A Disobedient Girl: A Novel by Ru Freeman

Author:Ru Freeman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Rich people, Fiction - General, Women household employees, Novel, Contemporary Women, Rich people - Sri Lanka, Cultural Heritage, Family Life, Fiction, Coming of Age, Women - Sri Lanka, Social classes, Sri Lanka, Social classes - Sri Lanka, General, Domestic fiction, Women domestics, Women
ISBN: 9781439101957
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2009-07-21T07:00:00+00:00

Biso

My head hurts. I reach into my handbag for a Disprin, but my fingers find the piece of paper from the gentleman instead. I unfurl it: “Don Mohan Victor Vithanage.” I wish he were still sitting here, on this train, across from me. I don’t need his help, just his presence. He had a solid presence, that gentleman, tired though he seemed, and solidity is what I need now. The events of the past hour or two have shaken my faith in our future, my children’s and mine. How can this mass murder, the suicide, these things, be anything but bad omens? But what message they carry for me I cannot discern. I unfurl and close, unfurl and close the paper. I wonder if we would be safer if I asked Mr. Vithanage for help. There is his phone number: “871101.” But what would I say? I rub my fingers over the numbers, wondering how long it will take for him to reach Colombo after he finishes his visits. I don’t remember what he said. Was he leaving for home in a week or two weeks? Two weeks, I think he said that. I feel even more anxious. Why hadn’t I paid attention? A woman alone, with three children to look after, I should have listened to his offer when he made it, if for no reason than to reserve that option for another day.

“Amma, what is that?” Chooti Duwa asks, next to me, touching the paper. Loku Putha turns his attention to us at the sound of her voice, or perhaps my silence, and finally all three are staring at me. They can tell that I am not as sure as I was when we left. I can see it in their eyes: they have withdrawn some of their faith in my promise of change, of a better life. They may even welcome the intervention of someone more confident, more capable than I probably seem to them now.

“What is that?” my son asks this time.

“The gentleman gave me his phone number in case we needed help,” I say. I watch his eyes narrow, so slightly, some memory of Siri filling them up, making him judge me for the past, for making it impossible for him to love his own father, for this present; so I add, “But I told him we don’t need any help. We’ll be at my aunt’s soon.”

They turn away from me, one by one, and I tuck the piece of paper into my sari blouse, inside my bra, hiding it from them. Having uttered the words, I am suddenly surer of it: yes, we will be all right.

But not yet.

The train has been creeping through a tunnel as if in mournful regret, or in anticipation of further tragedies. It has seemed tired, and, as a result, the few passengers left seem weary too. Maybe the slowness of the train prompted them to pick it as a possible candidate, or maybe they had simply been waiting for it.

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