Softly, As I Leave You

By Chandani Lokugé

Softly, As I Leave You, Chandani Lokuge’s third novel, offers yet another insight into the migrant’s world of fractured consciousness and half-fulfilled relationships. It is a touching story of loss and separation within a family whose members are suspended between a sense of togetherness and separateness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: We Green Solutions
• Release date: Aug 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9789810770334

Book preview

Rubbing her eyes, Uma awakened to a light-filled bedroom in her house in Melbourne. Chris had already drawn back the window curtains so the garden spilt in with an excess of green and a flock of noisy parrots in the liquidambar tree.

Uma stretched and rose languidly out of the quilt. In the full length mirrors opposite she saw herself – her honey-complexioned face and shoulders framed by black hair against the gold of the quilt and the green in the window. The mirrors softened the light, and ensconced her in a private world and she was lost in it for a moment – introspective and intense – like in an intimate kiss.

When they had bought this house over twenty years ago, she and Chris had talked often enough about removing the absurd mirror-doors of the wall-to-wall wardrobe. It was a little embarrassing, the way it threw back at them their most private moments. Uma would often catch herself in the mirrors reluctantly, noting her movements with Chris as though they belonged to some other woman. But, as time went by she became less conscious. You get used to things, especially in a marriage.

And of course, Arjuna had loved the mirror when he was a child. Uma and Chris thought that he’d grown up to be so sociable because of the little mirror self he’d discovered when he was just about six months old. It was also in front of these mirrors, with his parents lying behind him in the big bed, that he had learned to perform so scintillatingly with his guitar and harmonica.

Chris held out her mug of coffee. He’d returned from his jog in the park and was still in his tracks and tee shirt, a slightly gaunt, appealing presence with his tanned skin, greying hair and reflective blue eyes behind black-framed rectangular spectacles.

Uma reached for the mug, still immersed in her exchange with the mirror. Absently, she glanced up to thank Chris and saw his reaction to the way she looked this morning. It was not unexpected. He was drawn to her on the bed. He looked down into her eyes, smiled, and reached a little uncertainly for her lips. But she turned sideways to rest her mug on the bedside table and burrowed back into the quilt.

Chris stood up, his eyes shuttered. Uma was immediately regretful and moved. She regretted having flirted with the mirror. She knew his hurt, felt his yearning. But she had not the heart to respond. She wanted him to move away from the window because he was blocking out the morning light but asked him instead about the day’s weather predictions and the news. He sat beside her, in control again.

‘The news on Sri Lanka is a bit depressing, Uma. Yet another boatload of Sri Lankan refugees has landed in Queensland. They were all walking inland in single file when the police got them. They’ve been taken off to a detention camp. I just heard it on the 7 o’clock news. Who knows how long they’ll be there. It’s a wretched business.’

Later, Uma would surf the net for information on these refugees and their inopportune entry into Australia. She’d print it out and read it to Arjuna when they next sat around in the lounge with their weekend newspapers and magazines. As Uma shared with him the tragedy of a homeland that could offer no refuge to its people, Arjuna would place his arm comfortingly around her shoulder. Chris would sit back and watch them absently. Held in a glow of light, lost to the world around, their bond seemed tactile. He would not want to break into it, but felt alone for a moment, like driftwood – now towards, now away…

Now, he had something else to share with Uma, as half-sitting up in bed again, she began to sip her coffee. Those books that he had ordered months ago had finally arrived. He placed a little package in her lap. It was an early edition of the Gitanjali that he had specially ordered for her. Returning the mug to him, she touched it with loving fingers. She traced the intricately etched border on the faded cloth cover, turned the fragile pages to a few cherished stanzas.

Her voice, as she read Chris’ inscription, was moist with affection. She breathed in the moment – his caring, the aroma of the coffee so caringly brewed by him – warm, warm.

But then, imperceptibly, her face changed. It was like a veil subtly drawing over her face. Casting down her eyes, she began to pluck at the quilt. She wanted more than anything to hide the truth; she wanted more than anything for Chris to know, so it would be out in the open between them. But the moment passed as others had, before.

‘See you when you get back from Sydney, then, Uma. Have a great time – and good luck with the research.’ Caressing her face lightly, Chris walked away to the bathroom, his mind already on the busy day ahead, the traffic on Lygon Street, the consignment of books that had arrived at Ekphrasis, the inventory that it required, the training of a new shop assistant. He called out to Arjuna that he would drop him off at the university. Arjuna’s assent from somewhere in the backyard was followed by the thud of his soccer ball.

Uma turned back to her new book. Reluctantly, she glanced again in the mirror, her eyes congested with remorse. It seemed to reprove her now, and censure her – and the tragedy that recurred in their bedroom. She immersed herself in the book, listening for Arjuna’s footsteps.

And here he was at last. Before Uma could lay down her book, he was at her side, bending down obligingly for her morning kiss, his hair still damp from the shower. Trying to contain the uprush of love, she let her hands cup his face ever so lightly. His eyes met hers with uncomplicated affection. It was strange that Arjuna had never gone through that sulky teenage phase. Life seemed so extravagantly in love with him and he laughingly embraced it. Now, released from his mother’s touch, he uncoiled like a spring, and sat down at the edge of the bed. Taking the book from her, he peered into the open page with screwed up eyes, stroking an imaginary beard.

‘Cool, it’s Tagore-ji today, is it? Gitanjali? Let me see now.’

‘Be careful, it’s an old edition that Dad’s just given me,’ Uma said in Sinhala, lying back with a delighted smile. What exuberance he radiated! The luxury! She drank in the unusual and charming contradictions of his face with a woman’s eyes – shapely lips and strong jaw, shock of coppery-black hair, feminine thick-lashed hazel eyes. And the glowing golden skin that made him all the more striking. He was nineteen years old, as tall as Chris and as lithe. When they stood together, with Uma between them, Chris and Arjuna towered over her. But they unfailingly leaned towards her as if she pulled them to her with strings.

Now, Arjuna began to read with a dramatic flourish.

He came and sat by my side but I woke not… he came when the night was still… Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

His voice softened towards the end. Then, with his hand pressed self-mockingly to his heart, he bowed.

‘Savour the rasa, Arjun. Imagine waking up to find what we have been searching for all our life, tiptoeing away. D’you see? How sad is that? And isn’t this book just too beautiful, almost too delicate to touch?’ Uma’s voice glistened. She felt constantly on the verge of tears this morning. She should be used to it by now – but such mercurial moods claimed her every time she went on these interstate visits. The need to be alone was building up.

‘So, where’s dad?’ Arjuna asked inconsequentially.

Caught off-guard, Uma replied evasively. ‘Dad? Why, in the shower, I think. If you want a lift in the car, go and get ready double-quick. And what about that haircut?’

Distractedly, she tried to press into order his disarrayed hair. The light played around it like a copper-glinted halo. You had to catch your breath…

‘I’ll see you on Sunday when I get back from Sydney. I’ll try to call this evening,’ Uma said. She wanted to detain him now.

But he was already walking out. At the door he turned back jauntily, and blew her a kiss. She caught it in her palm like a drop of gold.

Uma listened to doors closing, footsteps receding, the car revving up. Chris would glance into the rear mirror as he drove away to see if she stood at the door to see them off. I have so much right here, she thought, getting out of bed, why is it never enough?

Later that morning, she packed a travel bag for her weekend in Sydney. As she pulled shut the mirror doors, she glimpsed in her eyes the fusion of shame, guilt and overriding both, tremulous anticipation. She left for the airport before Chris or Arjuna returned to the house.

Uma didn’t hear the knock on the door – the first time. They were thick and muffling, these hotel doors, and she’d turned on the shower. Pushing her hair into a bath-cap too small to contain it, she was just about to step into the shower when her mobile rang. She rushed back into the room thinking it was Liam.

She did not expect to see him this morning, although last night he had said he’d drop by. Usually, he never did. He wanted to get over her – them – before he saw her again, adjust to his other life. But it was Chris on the phone – had she had a good night’s sleep? How was the weather? She sighed. Trying not to sound impatient, she replied that she had a headache and instantly regretted it. He became so concerned.

It was then that she heard the knock on the door. Could it be Liam after all? No, that would be to dwell on fantasy, as Liam himself would say. Morning Herald? It was too early for the cleaners, surely. But, she cut short the call and hurried to open the door.

She smiled incredulously. She pulled off the shower cap and let her hair tumble down. Liam glanced at her – in her mauve and purple pyjamas – the gown untied, its cords hanging down the sides. She tried to tidy up, then surrendered with a laugh. Reaching up impulsively, she sought his lips in a light, inviting kiss. Liam was stirred but also a little repelled by her unrestrained sensuality at this hour. He preferred the unseeing nights.

He was elegantly dressed in black shirt and pants that enhanced the robust texture of his skin and his supple physique. There was also a curious alertness about him that Uma loved. But this morning he looked more tense than usual, as if reined in. Uma noted the tightness of his face with a sinking heart.

As he walked in, she saw him glance surreptitiously at the unmade bed. The heavy brocade curtains were drawn back, but the inner lace drapes cast a shade of mystery and softness. She came close to him, close enough to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair, remembering. He shied back. He did not want her on his clothes. He gave a short embarrassed laugh, stood up and began to pace the room – touching things, sliding the door of the closet, looking into the bathroom, turning off the shower. Like searching for something he’d left behind, Uma thought resentfully.

She turned and walked towards the windows tossing her hair with a quick nervous gesture. She stepped behind the lace and looked out, pressing her face against the glass. Caught in that narrow space between the lace and window, she looked lonely and separated from Liam. How long would it be, she wondered, before she developed a twitch of the lips or eyelids to go with the rest of the insecurities and uncertainties? Turning back, she saw his blurred figure through the lace curtain, almost an abstract pattern of their intense criss-crossed liaison. He was looking at her. What was he seeing?

How isolated we are, she thought, how unconnected. He sees me through a divider. Like a plant corked up in a misted glass jar. Her mother had nurtured a few in their Drawing Room. She’d marvelled as a child as a frail little leaf struggled to life, a new tendril curled out. But they never lived as long as plants should. They lost their vibrant green, their reach up and out into the sky, and quietly, so you never knew the moment of that downward spiral, they began to die.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked, yearning to stretch his visit and also relax him. No, he couldn’t stay for more than a minute. Last evening, though, it had been different. Restlessly she turned back to the window and stared out.

‘Go,’ she said suddenly, without turning around. ‘Please go. I have to take a shower. I have to get ready, have to go out.’ To lie in his arms.

He stood up at once. ‘I’ll try to call you late evening,’ he said. ‘Uma?’

There was something like doubt, or fear in his voice. Her heart lightened then. She saw how the sun shone on the harbour water eleven stories below. If she listened acutely, she’d hear it shimmer into splintering glass. Instead, she listened to the thud of the door closing. She regretted not having turned to thank him. Uma. She lingered on the way he said her name.

The room was full of his absence. She took up the shower-cap but threw it away and let the water flow through her hair. She turned it down to a slow heavy drip. She raised her face to it, and let it circle her open lips, her breasts and pour down in syrupy rivulets. Uma. She played with his lips forming her name. Later, the soft white towel