Swimming in the Monsoon Sea (12 page)

Amrith nodded.

“Well, I had no idea about you. And
we
know who’s to blame for that.” He grimaced ruefully at Amrith. By doing so, he both acknowledged and, at the same time, laid aside what was really a tragic omission in both their lives.

Niresh stopped at the corner pedestal of the balustrade. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Amrith, who quickly shook his head.

Amrith tried not to stare as his cousin, right out here where anyone could see, lit a cigarette. Even the worst boy in his school would not dare to smoke so publicly.

“So, if a baby was aborted in Czechoslovakia, what would that baby be?” He waited as Amrith dutifully shook his head. “A canceled Czech.”

Amrith did not think it was that funny, but he grinned nonetheless and his cousin laughed.

They began to talk, or rather, Niresh questioned him about Colombo and Amrith answered, pointing out various landmarks in the distance, showing him the bottom of their street and Kinross Beach, where they often went swimming.

Niresh asked him about the Manuel-Pillais. He seemed intrigued by Uncle Lucky’s aquarium, but when Amrith told him that Aunty Bundle was an interior decorator for an architect who specialized in buildings that drew on ancient Sri Lankan architecture, his eyes grew wide. He asked Amrith numerous questions about her work and the buildings Lucien Lindamulagé designed. He wanted to know exactly what constituted a Sri Lankan style of
architecture, and Amrith told him about the courtyards and mada midulas, which were interior gardens around which the houses were sometimes built. He also told him about specific wood carvings on pillars and doorways and the latticework above windows.

His cousin also wanted to know about Selvi and Mala — how old they were and if they had boyfriends. When Amrith explained that Aunty Bundle and Uncle Lucky did not want any of them to date until they were past eighteen, Niresh shook his head in amazement and said that was “far out.”

As they talked, the high monsoon waves crashed against the rocks below them. Two boys with straw hats were fishing from a large flat boulder that jutted out into the sea.

Amrith noticed that Niresh had begun to sweat profusely, stains appearing under his arms and on his back, moisture gathering on his forehead and chin and upper lip. Niresh was not used to their tropical climate. He kept rubbing his face with his sleeve, which grew increasingly soggy. Finally, Amrith took out a handkerchief and offered it to him. Niresh looked at the handkerchief, not sure what he should do with it, but when Amrith gestured towards his face, Niresh grinned in thanks and wiped himself with it.

Amrith was telling Niresh about his school — whose system of houses and prefects and addressing one another by last names seemed to fascinate Niresh, who said it was like something out of an old-time British movie — when he heard his name being called. He turned to see Uncle Lucky walking towards them. He glanced at his watch, amazed at how quickly time had passed.

Niresh hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and flung it over the balustrade to the beach below.

“Son,” Uncle Lucky said, smiling, “it’s time to go home for lunch.”

“You’re leaving so soon?” Niresh’s jaw dropped in disappointment. “Can’t Amrith stay for lunch?”

Uncle Lucky struggled with this. The invitation had not come from Niresh’s father. “I’m afraid not. Food has already been prepared for Amrith at home and —”

“Hold on a sec. I’ll ask my dad.”

Without waiting for Uncle Lucky’s response, Niresh ran across the terrace and down the corridor.

Uncle Lucky turned to Amrith. “So you and your cousin are getting on well?”

Amrith nodded. He was delighted at how comfortable he was with Niresh, as if they had always known each other.

“Good-good.” Uncle Lucky smiled. “It was the right thing to meet him.”

Niresh came back in a surprisingly short time. He smiled broadly. “My dad said Amrith could stay.”

Uncle Lucky seemed a little taken aback that Niresh’s father had agreed to this, but he nodded and told Amrith he would pick him up at five o’clock.

The moment he left, they grinned at each other and Niresh cried, “Yeah! This is great!” In his delight, he thumped Amrith on the shoulders so hard he nearly coughed.

Niresh went to change and, when he came back, he led Amrith to lunch. They entered a large ballroom with
mirrors on the wall, the lamp brackets and ceiling cornices decorated with gilt. There was a buffet table set up at one end, covered with white tablecloths and piled with both Sri Lankan and Western food. Another table, a little distance away, had the desserts.

The room was crowded with tourists lining up to fill their plates, or sitting at the round tables and eating. His uncle was alone at a table.

Niresh led the way towards his father. When his uncle saw Amrith, he looked astonished.

“Hey, Dad,” Niresh said, as they came up to the table, “Amrith’s staying for lunch.”

He was not asking his father’s permission, he was telling him. His tone was casually contemptuous, as if his father’s consent did not count at all. Without waiting for a response, Niresh led Amrith towards the buffet table.

As they stood in line with their plates, Amrith expected his cousin to say something about his lie but, instead, he treated Amrith to more jokes — What do you get when you cross a stripper with a banana? A self-peeling banana. What’s the difference between in-laws and outlaws? Outlaws are wanted. Why did the chicken cross the road twice? Because it was a double-crosser.

None of the jokes were very funny, but Niresh told them with such an eagerness to please that Amrith had to respond with dutiful laughter. It was clear to him that Niresh was keen to impress him, to win his affection. From the first moment of their meeting, his cousin had set out determinedly to build a relationship between them. Amrith
had never been courted in this way by anybody, and it was especially flattering because Niresh was two years older than him.

By the time they were sitting down to eat, at a table across the room from his uncle’s, Amrith had forgiven Niresh his lie.

From what he knew of his uncle’s cruelty to his mother, Amrith guessed that his uncle had been harsh to his son when he was younger. The relish with which Niresh wielded his power over his father made Amrith suspect it was newfound; an ascendancy that had come to his cousin as he grew taller and stronger than his father. Amrith was glad of this shift of power. It was his uncle’s just due for the unhappiness he had caused in so many lives.

That afternoon, Niresh confessed to Amrith a burning desire he had since coming to Sri Lanka — he wanted to drive one of those three-wheeled, scooterlike, open-sided trishaw taxis that were parked outside the hotel gates. He did not speak Sinhalese and he wanted Amrith to translate for him.

At first, the trishaw drivers were amused at the proposition but, when they saw that Niresh was serious, they eyed him with suspicion. The youngest among them, a boy about eighteen, wanted to know if his cousin had driven before. Niresh produced a card with his photograph on it,
which he held out to them, saying it was his driver’s license. The writing was in English and they could not read it. Amrith could. The laminated card was for membership at a gym. His cousin held his gaze intently and Amrith had no choice but to confirm for the trishaw men that it was, indeed, a driver’s license.

The youngest driver agreed for the princely sum of three hundred rupees. Niresh was unfazed. He drew out a thick wad of hundred-rupee bills from his wallet and counted three. Amrith watched him in awe. He did not even own a wallet.

Once the trishaw driver had pocketed the money, he handed over the keys. With a grin of utter delight, Niresh took his place in the driver’s seat. He looked like a giant in a Lilliputian conveyance, his long legs sticking out beyond the edges of the trishaw, his head brushing the roof.

Niresh started the motor and shouted above its noise for Amrith to hop in. He could not refuse as it would raise the suspicions of the owner. He reluctantly took his place in the backseat. The young driver was showing Niresh the controls, but his cousin seemed to barely listen. He was revving the engine, anxious to be on his way.

Finally the driver stepped aside, Niresh revved the engine to its utmost and, with a war cry, they took off, the trishaw weaving drunkenly from side to side. After a few moments, Niresh managed to straighten the front wheel and they picked up speed, leaving the trishaw men behind. Amrith hung on grimly to the bars that separated the back from the driver’s seat.

His cousin was beside himself. He kept whooping
yee-ha, yee-ha
over and over again, as if he were a cowboy riding a horse. He threw back his head and roared in delight, his hair standing up on end in the breeze.

After some time, Amrith loosened his grip on the bars. He began to enjoy the adventure, to look out at the passing scenery. Then they rounded a corner and, ahead of them, they saw a brood of chickens in the middle of the road. Niresh cried out as the chickens squawked and fluttered into the air. He swerved to avoid the birds and the trishaw tipped madly. It careened off the road and rushed towards a thicket of bushes. Amrith and Niresh yelled in fear and, the next moment, the trishaw plowed right into the foliage and wedged itself between two branches, its wheels growling in the dirt.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Niresh bellowed. He switched the motor off and thumped the steering wheel, as if the vehicle were at fault.

Amrith got out. His legs were wobbly and he held on to the side of the trishaw for a moment.

They crept out from under the foliage and stood on the road.

Amrith could taste grit in his mouth. His cousin’s face was covered in dust and there were leaves and twigs in his hair. Niresh was looking at him too. They began to giggle. Soon they were laughing hysterically, clutching on to each other.

The owner arrived a few minutes later, driven by a gray-haired trishaw driver. When he saw his vehicle in the
bushes, he hopped up and down in anguish, as if he were stepping on hot coals. The older man was more sanguine. He pushed the trishaw out of the thicket, walked around and pointed out that there were just a few scratches on it. He got the young driver to start the vehicle. It worked fine. The older man chided him for being foolish, for jeopardizing his livelihood and the welfare of his family for a few hundred rupees.

Amrith and Niresh walked back to the hotel. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders and, every so often, they broke apart to recount a moment in their adventure and laugh over it.

Amrith had never felt so alive.

W
hen Amrith got home that evening and was in his bedroom untying his shoelaces, the girls charged in.

Selvi threw herself on the bed. “So-so, tell-tell.”

“Yes, Amrith, how was it?” Mala rested a hand on his shoulder. “Did you like him?”

“What did he look like?” Selvi demanded.

“A boy.” He kicked off his shoes.

Selvi rolled her eyes. “But is he tall or short, fat or thin, fair or dark?”

“Tall, thin, dark.” He began to remove his socks. Some of his cousin’s wickedness had brushed off on him.

“Ttttch
, don’t be so stubborn, Amrith. Tell, will you?” Selvi had no doubt promised her friends a full account.

“Why are you so keen to know? Are you looking for a foreign boyfriend?”

“Huh
,” Selvi sniffed. “I see your cousin is already a terrible influence on you.”

Amrith sauntered into his bathroom, whistling, and shut the door after him.

Selvi did not give up that easily. When they were at dinner, she asked her father what Niresh looked like.

“He needs a good haircut.” Uncle Lucky was teasing his daughter.

“He has long hair!” Mala exclaimed.

“Looks like a real ragamuffin,” Uncle Lucky continued. “Fringe like a girl’s, hair over his ears, which of course means he can’t hear properly.”

“You mean,” Selvi gasped, “he has a haircut like Shaun Cassidy?”

“I have no idea who you are talking about.” Though, of course, Uncle Lucky knew. Like all of them, he had heard “Da Do Ron Ron” a few too many times.