Bodies in Motion Read Free

England, far across the sunlit waves, could almost imagine himself truly a citizen of His Majesty’s empire. But the 1915 troubles, the brutality of the British response—those had made it clear to every Ceylonese aristocrat that an English education, a law degree, and quiet subservience to British rule were no guarantee of true acceptance, of admittance to the ruling class. The vaunted justice of the courts and the philosophies of reason had proven no protection for the brown-skinned.
    Thani had been ten years married at the time of the 1915 troubles, with several small children to protect; he remembered the fear he had felt then, the sense of betrayal. The British were better masters of Ceylon, perhaps, than the Dutch or Portuguese had been. But they were still masters. They promised freedom and independence, but those promises had not yet been kept.
    He rose slowly and turned away from the water, crossing the beach toward the city, thinking hard. Could he imagine his daughter in Britain? He knew what his friends would say about the idea—they wouldn’t allow an unwed daughter to travel to Jaffna by herself, never mind across the oceans. And now seemed a particularly bad time; there was worrying news coming out of Europe, rumblings of troubled times, even war. It seemed unlikely to affect England, but it was possible. Yet Oxford might still be the best place for his Shanthi. If what Sister Catherine had said were true, it might be the only place for her. Should he care what his friends would say? None of them had a daughter as clever as his. Thani felt a swell of pride filling his chest, a glow of satisfaction as he remembered the nun’s words. Exceptional. Brilliant .
    Thani himself had done well under British rule. He was widely read, cultured, prosperous, strong. The patriarch of a growing clan. Thani could easily live into his nineties, as his grandfather had. Or so he had once thought. Lately, his doctor had been saying some worrying things. His heartbeat was a little fast, sometimes irregular, and though Thani felt fine, healthy and strong, the doctor was concerned. Thani hadn’t told Bala anything; with no proof of a problem, there was no need to worry his wife. Still, it made a man wonder. Made him think differently about the future, take a wider view. It would be good to have a place in the history books, a place earned not simply by being born in the right place, to the right family. He had always hoped that his son would mark Thani’s place in the world, but Rajan seemed content to live a small life with his wife, his first child. Perhaps Thani should be looking to his daughter instead.
    Thani paused in the road, lost in contemplation, and was jolted from his thoughts by a bullock cart rumbling past, inches from his nose. The street was lined with vendors shouting, hawking fresh curry buns, steaming hot samosas; it was almost suppertime. His wife would be worrying. Thani hurried toward home.
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    â€œ YOU ’ RE A MESS — THERE ’ S SAND ALL OVER YOUR PANTS. WHAT HAVE you been up to?” Bala’s voice was annoyed, but she was smiling. She was sitting at the grand piano, elegant in a green silk sari. Despite thirteen children, his wife was almost as slim as a girl. Thani felt the full weight of the extra kilos that had settled around his belly in the last few years. The doctor hadn’t been pleased about those either. He leaned against the piano, watching her fingers running quiet scales, up and down the keys. She liked to practice for an hour or so before supper, just to keep her hand in, she said. Bala had been quite the pianist as a girl; one of the many accomplishments which had made her so very suitable for one of Cinnamon Gardens’ most eligible sons. “Just out walking, kunju,” Thani said. “Had some thinking to do.”
    â€œYou and your thinking,” she said dismissively yet fondly. “Go and get washed up; we’re dressing