THE GIFT

Her shrill voice jarred across the old man's thoughts, just as he was on the rim of sleep. He came awake with a sudden tremor, and the cup, filled with steaming tea, fell and shattered on the floor of the verandah. The milky brown liquid spread in long sticky fingers across the cracked red cement. With a deep sigh of impatience his son's wife bustled out and bent to gather up the pieces in the fold of her redda. She disappeared into the house, muttering to herself, looking for a floorcloth. He heard the muffled thud as the broken china fell into the rubbish bin. It really couldn't be helped. His hands trembled badly nowadays; it wasn't his fault that he was feeble and tired. The old man stood up and tightened the faded blue sarong round his spare body as Seela came out again. He reached to take the floorcloth from her hand. Her words stopped him.

"Here, you'd better drink your tea in this, if you can't hold a cup," she said, handing him a half coconut shell. She wiped her hands on the green flowered cloth of her redda, avoiding his eyes. She felt ashamed of the way her voice came out, so harshly. But she couldn't help it. She was tired too. In spite of his efforts to control it, his underlip trembled as he held the shell. It was washed and picked clean of the stiff bristly wisps and there was no trace of the white coconut meat. Still, it was not right to treat him like that. After all, he was her husband's father, and a retired village school principal at that. He sat down, wordlessly, Ah well, the tea was hot and would sustain him until it was time for lunch.

Seela could not be blamed for being irritable. She worked hard in the house, cooking and washing and looking after the three small girls. It was a real achievement that she managed to perform the monthly miracle of stretching her husband's salary to cover the family's ever-increasing needs. Ariya was a clerk in a government department store in far-away Colombo. She hardly saw him, he left so early every morning, and it was late when he returned in the evenings.

When his wife had died, the old man had been almost crushed by the burden of his loss. He had always believed himself to be the stronger partner. It was she who had been gentle, accommodating to every wish of their five sons. Spoiling them, he recalled, with a tinge of fond regret. He had seen to it that they had all received a good education, and they were now well situated. It was hard, after the funeral, when all the relations gathered in the old house. He had just sat, looking around helplessly with heavy despondency. The family members went into a huddle and then informed him that the best thing to do was for him to go and live with his youngest son. They decided this, because Seela was not working and could look after the father-in-law. With the finality of that decision, the elder brothers and their wives had skirted the issue with calm determination, and with no hint of compromise. With an eye to the good price it would fetch, they also decided that it was better to sell the little house. It was in trim order, with a well-kept garden, and they would be able to share out the proceeds. It was an unfair decision perhaps, which was taken entirely above his head, but there didn't seem to be any point in arguing. He could no longer manage the house, nor could he live alone in that remote village. His sons had then turned their critical attention to the heavy, dark, old-fashioned furniture. Sheepishly, the sons had conveyed their wives' reluctance to accept any of it. He had been obliged to give away most of the pieces, those which nobody wished to buy. The possessions which he and his wife had collected through a lifetime together were eventually distributed equally among the families. After selecting the few items which he thought would be useful in his new home, he packed them up, with a few cherished books, and moved into his son's small house by the sea. His house was closed up, and with it all the memories.

At first it was pleasant in Ariya's house, because he had half a room in which to keep his belongings, and a comfortable bed on which he rested in the long, hot afternoons, with the youngest grandchild. He did his best to help keep the room tidy. It was nice to be able to sit out on the small verandah in the cool freshness of early morning, reading the paper. After lunch and a refreshing midday sleep, the granddaughters would come to read him their lessons which he had set them, or listen to stories remembered from his childhood. It was a life totally different from what he had planned for his retirement. Now his wife was gone, he did not have much heart to do anything. Sometimes he would revive a bit of his old firebrand spirit, and fired off letters to the editor on sundry burning issues. Each morning he would eagerly scan the papers to see whether they had been printed. He was grateful that his small pension helped to swell the family income. Above all, he did not want to become a burden on his children. That was the greatest of the fears which troubled him at night, even more than the burden of advancing years.

Musing in this fashion, the old man realised that the eldest girl, Janaki, a thin slip of a child nearing seven years, was lightly balancing herself on the arm of the chair. "Seeya, don't worry about breaking the cup. Amma doesn't let me have a china cup, either. See, I have this red plastic one," she said, waving it at him. "We can share it, if you like." He laughed and caught her to his side, stroking her hair and breathing in the fresh smell of her soft, child's face. That made him feel better, and greatly comforted. He looked forward to their afternoon story time, as well as his son's return from work. They might have a game of dominoes after dinner, if he wasn't too tired. They hardly had time to talk, because Ariya came home so late nowadays, especially with the New Year drawing closer.

Ariya left for work early the next morning, after a cup of tea hurriedly gulped while leaning over the kitchen sink, so as not to spill drops on his white shirt front. The coconut shell silently reappeared on the table. Seeing her grandfather's downcast eyes, Janaki stroked his hand. "When I'm big, I'm going to buy you a beautiful white a china teaset, with big red roses on it," she whispered, licking her milk moustache. Seela was busy clearing up the kitchen, and then went to get herself ready to go marketing. Janaki skipped after her mother, pleading to go with her to the Pola. Seela called the two younger girls. "Don't go outside the gate. And Thathi, please keep an eye on the children. We'll be back soon." "Don't worry, I will see to everything," he said with dignity, walking with them to the gate.

The children ran to play under the mango tree in the sandy garden. It was so comfortable, stretched out in the old armchair, that he was not conscious of falling asleep, and awoke with a start as the postman banged on the iron gate. He went to collect the letters and slowly shuffled back to his accustomed place on the verandah. Nobody had written to him. There was nothing to occupy the time, which hung heavily. The morning dragged on, hot and humid, with a threat of rain in the dark sky. The noise of the girls shrieking as they ran round the small garden was a poignant reminder of the long years spent teaching boys and girls in government schools. He recalled the many young faces which had looked up at him expectantly over the years, their owners perched on battered chairs with their arms folded neatly on scarred tables. He smiled as he heard in memory the familiar squabbling of the smaller children as they played in the dusty school grounds. These echoes of the past were matched by the cries of the two small girls as they raced past him on the verandah in play.

A distant factory whistle fractured the morning calm, a shrill reminder that it was time for lunch. His stomach rumbled in anticipation, for he was hungry. Seela had prepared the rice and fish, but the vegetables still had to be washed and cooked. His hands shook so much now that she would not let him help in the kitchen. Nor would she allow him to sweep the house or garden, or take out the rubbish. Those had been the chores which he had always done in his own home. This situation was something that he had to get used to - living under somebody else's roof. Even though it was his own son and family, still it was difficult. Seela did a lot for him, in her harassed and hasty manner, but he did not really feel at ease in their house. He stared at his wrinkled feet, thrust into rubber slippers, then shook his head and straightened his shoulders. Not for him the trap of self-pity. He took out his old exercise book and planned another missive to the editor.

Long before they came in sight, he could hear Janaki's light high voice, piping sweetly down the lane. They came into the house, bringing with them the smell of the outdoors, with news of things seen and done in the market-place. The shopping bags bulged with the much haggled over rice, vegetables and dry rations - bargaining carefully conducted by Seela with the hard-nosed stall-keepers. The provisions would have to tide them over the long holiday period when most of the neighbourhood shops closed.

Janaki quickly took out a brown paper parcel from her mother's large shabby plastic handbag, and rushed into the front bedroom. Her two small sisters followed, chattering excitedly as they bounced on the bed. By three that afternoon, Ariya came home, carrying parcels of gaily coloured material. The children shouted their greetings, pleased with the crisp cottons, with their alluring bright colours and new smell. Seela smiled her brief smile, which was like the sun appearing through watery clouds, brightening her care-worn young face. She looked almost as she appeared in her wedding picture, which stood propped up on the sideboard. She went to the back verandah, and soon the familiar booming of the rice pounder joined the eager prattle of the children. She would work through the night to prepare the traditional oilcakes and sweetmeats.

The small house took on a festive air with the dawning of that New Year's day. The table was spread with a red and white checked tablecloth, with six plain white napkins folded neatly on each plate. These made brief appearances on the few gala occasions celebrated in their family. As she was laying the places, Janaki made the happy discovery that there were six people in the house, to match the six table settings. Her mother brought in the large blue-patterned old Chinese rice platter, neatly piled with diamond cut pieces of milk rice. Crisp golden-brown kokis, red-brown sambol and pale fawn milk toffees competed for space on the crowded table, with the fragrant butter cake, and the green and yellow-and-brown speckled bananas. The children gathered round as their father lit the oillamp placed in the centre of the table. Seela spoke to her father-in-law. "Thathi, you must feed us the first meal of the New year." His heart skipped with joy. He knew it could contain no greater happiness. The children, with their mother and father, lined up to receive the first mouthful of milk rice from his hands. When the meal was finished, Janaki produced the mysterious brown paper parcel, which she shyly offered to her grandfather. Greatly surprised, he unwrapped it with trembling fingers, to discover a white enamel cup and plate, with dark blue rims, decorated with cheerful red and yellow flowers. Oblivious to the eager chatter of the children, he sat down on the rexine-covered dining chair. "Amma chose them for you, Seeya, because it would take too long for me to grow up and buy a teaset," said Janaki breathlessly, tugging at his shirt sleeve. Then he knew that everything would work out. It was a gift to treasure. He was home at last.
