Free Cinnamon Gardens by Shyam Selvadurai Page B

He lit himself a cigarette. “Up-country Sinhalese versus low-country Sinhalese, Karava caste versus Goyigama caste, Moors, Malays, Christian Tamils, Hindu Tamils, Buddhists, and so on and so on. And not a bloody bugger is thinking nationally, except us in the Congress.”
    “Perhaps the Congress needs to redefine what ‘national’ is,” Balendran said.
    Sriyani and Sonia exchanged glances. These discussions between their husbands were always lively.
    “What do you mean?” Sriyani asked Balendran.
    “I’m not the first one to refer to it. Two of your former Congress presidents, C. E. Corea and Arunachalam, talked about it. Before foreign rule, we had a constitution and a system of government that was suited to our needs.”
    F. C. groaned. “Not that damn village and district council theory again.”
    “Why not?” Balendran said. “Village councils that send elected members to a district council, which in turn sends members to a council of the ministers of state. That way all the various groups get to feel that they have a hand in governing this country. In other words, more or less a federal state. One of your own men, S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike himself, suggested it, but now that he is Congress secretary he has conveniently forgotten.”
    “It would be an administrative nightmare,” F. C. said. “No, no. The only system is the parliamentary one, modelled on Whitehall. These bloody people have to learn to look past theirfeudal loyalties and to think of themselves as Ceylonese first.”
    “Two hundred years of foreign rule hasn’t changed those loyalties.”
    F. C. drew on his cigarette and exhaled. “So, you are becoming a Ceylon Tamil Association man,” he said teasingly, with a nod in the direction of the drawing room, where he had noticed the presence of the new guests. “Slowly, slowly moving in that direction. Between you lot and the damn Kandyans wanting their separate state, you will split this country into a thousand pieces.”
    “It already is in a thousand pieces,” Balendran said. “You Congress chaps just refuse to see it. Like an Arabian mosaic. Take one tile out and you might ruin the entire design.”
    “We forgot to tell you a piece of delightful news,” Sonia began. When she saw the expression on Balendran’s face, she stopped.
    “What news?” Sriyani asked.
    They looked at her expectantly.
    “It seems,” Sonia said reluctantly, “that a good friend of Bala might be coming with the commission.”
    F. C. and Sriyani turned to stare at him.
    “Who is this?” F. C. asked. “Someone I know?”
    “Oh, I’m not sure if you remember him,” Balendran said. “One Richard Howland.”
    “What are you talking about, Bala?” F. C. said. “Of course I know him. You shared a flat together.”
    Before anyone could comment further, they heard the sound of raised voices from the drawing room. Balendran stood up quickly.
    A hush had fallen over the party. Two men were arguing. One of them was a member of the Ceylon National Congress, the other of the Ceylon Tamil Association.
    “Why should we support your Congress on self-rule when you are going to ask the commission to abolish communal representation?” the man from the Ceylon Tamil Association cried.
    “Communal representation simply forces people to think in terms of their race and not as a nation,” the Congress man replied. “We are proud to take a stance for territorial representation.”
    “And that is why we will never support your claim for self-government.”
    “You may be content to live in a servile fashion under the British, howling and bowing like coolies, but some of us are more manly than that.”
    “Give us a British Raj any day to a Sinhala Raj.”
    He had gone too far. As long as the discussion had been about the Congress versus the Tamil Association, the obvious undertones of Sinhalese against Tamil had not surfaced. It was necessary for someone to step in, and the Mudaliyar did so with great