Cinnamon Gardens by Shyam Selvadurai Page A

imagined the eyes of the parents and whatever relatives they brought with them surveying her person. She always hated these meetings; thought of them as cattle markets in which a girl was on display like a prize cow.
    “No,” she said. “I won’t put myself through something like that. It’s a completely barbaric way to meet someone.”
    “But, akka,” Kumudini said, “how else do you plan to meet young men?
    She let the question hang in the air for a moment. “It’s not as if we are lucky enough to have brothers and might be introduced to a friend of theirs and then slowly-slowly fall in love. If we don’t agree to these proposals, we can look forward to a life of spinsterhood for sure.”
    In Annalukshmi’s mind, she had always imagined meeting her husband in precisely the way Kumudini had described. When she sat in the window-seat daydreaming, she imagined a young man coming up the steps of their verandah, hat in hand. She would be reading and someone (an always unspecified someone) would make the introduction. His hand would be dry and warm in hers, the hairs delicate on his wrist. He would ask her what she was reading and then they would discuss the book. Love would proceed from there.
    Her sister was waiting for a response, and Annalukshmi said lamely, “There are other ways.”
    “Such as?”
    Annalukshmi was silent.
    “This is not
Pride and Prejudice
, akka,” Kumudini said, making crushing use of her knowledge of literature. “Your Mr. Darcy isn’t going to ride up on a horse.”
    “Why don’t you just give it a try, merlay,” Louisa said. “It’s only a meeting, after all. If you don’t like him, I promise that will be that.”
    “The meeting will be pleasant, akka,” Kumudini said. “I am sure Grace will come along, so we can talk about our school days and not have to sit there like deaf and dumb types.”
    Annalukshmi was silent considering all this. Her mother had promised not to pursue the matter if she was not interested. The presence of Grace would ease the awkwardness of the situation. Indeed their talk about school would show her in a favourable light as both house captain and later head prefect. Then there was the boy himself. He might, after all, be handsome and charming like Grace. She turned to her sister and mother. “Well, I suppose there is no harm in seeing what he’s like,” she said grudgingly.
    The moment her mother and sister had left her alone, however, Annalukshmi sat, thinking. From the time she had been a small child, she had always wanted to be a teacher. When she got older and discovered the world of books, she was single-minded in her desire to inspire a similar love in others for learning; to one day, perhaps, be headmistress in a school of her own. Though she had been made aware by her family all along that a decision to marry would end her teaching, that, unlike certain other professions, women teachers, by regulation, could not continue in their careers once they were married, she had not allowed this to stop her. She had never really contemplated that she would ever have to make this choice.

    The headmistress’s bungalow was on Mission Road, the lane that ran by the school. Thick foliage and a hedge screened it from the road. A wicket gate opened onto a narrow front path that led up to the house. Most Ceylonese wives would have been appalled by the garden. It lacked the symmetry, the ordered flowerbeds so dearly loved by them. The lawn was well cut, but, other than that, no attempt had been made to tame or order the vegetation. The bungalow, despite all the years Miss Lawton had lived there, still had a feeling of temporariness to it, like a place used by a succession of travelling officials. The sturdy, extremely plain furniture and the lack of bric-à-brac was what created this effect.
    Annalukshmi often spent part of her weekend with Miss Lawton and Nancy. That evening, it being a Friday, she went to their house for dinner. Annalukshmi was to spend