Short Story

An Unhappy Memory

By Lalitha Somathilaka

It was evening. The sky was beautifully painted with lovely shades of the setting sun, red and pink. The trembling rays of the sun were streaming through the window into my room bathing it with their shining hues. I was lying on my bed watching the window curtains swaying to and fro with the flowing breeze. A soothing piano music trailed in through my window making me get up from my bed to peep at the player, whom I have not seen yet.

“Hope they wouldn’t see me. They might think I am a rude old lady peeping in to collect some gossip,” I smiled at myself walking up to the window.

Our immediate neighbours arrived only today. We have not yet met them. Their house was so close to our wall that we could see and hear many things that happened inside it. It had been closed for some time. Only a few weeks back the new owners started renovating it.

A young girl in her late teens was playing the piano. Her unruly hair with lovely tresses of curls was knotted at the top of her head and tied with a multi coloured hair band. The sight of her mesmerized me, and my mind travelled more than half a century back, when I was about five years old.

Unmarried

We were then living up country in our big ancestral home. My father was the only son in the family with three younger sisters. Aunty Vimala the youngest who was still unmarried lived with us. She was about twenty years junior to my father and in fact she had been the pet of my father until I was born, who instantly became the pet of the whole family.

My mother was the first to get up in the morning. She woke up the servants and made the morning tea for all of us, including the servants. I used to sleep with my mother, but as soon as I got up I would rush into Aunty Vimala’s room and jump on to her bed waking her up. I loved to play with her curly hair twisting the curls around my fingers. My hair was straight without a single curl. In fact jumping on her bed was my first job in the morning.

“Aunty, can’t you make my hair too like yours with lots and lots of curls?” I used to ask her.

“I don’t like my hair,” she said. “It’s very difficult to control these tresses. I would prefer straight hair like yours.”

“Can’t we exchange?”

“You idiot, how can we?” she replied folding me lovingly with her arms and patting my head.

Aunty Vimala could play the piano nicely. Sometimes when we have guests my father would ask her to play for them. I could still remember her seated on the little stool at the piano, with her curly hair knotted up behind and tied up with a coloured ribbon.

“I like to show my friends what a good player you are,” my father said looking proudly at her.

We were a happy family. But how soon it changed!

One morning my father came home raging with anger. He was so worked up that he did not talk with any of us. He lay down on the arm chair in the veranda and started massaging his chest. We all stood beside him. Mother gestured us not to talk. He was sulking and looked ferociously at my aunt who was with us. I think she realized the reason behind all this and slowly retreated to her room.

“Aunty, is Father not well?” I asked trailing behind her. She did not answer. Instead she went into her room closing the door behind her.

I came back to stand close to my mother.

“Shall I bring you a cup of coffee?” I heard mother asking my father.

“Some poison is better,” he replied still fuming with anger. “Suraj is very handsome, no doubt. But Vimala should know that he is only a worker in my estate.”

I knew what poison was, but not who Suraj was. Our gardener had shown me a small tin one day and asked me never to touch it.

“This contains poison. We spray it to kill insects,” he explained.

“Sinner,” I replied. He smiled sheepishly.

“Why does my father need poison?” I contemplated.

When I looked at my mother she was blankly looking at father knowing not what to do. Menika, who was in charge of the work in the house came half way to meet my mother and knowing that something was amiss, retreated to her kitchen. I went into the garden to see whether the tin of poison was anywhere there.

Father drifted off into a sleep there itself, in the armchair. Mother sat close by and was sewing when I came back into the veranda. Aunty was still inside the room and I knocked at her door.

“Come later. I am going to sleep,” came her reply.

The whole house was emerged in a deep silence. Even the servants were talking in hushed voices. There were hardly any smiles at home after this incident.

Next morning I went to Aunty Vimala’s room as usual and jumped on to her bed. But I was unwelcome. She turned the other way and said, “I am sleepy. Go away.”

I was hurt. I went out of the room. This happened the following day too and I gave up the habit of going to her room in the morning.

“I told you Menikakka,” I heard Alice say one day. “I knew that this would happen. It’s good that I never helped Vimala Hamu although she asked me to. I advised her to nip it in the bud. Can you imagine her marrying that man? Somebody must have helped her, I’m sure. Otherwise it wouldn’t have gone so far.”

I did not know what they were talking about.

One evening I saw my parents seated on the garden bench in deep conversation. I ran to them. They did not welcome me as they used to do. So I sat down near their feet humming softly a tune often played by Aunty Vimala. She had almost given up playing the piano these days.

“What are we going to do now?” asked my father. “What am I to tell my sisters? They would ask me whether this is the way I looked after her.”

“It is not our fault,” replied Mother. “Vimala is not a baby. She knows who we are. To protect the good name of the family is everybody’s duty. Didn’t you arrange suitable marriages to the other two? We would have done the same to Vimala too. She is still twenty. She knows that we are already searching for a good partner for her.”

Although I heard their conversation I could not make out head or tail of what they were talking about. It was something to do with Aunty Vimala was all that I realised.

One morning as usual my mother made tea and Alice took Aunty Vimala’s to her room. She came back running.

“Nona Hamu, Nona Hamu,” she cried running straight to my mother. “Vimala Hamu is not in the room. There’s a letter on her bed.”

My mother hurried into the room and collected the letter. She tore it open and sat on a chair with a deep sigh. With the letter still in one hand, she held her head with both her hands as if her head was too heavy for her. We were all silent. Although I did not know what the mishap was, the others seemed to know it. When my father entered the dining hall we were all like statues.

Letter

“Why? What’s wrong?” asked my father looking at all of us. None replied. Then he saw the letter in mother’s hand and took it. His countenance turned purplish with rage. Tossing the letter down on the table he cried, “She is no more my sister,” and walked towards the veranda. My mother followed him. Father sat on the arm chair and started massaging his chest like the other day. Mother sat close to him looking sad and forlorn.

A police van approaching our house caught our sight. As it stopped under our portico the Police Inspector got down and came straight over to father.

“Sorry to have come early morning with bad news sir,” he started. “We’ve just recovered both bodies.....,”

He could not carry on further.

“Bodies? What?” father queried straightening up from his chair instantly.

“Yes Sir. Your sister’s and Mr.Suraj’s.”

“What? What’s happened?”

“The bike they were travelling skidded and had dashed on to a tree.”

Whether it was an accident or a suicide nobody knew.