The Flower Boy Read Free Page A

take the car past it. And the doctor can’t come here either.”
    Chandi was momentarily distracted by the news of the landslide. Today was Sunday so there was no school, which was a pity since landslides usually meant staying home on school days. How come landslides never happened on school days? He brought his thoughts back to the present.
    â€œWhat are they going to do?” he asked.
    â€œHave it in the house maybe. I don’t know. You’d better stay out of Amma’s way though. Especially if you’re not going to brush your teeth.”
    â€œRangi, can we go and watch?” he asked hopefully.
    She laughed. “You’re so funny.” He didn’t see anything funny in what he had said. But then, he was only four.
    As soon as Rangi left, he ran down the corridor to see if the baby had arrived, and cannoned into the last person he wanted to see.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going?” his mother demanded suspiciously.
    â€œRangi said Sudu Nona’s baby was coming, so I thought I’d go and say hello, since I’m older,” he replied grandly.
    She dragged him back to the kitchen by his ear, ignoring his howls of protest. She pushed him outside and said, “Go and play, and don’t let me see you or hear you for the rest of the day!” She went back down the corridor muttering to herself.
    Although forcibly ejected from the house, he viewed the prospect of a whole day outdoors with anticipation. The gardens were huge and there were always interesting things to see and do.
    Then it started to rain.
    Now, chilled by the drop in temperature and more than a little afraid of his mother’s anger, Chandi sat huddled inside his tomato and spinach house.
    The rain was still coming down fast and furiously. Beyond the house, it soaked the hills. Mountain paths became treacherous, fast-flowing streams of mud, trickling waterfalls became roaring monsters and placid mountain pools turned into churning masses of contained fury.
    And landslides slid.
    USUALLY, THE TEA slopes were dotted with the colorful figures of the tea pickers, the bright oranges and reds of their saris standing out like bold, happy flags in the turquoise tea. Although the huge wicker baskets hanging from their heads were heavy, they were always cheerful, making ribald jokes with one another in Tamil while their nimble fingers flew from one bush to the next.
    Today, the hills were empty. The landslide had made it impossible for most of them to work. The few who had braved the storm had found shelter in the factory.
    Even the Kankanipillai, the superintendent, who was known to be the worst kind of slave driver, could not ask them to go out in this kind of weather. He had already lost a few of his pickers to pneumonia and he couldn’t afford to lose any more.
    His immediate concern, however, was not work, but how to remove the workers from where they had taken shelter just inside the main entrance. They were dripping water everywhere.
    The factory, normally a hive of activity and tea dust, wore a slightly haunted look. Most of the machines and fans had not even been started that morning.
    From the outside, it looked like an English boarding school, surrounded by rolling green hills and sprawling homes.
    The closest was the Sudu Mahattaya’s place, Glencairn.
    The Sudu Mahattaya’s real name was John Buckwater, although nobody called him that. Sudu Mahattaya meant “white gentleman” in Sinhalese and that, after all, was what he was.
    He was a brusque man, short in speech and economical in gesture, but kind nonetheless. When Sinnathamby, whose father worked at the factory, had fallen into a well and drowned, he had given the family an extra week’s wages. And when Nariamma had slipped down a path and broken her ankle, he had driven her to the Nuwara Eliya hospital himself, and had kept paying her wages even though she hadn’t been able to work for six weeks.
    The women were