Short Story - Farewell home,farewell honour

S. Francis Perera

Mother was a child-wife. She was my mother as well as of four of my siblings. When in her teens she had married father who was nearly two decades her senior.

While it was her rare beauty that commended her to my father's attention, it was his wealth that induced her parents to force her into marriage with him. Age as well as beauty-wise the pair were at polar extremes. Mother was as appealing to the eye as a porcelain statue, whereas father was almost freakishly ugly.

Unless she could not help she would never be seen in public with father. It was galling to him not to be able to parade his treasure so as to rouse the envy of others. The 'injured' party was not mollified by her excuse.

"They take us to be daughter and father, aney," she said.

"I would like to know who the 'they' are," the other retorted.

"Aney, nearly all of us meet - my friends, your friends and the shop-keepers."

"It should not matter."

"Amme, it does! Do not want them to pity me thinking I have made the wrong choice." Father thought it discreet to be silent.

Under these circumstances father did not trust her to be faithful to her marriage vow.

His was the bourgeois mentality of guarding closely what was his. Every man entering the house, be he friend, acquaintance or stranger was a suspect. Unless it were unavoidable men were not encouraged to visit us.

Even young women came under the ban. For, he feared that they would revive youthful interests he took pains to stamp out of mother. The ban extended still further.

Friends of my brother and of mine, if they were physically well built were also denied admittance.

With few people visiting us-and they the haggard and the withered, the house was in sepulcharel gloom. Good nature was not the strong point of us children and we had a way of keeping aloof of one another.

When father was at home mother was not free to talk to us, for he took possession of her body and soul. It was bad enough that the doors were barred to visitors, but to have father hanging about at home was unendurable. His business establishment was in town, and his time was spent shuttling by car between home and the shop.

Being aware of father's misanthropic ways people did not care to come and while away their time under our roof.

Then why did he spend so much time at home, not having to keep guard? One afternoon I learned the reason. As she had been denied the liberty to associate with her peers mother had made the kitchen maid her confidante.

Walking past mother's room I heard the two laughing aloud in unison. Laughter was followed by conversation, and I stopped to eavesdrop.

To ensure that he would not be cuckolded father kept mother continuously in the family way. So at least mother told Siriya-the kitchen maid.

"No Hamu Nona", Siriya said between giggles, "you are mistaken."

"Don't I know the mind of the old cock. He even said as much."

"Amme! Did he, Hamu nona?"

"Well, he said he could afford to have a big family. We all know that he does not love children. Then why have more?"

May be for the sake of prestige, Hamu Nona."

"You poor fool! He knows that if he does not fill my belly with juice that I shall get another to fill my belly with his."

This statement was followed by gales and gales of laughter. Mother was not exaggerating.

Every other year mother delivered a baby as though to fullfil her part of a contract. Lest it mar her figure father forbade her to suckle the babies. Like the queen bee she had only to bring forth babies-their care was the responsibility of a couple of old servants.

By now my brother and I had grown up into robust adolescents. In fact with our sturdy figures, prominent biceps and broad shoulders we almost looked like adults. Schoolmates seeing us with mother in town mistook her for our sister.

Like an ageing leader of a troop of baboons father watched us growing in height and weight with ill-concealed disapproval.

How to rid the home of our presence, it appeared, was his problem. We boys on the other hand chafed under the restrictions we were subject to.

One afternoon when father was gone to the city we had an impromptu garden party. We children sat round mother under a flowering flamboyant tree and gorged ourselves with pastries. After the repast mother and my brother Anil sang a song of Sunil Shantha, with the former strumming a guitar.

Anil had his arm round mother's shoulder, in a show of filial love.

"A very attractive pose for a mother and a son, ammapah!" cried father who had approached us unseen. "The neighbours will mistake you for lovers!"

"Damn the neighbours!" snapped my enraged mother. Anil quietly widrew his arm, but he was silent.

"What is wrong with Anil Aiyah having his arm round amma's shoulder?" I dared to ask.

"You dare to question me!" he glared at me.

"Serves you right for behaving no better than a mad-cap," said mother in a tone of defiance.

When it suited his purpose father was capable of adopting Machiavellian cunning.

Hiding his resentment he addressed mother in a soothing tone.

The boys, he said, had no sense of discipline. They needed to be brought up on traditional Buddhist principles. A boarding-school was the best place for them.

Thus it was that we came to be sent to a boarding-school at a hill-station.

It was a school run by Christian missionaries and how father expected us to learn the Buddhist code of conduct at this place was a mystery. But mother failed to see the paradox of the situation.

The food at the hostel was atrocious and the training if such it could be called - was inhuman. But thanks to open-air games and a salubrious climate we improved in health.

If father hoped to see us return as lanky youths with drooping shoulders, popping eyes and a sickly pallor he was in for a big surprise.

One Sunday morning Anil and I decided we had enough of this local version of Dotheboys Hall. Instead of attending service at the chapel where a dry as dust preacher was threatening the congregation with fire and brimstone we bolted.

Our reception at home was pleasanter than we anticipated. Father, who was in the verandah, gave us a non-commital nod. We found mother in the drawing room absorbed in conversation with a smart, youngish man.

The sight reduced us to speechlessness. However did father come to tolerate such a thing in the house. Mother gave us a welcome smile and inquired after our health. Neither the one nor the other called for explanations.

From bits and pieces of information we picked up at the kitchen we were able to build a coherent explanation for their strange behaviour. It appeared that father had hired a young architect to draw up a plan for a cottage on his coconut plantation.

Father had invited him home to discuss matters pertaining to the project. Once or it may be twice on the architect's visits father hadn't been at home, and mother had to dance attendance on him.

The architect seemed to have preferred to talk shop with mother than business with father. For, according to the servants, he made it a practice to visit when he was sure that the latter was absent from home. By the time that father discovered his amorous tendencies it was too late to retrieve the situation.

A clandestine love affair had sprung up between mother and the architect. Mother loved the man to distraction and had arranged to go and live with him. At first neither threats nor pleading on father's part were of any use.

They, then, decided upon a compromise. On mother agreeing to abandon the plan to elope, the other permitted her to entertain the paramour at home. But father had to pay a heavy price for being so accommodating.

The zest for living left him. His spirit was broken, and the will to live weakened. He began to waste, to shrink and to wither like one eaten up by a canker.

We children did not pretend to be ignorant of the goings on at home.

"With all his faults I love him," my sister Ruvani snivelled. "I cannot bear to see thaatha suffer."

"But," I remarked, "he hasn't an atom of love for us."

"That is so Malli", Anil said, "but can't you see, he is dying."

"In any case there is nothing we can do about it."

"The servants know," Ruvani sobbed. "We are a disgraceful family." The gigolo was a seducer of rare calibre, but a fighting spirit was not his strong point. We boys, had we been so inclined, could have beaten him to a jelly, and debarred him from visiting us. But we did no such thing.

We took a perverted delight in watching father being humiliated. Wimal, for such was the illicit lover's name, spoke little; he came and went with a sly expression in his face.

Meanwhile mother released from the cocoon of conventional restraints blossomed into a woman of great glamour and charm. She was like one who had tasted a magic herb-so transformed was she. Her sparkling eyes, her vigorous gestures and her walk with a spring all spoke of one who was drunk with wine of a rare love.

She did not ignore the children, but the attention she gave them was only perfunctory. It seemed as though she lived for Wimal and Wimal alone....

Mother was possessive of her lover; she expected Wimal to give her his undivided attention. If no his way to mother's apartment Wimal paused to exchange with Anil or me she was quick to show her displeasure.

It was worse if Amal so such as glanced at Ruvani. She would fuss and flare up like an ill-bred schoolgirl. We did not mind father being uxorious, but it was odious to watch a stranger making love to mother.

I seem to be narrating past events in a cold, detached manner. But the fact of the matter is at the time they were taking place we were all passing through an emotional crises. We used to say that there wasn't a more depraved family than our's in Sri Lanka.

Meanwhile it was all too plain that father's hold on life was precarious was loosening. One day he complained of an ache and took to his bed which he was not destined to quit alive. A servant who carried coffee to him brought the news of his death.

Even without being asked Wimal offered his services at the funeral. It were better if he had effaced himself. With so many relations in the house his presence was embarrassing, but it would have been in bad taste to turn him out....

At the end of about a week the funerary rites prescribed by tradition were ever. We boys were prompt in assuming the control of the business.

Prince Harry in Shakespeare's drama could not have been in a greater hurry to don his father's crown than we to take over the reins of the management. For the moment we left mother to dally with her docile lover. We had so very many important matters to attend to.

"Senerath, are you busy?" asked Wimal as he came and sat beside me. I was pouring over a business letter. "I think, Senerath, we must re-organise the family business."

"Eh?" I exclaimed, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that the family business is in a ....."

"And who the ............ are you to advise us? Anil aiyah!" I called out to my brother.

"What is it Malli?"

"This son of a bitch has the cheek to offer me advice to run our business."

"Ohe, palayang! Damned impertinence," he cried.

"Leave him to me, Anil Aiyah", I said and turned to Wimal: "Wimal get out of the house!"

"Sorry, Senerath Malli."

"Get out I say!" I thundered. Mother made her appearance at this stage and clung to Wimal.

"If he goes I go too," mother said with tears streaming down her cheeks.

"So much the better, Amme," I yelled. "We have put up with the disgrace long enough."

The pair left. We watched them go in silence. Thenceforth we were busy putting our affairs in order to spare them a thought. Then one day, several months later, news about them reached us.

Wimal's love for mother, it appeared, had cooled. He had deserted her, and she, loathe to return home, had sought refuge in a hermitage for Buddhist nuns.

We located the place and made up with mother. But return home she would not. I shed a tear in retrospect when I think of the change she had undergone in so short a time. The glossy black hair was shorn, and the girlish figure had given way to a matronly one.

For her sake we put up a building for the nuns, and made arrangements to see that they were not in want for anything.

She is now no more. When I think of mother I cannot help reflecting on the words of the Enlightened One:

"When passion overwhelms a woman, then it is farewell family, farewell home and farewell honour."