hid in corners, under bushes and trees. Finally Mr Wolf had to hide somewhere no one knew. The girls came out of hiding and started to sing and dance hand-in-hand in a chain.

              We are not afraid of Mr. Wolf

              Wolf tails, straw hats, wolf tails, straw hats.

              Are you giving us sweet mangoes?

              Mr. Wolf, Mr. Wolf

              We are not afraid of Mr. Wolf.

            ‘Mr. Wolf’ suddenly burst out of a bush and started to chase the running, screaming girls.

   Although Rupa wanted to play the role of Mr.Wolf she dreaded going to school that day, but her father made her go with a note to the teacher explaining why she was late. The teacher accepted the note with a smile. Calling your father a pig isn’t very nice. The headmaster reminded the children in morning assembly that they must obey teachers and parents. The fear she had in her mind had to be cleared so when she went to the temple with her mother she knelt down in the shrine and prayed for forgiveness. Rupa felt that she had woken from a childhood dream of fragrance and colour. The unbroken ear-piercing cry of cicadas came from the woods. She looked out of the window and saw her mother walking down the path towards the well, a pail in her hand. Her father must have gone to put the cow and calf into the byre. Tilakwathie was picking jasmine in the garden. The sky was covered with a single layer of black clouds from which issued fine drizzle, the beginning of torrential rain. The man who lived in a mud hut at the chena up in the hills and his wife were going home along the bund in a hurry. He was carrying a large bag of groceries on his shoulder while she bore a wicker basket on her head.

   ‘We went to the grocery shop in town. Hope we could get in before the rain falls. Our daughter is at home on her own.’ He stopped for a minute to talk to Dikwelle Hamine; he smiled and showed his brown betel stained teeth.

   ‘It’s getting dark quickly. The paddy fields are dry and we could do with a good shower. Get home as soon as you can. When it’s thunder and lightening you must stay indoors! I only came down to the well to draw some water. Remember to pray for safety when a storm comes.’ Dikwelle Hamine urged.

   From the window Rupa watched her mother coming back with a pail of water. She walked up the steps slowly looking very worried. Loku Mahatmaya put the calf into the byre and fed Ratti the cow with a kneaded mixture of rice flour in a palm leaf. Ratti shook her head, rolled her eyes and looked at Loku Mahatmaya.

   ‘Eat everything, my daughter.’ Gently he stroked the cow’s head. Ratti put her rough tongue out as she chomped happily.

   The latest proposal for Rupa was brought from Gunapala, who owned a coconut plantation at Kegalle, the son of a well-known businessman called Jayasena Mudalali. Gunpala’s education ended when he was seventeen and he joined his father’s company in Colombo. It was a fresh February morning when Kapurala the matchmaker walked into Maha Gedara through the curtains of tropical mist as the sun appeared in a silver-pink sky. Dikwelle Hamine stood under the gardenia tree on a carpet of scented ivory flowers. Kapurala was welcomed with smiles. He was invited in and sat on a teak bench at a corner of the portico lit with rays of sunshine flashed through the shaded grilled windows. Loku Mahatmaya sat in an armchair.

   ‘Surely you must have heard of Jayasena Mudalali? Even a child in the street in Kegalle would know who he is. Gunapala is his only son. One day he will inherit all his father’s wealth. Neither money nor anything else is a problem for that family. We must concentrate on this matter.’ Kapurala the matchmaker drank his tea.

   ‘That’s right Kapurala, we are looking for somebody exactly like that. The only problem is Kegalle is very far from us and travelling is not all that easy.’

   Loku Mahatmaya was delighted.

   ‘Travelling from Matara to Kegalle is not a great problem these days. They only travel by car anyway. They have everything and Mudalali’s business is based in Colombo. Gunapala recently bought a new car.’

   The matchmaker became extremely loquacious.

   ‘Whatever it is I think we should try to find out a bit more about that family, caste and all the rest.’

   ‘I wouldn’t dream of bringing a proposal from someone of a different caste! You must be joking Loku Mahatmaya. They are only looking for a girl with good manners and some ability, someone who can run that enormous house. I think they are perfectly right to expect someone intelligent to take on such great responsibilities! It’s a beautiful place. To be honest I am a bit reluctant to walk on those red polished floors. It’s like walking on glass! Mahogany, ebony, teak and satin furniture everywhere and no end of servants and helpers; you’ll only believe me if you see it with your own eyes! Miles and miles of coconut plantation; you can see neither the beginning nor the end! And nobody except his own son to inherit the lot!’

   The matchmaker continued. Loku Mahatmaya touched his chin with his left hand and stayed silent for a few minutes, lost in thought.

   ‘What can we do now? We want to do everything according to our family tradition, from the start. I want things to be perfect. We can’t plan anything now. They haven’t even visited us yet!’

   While Loku Mahatmaya was talking to Kapurala, Dikwelle Hamine stood by the parlour door and listened in silence. She was astonished to hear about the wealthy family from Kegalle.

   ‘If Loku Mahatmaya and Dikwelle Hamine have no objections I certainly can go ahead with this matter. I am not a matchmaker who puts anybody into any kind of trouble. If I say something it is firm like the sound of that gecko on the wall. I never expect too much for myself in the way of money or gifts. I’m happy to accept what is given. I don’t demand an agreed commission.’

   ‘All right then. We must fix a date for them to visit here.’

   ‘I am going to Colombo tomorrow to see Jayasena Mudalali. I’ll try to arrange a date convenient for them. They have all kinds of other commitments.’

   Loku Mahatmaya agreed with the matchmaker.

   ‘I’ll be back within a few days.’ Kapurala the matchmaker was still sitting on the bench looking round. Loku Mahatmaya handed over some money and said:

   ‘Keep this for your bus fare to Colombo tomorrow.’

The matchmaker put the money in his pocket, folded his faded black umbrella with white patches under his arm and left with a wide smile.

   Dikwelle Hamine was delighted to hear about a proposal from such a wealthy family. Her face shone like a new moon shining through darkened clouds. She said to her husband, ‘Don’t worry about the distance to Kegalle. If money, a house and land are no problem, it really doesn’t matter wherever we live in this world.’

   Dikwelle Hamine thought constantly about the happy moment when her daughter became a member of such a wealthy family! Cooking, housework, sewing, whatever she did, she did with renewed interest and became even more talkative. She dreamed of visiting her daughter, to a house with servants in the middle of enormous coconut lands. She thought about what she would take when she went to visit Rupa. People from the hill country don’t get fresh fish from the sea so she thought of taking some fish bought straight from the fishermen on the beach and also Rupa likes home made sweets. One day she said to her husband, ‘Our house will be empty without Rupa. We will have to visit her often although Kegalle is a long way away.’

   The atmosphere at Maha Gedara had changed over a few weeks. Loku Mahatmaya was relieved that his wife no longer worried about Rupa day and night and was kind to her instead of always grumbling. Rupa could not believe the change in her mother.

   The nearest post office to Maha Gedara was about two miles away. The postman only went round the villages twice a week. The village postmaster kept aside any letters for Maha Gedara and every morning Loku Mahatmaya went to the post office by bicycle to check his post.

   It had rained all night after a long drought and the trees and the paddy fields had washed off the dust, drops of rain glowed like crystal bubbles. Sunken undergrowth of mimosas opened pink powder-puff flowers, the shrunken canal was flowing fast increasing the water level to the rim of the bund; frogs were croaking, crows cawing and blue peacocks dancing on mango trees. Fresh breezes blew from the hills and spread a green silk veil over the whole village. The bridge over the canal was narrow.

   Dikwelle Hamine watched in silence the white waters gushing, carrying leaves and weeds swept on to the banks.

   Loku Mahatmaya came home pushing his bicycle along the gravel road where the cracked earth had turned to a ditch in the few hours of rainfall. He started talking to Dikwelle Hamine from a distance. The daytime heat was rising, skin penetrating burning air boiled the sweat and blood and the sun shone like a sparking fire in the cloudless sky. Loku Mahatmaya pulled a white handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped the sweat dripping down his forehead.

   ‘I met the matchmaker today on my way to the post office. Remember that Jayasena Mudalali’s family he was talking about? They are coming to visit us next week.’

   ‘Next week?’

   ‘Yes, on Monday afternoon. Kapurala will come here sometime today to discuss any problems.’

   ‘We have to get ready then, we may not live at their level but we are not a family that doesn’t know how to entertain. Don’t forget your great great grandfather’s relationship to the king of the country.’ Dikwelle Hamine was always very proud of their family history. She believed that what matters is not life style, but keeping the legendary ancestral threads of customs rock solid and pass them on to future generations.

   It was a sunny February morning when the wind swept across the ripening paddy fields. As the vast stretched fields turned yellow the air, the clouds, the earth, the trees and the hills were reflected in the mingling sunshine. It was a world of confusing colours. Maha Gedara garden was washed with the fragrance of gardenias and white jasmine.  The hedge was bursting with deep pink wild azalea blooms. Crackling sound of the wind blown grass and grains appeared in the fields and vanished in a rhythm of waves and interludes. Delicate yellow and blue butterflies touched the rose nectar, the song of peacocks adding a tremulous echo. Dikwelle Hamine’s whole being was suffused with delicious sensations of good things to come. The day they had so long awaited had finally arrived.

   The guests were due at two in the afternoon. Dikwelle Hamine was getting ready, making sweets for afternoon tea. Fresh palm treacle was brought from a neighbouring village, rice flour was roasted and nuts chopped the day before; she made treacle slices, cutting them into oblongs, milk and cashew nut toffee and ripened red and yellow bunches of bananas were ready on the store room table. The only other occasion when Dikwelle Hamine prepared so lavishly was for the New Year festival. She kept flowers, sweets, milk-rice and king coconut water on a table in the storeroom, hoping the angels would come through the window on New Year’s Eve and enjoy the food and drink.

   A few days before the guests arrived Loku Mahatmaya asked two workmen to clear the gardens, path, flowerbeds and the gravel road between the fields and the house. A woman called Ranhami lived in a tiny house near Maha Gedara. All his lifetime Ranhami’s husband had helped Loku Mahatmaya’s family farm the paddy fields. Their house and the compound belonged to Loku Mahatmaya having originally been built and still being maintained by Maha Gedara family. Ranhami made a long handled soft broom with coconut palm leaves, cleared up and swept cobwebs from every corner of the house. Tilakawathie polished the brass, copper and silverware using star-fruit juice spread on a soft cloth. Dikwelle Hamine asked Rupa to help herself to fruit and sweets from the storeroom.

   ‘The garden looks beautiful. Are you getting ready for a wedding?’ Rupa asked smiling.

   The workmen levelled the ground, spread gravel and sand, tidied up flowerbeds and pruned the shrubs.

   Loku Mahatmaya leaned against a king coconut tree and watched their backs bent as they patiently tilled the dry crumbling soil.

   Dikwelle Hamine spoke to Rupa, happiness lighting her face.

‘They are coming from a long way away. We must entertain them to the very best of our abilities. You must make sure you smile at everyone and speak politely. I’ll arrange the table. You have to offer them a glass of water from a tray and invite them to sit down for tea.’

   Offering a glass of water is a ritual. The guests only touch the glass, a gesture that signifies acceptance of an invitation for tea or for a meal. Rupa could not remember any other occasion when her mother was so full of delight.

   ‘Why do we have to get all dressed up and offer all these formal invitations you keep on about? Why don’t we just casually ask them to have something to eat and drink in the normal way? I think its better if you do these things yourself, mother. I don’t know these people. I have never even seen them before! It’s like acting in a play.’

   ‘You mustn’t say that, we have to do everything according to tradition. Don’t forget our family history and our special relationship with the king of the country! We don’t want to hear the slightest adverse comment. If anything goes wrong your father will be furious.’

   ‘Nothing wrong with cleaning the house or clearing the gardens! I don’t understand why everyone has to go to so much trouble. They’ll come, eat, drink and go back. We don’t have to care what other people think about how we live our lives. It’s better if we live as we usually do, mother. What’s this you always go on and on about, this relative of ours and a king of the country? We don’t have kings anymore!’

   ‘You never listen, do you? I am telling you about the history of our family. The downfall of the Old Kingdom of Ceylon happened when the whole country finally went under British in 1818. Our last king, Rajasinghe, was a close relative of a great, great, great grandfather of your father.’

   ‘We live in the present, mother, not in history.’

THREE

owering clouds threatened rain in spite of bright sun earlier in the day. Dikwelle Hamine put her fingers through her soft silky hair and looked up. A squirrel was munching a deep yellow papaya fruit, holding the broken peel between its paws. ‘I hope it’s not going to rain. If it rains heavily the gravel road across the fields will flood and their car may not be able to pass through the mud.’

   ‘It’s been like this every morning for the last few weeks, but then the sky clears and the sun comes out in the afternoon’ Loku Mahatmaya looked at the sky and wiped the fine raindrops from his arms and face.

   Dikwelle Hamine had changed the curtains and even the doormat was free of dust. Maha Gedara stood like a fortress waiting to hoist the welcome flag.

   The ivory chair covers with red, blue and green designs of birds, flowers and animals had been cross-stitched by Dikwelle Hamine when she was young. White crocheted door hangings, appliquéd with blue peacocks were taken out of the wardrobe for this special occasion and as she held them out the scent of moth balls and rose petal pot-pourri flowed across the house like a meadow-swept wind. The clock seemed slow and the breathless sun lingered among the green cloud of the tropical forest. Two o’clock in the afternoon was a long way away.

   It was eleven when Loku Mahatmaya came to the kitchen with a telegram in his hand. ‘Not very good news. The visit has been postponed.’ He waved the telegram in the air.

   ‘Cancelled? Why is that?’

   ‘They don’t say!’

   ‘Due to unavoidable circumstances visit postponed until Friday next week – Jayasena Mudalali.’

   Loku Mahatmaya read the telegram aloud and the cloud over Dikwelle Hamine’s face was even thicker and darker than the cloud overhead. She sighed. ‘Hmmm… I know they are the people with a thousand and one responsibilities, it must be some serious trouble. Kapurala the matchmaker hasn’t been here yet either.’

   Loku Mahatmaya fell into deep silence.

   When Rupa heard that the visit had been cancelled she felt mixed feelings of anger and sympathy. She was pleased that she did not have to get dressed up and play the role of an over-controlled puppet. Her parents had been getting ready for this meeting for days on end. The whole situation would have been different if her parents were wealthy business people. She did not like the way they had been let down. Rupa knew that her mother would never accept the possibility of her ‘family values’ no longer being taken into account of and only money mattered.

   Finally the visit was re-scheduled for two in the afternoon the following Friday. Everyone at Maha Gedara got ready with smiles, milk-rice and bananas on the table. There were large brass vases of coconut flowers on both sides of the front doorstep. Rupa was dressed in just the way her mother wanted and sat in a chair in the dressing room. She had goose pimples all over her body. She could see herself clearly in the mirror in the ebony wardrobe, wearing a sea-blue silk sari with a silver embroidered fall and a matching blouse. Her long hair neatly combed back was knotted in a ‘special style’. She wore a pair of high-heeled black shoes. She remembered how happy she had been wearing the same sari on graduation day at the university and she thought to herself, ‘I spent so many hours reading and studying in this room. This same ebony wardrobe in front of me stood against the wall in the same place, at the same angle all that time. It was a gift to my mother from my grandparents along with her dowry. Its position was changed only once a year when the cement floor was cleaned for the New Year celebration. Dressed up lavishly and sitting in your own home like a model in a showcase is not what I want! I feel like a scarecrow in the middle of the paddy fields. These clothes and shoes are so unsuitable! I don’t want to wear this kind of clothing at home, it’s much better if I could wear my red skirt, a floral white lace blouse discoloured by sweat under the sleeves and have my hair tied with a blue ribbon! I’m not used to wearing high-heeled shoes. I like to wear my usual pair of rubber slippers. It reminds me our village fair, the folk dancer with long false wooden legs. I don’t have his skill, I feel uncomfortable I might slip on the polished floors or on the gravel path. I feel like changing to a dress but if I do that mother will be furious.’

   Rupa sat for two hours. It was four in the afternoon. Then there came a dull humming sound as a vehicle approached. It was the sound a vehicle makes when it turns round the double bends of the hillside road, which runs through the rubber plantation.

   ‘Get ready quickly, I think they are coming!’

   Loku Mahatmaya was excited and panicky. Dikwelle Hamine rushed out of the kitchen, drying her wet hands on the fall of her cotton sari. The shiny black Morris stopped in front of the house.

   Jayasena Mudalali, his wife, their daughter and Gunapala got out of the car. The driver parked under the avocado tree. Both parties folded their hands and bent their heads in the customary ritual of greeting.

   ‘Do come in, please take a seat.’

   ‘Thank you.’ Then there was a sudden silence followed by a hive of noise. They all sat in the lounge, everybody laughing and talking nervously. The heavy rain and traffic delayed them; they described the long journey from Kegalle to Matara in every last detail. Gunapala looked round, Rupa was sitting down in the dressing room until her mother called her. Kapurala the matchmaker was sitting in a corner chewing betel, his eyes bright like polished marble. He joined in with the guests’ conversation and laughed nervously, unsure of what was likely to happen.            

   Jayasena Mudalali was wearing a tweed suit. He was almost bald with a faint line of hair round his head. He seemed full of himself and walked up and down the lounge and then the portico, from time to time looking round. His wife was wearing a golden shiny sari with matching gold jewellery. Their daughter was dressed in an elegant red and yellow hill-country style Kandyan sari, gold bangles and blue and crimson jewelled rings which shimmered and tinkled when she moved. She said nothing. Gunapala was tall, fat and dark skinned. He wore a black suit, striped shirt and a tie with black spots. His white teeth shone when he laughed. He looked at his shiny black shoes while he was talking. Rupa suspected he was unduly proud of his new suit and shoes.

   When Rupa held the tray and invited the guests for afternoon tea her hands trembled. While she was serving treacle cakes to Gunapala she dropped a few slices onto the floor where they broke into bits. The dog, lying under the twelve-foot long dinner table, grabbed and gobbled down the morsels. Gunapala’s sister, a married schoolteacher, began a conversation with Rupa. Fearful and occasionally shaking, Rupa found it impossible to behave normally but everybody else seemed satisfied. After they said goodbye and finally departed Rupa felt relieved. Dikwelle Hamine, Loku Mahatmaya and Kapurala were talking animatedly about the guests and how successful the meeting had been.

   To Rupa’s amazement no one discussed with her anything about the meeting, although she heard mother and father talking about the wealthy, respectable family and their new Morris. Dikwelle Hamine thought Gunapala a smart young man and had no objections to accepting him as a member of her family with its long history related to the Sinhalese kingdom.

   Two weeks passed quietly and things had changed at Maha Gedara once again. Tension in and around the house began to rise like soaring tropical heat. Dikwelle Hamine watched impatiently as hopeful mornings turned to evenings of despair. They had heard nothing from Mudalali’s family, not even a letter. Dikwelle Hamine had in her mind that they might refuse the proposal after all.

   One morning in the third week Loku Mahatmaya heard someone at the door clearing his throat. It was Kapurala the matchmaker waiting for the doors to be opened for the day. His folded umbrella was in his hand.

   ‘Do come in Kapurala, I have not seen you for a while.’

   ‘I’ve been so busy, I didn’t even have a single minute’s rest. I was away in Colombo. It was raining heavily when I came home from there yesterday. Last Monday I went to a huge wedding. The bride was given away with an enormous dowry and she was from a wealthy family. Furniture, cutlery, crockery, gold, silver, money in the bank, you name it, everything was there! To everybody’s surprise the bride was given a fifty-acre rubber plantation into the bargain. I won’t tell you about the windfall I had as a matchmaker.’

   He laughed, touched and scratched his grey moustache.

   ‘Who was the bridegroom?’   

   ‘Surely you know Loku Mahatmaya? It was in the papers. He’s the son of Dr. Perera and he came back from England two months ago.’

   ‘I can see you are a busy man.’

   Kapurala was a messenger of good fortune for the Maha Gedara family. Dikwelle Hamine came to the portico with a welcoming smile. Kapurala was almost whispering at Loku Mahatmaya’s ears. Dikwelle Hamine could not hear him.

   ‘I went to see Jayasena Mudalali about that matter. They are willing to go ahead with it but there is a slight problem. When the girl is not a beauty this is something that always happens. They talk about the dowry. I didn’t keep quiet either. I reminded them that our girl is a well-educated talented person. These things can be sorted out, perhaps some kind of compromise! Not to worry at this stage, I must go now.’ Kapurala stood up briskly.

   Dikwelle Hamine called him.

   ‘Kapurala don’t go yet, have some breakfast. I made some hoppers this morning.’

   ‘I am on my way back to Colombo. I’m sorry, I don’t have much time as I am already late for my journey.’ Kapurala opened his faded black umbrella and left in the rain.

   ‘What did he say?’ Dikwelle Hamine was inquisitive. 

   ‘There seems to be a problem. They expect a lot for the dowry. We just don’t have that kind of money!’

‘I think you should calm down and think carefully. We mustn’t turn our backs on such a good proposal. Can’t we do anything about it? The paddy fields are ready for reaping. We may be able to use our whole income from that.’

   ‘Utter rubbish! Give them everything we possess including our daughter! Are you going to beg on the streets for our living for the rest of the year?’ Loku Mahatmaya was furious.

   Rupa felt helpless again. Her mother and father were arguing about the dowry day and night. Constantly she thought to herself.

   ‘I don’t think my mother understands how I feel about all those things with me in the middle. Those people are greedy. They value money and wealth more than a woman. If they are so rich and own such a successful business why are they trying to grab even more? Mindless sharks! I don’t know why my mother wants to give me away to such a ruthless family with an unaffordable dowry thrown in. Don’t my parents love me? It’s alright to criticise my looks but Gunapala is hardly a handsome man. Does he have to listen to everything his father says? I wouldn’t even give them one of my puppies! I think my mother is crazy trying to hang me round somebody’s neck! Don’t my parents know me? We should keep what we have and tell them to get lost.’ Rupa tried to keep away from her mother and sank into her own world.

   ‘The life we had at the university was beautiful. It was a world within a world and so much better than the so-called ‘real world’ I am landed in now. I think Kumara loved me, we were so close to each other. Once I had left the university we just lost contact. I don’t think I can ever forget him. I think both Kumara and I may have had to face the same unexpected problems. We liked the country life and respected traditional family customs. We had so little real experience and all the confusions about background and caste, it was impossible to break away! I have no idea where he is now. The only thing I know is that he is from Kandy. We didn’t write to each other during the holidays because we didn’t want our parents to become suspicious of a secret relationship. It wasn’t something acceptable in our families.’

   Rupa told her mother that she had no wish to marry Gunapala anyway.

   The atmosphere at Maha Gedara heated up again to boiling point, burning breathless air spread like a volcano about to erupt. Loku Mahatmaya and his wife hardly spoke to each other or to their daughter. It was a minute by minute ticking silence, which filled the house, crept through windows and doors and could blow up the whole village.

            Rupa found it unbearable to live in the same house with her mother, she felt like a cat on a hot tin roof. She thought that if she was away from the house, at least for a while, it might help to calm her mother down. Day by day the memories of Jayasena Mudalali’s family began to fade from everyone’s mind and settle beneath the fragments of dust at Maha Gedara. Dikwelle Hamine remained silent although she had not forgotten the lost fortune. Loku Mahatmaya was glad to see things getting back to normal. Like clearing an arena after a folk drama Rupa tried to clear her mind until the next act began. Visits to Maha Gedara by Kapurala the matchmaker became rarer until they abruptly ended. One night after supper Rupa suggested to her parents that she should stay with her sister for a while. Rupa’s father thought it was a good idea. Her mother burst into tears, a sudden emptiness overwhelming her utterly.

   Rupa’s sister, Rukmali, had been married for five years. She lived with her husband and their three-year-old son called Damit, in a five-bedroom bungalow on the outskirts of a small town four miles away from Maha Gedara. Her husband owned a small tea and rubber plantation and Rukmali worked in the local bank. Women from the village plucked tea leaves in the morning and in the afternoon bagged-up tea leaves were taken by lorry to the regional tea factory for processing. Rukmali only visited her parents at weekends. It was the following Sunday when her family visited Maha Gedara and Rupa returned with them. She spent some time every day looking after her sister’s son. She felt immediately that her life had become lighter and happier than during all the time she had been at home since she left the university. Watching the beauty and harmony of a child’s world released the pressure, which had built up in her mind.

   One afternoon Kapurala the matchmaker appeared at Maha Gedara out of the blue. The door was closed and Tilakawathie was watering the garden. Dikwelle Hamine was in bed with flu and Loku Mahatmaya was out feeding the cows. Trees and shrubs withered in the heat and the cooing of wood pigeons and wild fowls blew like waves from the sun soaked woodlands. Tilakawathie asked him in and gave him a cup of tea. When Loku Mahatmaya arrived home half an hour later, to his surprise Kapurala the matchmaker was sitting on the bench chewing betels, a muffler round his neck and folded umbrella at his side. Loku Mahatmaya sat in the armchair.

   ‘Have you been busy again Kapurala? Unfortunately my wife is ill and our girl is away.’

   ‘Needless to ask! May is the month of several auspicious dates for weddings and I had to be present at various celebrations and ceremonies. I have some good news for you Loku Mahatmaya. It’s a perfect match, believe me, I’m telling you like that gheko on the wall nothing could go wrong, caste, education, wealth are no problem.’

   ‘Who are they Kapurala?’

   ‘I don’t have to go into much detail. You’ll find out yourself, surely everyone knows the son of Dr. Silva. He has just finished his education at Harvard and he is back home now. I saw him yesterday. Very, very smart looking young man. The family is only looking for a pleasant girl with an educated background; even mentioning a dowry would make them laugh! He owns a house in Colombo and is hoping to find a top job in the city. If I remember right, as chief executive at an oil company, he can speak English, French and Sinhalese as easy as drinking water! Just imagine Loku Mahatmaya having a well-educated good mannered young man as an additional member of your family! That’s all we want.’ He struck his umbrella on the floor to emphasise his point.

   ‘All right Kapurala, come and see us again next week. Hopefully my wife will be better by then. By the way, try to find out as much as you can, then we can fix a date straight away for a meeting.’

Kapurala went away holding his umbrella to cover his bald head from the burning sun.

   Dikwelle Hamine had sent a message to Rukmali to come home with Rupa the following Saturday morning. Dr. Silva’s family were to visit the Maha Gedara family that afternoon.      

   ‘I am sick and tired of all these meetings. I wish our parents would get on with their life and leave me alone! It’s like an identification parade, holding trays with glasses of water, invitations to sit at the table, all dressed up and most uncomfortable at that, just the way mother wants. The whole thing is like a play! I don’t want to go home, I’ll stay here with little Damit, you can go and see them if you want.’

   ‘Don’t worry about it,’ her sister replied.

   ‘We can always ask them to postpone the visit if necessary. I’ll ask one of my friends to find out about Dr. Silva’s son.’ Rukmali felt considerable sympathy with her sister.

   ‘Mother believes everything that Kapurala the matchmaker says. He’s a cunning liar who makes up stories on the spot. He may have said all kinds of things about me! I hate the sight of that man. One day I told him not to bother bringing any more proposals. Mother was so angry she didn’t speak to me for a week afterwards!’ At least Rupa could talk to her sister about what was going on in their family and they could laugh about it.

   A friend of Rukmali who worked with her in the office happened to be a distant relative of Dr. Silva’s family.

   ‘Deva is my father’s cousin’s son. We don’t see them very much except at the New Year, but my father knows them very well. Deva’s mother died many years ago and his father brought the family up with the help of friends and relatives. But there’s something I must tell you. It’s true that the son had his higher education in America but he is seriously mentally ill. To my knowledge he spent a long time in a psychiatric hospital while he was abroad and I don’t see him being able to do any kind of work anywhere. I’ll say he’s a really nice person but only when he is well!’

   Rukmali was amazed to hear her friend’s story. When she told Rupa the truth about Deva, Dr. Silva’s son, Rupa said, ‘Thank God for that, I hope I don’t have to go home now. I’m so pleased your friend found out these details, otherwise mother would have believed that matchmaker and we’d be going through the same old routine all over again! God only knows what would have happened.’

   Rukmali spoke to her parents and the meeting was cancelled ‘due to unavoidable circumstances’ and Rupa never wanted to see Kapurala the matchmaker ever again.